#sometimes it ends up with half-eaten kits and that's just how it is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fruggo · 3 years

Note

I’m not gonna lie this would be the first time I requested something so if I do something wrong I’m really sorry,

Can I request Quentin, Leon, Steve, and Frank meeting a female reader who, before the entity took her, had already faced off her own killer?

And this made her kinda tough? Like she knows what she’s doing

oh my gosh thank you so much!! this is my first ever request to fulfill so we’re in this together :DD seriously i really appreciate you!

i decided to do a headcanon kind of format for this, i hope that’s okay! also these are my absolute favorite boys aaahhh this is so fun for a first request

the boys x tough f!reader (part 1) (part 2)

warnings: swearing, reader kicks frank in the shins

word count: ~700-1k each (sorry if it’s too long…i kind of got really excited and uhhh maybe i got carried away,, yeah. sorry)

(also i'll be honest quentin's is not my best. that was the one that got eaten by the tumblr abyss and i had to write all over again, and it just didn't come out the same way that i wanted it to at first :( i did the other boys hoping i'd get some inspiration to fix it afterwards, but i got kind of stuck. so it's not my favorite, but i hope you like it okay! i want to write better stuff for quentin in the future, he is my favorite sleepy boy <3)

𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐇

when you arrived in the realm, everyone thought you would be the same as the others—frightened, confused, and overwhelmed. but you took this nightmarish challenge in stride, adapting to your surroundings quickly and learning far faster than anybody else had.

your past experiences had made you independent and sometimes distrustful, so once you had the gist of things, you didn’t need (or want) anybody to tell you what to do. and nobody was inclined to, either—your instincts naturally told you what to do and when.

the first time you met quentin was a little awkward, i wont lie. you were wary of speaking to the other survivors; you weren’t going to let yourself get hurt again.

it was the beginning of a trial. the nurse’s fatigued shrills could be heard all the way from the edge of the wrecker’s yard, but you immediately started work on a generator, unafraid. a few minutes passed, when soft footsteps indicated someone’s approach. it was quentin—he started to work on the wires without hesitation.

you were a little surprised, only because the other survivors usually left you to your own devices. you got the impression that maybe they were intimidated by you, which you didn’t particularly mind. but you wouldn’t particularly mind some company now and then, either.

it was comfortably silent for a while, before quentin spoke up.

“what’s your name?” he asked, gaze still focused on the wires.

hesitating a little, you told him. then you said, “and you’re quentin, right?” you already knew most everybody’s name just from observation.

“that i am,” he replied.

then it was quiet for a while.

very quiet.

well, what were you supposed to say now?

the silence was deafening and very, very uncomfortable to you. normally you were okay with a quiet atmosphere, but it was the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears, chewed at your stomach, filled the area as if it were something solid. man, what were you supposed to say—

it was then that you realized poor quentin had fallen asleep, his face smooshed onto the generator. his cheek was now covered in grease and grime.

it made you smile—only a little. you finished repairing the generator on your own, causing quentin to wake with a start and bang his head on the pole protruding from the machine. he swore like a sailor until he realized where he was, smiling sheepishly.

“sorry, i wanted you to have your nap. you looked really tired,” you said. you also couldn’t stop admiring the dark grease on his face—it was really quite funny. and no, you weren’t going to say anything about it. it could stay there a little longer.

you spent the rest of the trial running the nurse around the whole wrecker’s yard, only suffering one injury until the end. quentin had no idea how you had been here for such little time and already knew how to outplay the nurse, one of the most difficult killers to survive against. he still didn’t know how to do it well himself, so he was thankful for you.

however, once the exit gates were opened, you found yourself in a bad spot. the nurse had caught you in an empty clearing with nowhere to hide or predict her moves, and she downed you instantly. quentin cringed hearing your agonized scream as you were hooked.

there was no way you were dying on his watch. once he was sure the nurse was gone, he gently lifted you from the hook, pulling out his medical kit to begin patching up your shoulder.

despite the pain, you had enough energy to smile at him and say, “thanks, nap boy.”

quentin feigned offense with a wry grin, pulling out some gauze. “is that all i’m going to be to you? nap boy?”

you hummed, pretending to be deep in thought. “maybe you won’t be if you get me out of here.”

“that won’t be a problem," he smiled, quirking an eyebrow.

“show me the gates and then we’ll talk, nap boy.”

from then on, quentin became your go-to source for supplies and general comfort. you weren't scared of this place, but it was nice to know you had somebody who would really be there for you.

he would often fall asleep on your shoulder at the campfire--he really was a nap boy, and you would never let him live that down.

𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘

leon could not tear his eyes away from you the first time you arrived in the realm. your presence was strong; he could tell you weren’t one to back away from a fight.

most of the survivors had been (rightly) confused and disoriented when they popped into the realm, but you tried to accept it quickly. you didn’t like it, in fact all you wanted was just to go home, but you came to terms with it and jumped into trials headfirst like an insane person.

that was the courageous part about you—maybe you were scared, but you did scary shit anyways. in fact, you did scary shit to spite the fear, to prove to yourself that you were strong enough to overcome it.

and leon couldn’t lie, that was cool as hell.

you had tunnel vision and didn’t pay much notice to the other survivors; you were too focused on learning about this place and getting out of trials. having gone through some real shit, being here hardly came as a surprise to you. if you were going to be here forever, what was the point in mourning? might as well just accept it and try your hardest to survive. maybe someday this sick game would end, but for now, you were prepared to fight for your life and that’s all you could really focus on.

your first trial was not the best. even though you were resourceful, you didn’t know what the objective was yet, so you weren’t sure where to start other than analyzing your surroundings. luckily for you, leon kennedy was one of your teammates.

after being downed immediately by bubba’s chainsaw and tossed onto a hook, you were amazingly resilient to the pain. leon was the one to lift you from the hook, and he took out his medkit to help patch your wound, but you flinched away from him before he could touch you.

he was puzzled. “what’s wrong?” he asked. he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he wanted to help you.

you hesitated and looked him over before mumbling, “i’m fine.” and you tried to stand on your own, beginning to limp away. you didn’t want or need anyone’s help.

leon sighed, following after you. “let me help, that must hurt a lot.”

“i told you, cop, i’m fine. i don’t want your help, okay?”

leon opened his mouth to insist, but decided against it. if you didn’t want his help, then he shouldn’t butt in. that wouldn’t keep him from watching over you, though.

but then leon called after you (perhaps a little smugly), “do you even know what you’re supposed to do?”

begrudgingly, you stopped walking. no, you didn’t know what to do. “i’ll figure it out,” you said over your shoulder. and you would; you had been through enough to survive any situation thrown at you.

but maybe one pointer couldn’t hurt.

“do a generator,” he told you, giving you a cheeky grin when you turned around to look at him. he was lucky he was cute.

the first part of the trial had been rough, but after that first hook you were doing a lot better. you managed to find your own medkit from a chest, and you learned how to fix a few generators. you found it came pretty naturally, and were satisfied that you hadn’t needed anyone’s help (except leon’s. but you didn’t have to admit that yet). when the killer came near, you skillfully avoided him and stayed hidden as much as you could.

you were also pretending that you didn't notice leon hovering near you. he was not very good at being subtle; he was obviously trying to make sure you didn't get hurt. it was cute. you didn't want to ruin his fun, so you didn't say anything about it.

it wasn’t long before the gates were powered and in the process of being opened. you saw a red glowing light in the distance, and assumed that must be your destination. you put all of your remaining energy into sprinting to the exit, adrenaline pumping through your body.

but then there was a heartbeat. a heartbeat so loud it filled your head, splitting your concentration. it wasn’t your own heartbeat--it was the killer’s.

the sound of the cannibal’s chainsaw roared in your ears and pain tore through your body; you collapsed to the ground with a cry of agony. shit, that really hurt, and you weren't sure you could ever get used to it. eternity sure seemed a lot longer than you had first anticipated. would you really be here forever? doing this over and over?

biting your lip until it bled, you tried to crawl towards the gate, dragging the lower half of your body with much difficulty. it was no use, though--you hardly got anywhere, and you could already feel the killer picking you up. just like that, you were going to die? you had been so close..

but as you were being placed on bubba’s shoulder, you saw a flash of a police uniform and a blinding light, and before you knew it, you had been dropped to the ground, the exit gate looking awfully lovely and much more desirable than a meat hook. you gathered all of your strength and began limping forward, when suddenly you felt an arm firmly wrap around your waist and your own was placed around someone else’s shoulder.

leon. when you looked up at him, all he did was give you a calm smile, which you felt inclined to return. with him supporting you, the two of you made it safely to the exit and began the long traipse back to the campfire, where you would find yourself spending a lot of time together.

from then on, you always remained quite unfazed by the events of the entity’s realm—the only thing that ever made you feel weak was being around leon. he was just so cute :]

𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍

you had never met someone so persistent in your life. from the moment the entity stole you here, steve harrington was after you, and there was next to nothing you could do about it. he sure was living up to his self-proclaimed role of babysitter.

you told him you were fine, that you didn’t need him following you around, but the asshole did it anyways.

“how cool do you think you are?” you asked him at some point, to which he simply shrugged with that stupid grin on his lips.

“i can take care of myself.” “i really don’t need you to baby me, steve.” “steve, if you don’t leave me alone i’m going to break your kneecaps.” these were all things that had come from your mouth multiple times recently. you were seriously thinking about that last one now.

you knew you could make it on your own, and you only wished he would give you a chance to prove that to him so he would leave you alone. but it was like he had attached himself to your hip, and for some reason the entity seemed to really enjoy putting you in trials with him. great.

he was a dumbass and a sweetheart, and you weren’t sure which one of those took higher priority. you knew he only meant well, but god, you wanted to be independent for once. why did he think he had to protect you so much? you arrived here after running for your fucking life, fighting off your long-time pursuer, and living in awful, ever-changing conditions. you had seen your closest friends die, right before your eyes. you didn’t need to be sheltered or coddled, but you couldn’t seem to make steve understand that, no matter how much you fought with him.

steve would literally throw himself in front of the killer for you. he clicked his flashlight in the killer’s face if they were after you, and he would swear and cuss until they chased him out of pure annoyance. it got him killed countless times, and you didn’t know whether to call him stupid or selfless. probably both.

eventually you decided to just copy him and see how it worked out. you weren’t scared, you had no reason to be. you wanted to show him you could be just as flashy as him.

as you arrived into a trial, steve right across from you (of course), you smiled to yourself. you had brought your best flashlight, and you were prepared to use it. the two of you began to work on a generator together, making light conversation as usual.

“if the killer comes here, hide. i’ll take him away.” “fuck you, steve harrington.” “sure, if you really want to.” “why don’t you ever leave me alone?” “it’s a mystery, isn’t it?” “i could punch you right now.” “but you won’t. i’m too good to look at.”

you know, the usual friendly stuff.

you purposefully connected the wrong wires, making the generator spark and sputter. “oops. oh no, the killer must be on their way,” you dead-panned. steve gave you an unamused look.

and indeed, only a few moments later, you heard the sound of the hillbilly and his chainsaw roaring in your direction. the two of you split up, and the killer’s weapon collided with the generator, making an awful screeching sound.

and that was when the chaos started.

steve began hollering and flicking his flashlight into the sky as usual, and after a moment’s hesitation, you did the same. steve looked at you in astonishment, pausing, but then he started again, even louder. you tried to outdo him.

“HEY BILLY! FUCK YOU!” you screamed, ignoring steve’s attempts to get you to stop. “COME AFTER ME, SHITHEAD!”

steve started actually yelling, just yelling, while you continued to swear meaninglessly. the poor hillbilly looked confused and overwhelmed, and eventually he couldn’t take the noise anymore--he just left, opting to find the other survivors while the two of you sorted out whatever it is you obviously had against each other.

it was dead silent now that the killer was gone, and you and steve were both out of breath. but as soon as you made eye contact, laughter bubbled up from your chest, causing you to collapse against the tree and slide to the ground. your voice was hoarse from all the screaming.

and then he was laughing too, stumbling over to plop down next to you, and your giggling started up a whole new round.

after the laughter died down, you stared at your hands, ignoring steve’s gaze on the side of your face until you couldn’t anymore.

“what?” you asked, finally looking at him. he was smiling all stupid again. “what?” you insisted, fighting off a grin of your own. you hated when he looked at you like that, because it made you want to smile back at him.

“nothing,” he said coyly, laughing again. you punched his shoulder playfully.

“c’mon harrington, when have you ever held your tongue before? spit it out.”

he nodded, that was true. so he said it. “i just like you, that’s all.”

oh. oh.

realization dawned upon your face. “is that why you always--”

“yes,” he interrupted you. “i thought it was obvious. man, you’re clueless sometimes.”

oh.

huh.

you guessed…maybe…steve harrington wasn’t that annoying. maybe.

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍

to say you were feisty was an understatement. frank hated your guts at first because you were so good at evading him, which he would never admit. but the thing that made him really mad was that if he ever downed you, you would kick at him and try to trip him over, like actually bruise his shins. it hurt like hell.

this lead to his decision to constantly tunnel you, and he would laugh at you while you were on the hook, too. so you hated his guts just as much as he did yours. it was a mutual guts-hating situation.

your teammates always felt bad for you, but they also thought you were a badass and knew you could handle yourself. you hadn’t told anybody where you’d come from or what had happened to you, but they knew it was something interesting. there was a reason that nothing that happened here really got to you.

sometimes things escalated even further than shin-kicking. there was one time where frank had managed to grab the back of your shirt as you tried to vault a window, and as he pulled you closer to himself, you elbowed him in the neck and squirmed out of his grasp. while he stood stunned and lost for breath, you kicked the back of his locked knee so that he fell to the ground and bonked his forehead on the wall—the classic dead leg.

this was very funny to you.

not to him.

while you ran away, laughing to yourself, frank’s anger built and built. he was tired of letting you make a fool of him, and it was time to be serious about things.

he ignored you for the rest of the trial, forming a plan in his mind. there was something he needed to do after this, so he made sure to kill everybody else to please the entity—he couldn’t get caught up, it would derail his anger train. he also didn’t feel like getting kicked in the balls or some shit, so he let you out without a problem.

frank did some brooding at the ormond lodge before he was ready to go through with his plan. and his shins really, really hurt, so susie helped him ice them before he left.

the masked killer made his way to the survivor camp rather hastily. when he arrived, he saw you pacing around, deep in thought.

so he threw a rock at you.

it was just a pebble, really. maybe it could be considered a rather large pebble, but frank insisted in his mind that it was a pebble.

“ow, what the fuck!” you cursed, rubbing your sore shoulder and looking around to find the culprit. and then your eyes laid on him.

he looked so sultry standing there at the edge of the woods, arms crossed and mask smiling, you could almost laugh at him. he acted so serious, when really, he was just an angry and misbehaving twink.

you put on your best serious face, genuinely trying not to be amused by this, and strode over to the killer.

“what do you want?” you asked confidently, mirroring his body language and crossing your arms.

frank bristled at your approach, as if trying to make himself look bigger. he wished you were scared of him like everyone else, it would really make him feel better.

“i want a truce,” he said.

you almost burst into laughter at that. a truce? what the fuck for?

he said was willing to stop tunneling and camping you if you stopped beating the shit out of him with your sticky little hands. he didn’t say it like that, but you knew that was what he meant. you, a survivor, could beat up frank, a killer, and it upset him and his little ego :(

just to humor him, you agreed. and frank nodded.

“but,” you continued, raising your eyebrows, “you have to give me something else.”

he started to say “no, no way—“ but you interrupted him: “you’re asking me to stop fighting for myself and just give in when you catch me. i think i deserve something other than just not being tunnelled.”

frank glared at you under his mask, thankful that you couldn’t see. “okay. whatever. what do you want?”

“i want to see your face.” you thought this was a good choice, something you could lord over him forever. it was surely only a win for you. his face was something private, and you would be the only survivor to know.

of course you wanted to see his face, frank thought. everyone did; they wanted to find out if he was good-looking. which, according to him, he was. if you ever asked the other members of the legion, susie was the only one to actually respond. she felt obligated to compliment him as she was basically his sister. so she would say frank is handsome in a ruggedy, jess mariano kind of way. you wondered how she knew what gilmore girls was, since that came after her time, but susie would never give away her secret.

so with a sigh, frank agreed to let you see his face. he didn’t really care, all he wanted was to stop having bruises on his shins. it was kind of miserable, and the entity never did anything to help him.

when he said that you couldn’t do it here, and you asked why the fuck not, he said it was because some other survivor might see. you decided he had a fair point, so reluctantly you let him drag you all the way to ormond.

when he took off his mask, your first thought, whether you wanted it to be or not, was “wow! he really does look like jess mariano! but with tattoos! hot!”

you were lost for words. you didn’t really know what you were expecting, but you sure weren’t expecting him to be that attractive.

he could tell your thoughts from the look on your face.

this had been per your request, and you were planning on this being something you could hold over his head, but the situation had turned into something that he could hold over your head.

oh dear. frank morrison now held pretty boy privilege over you.

and soon you would find out that he was going to keep tunnelling you anyways.

listen i've been watching a lot of gilmore girls and i just get jess vibes from frank, except our boy is more of a twinky idk shdjfhsf i love this guy sm

#so many notes!!!! thank u!! :]#dbd x reader #dead by daylight x reader #dbd fanfic #dbd headcanons #frank morrison #frank morrison x reader #quentin smith #quentin smith x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #fruggo writes #dbd #dead by daylight #requests

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cuttoothed · 3 years

Text

For the second day of @jonmartinweek, mostly for the prompt "injury", though also a little bit "love confession" (by omission).

Set directly after episode 92. Content warnings for mild descriptions of Jon’s canonical injuries (blood, burns).

Things are...tense, when they go back down to the Archives. Actually, “tense” is probably an understatement, after finding out that Elias murdered not only Gertrude Robinson, but also the unknown man in Document Storage—who as it turned out was none other than Juergen bloody Leitner.

A lot to take on board, all in all.

Basira seems to have accepted her new employment status with eerie calm, and starts setting up at Sasha’s old desk (oh god, Sasha’s dead, has been for months), fetching notebooks and folders from the stationery cupboard and arranging pens and highlighters in a desk tidy. Daisy is nowhere to be seen—thankfully, Martin thinks, because she was even scarier than usual in Elias’ office. Melanie storms off into the stacks and there are sounds of shouting and things hitting the floor, which Martin is in no hurry to investigate. Tim sits at his desk with his feet propped up for about five minutes, then stands up and says: “Fuck this, I’m off to the pub.” He doesn’t invite anyone else to go with him, and Martin thinks their presence probably wouldn’t be welcome.

Jon arrives in about half an hour later, smelling of fresh cigarette smoke. Normally Martin would disapprove, but the way things are right now he’s tempted to take up a few bad habits himself. Jon looks...exhausted, defeated, his shoulders slumped wearily. His clothes are smudged with dirt, and there’s drying blood crusted around the injury on his neck; the bandages on his hand are starting to slip, revealing the angry, raw burns beneath.

Martin’s not sure he’s ever been so happy to see someone in his life.

Jon gives him a small, tired smile as he passes, then heads into his office and shuts the door. Martin knows that no sane person would try to go straight back to work looking like they’d just been through a war zone and still with an open wound; he is also aware that Jonathan Sims is the sort of person to do precisely that. He hesitates for a few moments, then makes a decision.

He fetches the first aid kit from the break room, and goes and knocks on Jon’s door. It’s a firm knock, a knock that he hopes says “I’m coming in whether you like it or not”, because it’s not beyond Jon to try to avoid them all for an extended period.

“Come in,” Jon calls, and even his voice sounds exhausted. When he sees Martin enter the room, his expression softens in a way that’s difficult to parse. Is he just relieved that it isn’t one of the others? Or is he actually pleased that it’s Martin?

It’s been two months since Jon went into hiding while suspected of murder, and the last time Martin saw him he had been quite sure Jon was planning to—to hurt himself, somehow. Before that, though, there had been a time when they were...well, close, in a way. Jon had let his guard down around Martin, in the midst of being so suspicious and afraid. He had trusted Martin, when he didn’t trust anyone else, had eaten lunch with him and talked about boring, ordinary things, the tight set of his shoulders relaxing just a little. He had even laughed, sometimes. It had been, despite everything, one of the happier times in Martin’s life, and if that’s not pathetic he doesn’t know what is.

“Hi, Jon,” he says.

“Martin,” says Jon, his tone soft. “It’s so—ahh, how are you?”

“How am I? You’re the one with a bloody great gash in your neck and looking like you put your hand in a fire.” Martin brandishes the first aid kit. “You really should go to the hospital, but I know it would be a waste of my time suggesting it.”

“Thank you for bringing that,” Jon says. “I appreciate it. You can just leave it on the desk.”

“Nope,” Martin tells him cheerily, setting the kit down and opening it. “I know you, Jon. If I leave it with you it’ll still be sitting here untouched tomorrow. Plus, I got my first aid certification when I was working in the library. It’s probably expired now, but I think it still counts.”

Jon looks as if he’s about to protest, but then he huffs a breath that might be a laugh, and nods in concession.

“All right then,” he says.

Martin snaps on a pair of disposable gloves and directs Jon to sit on the desk and undo the top two buttons on his shirt, so Martin can examine the wound on his neck. It’s shallow, fortunately, and the bleeding seems to have already stopped. Martin cleans away the crusted blood as gently as he can, though Jon still winces a few times.

“What happened?” Martin asks, as he smears on antibiotic cream.

“Daisy. She, ah, she decided that I was dangerous. Needed to be dealt with. Fortunately Basira was able to convince her otherwise.”

“Bloody hell,” Martin mutters. He’s not sure why he’s surprised; he’s always felt afraid around Daisy, like a rabbit being in the same room with a fox. But he just sort of assumed it was typical Martin fear of, well, everything. He never thought Daisy would actually hurt any of them. He applies a bandage carefully over the wound, and then turns his attention to Jon’s hand. Unwrapping the bandages reveals the red, blistered mess beneath, and Martin hisses in sympathy.

“Please tell me you went to the hospital for this.”

“I went to a walk-in clinic,” Jon says. “They cleaned it up, gave me some antibiotics and painkillers. They, uh, they did recommend I see my GP for follow up monitoring, and that I should get a referral to a physiotherapist, but, well, it’s been a busy few days.”

“Jon,” Martin sighs, exasperated, and Jon smiles a bit shakily.

“I know,” he says. “I will go to a GP, I promise. It’s just a bit tricky when you’re wanted for murder. Anyway, it seems to be healing rather well, all things considered.”

Martin considers whether to apply antibiotic cream, but the skin doesn’t seem to be broken, and he knows it’s best not to touch the area more than needed. Instead, he rewraps it with clean, dry bandages, being sure to keep them loose.

“How did this happen?” he asks, to distract himself from the fact that he is, technically, holding Jon’s hand. Jon gives a self-deprecating laugh.

“I, uh, I was trying to get information from a devotee of the Lightless Flame. This was her price.”

“The Lightless Flame? That cult—from the statements?”

“The same. As it turns out, a—a lot of things from the statements are real. Unpleasantly so.”

“I—yeah, I sort of figured that out when Tim and I got trapped in these weird corridors for days by that Michael...thing.”

Jon’s face blanches, his brows furrowing.

“You—god, Martin, I didn’t know. Are you—I mean, you’re okay, obviously, but— Have you seen Michael since?”

“No, and I hope I don’t.” Martin feels faintly nauseous at the memory. He doesn’t realize his hands are trembling slightly until the fingers of Jon’s hand, the unburned one, touch his wrist.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” he says. “When I realized a-about Sasha, about that thing, I hoped I could take care of it myself, spare you and Tim. I never wanted to drag you into all this.”

“I don’t think there’s much avoiding it,” Martin mutters miserably. “And you didn’t seem to mind dragging Melanie into it, while you were on the lam.”

“I shouldn’t have asked her for help either. It wasn’t fair to put any of you in the position of aiding a suspected murderer.”

“I never believed you did it,” Martin tells him fiercely. “It just would have been nice to know you were okay, you know?”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I—I wanted to contact you, but it seemed too risky. I knew the police would be watching you, since we’re friends. Or—or at least friendly.”

Everyone I’ve talked to says you and him were close. Martin had been ridiculously pleased by the accusation at the time, and he feels the same now, with Jon’s injured hand cradled in both of his. Jon trusts Martin with his wounds, his vulnerability. Jon wanted to contact him; Jon thinks they’re friends.

“I—” Martin starts to say, and he doesn’t know if his next words will be I missed you or I worry about you or some humiliating romantic confession blurted out and impossible to take back. He draws a deep breath, and instead says: “I’m glad you’re back, and that you’re okay. I don’t have that many friends, I can’t afford to lose one.”

He says it like a joke, and mercifully, Jon takes it as one, and gives a relieved laugh. Martin realizes he’s long since finished bandaging the burn and is now just sort of...holding Jon’s hand; he releases it, reluctantly, and Jon smiles, lifting his other hand to touch the bandage on his throat.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, hopping down from the desk. “I appreciate it, really.”

“As a token of your appreciation, you can go ahead and make a doctor’s appointment for that hand,” says Martin firmly, closing up the first aid kit.

“I will,” Jon says solemnly, and Martin believes him, but he’s also going to check in and remind him at the end of the day because Jon has a tendency to forget about trivial things like his own wellbeing. It’s just who he is, and Martin’s made his peace with it, like he’s made his peace with being utterly, hopelessly gone for Jonathan Sims.

“I was going to make some tea, if you fancy,” he says as he opens the door. “You look like you could use a cup.”

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, thank you. Oh, and Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad I’m back as well. I—” Jon hesitates a moment, then says: “I missed your tea.”

It’s not much of a declaration, but Martin understands what Jon means by it; for the two of them, it means a lot.

#the magnus archives #jonmartinweek2021 #tma #my fic #jonmartin #cw injury

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softyoongiionly · 4 years

Text

Press Start 🎮

A night in with your boyfriend Jungkook includes all kinds of things: anime, witty banter, snacks from 7-Eleven and, you know, sex.

This moodboard was made by my incredibly talented best friend @me-trash-tbh and, I love her so much

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: established relationship, domestic! Jungkook, smut, fluff

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: Guys, I love Jungkook. Like, I’m so sorry but, this is just pure fluff and filth. Love you. Also this is unedited for now, it’s 2am plz save meeee (update: it’s edited now woohoo)

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex (stay safe ladz), explicit language.

“They’re staggered so, we should push now...”

You hear your boyfriend mutter from the other side of the room, body bent towards his computer screen.

He’s been at this for hours now, fingers furiously working his keyboard, throwing suggestions/commands at his friends through an expensive headset.

“Yah, we’re almost there...just stay focused...”

Another encouragement is grumbled through his pouted lips as his hands make another commotion against his laptop.

A fond smirk caresses your mouth and, you shake your head, positively endeared by his dedication to his game.

You don’t want to interrupt him, you know playing video games for hours on end, shot gunning ramen like tic tacs is a luxury for him and, he deserves that. You’d be lying though, if you said that your side of the bed was aching for him a little bit. The bed you shared with Jungkook is massive, far too big for one person and, spacious enough for both of you to starfish across the surface comfortably.

And now, with only your laptop to keep you company, you’re feeling a lil lonely.

But, you won’t let him know that.

One, because you want to give him his space to do what he enjoys.

And

Two, because you know its only a matter of time before your competitive, enthusiastic boyfriend turns into the shy, needy, cuddly man that he always becomes during bed time.

And morning time and after sex and, well...

Most times.

But, he isn’t consistent.

Certain days, he comes home feeling on top of the world and, other days he comes home with the world on his shoulders. During the former, he pesters you, pushes your buttons, tries to steal your food all while continuously stealing kisses whenever he can. When the latter hits, he slumps into your arms, eager for affection, he picks at his dinner, he mumbles his worries into your neck and, lets his anxieties melt away under your touch.

Lately, he’s been coming home somewhere in between but, the last two days have been better given that he’s on break for a week.

“Watch out...watch out!”

You giggle to yourself and shake your head at his enthusiasm, finding it outrageously charming.

You can see the side of his face, peeking out through his hoodie, his mouth suddenly turned up into a grin as he presses a button on the side of his headset.

“Don’t laugh at me, this is serious...” He shoots a playful glance towards you, eyes narrowed in mock offense, “You’re going to be sleeping next to a champion tonight...” He presses the button again, his friends likely trying get his attention, "sorry sorry, I’m here...I reloaded...”

“I’m not laughing at you Widowmaker.”

Your response causes him to snicker and, shake his head, his cheek creasing with the size of his grin. He presses the button another time, “I’m not playing her this time thank you very much but, if you’re jealous babe, we can talk about it...”

You know he’s just trying to press your buttons, it’s one of his favorite pass times but, unfortunately you’re not easily annoyed and, you miss him too much to be bothered by his antics.

These days, everything he does is endearing...

His headset is turned back on but, his attention isn’t fully focused anymore.

It’s late, after 2am and, while he enjoys playing games into the early hours of the morning, he’s missing you a little bit but, of course, he won’t admit it just yet.

“I’m just jealous you play with her more than you play with me.” You quip, smirking and, you can see his expression shift to match your own whilst he shakes his head.

Before he can formulate a response, you make an executive decision to visit the 7-Eleven downstairs. The two of you had eaten dinner but, given the fact that you’re still awake, you’re starting to grow a bit peckish. Pushing your laptop aside, you scan the floor for the pair of leggings you had discarded earlier, wanting only to be in your boyfriend’s sweatshirt and your underwear; Jungkook’s favorite look.

He’s still a little flushed from your comment but, as far you’re concerned his attention is fully back to the game. However, as soon as you turn around to pull your leggings on, Jungkook steals a glance or two your way. Half of him is curious as to where you’re headed whilst the other half is admiring the way your body looks illuminated by the lights streaming in from the city skyline.

Fuck, if he isn’t in love.

But, there is a ranked match to attend to so, he’s gotta snap out of it.

With your pants on and your cell phone secured in your pocket, you scan the room for your wallet before remembering you left it on the counter.

Jungkook presses the side of his headset again, eyes widened in curiosity, “Where are you going?”

You lean down as you pass him, pressing a kiss to his head before responding, “7-Eleven do you want anything?”

With a boyish grin, he catches your wrist, tugging you back in his direction, “You know what I want baby...”

Ok, you know he’s joking with you when he deepens his voice and, lets his accent slip into his sentence but, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t go straight between your thighs.

“Banana Milk?” You giggle, stumbling back towards him until your hips are level with his shoulders.

He nods, smiling as he keeps your wrist secure in his grip, his lip tucked between his teeth, brown eyes still trained on the screen, “Ramen too, extra spicy...”

“You’re going to make yourself sick...”

He chuckles, shrugging as he places an absentminded kiss against your hand, “Will you still love me even if I throw up on you?”

“Absolutely not.”

This tickles him and, his chuckling gets a little higher in pitch as he finally releases your hand, fingers heading back to his keyboard, “Fair enough...can I get two of them then? I’ve been trying to get out of this for awhile now but, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings...”

With a scoff, you laugh in disbelief, nudging your snickering boyfriend, “I’m not getting you anything now! Tell your little friends to bring you food!”

Jungkook smirks, pausing the match before grabbing your wrist again, eyes creasing with laughter, “Yahhhh come back!” He widens his eyes, his pretty lips pouted up towards you as he tugs you closer, “PLeaaaassseee?”

Your faces is formed around a faux expression of displeasure but, his pouting is slowly breaking your resolve, “You’re so annoying...”

He snickers again, his features alight with boyish mischief before he leans up towards you slightly, “I’ll behave once I have my snacks.”

This makes you giggle, cause he’s so ridiculous sometimes but, fuck if he wasn’t the most adorable person on the planet, “I don’t believe you.”

He sneaks a few kisses against your lips, melting your previous fake expression, “That’s fair. I am now aware of my actions and, how they affect you and, I promise to do better in the future...”

You roll your eyes, still bent slightly to reach his mouth before, nudging him away, still giggling, “Get back to your game before your friends disown you. I’ll be back.”

“Wait...one more...” He insists, brows furrowed in determination as he pulls you back down for a deeper kiss, “I love you.”

His kiss makes something swirl deep in your gut and, you cope with that by, pushing him away playfully, “Love you too Widowmaker...”

“Extra spicy!” He reminds loudly while laughing before, returning to his game.

“Stupid...” You mutter to yourself but, you aren’t able to help the giggle that bubbles over your lips at your boyfriend’s antics.

The trip to 7-Eleven lasts all of 25 minutes and, the next thing you know, you’re back at your front door, punching in the passcode.

*030220*

The door chimes the little song that welcomes you home every day and, you’re grateful that you have a free hand to open the door since you know Jungkook is likely still preoccupied.

“Honey I’m home!”

You call teasingly and, you hear him chuckle through the slightly ajar door in your bedroom.

“Give me a second, my side chick is still getting dressed!”

Biting your lip, you resist the urge to giggle at his statement, approaching the door with the bag of snacks hanging in crook of your arm, “Wow you didn’t last very long did you? I figured I would have caught you two in the act this time...”

As you swing the door all the way open, you’re met with one of your favorite sights in the world: Jungkook, cuddled up under the covers.

His hood is drawn up over the back of his head, the sleeves of his sweatshirt are covering most of the length of his fingers as they encase his phone whilst the screen illuminates his mischievous grin.

“I was wound up from winning my match so, it was a quickie this time...”

You giggle before plopping the bag on the bed, jerking your head towards it, “Here’s your stupid milk and your stupid soup. I’m glad I can provide you with your post-sex snacks...”

He smirks, ignoring your teasing and, pressing send on his final contribution to his group chat before, setting his phone aside, “What did you get?”

“Matcha Kit-Kats and, Hot Cheetos.” You answer immediately, pulling said contents from the bag and, making your way over to your side of the bed. “A balanced meal...”

Jungkook chuckles, keeping his eyes on you as you set your food on your nightstand, “My trainer is going to kill me when I go in next week but, it’ll be worth...hello beautiful...” He beams and, if this was earlier in your relationship, you might think he’s referring to you but, you’d be wrong.

He’s talking about his noodles.

“Did you boil the water yet?” You giggle and, he immediately shakes his head, leaning over to kiss your cheek before, grasping at both containers of Ramen before hoisting himself from the bed.

“No, I’ll be right back,” He vows, stopping at the door to turn towards you, “If you’re not too tired, can we watch Death Note?”

Popping open your bag of Cheetos, you nod, eyes scanning the bed for the remote, “Yeah I can probably last through an episode or two...”

With a pleased grin, his eyebrows wag playfully in your direction, “Each episode is like thirty minutes babe, you'd never last that long.”

You pretend to be put off by his immaturity, throwing a pillow in his direction, which he dodges effortlessly, laughing, “Hurry up and make your food...”

Happily, he obliges, bounding off into the kitchen, pleased at his double entendre.

Not ten minutes later, your boyfriend is back in bed with one cup of steaming ramen in his hand and, the other waiting patiently on the night stand. The steam raises up from the cup wafting in Jungkook’s face as he pulls apart a pair of disposable chopsticks. At your request, he’s turned all lights off except for the blue lights he has set up on his desk for “gaming ambience” as he had so eloquently described it.

"Ready?” You murmur to him, your thumb hovering over the play button as he shoves his first bite of noodles in his mouth.

He furrows his brows, chopsticks between his lips, “No?” His words are muffled over the noodles but, he looks rather offended, “Compe hewe...”

Cuddling is something Jungkook needs in his life, you know, along with oxygen and apparently spicy ramen. There isn't a night with Jungkook that goes by without the two of you wrapped up in one another.

In more ways than one...

Remedying the situation, you scoot over to his side of the bed and tuck your body against his, pecking his cheek despite the fact that he’s smacking his lips around the noodles, “Better?”

Jungkook grins, mouth closed, pleased beyond belief, “Mhm...prwess p..ay.”

“Chew...” You urge him, pressing a kiss over his lips.

He makes a dramatic motion of his mouth, chewing loudly and tucking his face into your neck. Despite the essence of spicy ramen broth now on your lips, you still relish the scent of your boyfriend's cologne.

“We already saw this part, cause this guy dies on the train and, then he’s like L-LIGHT YagAMIIII...” Jungkook groans beside you, shoving another bite of noodles in his mouth.

A breathless laugh comes puffing past your lips while your thumb presses the skip button on the remote, “What was that? What did he say?”

He snickers before, swallowing, “L-IGHt Y-aGAmi...” He mutters out in a dramatic voice, pretending to loose his breath.

Jungkook loves making you laugh and, he feels his cheeks start to burn from how much you’re making him smile.

“How do you not have your own drama already?” Your words are spoken through a series of giggles, pressing play at the appropriate point in the episode.

“Bang PD is a coward, he doesn’t understand my genius...”

With yet another bout of laughter sent his way, the two of you finally settle and, turn your attention to the show.

“I don’t understand why L doesn’t just tell Chief Yagami...like sir I am sorry to break it to you but, your son is a little psychopath who kills people for sport.” Jungkook inquires beside you as he finishes off his second cup of ramen.

“BEcaauusee....” You emphasize with a raise of your hand, gesturing towards the screen, “he needs evidence, he can’t just accuse him of murder without any proof.”

“Why nooot? He’s obviously guilty, look at his smile!” He blazes, eyes widening comically “He looks like a super villain, he wears nothing but, trench coats and he’s handsome...too handsome.”

Your hand that lays flat against Jungkook’s stomach, pinches him lightly, “Do you have a crush on Light Yagami babe?”

He practically giggles, body squirming underneath your touch, “NO I just think he’s...” He trails off as a smirk catches the end of his mouth, chocolate eyes darting back and forth, “he’s...”

With that, you pounce on him, forcing more giggling from his gut as you scramble on top of him.

“Are you serious??? First I have to compete with Widowmaker, the GODDESS of Overwatch and, now you’re telling me I have to compete with the LIGHT YAGAMI??? Owner of the DeathNote??? King of Sass and APPARENTLY TRENCH COATS????”

Jungkook’s high pitched laughter is out to play due to your sudden outburst, his head thrown back against the pillow as he accommodates you atop his waist.

“No no no no babe, you know that isn’t true!” He insists hoarsely, his fingers reaching up to lace with yours. He pulls you down so your hands are braced on either side of his head, “...it’s only Widowmaker.”

With eyes widening like saucers, you make another obnoxious sound and attempt to jerk your hands out of your boyfriends grip, “Oh so you finally admit it then???? DO YOU LIKE HER MORE???? IS IT THE BLUE SKIN??? IM SORRY I DIDN’T UNDERGO COVERT TRAINING THAT ALTERED MY PHYSIOLOGY IN ORDER FOR MY SKIN TO TURN BLUE JUNGKOOK!”

“AH-” He chokes out through his hysterical laughter, his teeth gritting as he tries to hold on to you,“My stomach hurts...oh my god...”

Jungkook’s face is scrunched up with the evidence of the giggle fit you’ve sent him into and, although you’re trying to mess with him, you can’t help but notice how adorable he looks.

You can’t help but notice how much you love him.

“Your stomach is hurting now??? Is it because of your burning desire??? Are you thinking of her???”

“Maybe-” He chuckles still, a determined look blooming across his face as the grip on your wrist tightens.

He knows you’re going to react so, before you get the chance to, he’s pinning you against the mattress.

“I am...heartbroken...” You lament, slightly breathless, attempting to stifle your laughter.

Jungkook chuckles again, “Yeah? Well that doesn’t sound very fun.”

This time, you pout despite the bit of laughter that makes it through your lips. The tendrils of Jungkook’s hair are long enough to hang from his head and brush against your cheeks, a sensation which causes your nose to wrinkle.

“How did you know that?”

His question takes you off guard a bit and, your eyes narrow in his direction, “Know what?”

Jungkook’s teeth are out to nibble on the edge of his lip, eyes sparkling with something you can’t recognize, “How did you know about Widowmaker’s skin?”

“You told me.” Your answer is immediate and, matter of fact but, it melts Jungkook’s heart, “you told me about all the characters.”

Then, he smiles.

The kind of smile that leaves you feeling really fucking special for having witnessed it.

You still aren't sure what brings on such a response but, you’d never miss a chance to see your boyfriend smile.

“What? Why are you smiling? Is it Widowmaker again? Is she using her Infra-Sight? Tell her to fuck off, she can have you tomorrow...” You giggle, slightly nervous under his gaze.

Jungkook can’t contain himself anymore, with his hands still pressing into your wrists, he leans down to press his lips firmly against yours.

Your boyfriends' mouth is warm and, although there are remnants of ramen on his breath, you’re eager to accept his kiss none the less.

The smile he sends into your lips only makes it easier to forget the fake argument you were vigorously pursuing just a moment ago.

He’s fully at it too, pecking at your lips, giggling in between them as his nose nudges against yours.

“I...” He chuckles, nudging your nose again, his breath a little uneven, “I fucking love you.”

You can’t help but, return his chuckle, bewildered by his sudden burst of affection, “Wh..why? What did I do?”

Placing another kiss against your mouth, Jungkook just smiles, the grip on your hands loosening a bit, “You actually listened...to me-” He kisses you again, nuzzling his nose against yours, “when I was talking about Overwatch characters and, you’re just I don’t know- you're just cool...ok?”

He’s flustered at the task of actually having to explain himself so, rather than let you respond, he goes straight back to your lips, allowing more of his weight to settle into your body.

The kiss gradually grows deeper, sending waves of arousal to the pit of your stomach. Jungkook’s lips are so soft as they tuck into yours. His movements are unrushed when his tongue slowly slides into your mouth but, the rest of his body is growing increasingly antsy.

Making out with you never fails to turn him on. He genuinely doesn’t understand how he survived the first few months of your relationship because, the two of you took things really slow and, whilst he still stands by that decision, he’s thankful that he gets to experience all of you now.

“Jagiiiii....” He’s cooing playfully against your lips, dark eyes heavy with lust.

Your eyes are heavy too but, they catch your boyfriend’s playful grin before he nuzzles into your neck, sucking against it a few times, eliciting a laugh from your lips, “What do you want?”

As he kisses up the column of your throat, he snickers boyishly, pressing his hips to yours, “I’m hard...”

His response earns him a harsh nibble against his earlobe, given that it's your only means of retaliation since your hands are still beneath his, “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Jungkook snickers again, leaning back, puffing away past his lips to move his hair from his face, “Can I be honest?”

With amusement evident on your face, you nod.

“I want-” He smirks, his cheeks growing hot at the nature of his response, “I want your mouth.”

There is an attempt to hide your surprise but, the raising of your brows gives you away, an action that causes Jungkook to groan and hide out against you, “Yahhhh don’t look at me like that...”

The fondness you have for the man currently whining into your neck explodes and, you peck at his cheeks, giggling as he nuzzles against your skin.

“Lay down.” You murmur in his ear, your tone lowering slightly.

Although he wants to fight you in an effort to keep his pride, he’s not going to refuse you. He wants this too bad.

With a shit eating grin, he kisses your cheek and rolls off of you, a breath puffing past his swollen lips as his back hits the bed.

His eagerness makes you shake your head but, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t salivating at the thought of having him in your mouth.

Jungkook is always responsive during sex but, there is something about the way he acts when he’s in your mouth. It’s like he feels it for the first time every time, like he can’t believe how good it feels...

A searing kiss is touched against his mouth as your fingers tuck underneath his hoodie. Slowly, you pull it upwards, revealing the toned expanse of his stomach. He’s already hard but, that doesn’t stop you from leaning down and kissing against the taut muscles.

“You’re driving me crazy...” He chuckles, voice laced with arousal, his forearm coming up to shield his eyes because, no matter how many times you’ve done this, he still gets shy.

“Good.”

The word is whispered against his belly button before you continue nibbling and kissing against his skin. Shaky breaths are coming from underneath Jungkook’s forearm but, that doesn’t urge you to speed things up.

You know that despite his complaints, he loves to be teased.

He loves anything you do to him.

Finally, you’ve decided he’s had enough teasing and, you hitch your fingers into the band of his sweatpants and, pull them off his legs.

Jungkook’s breathing increases slightly as he tries to anticipate what you’re going to do next but, he keeps his forearm securely over his eyes, his teeth securing themselves against his bottom lip.

You genuinely didn’t realize how hard he’s become until his pants are off but, now you can clearly see how much kissing you really affects him. His length is swollen, bobbing slightly in your direction, pink tip imbued with precum, begging to be cleaned up.

You settle between his calves before gently moving your nails up the length of his legs, swirling around his kneecaps as you spread his thighs for you. His dick twitches towards you, jolting up from his lower stomach, attempting to get closer to your movements.

Your lips come in to play now, taking turns between both of his tender thighs kissing and, sucking lightly at the muscles when they tremble for you. Finally, you end your teasing and, kitten lick over his sensitive tip before encasing it within your mouth, sucking gently.

Jungkook’s breath hitches above you, his upper body lurching towards your mouth. He’s trying his best to keep quiet but, as you brace your hands on his hips, and begin a slow rhythm up the length of his dick, he can’t help himself.

“Th-that feels so good.” He whispers and, it’s then his forearm falls away from his eyes because, as coy as Jungkook likes to play, he likes to watch.

And through his heavy gaze, he does, his swollen lips parted in awe.

“I bet it does.” You smirk, licking up his balls before drawing one of them into your mouth.

As your tongue caresses the sensitive flesh, your hand works a steady rhythm against his aching dick. Squeezing at the tip, you illicit a low groan from the back of his Jungkook’s throat, his toes curling against the sheets.

“Do you_” His inquiry is cut off as you lick back up his length, using your hand and your lips to work him closer to the edge, “Do you like doing this for me?”

He’s so fucking endearing sometimes you could burst.

“Do I like sucking your dick?” You clarify, speaking against the tip of his dick, your tongue tracing the curves of his frenulum.

He can’t respond just yet, his mouth is occupied by a different sound but, as soon as he gets his wits about him,his watery eyes open to gaze longingly at you.

“Yeah, does it turn you on?” He breathes, sweat beginning to collect around the curves of his face, causing his long hair to stick against his skin, “It makes me so crazy, to watch you do this for me. To know that you want me in your mouth...”

You take your time answering his question, sucking down the length of him as you let your fingers brush against his twitching balls, “I’d suck your dick every day if you’d let me...”

“Oh my god.” He groans, not expecting such a detailed answer. And at this point, his oversized hoodie is getting too much for him. He hastily pulls it over his head, doing it so quickly that he doesn’t interrupt the motions of on his dick. “I think I'd get addicted if I let you do it more, it’s too good, it feels so good...”

His beautiful face is smoothed out with pleasure, mouth unable to close unless it’s secure by his teeth, his eyes either blown wide with amazement or screwed shut with toe-curling euphoria. He looks so beautiful, his nipples erect on his chest, his stomach trembling underneath your touch and, you don’t notice but, before you know it, you’re whimpering around his dick.

“What’s wrong baby? What happened?” He whispers hastily, his hands leaving the sheets to brush your hair from your face.

You don’t want to interrupt what Jungkook would consider to be the best head he’s ever received but, the aching in your core is getting really difficult to ignore and, feeling Jungkook’s dick in your mouth is making you a little delirious.

“I’m really...” You begin, pressing your thighs together, “this always makes me so wet, I kind of want to-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence as Jungkook already knows what you’re getting at and, the fact that sucking his dick makes you wet is enough to make him loose his shit. He sits up and pulls your mouth from his length, securing your lips into a sloppy kiss.

“You kind of want to fuck?” He whispers, trailing his lips to your ear, nibbling against the shell of it, “Is that what you were getting at? Does my girl want to fuck me?”

Jungkook is normally the shy type in the bedroom but, there are certain times, times like these when he gets riled up enough to display his more vulgar side show.

“Want to ride you...” You mumble into his mouth, pouting a little bit as he snickers, his hands sliding down your body to pull you in by the hips.

“You’re so fucking cute.” The compliment is uttered into your mouth as he situates the two of you in a position to grant your request. “How could I refuse you hm?”

You smirk playfully, biting your lip and, taking in a moment to admire the dichotomy of your boyfriend’s expression. He knows his words affect you and, the smirk on his mouth shows that but, his eyes are glossy and they hold something so much more, to the point you feel like there is something he wants to say.

But, he doesn’t, instead he just strokes himself a few times whilst you hover over his length.

Soft lips places kisses all over your face as you sink down on him, the two of you leaning into each other for support.

The things is, you’ve had sex with Jungkook hundreds of times.

And while yes, you know it feels good and, you know you’re going to cum your brains out, you never get used to the way he makes you feel.

Like you’re the only person in the world.

Like you’re everything he could ever dream of.

“I can feel how tight you’re getting around me jagiya, are you close? Are you gonna cum for me?” His voice is higher in pitch and, growing desperate as the two of you near your orgasms. He angles his hips a certain way before, increasing his pace and, the sensation of his dick hitting your g-spot at the perfect angle, blows your eyes wide open.

With his thumbs placed on either of your cheeks, he smirks, “Oh was that it hm? Was that the spot?”

A frantic nod is all you can give him before your orgasm seemingly hits you like a freight train.

"Jungkook...oh-fu...fuck...i love you.”

He isn’t far behind you, cumming hard enough to fuck with his vision and, holding you through the entirety of both of your releases.

“I love you too, I love you so much...”

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Are they seriously just going to expect me to believe that he just FORGOT EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED????”

Jungkook's outburst is enough to send you into yet another giggle fit.

The amount of ‘giggling’ you do around this man is honestly excessive.

“Listen, sometimes you have to give your Death Note back to your God of Death in order to further your diabolical plans, it’s totally normal babe, you’re overreacting.”

After the mind numbing sex, you and Jungkook finished off the rest of the (your) snacks and, decided to at least get through one episode of Death Note. He’d been a little handsier than before but, that was normal Jungkook behavior; the man is always needy post orgasm.

Not that you minded...

The one thing you did mind was the occasional dazed look in his eyes, you kept catching him staring at you, or smiling fondly in your direction. You felt like something was up and, it was bothering you that you couldn’t figure it out.

As the episode ends, the two of you get ready for bed, which mainly entails you finding your hoodie somewhere on the floor and calling it a night.

“Jagiiii can you please turn on the lights back on? I can’t sleep without them anymore, the vibezz are off...” He pleads from behind you and, you snort at his choice of words before padding over towards his desk.

Normally, you wouldn’t notice the contents of Jungkook’s desk mainly because, he likes to keep it tidy, claiming that a messy desk would ruin his gaming abilities. However, this time something stands out-

A small black wooden box, containing the words ‘Press Start’ sits on top of Jungkook’s glowing gamer key board. Intrigued, you pick it up before casually looking over your shoulder, “Hey babe whats-”

You cut yourself off because, Jungkook isn’t on the bed anymore...

He’s in front of you.

On one knee.

“I never...uh..” He clears his throat, his eyes glassy with tears, his face alight with adoration, “I have never believed I could fall in love with someone as hard as I’ve fallen for you. You make me laugh harder than anyone I’ve ever known, you make me smile, you make me feel like I’m the best man alive, like...like what I do ma-matters...”

“Oh my god...” You whisper, your own eyes filling with tears, clutching the box within your hand

“Through you, I have learned to love...not only you but, myself. If you’ll have me, I promise to spend the rest of my life, thanking you for what you’ve done for me and, loving you harder than anyone has ever loved another.” He’s so competitive oh my god you love him so much, “Uh...can I?” He gestures to the box, laughing through his tears

Your eyes widen, practically shoving it into his hands, “Oh shit, I’m sorry...here...here.”

The two of you laugh together, as you always do before Jungkook takes your hand in his, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles, “Y/N Y/L/N? Will you marry me?”

“YES OH MY GOD YES!”

Through the screeches and happy, almost inhuman noises, Jungkook slides the ring on your finger before, wrapping you up in his arms.

“I love you so much, oh my god how long have you been planning that?”

He chuckles, kissing along the side of your face, “I’ve had the ring for a while but, I was waiting for the perfect moment but tonight, I realized that this is how I want to spend my life with you. Because it doesn’t matter where we are, all that matters is that I get to be with you. So, when you went pee earlier I stuck the ring on my desk and, turned the lights off...”

“You ass! I had no idea!” You giggle, kissing his lips before he can answer.

“Uh yeah...” He smirks, walking you back towards the bed. “That’s kind of the point babe...”

With a roll of your eyes, you tug him onto the bed with you, securing yourselves under the covers.

You don’t clapback because, the blue light illuminating Jungkook’s face catches your attention and, suddenly you realize that you’re going to get to spend the rest of your life with this man.

Because he wants you too.

Forever.

One last kiss is placed to his lips before, the two of you begin drifting off to sleep, “I love you.”

He smiles, pulling you close to him, “I love you too.”

#smutcentralnet #jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook smut #Jungkook fluff #jungkook one shot #jungkook fanfics #Jungkook fanfiction #jungkook fic recs #Jungkook cute #Jungkook hot #long haired jungkook #Jungkook x reader #Jungkook sexy #bts smut #bts fluff #bts fanfiction #bts one shots #btswriterscollective

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mollymauk-teafleak · 3 years

Text

The Problem with Magic Markers

Soooo Critical Role campaign 2 just ended, I've got major brain rot over it and my wonderful gf gave me a wonderful idea for a fic so! This happened! A gift to @spiky-lesbian who came up with this adorable concept and is just generally an all round wonderful person who deserves the world. Also huge thanks to my ever patient, ever helpful beta reader @minky-for-short

If you liked it too, please reblog and leave a comment over on Ao3!

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Mollymauk is so proud of Caleb in so many ways and, now they have their lovely lives with their wonderful children, he finds more reasons to be every day.

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Mollymauk Tealeaf had learned many things since he’d become a parent, now five years ago. A short amount of time, he’d used to think, but plenty of time to obtain a lot of knowledge you never thought you were ever going to need in your life.

Like how sandwiches cut into triangles were disgusting but sandwiches cut into squares could be eaten by the hundreds. Like how to make a bath appealing to a toddler with the liberal addition of bubble bath and a willingness to get absolutely soaked playing Sharks with them. Like how a scraped knee and bumped forehead could be cured with his cuddles and kisses alone, like how a promise from him that everything was going to be okay was enough to make it so.

And how silence was very, very worrying.

So when Mollymauk walked past his son and daughter’s room and heard only silence, when he knew for a fact they were in there, he stopped dead. He put any thoughts of getting to go and spend some time with his sewing kit out of his mind. Because he’d been a parent long enough to know that something was up, two five year olds weren’t that silent unless some game was afoot, something they didn’t want their parents to know about. Which meant he should probably at least poke his nose in.

So he knocked lightly on their door, the one covered in whichever drawings they were most proud of that week and a hand painted sign Jester had made for them the day they were born, prettily proclaiming ‘Trinket and Una’s Room!’ amongst a flock of miniature unicorns.

“Sweetlings?” he called gently, “Mind if I come in?”

There was a sudden scrabbling from behind the door and he heard a muffled grunt from Una before Trinket answered hurriedly, “Um...yes! Okay daddy!”

Raising a curious eyebrow, Molly pushed the door back, disturbing the usual scattering of toys left on the floor like the aftermath of a felt based battle. Although it did seem like there was more mess than usual…

Trinket stood in the middle of the room between their two little beds, his backpack at his feet and an expression of perfect innocence on his face that was just a little too polished to be anything but an act. Molly had to admit he’d probably learned that from him.

“Well hello there, little man,” he leaned in the doorway, smiling crookedly, “What game are we playing today?”

Trinket shuffled his feet, “Um...packing?”

“That sounds like a fun game,” Molly’s gentle concern upgraded to full blown wariness, “And where’s your sister?”

Trinket turned a deeper shade of purple, looking down at his fidgety feet that were poking more holes in his innocence by the second, “Um...she...um…”

Which was the point Una helpfully chose to poke her little head out of the backpack, dark eyes blinking curiously and ears flapping, trilling, “Here daddy!”

Trinket flushed guiltily, frowning at her, “Una! I said you had to stay shh!”

Molly took a breath, wandering over to sit down on Trinket’s bed. As his eyes swept around the room, he noted a great deal more chaos in the room. Almost like someone had been going through the toy box and the drawers and bookshelves, hurriedly pulling things out, making quick decisions about what to abandon and what to stuff into a little blue, dinosaur patterned backpack. Molly supposed he should at least be grateful that Trinket saw his sister as worth taking.

“Why don’t you talk to me, babies?” he offered gently.

Trinket swallowed, eyes darting around nervously before the last of the fight went out of his narrow little shoulders and he mumbled, “Daddy...can I tell you a secret?”

Molly had to smile. This was almost a running joke between the three of them, his kids running up excitedly to tell him they had a secret for him before whispering into his ear about some apparently very cool bug they’d seen or that Uncle Caddy had snuck them an extra cookie or that he was the best daddy ever. He loved being brought into their world where everything was brighter and more exciting and there was fun to be found in the smallest things. And where everything was felt so much more keenly.

“Of course you can, sweetling,” he murmured gently, patting the bed beside him, “You can always tell me secrets. Whatever it is, I promise we can make it better together.”

As Una rolled out of the backpack, apparently unconcerned and rather enjoying herself, Trinket clambered up beside him and stood so he could whisper into his ear. Molly tucked his purple curls behind one ear, smiling encouragingly.

Voice already trembling, Trinket leaned in and murmured, “I messed up Papa’s coat.”

Molly absorbed that in silence, feeling his son’s anxious red eyes on him. He leaned back, keeping his face carefully neutral before taking a long, deep breath through his nose, marshalling his thoughts.

“Trinket, I’m not going to lie to you here. We might be in trouble.”

His opinion didn’t change when he actually saw the coat. The coat his husband had been wearing as long as he’d known him and refused to be regularly seen without, no matter how many attempts Molly had made to buy him a newer, less ragged, less musty smelling version. It was more a comfort blanket than just clothing, stained and scorched from numerous spells and spills, old leather worn shiny from overuse. He hadn’t said so in so many words but it didn’t take a genius to guess that Caleb had worn it since before he came to the city. Which meant it had probably come from his parents. And though it was old and faded and stained today, it must have been new when he got it, a costly garment for people like the Ermendruds. The sort of gift that would only be given if your only son was leaving home to join the Academy and wanted to show him how proud you were.

A lot of Caleb’s life was like that. Even as his husband, Molly found himself having to piece things together from passing comments and turns of phrase, things that dulled his love’s eyes and tightened his jaw. Molly had about a quilt and a half’s worth of assumptions and semi-finished anecdotes by this point, telling of a sad and fractured timeline.

But he knew enough to see what the coat meant to Caleb and the place it held in his husband’s black and white, yes or no, yours and mine way of thinking.

The coat that now had a minor gallery’s worth of doodles and drawings scribbled in magic marker across the sleeves and all the way down the back. And if he wasn’t comfortable with Molly washing the thing, he wasn’t going to be okay with this.

Trinket had been fretfully watching his daddy since he’d first pulled the coat out from where he’d guiltily stashed it under his bed. As Molly’s mutely horrified silence dragged on, he only became more and more anguished until he was barely in tears, wringing his tail between his pudgy fists.

“I only wanted to make it pretty,” he whimpered, “Papa will hate me. I won’t be his special boy any more.”

Molly looked up at him, reaching out and putting his hand on Trinket’s shoulder, “Oh sweetling, your papa loves you a lot, you know this isn’t going to change that.”

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the times he’d picked up a pen from Caleb’s desk without thinking much of it, doodling with it until he’d looked up to see his husband gaping at him in scandalised horror. Or the times he’d stolen sips from Caleb’s drink when they were at the cafe, the same way he’d do to any of his friends, but Caleb would frown if he caught him, unable to understand why Molly was taking his coffee?

It was just part of the way his brain functioned, the rules it spat out after absorbing years of poverty and trauma, along with some different wiring that had simply occurred naturally. Mollymauk had learned a long time ago how to fondly work with these Caleb-isms, making concessions where it was best to and encouraging his wizard to gentle the restrictions his brain built when he needed to. It was like tending some kind of creeping vine in a garden, the way he saw it. Sometimes things needed moving aside so it could flourish and sometimes it needed pruning so it didn’t strangle the flowers around it. Caleb had been as brave as Mollymauk could have wished in managing his idiosyncrasies and sometimes he just had to sit back and admire how different the Caleb he lived with today was from the anxious, mumbling wizard he’d first met.

But how much patience he’d be able to muster when it was one of his favourite things in the world, Molly couldn’t say. But he wasn’t looking forward to telling him about it.

“Should I go?” Trinket’s lower lip wobbled, glancing back at his half packed bag, which Una was back inside, the front half this time as she munched away on some snack he must have stashed in there.

“Absolutely not, your papa would never want that,” Molly squeezed his shoulder gently, “We’re going to put the coat in to soak so we can get all this ink out and then we’re going to find him and I’ll tell him what’s happened. But you need to be the one who says sorry, okay?”

Trinket nodded frantically, still clinging onto his tail for comfort, “I am sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“I know, buddy,” Molly drew him close and hugged him tight, hating to see him so upset, “But we’ll be laughing about this before long, you’ll see.”

Maybe if he said it confidently enough, he’d start to believe it too.

Caleb wasn’t hard to find for a number of reasons. For one, their apartment was very small and there were only a handful of rooms to look in. But more importantly, it was late afternoon on a day where Caleb didn’t have any reason to go down to the Academy and fulfill his duties as an adjunct professor and when his bookshop was closed, as it was once a week. Which meant there was only one place he would be, in his half of their spare room, either playing one of his video games or reading.

Molly wasn’t quite sure what they’d do when one of their kids decided they wanted their own room and were tired of sharing, meaning Caleb would have to store his books and he’d have to store his sewing somewhere else. Or if they had another kid. He’d been toying with that idea in the back of his mind lately.

Maybe best not to float that idea with Caleb right after this.

Mollymauk could feel Trinket in his arms, his offer to pick him up and carry him having been immediately, breathlessly accepted. He could sense him getting more tense, more anxious, growing heavier against him as Molly knocked lightly on the door.

“Ja, come in,” Caleb’s response was immediate, not even needing to ask who it was or having to pause over whether he wanted to see them.

When Molly went in, Caleb was in the old, ratty wingback chair they’d liberated from some sidewalk when they’d first moved in, Molly announcing teasingly that a future professor needed some grand leather throne from which to smoke a pipe and pontificate. Caleb had blushed and rolled his eyes, not even believing back then that one day he would get the job he’d always dreamed of having, thinking trauma and past hurts had stolen it from him.

So now Molly always got a small flush of pride when he saw his Caleb sitting in that chair.

His hair was getting a little longer these days, it’s auburn tangles pulled into a small knot at the crown of his head so it wouldn’t fall in his eyes. His beard was growing a little thicker too, more than the usual rusty shadow that dusted his jawline. Molly absolutely was not going to be complaining about any of that, he liked his husband looking a little more rough around the edges like when they’d first met.

As soon as he saw them, Molly with Trinket balanced on one hip, Caleb’s face lit up with a smile. His smiles had been rare once upon a time but now just the sight of his family was enough.

“Hello,” he set the book he’d been reading to one side, already expecting Trinket to want to sit on his lap like always, “How are my loves?”

Near Molly’s ear, Trinket whimpered mournfully and pressed his face against his daddy’s neck. It was more than an ache to listen to, Trinket idolised his papa, following him around whenever he could, listening devotedly as he explained his work even when it wandered far off the track that his little mind could understand. Molly had no doubt the attempt to brighten up his coat had been a genuine attempt to make him smile and he couldn’t imagine how much it was hurting his little boy, to think he’d upset the man he looked up to more than anyone.

Caleb’s smile dulled a little, seeing Trinket hesitate, immediately realising they weren’t here for playtime, “What’s wrong?”

Molly exhaled slowly, carefully keeping his voice calm and level, “It’s okay babe, Trinket just...did something he wants to apologise for.”

“Oh?” Caleb frowned a little, eyes still fixed on Trinket, arms still open.

Molly opened his mouth, ready to do the hard part but before he could, Trinket bolted upright and tearfully burst out, “I wanted to make your coat pretty because you always like my pictures and I thought you could take them everywhere not just in your pockets but I made a mess and I’m so sorry papa! I’m really sorry!”

For a moment both of his parents were a little stunned, not quite sure what to say as his rambles tapered off into spluttery sobs. Molly warily glanced at Caleb, looking for any change in his blank, closed off expression, any flicker of discomfort, even anger.

After a few beats, ones that felt longer than usual, Caleb only nodded, getting to his feet. Gently, he reached over and put a gentle hand on his son’s face, catching some of the tears dribbling down his cheek on his thumb.

“Little Kätzchen, it’s alright,” he murmured softly, “Please don’t cry.”

Trinket sniffled, blinking blearily, “You’re not angry? Don’t want me to go away?”

Caleb’s eyebrows shot up in alarm, “No! Oh, Trinkie, absolutely not. I’d never want that.”

“But…” Trinket’s eyes were wide, hopeful, wanting to take this relief being offered but hesitant to, “It’s your favourite thing in the whole wide world…”

Caleb chuckled quietly, his smile back with all it’s warmth as he leaned in and kissed his forehead.

“Kätzchen, you and your sister are my favourite thing in the whole wide world.”

Molly nearly yelped in panic as he felt the weight of Trinket suddenly leave his arms before realising his son had thrown himself at Caleb, locking his arms around him tightly. He didn’t doubt for a moment that his husband would catch him, only smiling fondly as he gathered Trinket close and buried his face in his hair.

“It’s all okay,” Caleb whispered against the rust red curls he’d given their son, “It’s okay, little one.”

Molly let them have their moment, letting Trinket cry the last of his tears out happily against his papa’s chest, hanging back and feeling his heart thudding warmly against his ribs. Eventually he was their beaming, bright little boy again, if a little damp, wriggling down from Caleb’s arms determinedly after one last little kiss against his papa’s cheek.

“I’m gonna make you a sorry card. The best sorry card ever,” he promised Caleb, already toddling towards the door, “It’s gonna have glitter.”

“Wow, that kid is definitely my son,” Molly observed wryly once his little lavender tail had disappeared around the corner.

“Then you can clean up the mess he’s definitely about to make,” Caleb chuckled, moving into his husband’s arms.

“Hey,” Molly kissed the crown of his head gently, “Well done. I know that must have been hard for you and...I’m really proud of you.”

He couldn’t see it but he could hear the coy smile in his voice, “Well...I meant what I said. Some coat is never going to be more important to me than my kids.”

Molly smiled knowingly, “I know baby….but you know, if you want to scream into that cushion for a little while, that’s okay too?”

There was a short pause before he felt Caleb’s shoulders drop in relief.

“Thank you, Katze…”

“Is it done yet?”

Molly had to fight a smile. He’d explained to Caleb that soaking his coat would take exactly thirty minutes, knowing his husband fixated on time easily, but still he asked every five minutes on the dot. He’d expected nothing less.

“Not just yet, babe,” he repeated, as he had all of those other times, looking up from the laundry they’d been folding so Caleb would have an excuse to hover anxiously in the laundry room, over the tub of hot soapy water and a little rubbing alcohol his coat was submerged in, “Soon though.”

Caleb gave a small grunt, poking a finger into the water curiously like it was some potion he was working over. After a moment, before Molly could turn back to folding the clothes, he frowned.

“This sleeve isn’t in the water…”

Molly’s smile turned crooked, coming over and putting a hand on Caleb’s before he could move the one sleeve into the tub, “I thought maybe you’d want to look at it...decide if you want to keep that one.”

Caleb blinked, not understanding until he turned it a little and saw the drawing his Trinket had chosen to adorn the sleeve with. It was done in bright red, standing clearly against the dark fabric, unmistakable a child’s drawing. There were four figures there, two taller and two smaller. The first had a set of horns drawn a little too large for it’s head, as well as a tail. The second had a long scarf and a scrawled head of shoulder length hair. The next was much smaller, with another set of horns and a tail but the same scribbled hair. And the last was tiny, with voluminous ears and spikes on the end of it’s fingers. All of them had immense smiles and held hands, a lopsided love heart hovering above them.

As the other scribbles and swirls turned into formless ink in the water, Caleb held this one like it was the most precious thing he’d ever seen in his life.

“Yeah,” he murmured, smiling softly, “I think this one can stay.”

#critical role #modern au #caleb widogast #mollymauk tealeaf #widomauk #una #trinket #please reblog and comment!

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crystalirises · 3 years

Text

The First Correspondence (The Walls of Illusion Part 3)

I finally wrote the third part ;-;

I’m so sorry it took so long, I’m just really not good with long stories. But I will try to add more to this story as well as Safe and Sound. Anyway, hope you guys like this! It has a bit of the third one-shot, but I changed it around so that the original ending is different.

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30512157/chapters/83057647

“Well, it seems you’ve gotten a fever. Not surprising since you oh so insisted on going on a nightly swim while you were out.” Fundy pressed his aching head into the soft pillow, holding back an exasperated groan as his dad paced at the foot of his bed. He did not need to be lectured when his body was threatening to kill him. “Honestly, Fundy, if you would just listen to me一”

“Dad…” His eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion clinging to his aching bones as he tried to calm his breathing. Why was his room so fucking hot? Fundy knows he sleeps in it but he can’t be that devastatingly hot, right? He chuckled at his joke, his laughter caused his dad to stop pacing. His dad probably thought he was bordering on delusional now. He rubbed the back of his neck, hoping that his clammy hands would be enough to cool his burning skin. Fuck Dre. It’s his fault that Fundy was sick and suffering. “Can you murder me with your words later… please… dad?”

“You worry me, Fundy. You’ll kill your old man with all this worry.” He heard the creak of footsteps move closer, the bed dipping as a hand settled at the top of his head, soothing his frazzled hair. Fundy leaned into the touch, sniffing as tried to move towards his dad. There was a soft chuckle from beside him, a low hum from his dad as the hand in his hair disappeared. He whined at the loss before a pair of arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a comforting embrace. He nearly yipped as he sluggishly threw his arms around his dad, pressing his face into his dad’s chest. “I was worried sick last night. If anything happened to my precious son, I一”

“Shhhhhhh…” His hand landed against his dad’s shoulder with a thump, his body too numb to really cause much of an impact. Fundy wished his dad stopped talking. He’d rather not have his dad’s droning voice in his head by the time he’s fallen asleep. Fundy burrowed his face into the crook of his dad’s neck, sleep seeping into his hazy mind. “Dad… song… please?”

---

Wilbur chuckled at his son’s request, honestly content to forget the events of last night as he began to hum the lullaby he’d composed when Fundy was but a kid. Fundy curled closer in his arm, a soft smile on his son’s face as he tried to hum along, stuttering off into silence as Wilbur changed to the next song. Fundy hadn’t heard this one yet. Wilbur glanced out the window, recalling a familiar river and remembering his first and only love. It was a song meant for her, to the woman he’d loved so dearly. Wilbur had never told Fundy about Sally, frightened that it would only lead his son to the same fate that had befallen the mother. Wilbur held Fundy closer, quelling the rising panic in his heart. His son was in his arms, safe even if he was sick. Wilbur shook his head, amused yet worried by his son’s constant need for adventure in a cruel world.

“I promise. I didn’t build the walls to cage you. I have my reasons, son. I will not lose you too." Fundy’s eyes fluttered open, despite the fever-haze in their gaze, he could see the doubt dancing in those golden flecks that reminded him so much of Sally. Wilbur ran a hand through his son’s hair, wincing at the way the strands stuck to his fingers. Fundy needed a bath, but they’d have to wait until the fever died down. Wilbur didn’t want Fundy to get even worse. He held his son closer, the memory of last night still fresh on his mind. He knew he was unreasonable. He knew anyone would call him a bit mad for being so protective. But they didn’t know his history, didn’t know the dangers that lurked. “Until L’Manburg is free, not a single one of us is safe out there.”

It pained him to be so strict, knowing that Fundy missed the man who’d willingly give in to his little son’s demands. Wilbur couldn’t help it. He loved his son, enough to give him some peace and a piece of the world. L’Manberg will be safe, safer than any country that dared to exist in Dream’s realm. It will be a nation for the free and for those sickened by tyranny. A nation for all.

Fundy was too young to remember when the walls were built so he’d always assumed that they’d been there ever since he was a baby. His son thought that Wilbur built the walls, and in a way, he did. It was his idea, in the end. It was his order that was followed. But he wasn’t the hand who built those walls. Wilbur could never tell Fundy the truth, lest Fundy gain any rebellious ideas about them. Wilbur couldn’t. How could he ever tell Fundy the truth of their creation? Wilbur placed his head on his son’s hair, the fox hybrid whining as Wilbur pressed a soft kiss against his head. Fundy was still conscious enough to be embarrassed by Wilbur’s affection. He chuckled, pressing another kiss to Fundy’s forehead. Sometimes he forgot how old Fundy was. His little champion was growing up, but to Wilbur, Fundy would always be his and Sally’s little fox kit.

Wilbur knew he’d have to leave Fundy alone by the time he’d fallen asleep. War was not merciful to a father who only wished to care for his son. He had a plan for the day, half of which he’d have to move for the next day since he’d spent half of the morning taking care of Fundy. Wilbur laughed, a mirthless noise that caused Fundy’s eyes to flicker open. He quickly shushed his poor son, lulling him back to the edge of sleep. As Fundy snuggled closer to him, he pressed the back of his hand against Fundy’s forehead. Shit. This wasn’t going to be a normal fever.

“Don’t fall asleep yet, baby. Don’t sleep yet, Fundy. You should drink a healing potion first一”

“No.” Wilbur sighed through his nose. Too late. Fundy had fallen into what they both called ‘The No Stage’, which was one small step away from ‘The Clingy Stage’. He frowned, pulling the potion from his inventory. Fundy needed to drink it or else he’d never get better. He held the back of Fundy’s head, tilting it up a bit as he pressed the potion to Fundy’s lips. “No! Gross!”

“Fundy… This is for the fever. You don’t want to be sick forever, do you?” Fundy groaned underneath his breath, sticking out his tongue before finally drinking the potion. Wilbur sighed in relief. He couldn’t really bear to see Fundy so sick. “There. That was pretty easy, huh champ?”

“I… don’t like you anymore. Your potions suck, all I ever taste is melon.” Wilbur pouted at the comment. He’ll have his son know, he was a master at potion making. His father and mother had always said he was born with a talent for it despite… Wilbur sighed, pressing a soft kiss to Fundy’s forehead as he slowly lowered Fundy back onto the warm bed. He reached for the thin quilted blanket that Tommy had created when Fundy was just a kit, draping it over Fundy who then promptly kicked it away. Wilbur chuckled, shaking his head at his son’s antics. As much as he wanted to spend the rest of his day caring for his sick son, they had a war to win, he couldn’t stay for long. Wilbur turned to leave, “Don’t leave, dad…! I-I was lying! I didn’t mean it…”

“I know, my little champion, but dad has to make sure L’Manburg doesn’t lose the war.” He placed a hand on his son’s ginger curls, a discontented groan rumbling through his son’s prone form as Fundy tried to bury his face beneath the pillows. If Wilbur didn’t leave before the fever progressed, he’d never be able to. Fundy wouldn’t let him leave, his poor baby... Wilbur didn’t mind the clinginess, but Fundy had to understand that he couldn’t stay. “I’ll be back by lunchtime, alright? Besides, we wouldn’t want to leave Tommy in charge, now, would we?”

“No…” Fundy let out what sounded like a choked laugh, settling underneath the warm covers as Wilbur finally pulled away. A small frown climbed its way to his face. Fundy had barely eaten at breakfast, how could Wilbur just leave his poor son to suffer? A sigh slipped past his lips, he’d have to ask Eret to watch over Fundy. As much as the thought sent a bitter taste down his throat, Wilbur could trust no one else in the army to watch over his son. With one last look at his son, Wilbur turned to leave the room, pausing at the doorway when he realized one other agenda on his list for the day. He threw a short glance towards Fundy, hesitating before realizing that Fundy hadn’t fallen asleep just yet. He should have been asleep already though. “I’ll be sending a letter to your Grandza later this afternoon. Would you want me to relay anything for you? A ‘hello’?”

“Mmm… Tell them I said hi… or something…” Fundy groaned, placing a pillow on the top of his head. Wilbur took that as his cue to leave. Fundy may be insistent on sleeping now, but that won’t last soon the moment Fundy decides he’d rather have someone to cuddle. It was times like that where Wilbur asked the gods why his son had been blessed with fox traits. He loved Fundy, he really did, but the fox instincts were worse when he was sick. Wilbur chuckled to himself, slowing down as he went down the stairs. It was nearing lunch, and he could only hope that Eret, Jack, Tommy, and Tubbo had been training in his absence. He headed towards his small office underneath the stairs, a cozy spot that looked more like a lounging area than an actual office.

He and Tommy had tried to make it look more professional, but by the end, it turned into a space where anyone could lay down and rest. A safe place to pretend that the war wasn’t at their door.

Today, he wasn’t alone. The crow cawed at him impatiently, jumping here and there at the little coffee table that served as Wilbur’s desk. He didn’t bother to sit on the couch, choosing the carpeted floor instead. The crow, in its eagerness to return to its master, had already placed a bottle of ink and a few letter papers on the table. It tapped its beak on the wood, cawing again.

“Impatient! What? Is the old man going to keel over at any moment now?” Wilbur petted the top of the crow’s head, nearly losing a finger in the process. He huffed. On business then, or perhaps this crow wasn’t too particularly fond of him. The crow was new, he could tell. All of Phil’s crows absolutely adored him, well, what was there not to like? He picked up the quill. Still, if Phil sent a more serious crow as his messenger, it meant Wilbur that Phil wasn’t asking for news on the rest of his family’s well-being. His father wanted a report. “Trouble in the Antarctic?”

The crow cawed, its feathers ruffling.

“I am not being nosy, I am simply asking a question.” Wilbur rolled his eyes, though a smile played on his lips. The crow’s rude behavior didn’t upset him one bit. It probably wanted to return home as soon as it could. Wilbur couldn’t blame it for that. He missed home sometimes too, and he could only hope that one day Fundy would be able to see the Antarctic, their home.

Wilbur reflected on any significant occurrence in the past month. Dream and his closest allies - George and Sapnap - had nearly burned down the forest near L’Manburg a few weeks prior. He didn’t need to be a strategic genius to realize that it was Sapnap who had instigated that attack.

He pressed the tip of the quill to the parchment:

‘To His Majesty, the King of the Antarctic Empire…’

---

He awoke to the sound of scratching. Fundy groaned, burying his head deeper under the covers. His fever had gotten better, but his head was still killing him. He wasn’t going to move from the bed, not even if the house decided to spontaneously combust. The scratching grew louder, more insistent, more demanding. He scowled, pressing a pillow to his ear. If it was Tommy and Tubbo pulling a stupid prank on him, well he’d have to get even with them later. So long as his head didn’t decide to kill him right then and there. After a moment, he started to fall asleep again…

Until he heard the screech, the glass shattering against impact. He shrieked, rolling off the bed in fear that they were under attack. It was cowardly, but he remained on the floor, barely moving.

He wondered where his dad was. If he was alone in the house. If another had broken out. If his dad was dead in a room somewhere nearby. He shuddered, pausing once he realized that there was scratching coming from the bottom of his head. After a moment, a familiar face popped up from beneath his bed. He blinked. The fox from last night sniffed at his clothes, sneezing and pawing at its nose after taking just one whiff. Fundy rolled his eyes, it could smell his sickness.

“You little shit.” He took the fox into his hands, pausing once he realized there was a letter tied to its leg. He gently took it off, the fox curling into his chest despite initially showing disgust at the faint sickness that rolled off Fundy’s entire being. Fundy petted the fox, its tail hitting him on the face. He laughed, adjusting the fox so that it wouldn’t keep hitting him. It was clearly very excited, squeaking as it urged Fundy to open the letter. Fundy took his sweet time to do so.

He thought back on the events of the night, his face heating up at the remembrance of his brief night of freedom. Of course, it would be the night he’d meet someone other than his dad, his uncles, his pseudo-parent, and Jack. Someone from outside L’Manburg. He should tell his dad about the encounter. But it was his secret. Eret once said that it wasn’t wrong to have secrets, so long as it wasn’t really harming anyone. He took a deep breath, finally opening the letter.

‘Dearest, acquaintance of mine,

I apologize for where this letter may find you, though I hope it finds you well. The previous night is quite different from the life I’ve grown accustomed to, though whether that bodes well or not depends on fate. You’re an interesting individual, and if the gods allow it, I’d like to know you even more. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship… or a trainwreck waiting to happen. I don’t know which one it will be, but I do want to try. I know not of your residence, so perhaps we may meet again at the lake. If you wish to. Though, perhaps not tonight or the next night as I do have other business to attend to, and I assume that you do as well. So, on another night then.

There is a large rock by the lake. You could leave your letters there if you ever wish to meet up. I go to the lake most nights when I wish to unwind from the troubles of the day. I hope to meet you again near the lake, though that may take weeks. Otherwise, Zigzag - that is the fox’s name, he was previously named Zagreus but a friend of mine changed his name to Zigzag - would be our little messenger. He likes berries. If you could, do give him a treat for being a very good boy.

Until our next correspondence. I will remember the night we met with fondness, or perhaps regret depending on the future outcome of this relationship. Do promise me, though, that you refrain from telling anyone of our encounter. I… I prefer to remain mysterious and enigmatic :).

Sincerely,

Your M.F.C. (Aka Masked Forest Creep, Aka Dre) :)’

He blinked, his laughter escaping him. Zigzag sniffed at his wrist, little eyes stared up at him in interest. Fundy would read it out loud, but it would be just his luck if Wilbur were to pass by and hear him. He’d think Fundy has some… creeper (not the monster, and that would not be very preferable since they were terrible at conversation) after him. He couldn’t believe that Dre remembered the nickname - playful insult - that Fundy had given him during their goodbye.

He climbed back onto the bed, his bones arguing against his mind, but eventually he was able to get back under the covers. Ziggy licked his cheek, curling up beside him. He held onto the fox, glad that he wasn’t alone. Fundy looked over at the broken window, his mind racing to come up with an excuse. His dad would freak if he thought Fundy had been attacked. If he was lucky, maybe he could convince Eret to help him fix it before his dad ever found out. If he was lucky.

Fundy sighed, slowly shaking his head, the letter was still in his hand.

Somehow, reading the letter made him feel somewhat better.

Though his aching head still wanted him dead.

He petted the back of his Ziggy’s ears.

He’d have to get Ziggy a few berries, and write a letter.

He looked at Dream’s letter again.

And tried to ignore the misplaced comma.

---

“Awwww, Dreamy has got a little cwush.” He scowled, sliding the letter back into the envelope before tossing it into an open book. Sapnap had snuck behind him, much to the masked man’s chagrin. He didn’t know how long his friend’s been there, glancing over his shoulder as he read the words Fundy had written. It was very short, nothing all too damning, but Sapnap must have assumed another meaning since he was mocking Dream with kissy noises. He playfully pushed his friend away, standing up from his seat. He blinked in surprise, it seemed like Sapnap wasn’t the only one who had entered his room undetected. George was by his bed, reading one of the draft letters he’d made. “Dude, what’s with the secrecy? Scared I’d steal them from you?”

“You’re not their type.” Dream snatched the letter from George’s hands, his friend sticking his tongue out. Dream found it to be quite childish, which is why he returned the gesture. He picked up the rest of the draft letters, intending on burning them on a pyre that afternoon so that Sapnap wouldn’t get his grubby little hands on them. “We’re… acquaintances. Possible friends, Sap.”

“You don’t give acquaintances letters.” George spoke up, a passive look on his face. Dream could never tell what his friend was thinking, though it was the same for him. Sometimes he wondered how Sapnap dealt with the two of them, his best friends who hid behind their masks. George laid further on the bed, resting a hand against his head, his other hand splayed against his cheek in thought. Sapnap - ever the man who could never stand still - suddenly jumped onto the bed, breaking George out of whatever thought he had. George scowled, shaking his head, but there was an amused smile playing on the edge of his lips. “You were out last night, weren’t you? On patrol. I read a bit of the letter… you met them in the middle of the forest? So… a hermit?”

“Didn’t know you liked the feral, haven’t-taken-a-shower-in-years type, Dream. But I guess you wanted someone like you—” Sapnap shrieked (like a girl, might Dream add) the moment Dream threw a pillow at him. George sighed, ignoring both their antics. “But seriously, who are they?”

“No one of concern.” George raised a brow at that, lips pursed. He wanted to ask, wanted Dream to elaborate, but he kept silent. Dream took a deep breath, “You don’t need to know. It’s…”

“Dude at least tell us if they’re… smoking hot! Great personality? Something, dude! How the hell am I supposed to figure out who they are!” He refrained from throwing another pillow at Sapnap’s face, though it was quite tempting. He sat at the edge of the bed, one foot on the bed and the other on the floor. He rested his arm on his knee, his head leaned against the wooden frame. He couldn’t tell his best friends. Because they’d either do something stupid, or… tell him that he was stupid for picking the one person who fate would never let him be friends with. And that’s all it was! They were friends, no, acquaintances. Just… acquaintances… An acquaintance he’d invited over to the lake. A hand landed on his shoulder, a look of genuine concern dancing in Sapnap’s gaze. “Dream. I’m just joking, man. But… we never keep secrets from each other.”

“Yeah, man. I get it.” He patted Sapnap’s hand, waiting for the blaze hybrid to pull away from him. His friend hesitated but eventually moved his hand away. Dream stood up, wiping his pants despite the lack of dirt on them. George said it was a force of habit, and Sapnap jokingly teased him about it whenever he could. Sapnap kept quiet this time. George followed after him. Sapnap stayed on the bed. He and George gave him a pointed look. Sapnap groaned, rolling off the bed before collapsing on the ground. Dream watched as George pulled Sapnap up by the arm, barely even breaking a sweat despite Sapnap’s heavier stature. “They’re just a potential friend, dude.”

“Whatever, man.” Sapnap shrugged, leaning against George who looked extremely eager to let him faceplant on the carpet. Dream wheezed, placing a hand on both his friends’ backs. They had to train for the coming days. They still had a war to win, after all. He led them to the door. George didn’t complain, exiting the room without even a single glance back. Sapnap paused, furrowing his brows at Dream. “If it doesn’t work out… Tell them that I’m always available—”

“Out! What the hell, Sapnap!” He slammed the door, Sapnap’s laughter bouncing off the walls of his room. He shook his head, relishing in the silent aftermath. Dream still needed to meet them at the training grounds in an hour, but until then, he had a few minutes to himself. He made his way to the pile of drafted letters, feeling a rush of heat climb to his cheeks. It wasn’t his fault! He kept accidentally writing Fundy’s name, and he couldn’t let anyone know of their correspondence. Dre wasn’t… the best cover name. He is a bit surprised that Fundy didn’t connect the dots… or maybe he did. He groaned, running a hand through his hair. He unclasped the mask, letting it drop to his hand before tossing it onto the bed. Dream made his way back to the desk, reaching down to pet Zigzag who had fallen asleep after a few berry treats. His good little messenger fox.

He grabbed the letter again:

Dear “acquaintance” (we’re friends now, lol don’t call me acquaintance),

Thanks for the letter and I would like to meet you again. The lake is nice, but bring Zigzag, I’ll only meet you if you bring Zigzag with you. I will also, hereby, call him Ziggy because Zigzag is stupid and so was Zagreus :p

Sincerely,

Your S.F. (Aka Strange Fox, Aka Fundy)

P.S. Thanks, also, for getting me wet. Now I’m sick! >:(‘

Dream groaned, putting his head in his hands.

WHY DID FUNDY HAVE TO PHRASE IT LIKE THAT?!

#fundy #wilbur soot #dreamwastaken dsmp #sapnap #georgenotfound dsmp #fundywastaken #dream smp fanfiction #dsmp

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monomonomagines · 3 years

Text

Prompt #23 Caramel Apples with Ryoma

While there were plenty of fun fall activities to head out to do on date night, Ryoma was normally the person who'd rather have a night in with you. It wasn’t that he hated going out per se but rather that being around all the large crowds and all could make him a bit uncomfortable at times. He was closed off and didn’t really concern himself with the hustle and bustle of the big festivals nor did he desire anything that was of high value unless you were counting that by a scale of intrinsic value.Yes, Ryoma was just content getting to be close to you in your shared apartment with your pet cat where you two were safe and sound, as if you were in a space that was fully secluded from the outside world.

There was no way you’d ever drag him away from the safety and warmth that he had at home. Even if it was tempting to, you knew that if you were going to be enjoying any of the typical fall festivities you’d be far better off bringing the fun home and directly to Ryoma rather than making him go out. Thus, came about the idea to make some caramel apples together where you knew he was sure to have fun.

It didn’t take much time at all with the kits available at the store to finish shopping for the necessary ingredients you needed so by the time you finished with set up it was rather easy to get started. All you had to do was to clean off the apples, stick a skewer into them, and heat the caramel so that you can dip them in it. Seems easy enough you thought so may as well just jump in head first after you decide how to split the work between the two of you.

You knew of course how Ryoma tended to dislike working in the kitchen at times with his height causing so many problems for him even with all the stools and other items you had to help him so you both decided to give him what you thought was the easier of the tasks. He’d wash and skewer apples while you’d head the caramel mixture.

As you grabbed all the ingredients to set next you on the counter closest to the stovetop you gave him a smile, happy to see that this didn’t seem to stress him too much.

“Hey, you gonna be ok with those apples all by yourself?” You quip, struggling not to let out a small giggle as he keeps a rather straight face.

“I’ll be fine. Are you going to be fine working with all that hot caramel? There’s been a few close calls when we’ve cooked before.” He replies smoothly, saying it in a half teasing manner and half remindful one so that you would remember not to get too careless even if your task seemed to be an easy one.

It was embarrassing to know that he did catch onto your mess ups but rather than let it get you down you instead laugh it off. “I’ll be fine! I promise so you can have fun skewering apples while I get this started!”

Of course, you wouldn’t call it “fun” necessarily to just do such a mundane activity as cooking alone but both of you seemed to reach the same sentiment that so long as the two of you were together even small things like cooking side by side weren’t simple tasks anymore. Now they were acts of love and kindness, something that you can end up doing with an effortless smile on your face as you think of the happiness it’ll bring the other.

Now with a small nod of understanding on each of yours end it was time to begin your task! Heating caramel as worded within the instructions on the back of the kit you had bought. First, add milk and the caramel mix, put it on high, and once it starts to come to a boil, put it on medium and let it start to solidify slightly. It certainly seemed like a lot when you first gave it a readover but it didn’t seem to be that many steps regardless. Now focusing on the mixture with utmost concentration, you add the necessary ingredients and turn on the stovetop. The only sound between the two of you being light banter, the sound of a skewer piercing the flesh of an apple here and there, and the low bubbling of the caramel mixture.

Within a fairly short amount of time though, the sounds on Ryoma’s end stopped as he walked over a tray of skewered apples ready to dip to you, having to hand them off to you so that he can go get his stool to help him see the stovetop from the same perspective as you.

“Done already?” You ask, surprised by his speed as the caramel mixture still didn’t do so much as continue to lightly bubble in the pot you were working in.

“Yeah, it doesn’t take much work to skewer a few apples.” He admits bluntly, looking over to the mixture himself. “Do you need any help with the caramel?”

Blushing a bit at how long your end is taking you shake your head. “Nah, nah! I think I’ll be ok so long as the mixture starts to boil.”

Not seeming to take your answer to heart though, Ryoma only continued to look down before returning his gaze to you and bluntly asking, “Isn’t there supposed to be milk in the caramel?”

Milk! That’s right you forgot to add it but you had it already out on the counter nearby. “You’re right! Can you hand me the measuring cup next to you?” You blurt out, flustered by your mistake.

“Sure.” Is all he replies, handing you the measuring cup as gently as possible, making sure not to let go until it was securely in your grasp.

“Thanks!” You reply, blushing as you add the milk and see the mixture instantly improve. “You’re definitely more on top of things than I am!” You joke, trying to cover your embarrassment as he shakes his head.

“I’ve just done this before.” He admits, his tone sounding more distant than usual. “I told you before, my girlfriend used to really like to make sweets so sometimes I’d watch her or help out.”

Feeling a tug on your heartstrings you take your eyes off the stove to face him, taking a small hand in your own and giving it a squeeze. “Is this too much for you? You could’ve told me if it’s too much.”

“I know I can. It’s not too much...really...it’s just that it’s been a while since I’ve done anything like this.” He replies, not elaborating though you can tell from the soft expression on his face that he’s doing ok. “Let’s just finish up the caramel apples and watch a movie like we planned ok? We can talk more about that later.”

You wanted to agree but rather than any words coming out all you could do was nod as you quickly gave him a small hug and peck on the cheek. You were happy to know that he felt comfortable around you enough to open up back then even if it wasn’t much. You knew how big of a step that was for him and decided that you may as well work even harder now to make this a great experience!

Turning down the heat as the caramel finally came to a roaring boil, you gently pluck a caramel apple from the tray Ryoma had brought over to you ready to try your hand at coating it in caramel the way you’ve had at pumpkin patches and festivals. With an encouraging but sleepy looking smile, Ryoma gives you a thumbs up as if you signal that now is the time, allowing you to take that first step and dip your first apple.

You admit you’re no five star chef but as soon as that first apple came up with a clean coat of caramel sitting pretty on it you were absolutely beaming at him, determined to make sure the others were sure to be as great of a result. Of course, it may seem a bit funny even to admit but with Ryoma watching over and coaching you on how to dip the apples it was a pretty easy process even if it felt as if he was something as silly as the ultimate caramel apple dipper and you were his trusty apprentice learning the trade for your first time. But regardless of any of those soft and silly moments shared or your few clumsy mistakes, you were happy to look at a successful tray of caramel apples now just waiting to be eaten.

“Ryoma, we did it!” You cheer, nearly hugging him off of his stool out of excitement and earring a small deep laugh from him.

“We did. You did a good job, S/o.” He praises giving you a small peck on the cheek this time as a small smile crosses his features once again. “How about we take a small break to enjoy them.”

Nodding in agreement with a small hum you smile at him sweetly as you pluck an apple in each hand and place one in his hand as gently as he had been with you earlier.

“To us!” You half joke, happily taking a bite into the fruits of your labor (literally).

Smiling as he watches you he can’t help but utter out something under his breath. “It’s sweet,” you think you catch though he hasn’t taken a bite out of his apple yet.

“What's sweet?” You inquire, tilting your head to the side like an inquisitive feline.

“Moments like this. I’m glad I met you, S/o.”

#danganronpa #danganronpa imagines #drv3 #danganronpa killing harmony #ryoma hoshi #ryoma x reader #october prompts #mod toko #Ryoma is one of my personal favorites so I always adore getting to write for him #I hope you all enjoy this one with some softer Ryoma moments that mention his past a bit more

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set-phasers-to-whump · 3 years

Text

falling through

prompt: abandoned

whumpee: kurt wallander

fandom: young wallander

hi! a brief bit of bg for this fic - it’s set after the show, in a timeline where kurt and reza are now partners in major crimes and rask is their boss. idk if this would fit with any kind of canon but also idc. my rules :) anyway i hope u like this!!!

It’s not their best idea by any means, but sometimes, to break open a case, you have to take a risk. You have to do something questionable and a little stupid, and you have to do it without the permission or even the knowledge of your boss. This usually works in the movies, at any rate.

This isn’t a movie, Kurt thinks, as Reza parks the car in front of a long-abandoned, derelict, half-rotted house that Rask definitely hadn’t given them the go-ahead to investigate. This is just a bad idea. But they’re already here, and Reza’s already out of the car, and there is the possibility that they’re going to find something here, at the childhood home of their currently-on-the-run murderer, so he sighs and exits the car, jogging after Reza to catch up.

What’s left of the front door swings open the second Reza touches it, and he and Kurt share a look before stepping over the threshold. Inside, the smell of decay is overwhelming. There are moth-eaten skeletons of furniture and the occasional spray-painted symbol on the peeling, stained wallpaper and the occasional squeaking of a rat. “Lovely place,” Reza mutters, and Kurt laughs.

Towards the back of the house is a staircase, which is missing approximately half of its steps. It looks less than safe, but upstairs is where the bedrooms (and the most likely sources of evidence) are, so they ascend, one at a time, in slow, halting steps.

They make it upstairs without incident and end up in a hallway that extends in two directions. Silently, they agree to each take one. Reza goes straight ahead, and Kurt goes to the right.

He pulls his flashlight out as he walks along, flicking it on and passing it in sweeping arcs over his surroundings. A hole in the wall here, a dead bug or three there, a bathroom with broken porcelain and a window missing its pane, and a bedroom that clearly had once belonged to a young girl and not their murderer. He’s about to turn around and see if Reza’s had any better luck when he hears a clatter from the end of the hallway.

He takes a step forward in the direction of the clatter, and there’s a rather ominous creaking sound beneath his feet. He looks down just in time to watch the floor give out from under him, and then all of a sudden he’s lying on his back on the first floor, the breath knocked right out of him, dazed and stunned and surrounded by rubble.

For a few seconds he simply lies there with absolutely no idea what’s just happened, and then he hears a voice shout his name from somewhere above him. He opens eyes that he hadn’t realized were closed and finds himself staring upwards at a giant hole in the ceiling, and then he remembers.

He’s just fallen through the floor. Or the ceiling, depending on how you look at it. The voice calls again, echoing around inside his head, and he recognizes it as Reza. He hears footsteps above him and tries to shout a warning that comes out as little more than a whisper. Fortunately, the footsteps stop moving, and he hears them retreat, and then come thumping down the stairs, and he listens to them approach, and then Reza is standing over him and asking him something that he can’t understand.

Now that his body has gotten over its initial shock, it hurts. What feels like every single part of his body below his neck is aching and sore. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. He can feel stinging little cuts and scrapes all over his exposed skin and his right ankle throbs in time with his heartbeat and even his lungs ache from having had the air knocked out of them on impact.

“Kurt!” Reza’s voice sounds different this time, serious and worried, and Kurt finally manages to think a coherent thought. That doesn’t sound good. He forces himself to speak.

“Hi,” is the only thing he can think of to say, but it must be good enough for Reza, who at some point has dropped to his knees beside Kurt’s body. He smiles down at Kurt, and Kurt tries to smile back but feels himself failing. It hurts…

“I know,” Reza says, placing a very gentle hand on Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt blinks at him in surprise, not having realized that he’d spoken aloud. He lets his eyes drift closed for a second to try and better take stock of his body and his injuries, but Reza shakes his shoulder and tells him to stay awake.

“‘M not sleeping,” Kurt manages to say. “Tryin’ to see what hurts.”

“Okay,” Reza replies, “but you try and go drifting off and I’ll kick your ass.”

“Got it,” Kurt whispers back, and then shuts his eyes again and focuses, starting from the top. His head hurts, but not badly enough to be worrying. There’s a rather large cut above his right eyebrow that’s slowly dripping hot, sticky blood down his face, and a few smaller scrapes across the rest of his face and down his neck. His chest and back still ache from the force of impact, but if he concentrates he can move his fingers and toes, so his spine is unharmed. His right sleeve is torn up, and he can feel little scratches all up and down the arm. The same is true for the right leg of his pants. He supposes that’s the part of him that went through the floor first. His right ankle is still aching, and he recognizes the pain as a sprain - irritating and painful, but ultimately harmless. He’s essentially fine. He just aches.

That survey complete, Kurt opens his eyes again and finds Reza’s face. “‘M fine,” he reports, though he doubts Reza will be very convinced.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Banged up, is all. Nothing serious.”

“Good,” Reza says. “Because there’s no service out here.”

“Oh,” Kurt replies, suddenly very glad indeed that none of his injuries are critical, ambulance-worthy ones.

“Yeah,” Reza says. “That means we’ve gotta get you out of here on our own. You think you can walk?”

“Dunno.” He’s willing to try, though. Kurt presses his palms down firmly into the pile of rubble, which shifts and makes unpleasant noises around him. He pushes his feet into it at the same time, and manages to scramble up onto his feet after several seconds of intense pain. He wavers and very nearly falls right back down, but Reza grabs his shoulders and holds him up. Everything is spinning and his legs are shaking and his right ankle isn’t at all enjoying having weight put on it. Kurt bites back a cry of pain and tries to take a step, because for this to stop, he has to get out of here, but his legs won’t let him move and he feels his eyes well up with frustrated, pained tears, and he tries again to make his legs move but it hurts too much and he can’t, and then…

Then he’s moving? But he’s not walking. His vision is still a bit fuzzy and his body is aching too much to feel anything touching it, and it takes him several seconds to realize that he’s being carried, slightly awkwardly but very gently. He doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed about this situation, as he normally would be - honestly, he’s just grateful that he doesn’t have to move.

He watches as his surroundings (which have become clear again, now that he’s not trying to stand up on legs that really don’t want him to be doing that) change, from the interior of the abandoned house to the outside, and then to the backseat of the car. Reza sets him down on the edge of the seat, positioned so that he’s facing out the door.

“There’s a first aid kit in here somewhere, hold on,” Reza says, and walks around to the back of the car. It’s not really like Kurt has any choice in this matter, so he stays put.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, when Reza reappears with a large plastic box in his hands.

“You’re pretty cut up,” Reza replies, setting the box down on the ground and popping it open. He rifles through it and grabs several different things before standing back up and facing Kurt, sliding medical gloves onto his hands. “I don’t want anything getting infected, and I’m sure you would appreciate not having blood all over your face.”

Kurt raises a shaking hand to touch the side of his face. His fingers come away wet and shiny with blood, and he remembers the cut on his forehead. “That would be good,” he agrees, and then sits silently and waits for Reza to get to work.

Reza begins with an item not from the first aid kit at all - a warm, unopened bottle of water from the front seat of the car. He pours the water onto a cotton ball and begins carefully cleaning Kurt’s face. Kurt flinches backwards out of instinct when the water first hits his face, but it doesn’t actually hurt, and after a while it actually feels kind of nice. Reza continues the process on Kurt’s neck, then sets down his cotton ball and picks up a pair of scissors. Kurt eyes them warily, trying to think of what exactly they might be for.

“Sorry about this,” Reza says, and Kurt doesn’t have time to panic about what that might mean before Reza is cutting away the right sleeve of his shirt near the shoulder, and the right leg of his pants slightly above the knee.

“So I can see what I’m working with without your torn-up clothes in the way,” Reza explains, after he’s finished mutilating Kurt’s clothes. Kurt just nods, glad that he hadn’t been particularly attached to this outfit.

With his work area now exposed, Reza grabs and wets another cotton ball, then repeats the cut-cleaning process on Kurt’s right arm and leg, as well as his left hand. “Can you feel anything anywhere else?” he asks, and Kurt concentrates for a second, then slowly shakes his head.

“This next part might hurt a little. Sorry in advance,” Reza says, and Kurt watches as he grabs a pair of tweezers and a small bottle of something, which Kurt identifies by the smell as rubbing alcohol once Reza opens the bottle and begins pouring it onto the tweezers.

“I can only see a couple cuts with anything in them,” Reza says, which Kurt supposes is something of a reassuring statement. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

True to his word, the process is quick, but stinging and painful. Kurt knows it’s hardly that bad in the grand scheme of things, but it still hurts, and for a few seconds afterwards he sits there and takes deep breaths and blinks his eyes rapidly and mentally yells at himself to get it together.

“You ready to keep going?” Reza asks after a moment, and Kurt nods. “This part also might be a little uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t sting or hurt that bad,” he continues.

“What is it?” Kurt thinks to ask, staring warily into the contents of the box. Reza bends down and grabs a small tube, turning the label so Kurt can see it.

“Nothing bad, just an antibiotic,” Reza assures him, and Kurt gives another nod. Reza dabs the ointment on with a gloved finger, and it does feel extremely uncomfortable on the big cut on Kurt’s forehead, but on the majority of the rest he hardly feels a thing. When Reza’s finished, he sticks a bandage to the large cut and to a few of the bigger ones on the rest of Kurt’s body, leaving the rest alone.

“Done,” he announces, finally, and returns to the box to put away his items. Kurt watches curiously as Reza continues rummaging around in the box after everything is already put away, until eventually he stands back up triumphantly and holds up a small packet of painkillers. “Thought I lost these,” he says. “You want them?”

Kurt nods, and Reza tears open the packet, shaking two small, round pills into Kurt’s left palm, which is the less cut-up of the two. He passes over the now half-empty bottle of water, and Kurt swallows the pills and then drinks the remaining water.

“How’re you feeling?” Reza asks, when he’s finished. Kurt attempts a shrug and winces in pain.

“Okay,” he says, which is not really true. He does feel better than he had when he was lying on the floor, and certainly much better than he had when he was trying to stand.

“Sure you’re okay,” Reza says. “Not like you just fell through a floor or anything.”

“Better, then,” Kurt amends, and Reza nods. “Good. Then let’s go.”

That sounds very agreeable to Kurt, so he turns - very slowly and carefully - until his body is all the way in the car. He tries to buckle his seatbelt but gives up very quickly, and Reza does it for him, then shuts his door and opens the driver’s door. He starts the engine, and Kurt watches out the window as the old, abandoned house disappears. As they rejoin the bustling roads of Malmö, a very worrying thought crosses Kurt’s mind for the first time.

“How are we gonna explain this to Rask?”

thanks for reading!!!! i rlly had a fun time writing this and i hope u liked reading it!

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump4 #abandoned #young wallander #kurt wallander #my writing #i say things #fall #cut #field medicine #cared for

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thewildsophia · 4 years

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.Gauze. Clone High//Van Gogh x Reader

Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, brief talk about self-hatred

A/N: So I uh did a no-no and relapsed a few days ago after 15 days of being clean (which, I’m mildly upset about but not too much; I’m alright now too btw so don’t worry) and started writing this to calm myself down. I was debating if I should post this, (mainly because this is really just a vent for me) but eventually decided to finish and publish it so yeah, here you go.

Van Gogh x Depressed!Reader

Word Count: 2188

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You had tried everything you could to distract yourself -- to stop yourself -- but in the end it was all for nothing. You quietly sobbed as you felt the blood seep into your shirt when you wrapped your arms around your torso, bruises already starting to form on your upper arm where you had bitten them. Your nails dug into your sides as you held yourself tighter.

“This has to stop.” You thought as you slowly let go for yourself and sat up in your bed, not caring at the fact that you were getting blood on your sheets, “This has to stop. I can’t keep doing this.”

You carefully stood up, making sure not to fall down from lightheadedness, and made your way over to your bathroom. You turned on the shower and stripped down while waiting for the shower to heat up. Once hot enough, you slipped into the shower and started cleaning yourself off.

It hurt, it fucking burned, when the water ran over your cuts. You had to hold back a scream as the blood was dragged down the drain by the water. You grabbed the body soap and began cleaning your chest of your blood, trying your best not to get it on cuts. You didn’t bother washing your hair.

When you were done, you turned the water off and dried yourself off, not looking at yourself once in the mirror. You dropped the towel on the floor and walked out of the bathroom to your dresser. You sluggishly clothed yourself before looking for your first aid kit.

Normally you wouldn’t bother with covering them, opting to just cover them with a sweatshirt, but you had begun to do so after Van Gogh had talked to you about it. He was so understanding about it too; he knew that sometimes it was just too hard to stop, but had asked that you at least take care of yourself afterwards.

You grabbed the bottle or rubbing alcohol and cotton balls, saturated the cotton with the alcohol and got to work. If you thought the water burned, you hissed as the alcohol hit your arms, feeling as if they were on fire. It took a while since you would constantly stop to calm yourself down but when you were finished disinfecting them you grabbed the gauze pads and gauze itself before covering them, tightening and securing them with self-adhering tape. You patted your bandaged arms before pulling a sweatshirt over your head and lying down.

You only laid there for a few minutes before you slowly stood up and put your shoes on, stopping only to look at the time.

‘11:46pm’ it read.

Did you really want to bother him this late? You hesitated before opening the door and making your way to his dorm. You knew he wanted you to be with him when you got like this.

You stopped at his door, hesitantly knocking. He answered only a moment later, clearly still awake.

“Oh, Y/N,” He whispered surprised, “What are you…” He started to ask before stopping himself as he took in your form. Your hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles and still damp in some places, and your clothes weren’t in much better shape. He also noted the sweatshirt you were wearing, the one you’d mainly wear after you…

“Did you…?” He asked trailing off while taking your hand and leading you inside.

“Yeah.” You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. You closed the door behind you. Van Gogh let go of your hand, leaving you standing in the front of the door, and walked over to his mini fridge.

“Did you tend to them?” He asked while walking back over to you, handing you a cold bottle of water.

“I did.” You answered, opening the water bottle and chugging some of it down. You took your shoes off before following him to his bed and sitting down. He sat down next to you, taking the half empty water bottle and placing on the nightstand next to his bed.

“May I?” He asked while placing his hand utop you, teasing at your sleeve.

“Go ahead.” You answered, feeling Van Gogh pull your sleeves back. Even if you weren’t looking at him, you knew that he had a frown on his face as he rubbed circles into the bandages with his thumbs.

“Do you…” he began but hesitated, “Feel a bit better?” He finished and that when you looked over at him. Even though the lighting was dim, you could see the thin layer of tears that glazed over his eyes.

“A bit.” You answered after a moment, “I’m sorry. I tried, I really did I promise, it’s just so…hard sometimes to stop myself from doing it.” You said with a quiet cry at the end. You pulled your arms away from him, pressing them to your chest before laying down on your side, facing away from him. You didn’t start sobbing like you thought you would, instead you just laid there, clutching your bandaged arms to yourself while tears silently fell from your eyes. You felt so heavy.

“Hey,” You heard Van Gogh whisper, suddenly right by your ear, “Don’t apologize. There’s nothing for you to apologize to me for.” Van Gogh brought your head into his lap as he threaded his thin fingers through your hair with one hand, rubbing your shoulder with the other.

“It’s alright, I know how hard it is to fight the urges. I’m just glad that you’re, for the most part, okay.” Van Gogh said with a sad smile. You looked up at him and rubbed his cheek, noticing a tear fall from his left eye.

“Don’t cry,” You whispered, “If you start crying, I’m gonna start crying and then we’re just gonna be a sobbing mess.” You said in an attempt to cheer you both up. He smiled before saying,

“Alright, I’m just…” He began, pausing, “I’m just glad that you’re-that you’re still here.” He finished and you felt the air leave your lungs. Your bottom lip started trembling and before you could stop it more warm tears began to flow from your eyes.

“Christ, Van Gogh, don’t say shit like that.” You said while sitting up from his lap, rubbing at your puffy eyes. You felt him wrap his short arms around your waist and you sighed in his grasp.

“Sorry,” He said, his words being muffled by your back, “But it’s true. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your shoulders slumped down as the tension left them. You placed your hands over top where he had his around you, patting them in a silent plead to let you go. He, reluctantly, did and you turned yourself around to face him. He gently grabbed your hand again, turned it palm up before pressing soft kisses to the inside of your wrists. You stared at him for a moment, your face becoming unbelievably hot, before you giggled, pressing your other hand against his cheek.

“Stop it you fucking-NERD!” You laughed as he started chuckling himself, but didn’t pull away for you just yet. He continued pressing kisses up your arm until he reached the end of the bandages, which is when he looked you in the eyes. He moved his face away from your before kissing your lips.

His lips were soft and warm while your were chapped and cold because of the dehydration and blood loss. You moaned softly into the kiss as his hand found his way onto your cheek and into your hair. You cupped his cheek as the two of you continued to kiss.

It was soft and chaste and just everything you needed and before you stop him he pulled away, a smile gracing his pale face. You couldn’t help but smile at how he looked; he was cute yet handsome and you absolutely loved him.

“Have you eaten anything yet?” Van Gogh asked, eyebrows slightly raised in question.

“Not since this afternoon.” You answered. He sighed before getting off the bed and walking towards his kitchen.

“Wait here,” He said, “I’ll see if I’ve got anything for you.” You wanted to tell him he didn’t have to, that you didn’t need anything, but the pangs of hunger that you felt stopped you.

“Okay.” You answered, grabbing your water bottle and finishing it off. He came back after a minute and handed you a poptart and another bottle of water.

“Sorry, I don’t have much to eat here.” He said with a nervous chuckle.

“It’s fine.” You said while opening the packet, “Thank you, love.” He smiled before recycling the empty bottle of water. He came back and sat down on the bed next to you while you ate your poptart. He leaned his head on your arm and rubbed your thigh with his thumb.

You finished the poptart before getting up and throwing the wrapper away. Van Gogh had ushered you back and you returned to him, flopping face down onto his bed. Van Gogh made his way over to where you were on the bed and kissed the back of your head.

“Come on, get up.” He said and you complied, heaving your body onto the bed and facing him. He scurried to the top of the bed, laid down and patted the space next to him. Taking the hint, you made your way next to him and as soon as you had stopped moving he pressed himself to yourself. His face was in the crook of your neck and he pressed a kiss to the soft spot on the bottom of your jaw. You giggled before wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your chin on his head, paying no mind to the slight itch of his bandages. He wrapped his arms around your neck, continuing to pepper it with soft kisses.

He eventually stopped, and it was quiet for a moment and you didn’t like it. You never liked it when it was quiet. Made you think.

“Hey,” Van Gogh began, pulling you out of your thoughts, “Would you…like to talk about it?” He asked. You face scrunched in thought before you simply answered,

“Not really; not tonight at least.”

“Okay, that’s fine.” He responded. You subconsciously pressed Van Gogh tighter to you as the room when silent again. He seemed to take notice of this because he, in turn, pressed you tighter to him.

“Hey, did you want to be held tonight?” Van Gogh asked and you felt your eyes water at the question.

“Yes…” You whimpered, letting go of your death grip on him. The two of you shifted before settling in a position where your face was now in his chest and his chin was now on your head. It was a bit awkward considering that you were a few inches taller than him, but you made it work. You breathed in his seemingly permanent scent of turpentine, MSC, and paint -- specifically oil.

Your eyes began to water as you wrapped your arms back around his waist. You couldn’t help the sob that tore through your throat a moment later and it seemed that Van Gogh didn’t mine, running his fingers through your H/C hair.

You began crying into his chest, not even trying to quiet it down, and Van Gogh let you. He continued to run his hands through your hair, whispering sweet comforts to you while you cried.

It hurt, everything just hurt so damn much. You weren’t even sure why you were upset, why you were hurting, in the first place. What happened today wasn’t even that bad, but…considering the events of the days before today…

You’re not sure how long the two of you stayed like that, your face pressed to Van Gogh’s chest and his hands in your hair, but you did know that when you did stop you felt utterly tired. You were already exhausted when you got here, but now all you wanted to do was curl up with Van Gogh and sleep.

“Do you feel better now?” Van Gogh asked after your sobs had died down. You nodded a ‘yes’ into his chest and felt him kiss your forehead in response, “Good.”

“Thank you, Vince.” You whispered into his chest.

“Of course, liefde.” He whispered back, resting his hands around your shoulders. “I love you, Y/N.” Your arms involuntarily gripped him harder, holding him tighter, as that familiar burn returned to your throat. That burn made it difficult to speak and you were barely able to choke out a response.

“I love you too, Vincent.” You tilted your head up a bit and managed to press a few kisses to Van Gogh’s neck, earning a chuckle in response.

“Alright, alright,” Van Gogh started, pulling himself away from your onslaught of kisses, “Get some rest. You and I both know you need it.” You hummed in acknowledgement before responding.

“So do you,” You pressed your face back into his neck, “Goodnight, Vince.”

Van Gogh pressed one last kiss to your head before saying,

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

#clonehigh #clone high #clone high van gogh #clone high vincent van gogh #clone high x reader #vincent van gogh #van gogh x reader #vincent van gogh x reader #thewildsophia writes

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star-six7 · 3 years

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Running Away and Hiding With You

Mikey Way x Gender Neutral!Reader (ending 1 of 4 for Here In This House of Wolves)

Word Count: 1444

A/N: Here’s the Mikey ending! The others will be posted today and tomorrow, hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: This is entirely a work of fiction. No part of this story is meant to be libel, slander, or in any way derogatory towards any character’s real life counterpart. I’m not delusional; I know that these characters are simply based off of a public persona and may not actually resemble the people behind those personas. Any additional characters that you do not recognize are entirely fictional, unless otherwise stated. And finally, if you got here by Googling yourself, whatever happens next is 100% on you.

You began to fidget as you listened to the hosts explain the rules for the walkthrough. While you knew that they were likely playing it up for their own enjoyment, seeing as the band were likely the first visitors they had had in a long time, you couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious. They urged everyone not to run, panic, or get separated, as it was apparently very easy to become disoriented. Yikes.

“Hey,” someone whispered from your left. You turned and noticed Mikey had edged his way out of the group to stand next to you. “You look a little green.”

“Oh. Uh. Just not convinced that we’re not about to get murdered. Or kidnapped.” You were slightly embarrassed that you were visibly nervous about a volunteer-run, small town haunted house, especially in front of Mikey. Though it was silly, there was still a part of you that had never gotten over the “impress him” phase of your crush.

Mikey glanced up towards the others and smiled. “Honestly? I’m not crazy about the whole thing either. Let’s go.”

And before you knew what was happening, Mikey took your arm and led you out the door before the others even had a chance to turn around.

After a few minutes of standing by the van, waiting to see if anyone else would follow, you felt the need to break the silence. “I didn’t mean to talk you out of going.” “Not at all. I love Gerard and all, but sometimes his sense of self-preservation…”

“Or lack thereof,” you finished.

“Exactly. You wanna try and find Main Street? I’m pretty sure I saw an ice-cream shop or something back there.”

---

After a few dead ends and wrong turns, you and Mikey ended up being the only two customers in the ice-cream shop. When the bored-looking teenager running the store handed you your cone, you moved over to lean against the window and watched as Mikey agonized over his order. You tried in vain to hide your smile as he finally decided on a quadruple scoop (chocolate, vanilla, mint chip, and cookie dough, to be exact) with sprinkles, and of course, a cherry on top.

“What?” He pretended to be offended as he noticed your barely concealed laughter. “Can’t a man be particular about his ice cream without being mocked for it?” Your snickering turned into full-blown laughter, which only led to Mikey cracking up with you. Moments like these reminded you exactly why you fell for Mikey in the first place. Though he seemed so quiet and reserved to others, he was funny, kind, smart, and an amazing friend when you got to know him. You suspected it was part of the reason he seemed to know everyone, even the most casual acquaintance, so well. He kept his cards close to his chest. Which, unfortunately, made it almost impossible to tell if he returned your feelings.

When you were finished, and Mikey had eaten enough of his ice-cream to the point where it wasn’t about to topple onto the sidewalk, you decided to wander down the street some more, hoping to fill the time before the others were done. Or murdered. A few minutes later, Mikey tugged on your sleeve as you were staring into the storefront of a tiny antique shop.

“Check it out,” he said, pointing to a Halloween store across the street. He looped his arm through yours as you stepped off the curb.

Unsurprisingly, being a member of My Chemical Romance and entering a Halloween store was the equivalent of a kid walking into a Toys ‘R Us with a 200 dollar gift card. You and Mikey practically ran to the center display, an homage to some of the greatest cult-classic horror movies of all time. You quizzed each other on your favorites, seeing who could get the reference first and retelling the best parts. Soon enough, you moved on to the costume section, where it turned into a contest of who could find the creepiest mask or most grotesque makeup kit. Finally, the excitement began to wind down as the two of you got to the decorations.

“Oh, hey. Spiders. We should totally get Frankie a little present,” you said, smirking.

Mikey shook his head. “And wake up to a knife in my pillow? No thanks.”

“Or bats,” you suggested. “They’re pretty cool. Everyone likes bats.”

You dug through the bin until you landed on one at the very bottom. “Look!” You held it up so he could see. It was a plush bat wearing a red scarf and a pair of glasses. “It’s you. I’m totally getting it.”

For reasons unknown to you, he couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face as you tugged him over to the register.

Not long after you had left the store, Mikey glanced at his watch. “Oh shit,” he muttered. “It’s been almost two hours. There’s no way they’re not done by now, we gotta get back to the van.”

“Definitely. Death by Brian isn’t exactly how I want to go.”

---

Much to both your and Mikey’s surprise, the van was empty when you got back to the haunted house.

“Damn it, Gerard,” you sighed. “I knew there were murderers in there.”

Mikey snorted. “Gerard wishes.”

“Oh yeah. Him and his melodrama.”

The conversation lapsed back into a comfortable silence as you stared at the doors of the building, wondering when the others would come back.

“Damn,” Mikey exhaled as he turned his collar up against the now-biting fall wind. “Wish I had thought to snag the keys from Brian before we made our great escape.”

You shuffled into his side. “Well, I can take your mind off it, at least.”

“How so?”

“By giving you your gift, of course.” You pulled the bat out of the bag. “Here. So you’ll always remember the one Halloween where you chose to be sensible with me and escape certain doom.”

Mikey smiled as he took the plush. He turned it over in his hands a few times before his expression became more serious. “So, I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you why I really asked you to come with me. Aside from escaping homicide, of course.” He swallowed, apparently trying to rid himself of nerves. “I… I really like spending time with you. I mean, I’ll take it any way I can get it. Remember that time I volunteered to walk a mile and a half in the snow with you to get that can of gas?”

You laughed, trying to ignore the way you felt your heartbeat quickening hopefully.

“Well… I guess what I’m trying to say is that I really like you in general. All of you, all the time, not just when we’re going on wild adventures or playing shows. And I understand if you want to pretend I didn’t just say all of that, or if you’re worried about the band, but. You deserve to know. Just… don’t leave me hanging, okay?”

“Mikey, I… I really like you too. And whatever happens next, with Warner, or the record, or- or any of it, I want it to be with you. All of you, all the time.” The slightly apprehensive look on Mikey’s face gave way to a smile that could rival your own.

And, of course, the rest of the band chose that exact moment to come crashing through the doors of the building, running like hell.

“Unlock it, unlock it, unlock it!” Gerard yelped, as he pushed past you and MIkey, banging on the door of the van. He looked more pale than you had ever seen him, an impressive fate given his usual stage makeup.

“I hate to say ‘I told you so,’ but, I told you so,” Brian sighed as he unlocked the doors to the van. Frank, who had been snickering the entire time, ratcheted up his laughter into a full-blown cackle, which of course, caused Ray to shove him, and they both fell into yet another wrestling match on the floor of the van. You and Mikey climbed in over them, your subtly intertwined hands gone unnoticed in the chaos. Up front, Brian was griping about not being able to find the map, and Gerard was staring pensively out the window, likely about to start writing a song about his near-death experience. Apparently, almost being murdered couldn’t put a damper on the strange chaos you now called home.

“Everybody ready?” Brian called, glancing in the rearview.

You looked down at your hand in Mikey’s and smiled. Yeah, you were definitely ready. For this tour and whatever came next.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Stay tuned for the other endings, and as always, requests are open!

#mcr imagine #my chemical romance imagine #mikey way imagine #mikey way x reader #mcr x reader #my chemical romance x reader #mikey way #mcr #my chem #my chemical romance #bandom #bandom imagine #choose your own ending #gerard way #ray toro #frank iero

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mildly-incoherent-ramblings · 3 years

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A Breakup And A Party (Writing Prompt)

Friendships at the punk house were always strained to some extent. When you have a bunch of dysfunctional people with fucked up backgrounds all crammed in a space together living in squalor, conflict is inevitable, and as normal as taking a shit once a day. There was a party, and bands were set up in the living room. Alcohol was brought and supplied in surplus by the many attendees, to the point where there were just unopened fifths of booze laying around you could pick up and take a swig of and no one would fuck with you. There wouldn't be any running out that night. This was pre-covid times, so people didn’t care about sharing drinks or being close. Taking a swig meant having the courage to down a good 2% backwash-to-alcohol content from about 20 or so other people as well as the gunk left on the lip of the bottle from the last guy, but these kids had more important things to worry about.

The space was crammed, poorly vented, disgusting. Everyone loved it. Bands played for about 15 minutes at a time with a few people out front watching for cops who would rotate between sets. On a busy street like that one, noise complaints were not common, so there was truthfully little to be worried about. In the backyard, two girls were making out passionately on a half busted wooden bench, trying to avoid getting splinters in their asses, and a dbeat kid studded head to toe keeled over the side of the back fence to vomit, a romantic backdrop for their little moment. A circle of stoner kids that had no affiliation with punk but kind of just showed up wherever the drugs were sat and passed around a suspiciously funny smelling joint, remarking on how they didn't know about all this “heavy shit” but liked the general vibe.

Nearby, Henry, double fisting two bottles of store-brand ripoff Jack belched as he attempted to utter the question “So when is our set?” only realizing after that he was, in fact, talking to a fence. He stumbled up the dangerously busted stairs and swung open the back door violently proclaiming that he was ready to party as if he hadn't already been for the last several hours. Henry was sauced constantly, to the point where a lot of his intoxicated tendencies were just seen as part of his natural demeanor. You generally could not tell when he was drunk or not because he was always drunk.

In the back room several kids piled on a stinky old leather couch just barely supporting their weight, ready to bust. In the middle of them was one kid in a thrasher vest trying to brush his long hair out of the way with his elbow as he attempted to cut several lines of coke on a busted DVD copy of Videodrome. The kid next to him sneezed, and the powder flew like a sad little cloud, and instantly he was shoved from the couch and told to leave, booted out by the other couch kids with great aggression and narrowly escaping an ass kicking through the kitchen door. Thankfully they were all already way too wasted to get up, so when he left the room, it was as though he had not existed. They licked their fingers and wiped the coke residue from the DVD and dabbed it on their tongues fiendishly hoping to get every last little bit. A crusty kid knelt on the floor and tried to sweep up what was left and snorted it, with all the grime and debris it had mixed with. Realistically, he had consumed worse before. His friends laughed.

The last band had finished their set and Henry had set aside his two bottle friends to plug in his amp when Nelson walked in wondering loudly where the fuck their drummer was. Stink wasn’t even a punk kid, he was a DJ and fucked with the electronic scene, who just so happened to really like drumming on the side. Speaking personally as the narrator removed from this situation, I would argue that his insistence in being there while also taking no interest in the music or community whatsoever was the most punk thing anyone present was doing.

But, where was he?

As Nelson hurried to set up the mics and get things in order, Hackney arrived with his bass set up, ready to play within seconds. He always had his shit together. His eyes were red from the 100g edible he had just eaten (the thc content in legally sold edibles was not as heavily regulated at that time so these things were easy to access in the city.) Yet somehow he was clear and present, and immediately irritated that even though they were supposed to start their set right now, their drummer was not even present, and the other two members were wasted beyond belief, even for them.

Just up the stairs however, a frustrated Stink and his girlfriend Melody were amidst a heated quarrel over several unresolved relationship issues that really could have been discussed at another time. But, as alcohol has a tendency to inhibit judgement and heighten a certain sense of impulse, one or the other, it was unclear who, thought it to be the best time to try to have a discussion. Not just thought so, they felt it had to happen NOW, or their fun time for the night would be ruined with no chance of salvation.

Stink was not exactly emotionally present, or competent, and communicated poorly. He was also a notorious cheater, an aspect Melody would frequently be in denial of in despite of his repeated offenses, sometimes in full view of her and her friends. He truthfully was not the type to be able to have a girlfriend, but was also unfortunately passive to a fault, and could not stand to end a relationship with someone as lovely and admittedly clingily as Melody. She adored him maybe a bit too much, and had this hope that she could change him somehow.

A side-note, from your very gay little narrator here: Please, women of the world, understand. You cannot change your dirtbag boyfriend. Leave Him, Honey. You will be so glad you did. I promise you that. You deserve better. You really do.

They were fully engaged in an aggressive back-and-forth complete with insults and counter-accusations fit for an episode of Jerry Springer. Melody was clutching a broken red solo cup in her left fist she had crushed in frustration, the remaining beer inside it dripping on the wooden floor. Stink was guzzling a pint of Ancient Age between cruel remarks. After a particularly sour comment, that red solo cup collided with his crooked face, and he returned fire with the nearly empty bottle of Ancient Age. Just then, Henry came storming into the room, grabbed Stink by the collar and dragged him out, leaving Melody to sit and sob on the bed for a little while before composing herself and venturing down the stairs to fix her makeup. Not a single person in this situation even once considered that this was not their room to begin with. The gentleman who lived there would soon come home to discover that his space was briefly a theater for domestic violence in his absence, a discovery that enraged him to say the least.

Having dragged him down the steps the way a fed up mother would drag a misbehaving child by the ear, Henry shoved Stink behind his drum kit which some well-to-do hipsters took upon themselves to set up for him so the time wasted would not eat into their experimental shoegaze/normcore set, scheduled for immediately after. Seemingly not phased by the last hour or so of nonsense, the band immediately started to go through their setlist. In all fairness, they had a reputation for some level of inconsistency, so when they missed their own cues or played in a tempo different from what was intended for the song no one really noticed it. The whole time, Melody stood amidst the crowd of crust punks, dbeat kids and preppy art school kids, glaring at Stink from behind his drum kit. He however seemed indifferent to the whole situation, and avoided looking her direction for the entire set.

They would not speak for the rest of the night, he sequestering himself off with his bandmates who went to have a smoke out front and then wandered down the street to the bodega for even more booze they definitely did not need; her nestling herself in the comfort of a small group of queer and trans kids who in despite of being welcomed by this “progressive” community felt as isolated and excluded as ever. They fixed her eyeliner and complimented her outfit while giving her some much needed space to vent, and the rest of the night she spent enjoying the company of her new friends. She would not speak to him again for weeks. Conversely, he would act as though none of it happened and wondered with emotive confusion to his friends why she was upset in despite of her having told him very clearly why. The relationship eventually ended, but not before several attempts at resurrection much to the distaste of their friends on either side who could see what neither was able to; that the combination of the two together was like mixing bleach and ammonia. A very bad idea.

Upon their return, Henry stayed behind outside, lit another Marlboro, and looked up at the sky. The fog loomed over the distant hills. The occasional car on the nearby overpass zoomed by. He found a moment of peace there. He was the eye of the storm, the settling of the dust before it would be kicked up again. On the horizon, the faintest hint of the morning light began to glow over the city, and the night finally ended.

Semi-Fictional. The people existed, only some of this actually happened.

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mamabearcatfanfics · 4 years

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This little ficlet doesn’t really have a name. It’s set in the world of The Importance of Ramen and occurs sometime between Chapter One and Two. Not quite angst I don’t think, but not very happy either. Because not everyone gets their happy ending. It was just something I needed to write today. The image below is of Yanaka Cemetery in Tokyo.

“This really cannot continue Higurashi-san”, droned the school Principal’s voice over the phone. “I understand you have concerns about your daughter’s health, but we can no longer accept phone calls and sick notes signed by you for her absences. Unless you start providing medical certificates, signed by a medical professional, we will have to alert the proper authorities. She may even face expulsion over her non-attendance, and we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

The man’s tone was critical, condescending, his disbelief regarding Kagome’s illnesses barely concealed, and Mama swallowed the sharp retort that wanted to slip past her teeth. Deep breath. She needed to stay calm.

“No, of course not, Yamato-san”, she said, enunciating clearly, her voice dripping with feigned politeness. “Thank you for taking the time to speak to me today. We all have Kagome’s best interests at heart.”

“I hope we will not have to repeat this conversation again, Higurashi-san. Good day.”

Mama placed down the receiver on the phone with a deep sigh. She really couldn’t blame the man for his skepticism though. It had been a mistake on her part to ask ojiichan to provide the excuses for Kagome’s constant absences from school. Varicose veins for a sixteen year old? She had recently taken over, providing much more credible excuses, much to Kagome’s relief. She had to admit though, it was hard to keep up the constant pretense of Kagome’s illness, although she had no problems in playing the role of concerned mother. That wasn’t an act.

She’d bid a cheerful goodbye to Kagome and Inuyasha early this morning after they’d eaten breakfast, waiting for the flash of light that signalled their disappearance down the well to let the fake smile fall from her face.

Every time her daughter left, she had to swallow the panic that rose up, imagining all the gruesome and horrific ways it was possible to die in that time period, even without the addition of battling the supernatural. Every time she said goodbye, she worried it would be the last. She’d taken to reading medical books in the evenings when Kagome was away, just in case the knowledge might be needed someday.

She sometimes wondered if Inuyasha could sense her fear – he’d been looking at with a very serious expression this morning before they departed. But her Toshi had always said that fear was something that should be faced, that it was something that should not stop you living life the way that you wished to, and she was doing her best to support Kagome in what the fates had chosen for her. Her daughter was working so hard to train and learn and keep up with her school work. She was inordinately proud of her. But it was hard.

Eri’s mother had called yesterday, wanting to know if she could assist in any way with Kagome’s health. She had clucked sympathetically over the phone, but Mama had immediately recognised the call for what it was. Questions must be circulating again about Kagome’s continual absences through the parent’s grape vine, and Eri’s mother was fishing for gossip. The line being cast became even more obvious when she’d commented on Kagome’s ‘boyfriend’, a topic Mama refused to either confirm or deny. She’d managed to fob her off this time with a vague excuse saying they were waiting for results from a clinic, but that woman was persistent, the thin edge of a very large wedge of parents who were all ready to judge at the slightest sign of weakness.

After making ojiichan his lunch, she decided the monthly accounts could be put off no longer. She sat at her desk, the hot cup of tea she’d made herself neglected until it turned cold and bitter while she struggled to make the figures stretch as far as she needed them to. The government allowance for keeping the shrine running was not huge. The Sunset Shrine was only small, visited by faithful locals, rather than large crowds of city dwellers and tourists ready to spend money on omamori and fortunes that the more popular shrines attracted. She would have to think about ways to bring in extra money. Ojiichan was getting older, and she wanted to be able to look after him and provide all the comforts he deserved in his old age. And then there was schooling for Kagome and Souta.

She was startled out of her calculations when Souta burst in through the back door like a whirlwind, kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag with a thump in the genkan. School was over already?

“Hi Mama! Can’t stay, I’ve got kendo practice! Sensei said last week that my gi is getting too small and I need a new one. And the competition fees for next weekend are overdue! I gotta go get changed or I’ll be late!”

“Souta! Your bag does not belong in the entryway where everyone will trip over it young man!” Mama called out, but he’d already flung himself up the stairs. She looked over the figures again worriedly. Maybe they might have to sell some of the family ‘treasures’ out in the shrine store room. If she could pry them out of ojiichan’s reluctant fingers that is.

Her head was thumping, and the figures seemed to be making even less sense than they did when she’d first sat down more than an hour ago. She finally gave up, shuffling the paperwork back together to file it away in her desk, then reached up to the small box that sat on the top of the fridge filled with more regularly used medications, to get herself some paracetamol. But the box was empty. Kagome had obviously raided it again, taking all the paracetomol and ibruprofen to restock her medical kit. Right. She took a slow deep breath in, rubbing her forehead in exasperation. It wasn’t that she minded Kagome taking them, they were obviously needed, but she could at least inform her that they needed to be replaced.

There was a hollow feeling in her chest. An empty ache. All day long, there had been a nagging feeling that she was forgetting something important. It was dragging at her memory, wanting her to concentrate on it, but everyone seemed to need something different from her, and she’d not been able to concentrate. Maybe it was a shrine anniversary of some sort? She checked the calendar, and her heart dropped into her shoes.

Oh Toshi. It was their wedding anniversary. She’d got through more than half of the day without even thinking about him on a day which had once been so important. Her throat felt thick, and she bit her lip hard, trying to force back the tears that wanted to spring to her eyes. Don’t cry. You can’t cry when Souta is home. She pinched hard on the inside of her wrist, a trick she’d learned over the years to help push back the grief when it surfaced at inappropriate times. Deep breath. She heard Souta’s heavy steps as he thundered back down the steps, wearing his gi and hakama with his kendo gear bag over his shoulder. She was ready to greet her son with a bright smile as he headed out the door.

“Straight back home after practice okay? I’m making curry, seeing Inuyasha-kun isn’t here!”

“Okay Mama. See you later!”

The door slammed as he took off, and Grandpa grumbled as he re-appeared in the kitchen carrying his empty plate, complaining about the noise.

“He’s just young, ojiichan – he didn’t mean any disrespect. How is your back feeling?”

“Not too bad. At least Inuyasha-kun didn’t break anything this time”, he said, rubbing down low on his spine. He’d been taking an inventory yesterday, and had made Inuyasha help him with the heavier boxes.

“He’s actually a very helpful boy you know, when you let him get on with things, and don’t hover over him with sutras”, Mama remarked, teasing him a little. Grandpa snorted.

“That ‘boy’ is probably older than you and me put together”, he huffed. “Plenty of time to have learned the good sense he doesn’t display that often. The kitchen has never been the same since he took a swing at that cockroach with his sword.” He looked carefully at his daughter-in-law, taking in her overly bright smile. “Are you okay Kaori-chan?”

“I’m fine”, she smiled. He gave her a hard stare and her smile faltered. “Alright, I will be fine. But I might go and to the family haka by myself for a little while, if that’s okay ojiichan? I promise I will be back in time to make dinner.”

The old man reached out and took one of his daughter in law’s hands in his, the look on his face sombre but understanding.

“I probably don’t say this enough Kaori-chan, but my son chose well. I could not have asked for a better daughter.”

“Thank you ojiichan”, she smiled, patting his hand. “I feel the same way about you.” She dropped a kiss onto the old man’s balding head, then went to genkan to put on her jacket and shoes., letting her mind wander as she walked down the steep shrine steps to the bus stop, waiting for the familiar bus that would take her to the family plot at the cemetery.

Her own family had turned their back on her when she’d refused a marriage offer by an older, much wealthier man to marry Toshinori, her high school sweetheart. Her parents had not spoken to her since she’d left home, but thankfully Toshi’s family had welcomed her with open arms as the daughter they’d never had.

She loved Toshi’s parents, and had come to think of them as her own. She’d been there for Toshi’s mother Hana, nursing her at home when she was diagnosed with cancer. She’d done her best to ease her growing pain with all the love and care she could until she’d died a year later, surrounded by family. Then Kagome was born, a few weeks after Hana’s death. It had helped to have a baby to focus on, even though it was a hard time. Kagome had been the apple of her grandfather’s eye, she still was, and he had spoilt her rotten.

After years of trying, when Kagome was nearly eight, she’d become pregnant again, a boy this time. Toshi had been overjoyed. They were so happy, so in love. It didn’t seem fair that not everyone could have a life like theirs, and she pitied those whose marriages were not a true meeting of hearts like hers was. They knew each other inside and out. Teased each other constantly, laughed at ridiculous things, loved their baby daughter with all that they had. And now they would have a son too. It felt like the kami were smiling down on their little family. Right up until that night that the police came to the door, to inform her about the car accident.

Toshi had never woken from his coma. She had been the one to make the decision to turn off his life support, with ojiichan’s blessing. Toshi had been a man full of life, full of joy, and she knew that he would not have wanted to continue in the state that he was. She had wept beside him, gripping his hand and repeating ‘I love you’ constantly, as if trying to complete the next forty years of being unable to say it to him in person into the short time left. And then she had left the room, knowing she would never see him again. If it had not been for Kagome waiting for her at home with ojiichan, and their son still growing in her womb, she would have left the hospital and gladly walked straight into the oncoming traffic so she wouldn’t have to live in a world without him in it.

The sound of the bus pulling up alongside her stop startled her out of her thoughts, and the bus driver nodded politely at her when she mounted the steps – he’d been driving this route for many years, and knew where she was going.

“It’s a little later in the day than you usually go Higurashi-san”, he remarked as she tapped her bus pass. “Make sure you don’t miss the last bus back.”

Mama smiled politely. “I’ll remember. Thank you.” She made sure to keep the mask of politeness set on her face as she moved to her seat. Being part of a shrine family meant being recognised on sight by everyone in the area. Expectations must be upheld.

It was a twenty minute trip to the cemetery, which she spent silently, her eyes gazing out the window but focused internally on the many happy memories replaying in her mind. She paused to buy a bunch of rust coloured chrysanthemums from the flower stall at the gate, then followed the path down through the maze of family graves, the tall markers reaching up towards the sky like a well ordered stone forest. Finally she arrived at the Higurashi marker.

Kneeling down, she washed her hands, then arranged the flowers carefully in the vase, straightening bent stalks. She lit the sandalwood incense stick, watching the swirling ribbons of smoke disippate through the crisp breeze, then clapped her hands.

‘Hello Toshi. I’m sorry I’m late dear heart. Happy Anniversary.” She leaned forwards, pulling out a stray weed that had grown up through the pebbles around the marble. “Were you waiting for me? I can’t stay very long this time. I promised Souta I would make curry for dinner this evening; he always works up such an appetite after kendo practice. And he’s a growing boy, your son. His kendo hakama and gi are getting too small for him.”

Her fingers traced over the graceful incisions in the marble that marked her husband’s name, the gold inlay glinting in the afternoon sunlight. The thought of Souta’s hakama sparked a memory.

“Do you remember all those photos we had to sit through, after the ceremony?” she smiled. “We kept giggling, and your mother scolded us, because she wanted some serious photos. You looked so handsome in those traditional striped hakama. Our wedding day was one of the happiest days of my life.”

Without warning, her bottom lip trembled, and the hot tears that she’d put aside earlier in the day returned with a vengeance, falling thick and fast. “Why did you have to go my Toshi? I miss you. I still miss you. You were such a good good man, how could all that disappear in an instant? Why did you have to leave?” she sobbed, her fists clenched in her lap, gripping the fabric of her skirt tightly as she bent forward to rest her forehead against the cool stone. It took her a moment to calm her sobs, breathing deeply, letting the coolness of the stone soothe her aching head.

“I’m sorry for the tears on what should be a happy day”, she whispered, “I’m just so tired Toshi, so very tired. I’m always worried about Kagome. She works so very hard, trying to do her best for everyone. I know Inuyasha is there to protect her, but I’m her mother. I’m always wondering if I’m doing the right thing, letting her do this. Your father was against her going through the well at first, but you always told me to trust what my heart said, and my heart says this is right, even though my head is terrified.” A small breeze swirled around her, lifting the chrysanthemum petals and wafting the incense towards the grave in a steady stream. She smiled a small teary smile. “I’m glad you think so too. I’m still not quite sure what to do about her schooling, but I will figure it out, I’m sure.”

She spent the next half hour sitting silently, listening to the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the muted sounds of Tokyo traffic. It was such a peaceful place. A place where she could sit quietly and regroup, try and regain her strength. She checked her watch, and realised that it was time to leave, if she were to make the next bus.

“Thank you for letting me ramble on koishii. I will come again, as soon as I can. I might bring your father with me next time. I’m sure he would love to visit with you and obaachan.” She got to her feet slowly, hissing a little as the blood rushed back into cramped feet.

It was a slow walk back to the bus stop, then a winding route back, but she didn’t mind. It was nice to be alone with her own thoughts once in a while, without the constant needs of others crowding in. By the time she’d climbed back up the steep stone steps and walked back into the kitchen to cook dinner, she was ready to tackle the world again. For a while at least.

#mama higurashi #mamabearcat fanfics #the importance of ramen #inuyasha fanfic

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annakie · 3 years

Text

A Lot of Words about a Thing

This is a “I’m writing this out so next time someone asks I can just point them to this (or copy/paste) instead of having to type it again” thing.

I’ve been doing Hello Fresh for the last two or three months and I thought I’d talk about the ups and downs of it and if I’m going to keep doing it. This is not an endorsement (which will be clear when you get to the overall middling scoring), but I will put a link at the bottom so we can both get a deal if you want to try it.

---------------

So anyway, I had been thinking about doing a meal kit for a long time but pulled the trigger on it back in... like Mid-January, I guess?

the tl;dr of it all is that I like it and I’ll probably keep doing it for awhile, but it’s not for everyone, and is expensive for what it is, especially if you already know how to cook.

Before I started, I made myself sit down and write out a quick list of what I wanted to get out of trying a meal kit experience, so I’ll rate how successful or not each one of those things is.

First of all, I want to also say, I can already cook. I’m a pretty good cook. I can follow a recipe and improvise successfully when necessary usually. One reason why a lot of people do a meal kit is because they need to learn how to cook and that definitely wasn’t me.

Also, they offer a variety of number and portions on meals to try. I get three meals a week, with two portions a meal, which means I cook Hello Fresh for dinner one night, and usually the next night have the leftovers. Friday night is usually “Yay You Made It To The Weekend, You Get To Order Takeout” night. You can order for several more meals a week, and for up to four portions in each meal, if you want.

So on to the reasons why I decided to try HF, with a grading of how I feel about each one after trying.

Reason One: Try Something New

I was super excited at the beginning of the pandemic now working from home full time, because this was a great chance to really start trying some new recipes. I had fallen into a pretty bad rut for awhile of some of the same frozen type meals or just making super easy things for dinner and sandwiches for lunch pre-pandemic. Even though my commute was stupid easy I often felt too wiped at the end of the day to make like, real meals. So when the pandemic hit and I was Home All The Time, for the first couple of months I was buying interesting ingredients (what I could get my hands on at the time) and really digging into making new and interesting things. Even baking my own bread and bought some new kitchen gadgets like a pressure cooker to expand my repertoire.

By like... the end of summer... well the good news was that I was still cooking and hadn’t fallen back to a packaged-food routine most of the time (though still some frozen pizzas or bags of pre-made Asian or Italian food you cook on the stovetop mostly for lunch) but also I had more or less found The Ten Things I Make (like Spaghetti, a great chicken and rice dish that is so good and makes about 6 meals worth of leftovers) and I was real tired of like, recipe hunting. The most work I was then doing was finding new pressure cooker recipes and tbh almost all of what I was making was Chicken In Some Kind of Sauce Over Rice. I was burned out.

So Hello Fresh... has been great for that. I have only made the same thing a couple of times and those were only because i loved them so much the first time I wanted that thing again. For the most part, I have tried just a ton of new things, including some ingredients I’ve never worked with before or really thought I wouldn’t like! And I did! I feel like I am often trying something I have never made before.

Reason 1.5: Variety

OK this is hand-in-hand with Something New but also slightly different.

Try Something New would be rated like a 4.5 out of 5 stars.... but some stars are taken away though, because a lot of their recipes are very similar. For a protein, there’s like, chicken breasts, hamburger meat, pork chops, chicken sausage and pork sausage. Occasionally steak. Basically every meal will start with one of those things.... oh and I guess there’s like some fish choices, but I hate fish. There’s also vegetarian options, which I have only occasionally gotten. So within the variety, there’s a lot of similarities.

Also there are a lot of same ingredients in their recipes. I have grated a lot of lemons and limes. I have chopped up a lot of carrots, green onions, and potatoes (so many potatoes.) I have consumed more sour cream than I ever have. I have started looking for ways to add even a little more variety to the things that are often-repeats that they give you.

But part of that is my fault -- I am mostly selecting items that I know I will like, or can modify to how I like. There are a lot of veggie and fish-based choices I could pick up most weeks which I avoid.

And almost everything I’ve ever made... I’d make again. I save all the recipe cards so that someday when I don’t wanna do HF anymore, I will have all them all handy to make later. The HF Subreddit also has a lot of resources like how to do their custom spice mixes, very handy. There’s been maybe 3 things I’ve made which I’d say were Just Okay, but nothing I’d say that was bad. And some of the ideas in this paragraph I talk about more, further down.

But also on the topic of “Variety” -- since every meal I make has two portions (occasionally I will stretch something to three) -- points are given back because I’m not “Making a huge pot of spaghetti that I eat for five meals in a row.” So that’s good, even if it means more cooking overall.

So honestly, on Something New overall, I’ll give this like a 3.5 out of 5 stars, correcting up to 4 stars on a curve, since I strike entire categories of their offerings based on my own tastes. They offer a pretty good variety of meals to select, and part of the problem here is my fault for hating All Seafood and not being thrilled with the vegetarian options (I also don’t feel like I’m getting my money’s worth without a protein) so there are a lot of meals re-using similar ingredients. It slides back down to a 3.5 though when you factor in Reasons 3 & 4 below.

Reason Two: Kill Analysis Paralysis

A thing I found increasingly happening by the end of last year was analysis paralysis. Especially as I started a new job where I’m much, much busier (but happier) in October. I would find myself staring at the fact that I’d have to make the decision on What To Make For Dinner and dreading it more and more. It wasn’t really the cooking I hated, but the deciding what to cook, which got me into the lack of variety rut. More often than I’d like to admit I’d just make a box of Kraft Mac & Cheese or like... just... toast... for dinner because the decision-making part of my brain was tired... or out of spoons as the kids say these days.

This is maybe my favorite part of Hello Fresh overall. Once every week or two I log onto HF, pick what I’m going to eat like... 5 or 6 weeks in the future, which I can do at a time when I have that decision-making energy, and forget about it. Every Monday a box shows up on my doorstep, I see what nice things I picked out for myself several weeks ago, and the most I have to decide is which order I will make those things in.

So when it’s a “Make Dinner” day, I don’t have that “shit, I have to make a decision” feeling. I already know because I pre-planned it back when I wasn’t at the end of a long workday. It’s one of those small, dumb things that really really helps me mentally in an almost inexplicable way. And I can feel better about myself because I didn’t eat something dumb for dinner. And I still allow myself to make easy things for lunch, like a small frozen pizza, a sandwich and some chips, or hey, Kraft Dinner. And sometimes I do make a big pot of Spaghetti or something that I love and will just have that for lunch every day for a week, and so I don’t have to feel like I’m always cooking.

And on Eat HF Leftovers For Dinner nights, that’s even better, because I have a tasty meal and it just had to get reheated in the microwave or stovetop. Some meals are easy to half-prepare ahead of time on day one, and just do the last steps on leftover night the next night to have fresher dinner easily.

Just 5 out of 5 stars here. This is my favorite part.

Reason Three: Eat More Vegetables.

Uh, yeah, I’m terrible about eating veggies on my own. The best I can do usually is buy a bag of mixed greens and try to have a side salad with dinner, or buy bags of frozen foods and hope they come with veggies I’d eat.

So the good thing here, is that when HF sends me vegetables to make, if it’s a veggie I like, I’ll probably make it.

The big problem, though, is that there’s no substitutions. And I’m still not gonna eat brussell sprouts or, broccoli, or mushrooms. I was a sport and tried making them (except the mushrooms) the first time I got recipes that used them as sides. And nope... still cant.

But hey, I have done a lot better at eating more fresh green beans, and onions, and carrots, and peppers. Though sometimes I just snack on the bell pepper instead of cooking it. Still, I call it a win.

I really, really wish I could trade out the side-dish vegetables I know I won’t eat for like, a small side salad, an apple, or hey, even just... carrots! But nope, no substitutions. =\ I’d score this way better if we could do so.

Still, I’m doing better here, and overall, more vegetables are being eaten. So, 3 out of 5 stars.

Reason Four: Waste Less Food

The amount of fruit and vegetables I’ve ordered and thrown away over the last year make me cringe. I would order things with every intention of eating them and then just... not. Oh yeah I need two lemons, an orange and two limes in case I make ____ recipe! I need a new bag of baby carrots to snack on and make a side dish and cut into a salad!

And then I maybe... maybe use half of that before it goes bad.

Probably less. Because of the Analysis Paralysis and not trying new things. You run into that problem where you don’t have the ingredients on hand to make a new thing so you can’t make a new thing... but then you buy them but forgot (crucial thing) so the thing still doesn’t get made. Or you just... don’t plan when you’re gonna make the thing and by the time I’d be like “Oh yeah I should make something with those vegetables” they’d have already turned.

SO... I felt shitty throwing away so much produce, and loaves of bread, and other perishable food that got maybe half-eaten. So much, for so long. Yeah, I know I could do better with my meal planning, but it’s been one of those things I always vow to do, and then did not do that thing.

Doing HF has really made me re-evaluate what I buy as groceries, and I have cut way down on ordering unnecessary produce and perishables like bread. Because I don’t really have to worry about dinner and am allowing myself to do easy lunches that don’t require real “cooking.” So, overall I am definitely buying and tossing less food.

Also just as another quick note -- what also tends to get tossed out of my HF boxes is a “spicy ingredient” But in some ways, this works in HF’s favor. I don’t really like spicy foods. A small amount of spice is OK but I’d rather just do without it in most things, sorry I’m that white girl. Most “Spicy” HF meals get spicy by a spice blend, a packet of sriracha / hot sauce, or a jalapeno which they want you to cut up and include. So whenever I see something that looks good but listed as “spicy”, I can check the ingredient list first and see what makes it spicy, If I think the thing still sounds good without the spicy part, I can order it. So yeah, I’ll toss spicy ingredients, but that is 100% my choice and it makes things better because it gives me more variety to order those meals and still make it to my own taste.

Oh, and occasionally, the produce is just bad when you get it or not long after. I haven’t had this problem often, mostly with ginger and garlic. I do evaluate which meal has the most perishables when I get my box on Mondays and make those first. Apparently you can call customer service if this happens for a small credit, but I just use pre-diced garlic or powdered ginger when this has happened to me.

So, this would be a 4.5 out of 5 except for... as discussed above... I end up tossing out HF vegetables on occasion I know I hate and won’t eat, and they won’t let me make substitutions.

But also... cooking for myself... when I make a big batch of something that lasts 4 - 6 portions... more often than I’d like to admit, the last portion or two would never get eaten. Sometimes I’d TELL myself I’d eat them in a week or so and freeze them only to throw it all away months later.

So let’s call this a 4 out of 5. Overall, significantly less food waste with HF.

Reason Five: Save Time

I thought that doing HF would mean less prep-work and less time in the kitchen, especially with their easy-to-follow recipes and pre-measured ingredients.

So in that way, yes, time is saved, and it so again takes that mental load off in a lot of ways of not having to make all those pesky decisions. The materials you’re working with and what you need to do are all Right There for you. It’s really, nice.

As a side note, like I said I’m a good cook, and I haven’t had any problems following along anything I’ve made, but there were a few things I think are more of a moderate skill level and could be a little challenging for newcomers. But then, I see people on the HF subreddit all the time saying they learned to cook with no skill and they find the recipes easy so... we’re good there.

However, Saving Time loses points for two big reasons:

First, I’m only making two portions of each meal. Which, ok... this is my decision. I could order four portions per meal. But then... hey that’s taking big points away on the “variety” front.

The Vegetable Chopping / prep work on a lot of the recipes often takes 10 - 20 minutes, depending on the number of fruits and veggies. So yay for meeting Goal #3 (more veggies) even if it is balanced out by Goal #5.

And unfortunately, most meals end up taking up more dishes than I’d like to clean up (usually at least a pan and baking sheet, sometimes also a pot. Plus knife, cutting board, tongs, stirring spoon, maybe a zester, etc.) So no time is saved on cleanup, either.

Mostly where time is saved is having to pick out recipes and making sure you have/buy all the ingredients. Not much is saved in the actual cooking.

I do, however, enjoy the time I spent cooking and the knowledge that I’m gonna make something good, so we’ll give it a bit back, there.

As a time saver, I’d give HF a 2.5 out of 5 stars.

Reason Six: Save Money

Y’all, Hello Fresh is expensive. Honestly the #1 reason I re-evaluate whether I want to keep going with it every few weeks is the cost. Even though I can afford it.

For basically six meals a week, I’m paying $63 for the food, plus $9 for the shipping.

Which means I’m paying $12 a meal. For food I make myself.

Not cheap. A luxury.

Where I don’t feel quite so bad about it is the fact that... for the most part, I am wasting a lot less food. Except, as mentioned, when I can’t swap out vegetables I hate for something I’d actually eat.

So that makes it irk me even more when I am throwing out vegetables I really hate, because they’re expensive vegetables.

Also that price tag is motivation to make and eat every meal.

Overall, my grocery bills have gone down... honestly pretty significantly. Because I’m not overbuying food! Now, they haven’t gone down enough to even out the cost for Hello Fresh... I’m still probably spending about 50% more overall for each dinner now than I was before.

This isn’t a cost savings. It’s an expense, but one I can afford. And part of writing out this post is to remind myself to decide when the experience is no longer worth the expense.

1 out of 5 stars.

Reason Seven: Eat Better

I would like to challenge myself to define “Better” because that’s all I wrote down when I made the list.

Healthier? Eeeehhhhhh.... maybe? But not much.

Hello Fresh does offer lighter choices, and sometimes I pick those because they look good and are filled with things I will eat!

But I’m just as likely to pick the most calor-ific things on the menu.

HF also adds a lot of Sour Cream to their recipes, and encourage you to salt and butter your food liberally. I try to cut down on some of this where I think it’s too much. But sometimes there’s not much to cut out and still have the meal you ordered.

But also I’m not eating any worse calorie-wise than I was before, probably. And overall I’m eating a lot more “real food” instead of “packaged food” and fast food than I was.... especially pre-pandemic. And again, I AM eating a lot more vegetables, so.... that’s... better?

If I define better as Tastier, yeah, I’m doing pretty good in that regard, haha.

So Better as in healthier: 2.5 of 5 stars.

Better as in tastier: 4 out of 5 stars.

Overall Scoring & Tips

Okay, overall that comes out to a 3.18 out of 5, which I’d round up to a 3.5... which is a pretty good score for how I feel about HF overall. My current plan is to keep doing it until I go back to working in the office again, and re-evaluate. For now, it works for me.

IF YOU WANT TO TRY IT, this is my referral link, you’ll get $70 off over a month’s worth of meals (so like, $20 or something off 3 boxes and $10 off the last one, something like that.

I also have four “Free box” codes to give out, PM me if you want one of those. I don’t think those are compatible with the $70 off link, but it might be a box of completely free food for you? I don’t know how it works, but this may be the better deal? PM me.

If you decide to go for it, here’s a few tips:

Every week or two, go in and choose your meals, don’t let HF choose for you unless you really don’t care.

Read the ingredient list and make sure there’s not too much stuff you don’t like coming in a meal.

The extras are pretty expensive and not really worth it.

Plan on each meal taking about 45 minutes to cook from start to finish including chopping vegetables. Another 10 - 20 with cleanup depending if you have to handwash dishes or not.

Look for ways to make the meal healthier, especially if it encourages you to add more butter and salt near the end. You probably do NOT need to do so.

Buy a decent pepper. I love McCormick’s Peppercorn Medley pepper grinder. Also sea salt grinder is my personal salt preference.

Add some of your own seasonings. I buy a jar of pre-diced garlic (yes yes I know the criticisms of the stuff but it’s easy) and throw in a half tablespoon or so of that into a lot of recipes. Also there are a lot of potatoes that they want you to just cook with olive oil, salt and pepper. Throw some garlic or onion salt on them, or some Lawry’s Seasoning Salt or steak salt of your choice for some variety.

Your basic 2 quart pot, 8 - 12″ frying pan and cookie sheet, plus a cutting board, decent veggie knife, and typical kitchen utensil set are all you need. However, a decent meat thermometer and a zester that collects the zest as you go are both highly recommended.

A sieve and very small rice cooker have also been a lifesaver for making good rice that doesn’t get overcooked.

#personal post tag thingy #hello fresh #food #meal kit #meal kits

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 27: Martin

Jon has always been bad about actually stopping what he’s doing and getting lunch, but ever since Jane Prentiss came into their lives it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes Martin or Tim, or both, can coax him out to join them, but too often it’s met with a you go ahead, I just want to finish this up and the next thing they know it’s six o’clock and Jon hasn’t eaten since breakfast and has just one more thing to finish up before they can go. (He always insists that the others don’t have to wait for him, but that’s a lie; the one time they did all leave and let Jon stay to finish up what he was working on, they wound up having to call him, threaten to come back to the Institute and get him, and keep talking to him while he packed his things and got out the door.) They’ve taken to solving the issue by picking up an extra sandwich or something and bringing it back for Jon when they go to lunch.

Such is the case today. There’s a curry house opening about a ten-minute walk from the Institute that Tim wants to try, but he doesn’t want to go alone; Sasha isn’t all that fond of spicy food, so Martin agrees to go with him. Martin pops in to ask Jon if he wants to go, but Jon appears absorbed in his work and waves him off. Sasha promises to text if anything happens, and he and Tim set off.

It’s the first of October, the temperature hanging at about thirteen degrees following a rainy morning. The air still smells damp and earthy, and worms litter the sidewalks. Martin’s better about that than he used to be—when he was first going on walks with the Primes, during his initial recovery period, they learned very quickly that he needed to give it a good twenty-four hours after the rain stopped before he was able to go out without panicking about the worms—but still, he finds himself watching where he puts his feet very carefully.

Tim has to notice, but doesn’t mention it. Martin’s come to realize over the last year or so that that’s very much how Tim is; he’ll tease, sure, but never about something important. He does loop his arm through Martin’s, though. “Maybe I should start bringing a pack of cards with me to work or something. I bet we can drag Jon out of his office long enough to eat if we give him the chance to whittle away at your point lead, too.”

“I hope so. I’m pretty sure what he’s working on is just the stuff that can be recorded on the laptop, but…I worry. You know?” Martin thinks about the intense look Jon gets when they’re reading over something that they all suspect will turn out to be real. He doesn’t want to lose Jon, but the words stick in his throat.

“I know,” Tim says quietly. “I do, too.” He bumps Martin’s shoulder with his own. “Worry about you, too. I’ve seen the look on your face when you’re researching some of this stuff.”

“I don’t…really?” Martin’s stomach lurches. “I-I mean, it’s…it’s hard to walk away from and…”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed, but…never mind.” Tim falls silent.

Martin decides to wait him out and focuses on his footsteps until they get to the curry house. Because it’s a Saturday (and why they’re working on a Saturday is another issue entirely and allegedly involves a scheduling issue with some work needing to be done), and because it’s the grand opening, they expect a bit of a crowd; because of the rain, it’s not as bad as it could be, but there’s still quite a line and at first Martin thinks they’ll have to take their meals to go, which wouldn’t be a bad thing, honestly. He figures maybe they can get their orders, head back to the Institute, and convince Jon to stop and eat with them if they aren’t taking him out of the Archives. But a table opens up in the corner just as they get their order, and they manage to nab it before anyone else can.

Tim doesn’t go back to his original topic while they’re eating, which, honestly, Martin should have expected. They talk a little bit about the statements they’re investigating, most of which are probably going to end up in the Discredited section, and some about what they’re going to do for Jon’s birthday next week. Although they dance around the issue a bit since they’re in public, they both agree that they’ve somehow got to do something for Jon Prime as well. The memory of the sheer delight on Martin Prime’s face when they included him in Martin’s birthday celebration is hard to forget.

“You know they’d only just had their birthdays when…everything happened, right?” Martin asks as they head back to the Institute. The sun is making a valiant effort to poke through the clouds, and most of the worms seem to have either managed to clear the sidewalks or been removed, but he’s still watching the ground instead of what’s ahead of him and trusting Tim to tell him before he runs into someone.

“Who?” Tim asks, sounding confused.

“The Primes. Martin Prime told me on…our birthday? Jon Prime’s thirty-first was while they were in Scotland, like a week and a half, maybe, before the world ended.”

Tim hums. “What about Martin Prime’s?”

Martin hesitates. “It was, um, before that.”

“While he was still working with Peter Lukas,” Tim says flatly. Martin doesn’t respond. “Great. So he was—ugh. I wish I’d known that beforehand, I’d’ve…I don’t know, tried to do more for him. Being alone on your birthday—”

“Is something we’re used to,” Martin interrupts, a bit more sharply than he means to. “God, Tim, do you know when the last time was someone even bothered to acknowledge my birthday before last year? I was eight. Mum sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything about it, and my only friends were from school. Since my birthday was right in the middle of the summer holiday, I didn’t even get the teacher acknowledging it in class. Martin Prime’s twenty-ninth birthday happened less than a month after Jane Prentiss attacked, when Jon Prime and Tim Prime were still out on medical leave and it was just him and the Not-Sasha. His thirtieth birthday happened less than a month after—” His voice cracks and he can’t bring himself to say it. After your counterpart died. After Jon Prime wound up in a coma.

Tim stops dead on the sidewalk, mid-step. Martin pulls to a stop, too, and looks up at him. Before he can say anything, Tim turns and pulls him into a tight hug. Martin freezes for a second, then relaxes into it and hugs Tim back.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says in his ear. “You deserve better than that. We’ll do better for you. I promise.”

Martin exhales. “Thanks, Tim.”

They separate and head back into the Archives. Sasha looks up at them and smiles wryly when she sees the takeout box in Martin’s hand. “Might have to wait on that a bit. He’s got someone in there.”

Tim curses under his breath. “And nobody to cut the energy.”

“I offered to sit in with them both, but she insisted it would be fine. I couldn’t push it.” Sasha waves a hand at her computer. “Besides, I’m waiting on some reports to compile on—”

There’s a yell of pain from the direction of Jon’s office. Martin’s head jerks up, and the takeout container slips from his hand to the ground. He doesn’t even notice if it falls open or not, too busy rushing for the office door, Tim a half-step behind him. His fingers touch the knob just as there’s a second, louder yell.

“Jon!” Martin flings the door open and bursts into the room. Jon is standing behind his desk, head bowed and shoulders bent, one hand braced against the surface and the other pressing hard against his abdomen.

Jon looks up, his face tight and his eyes wide with pain and terror. “Michael,” he gasps. “H-he was here.”

“Oh, God.” Martin is at Jon’s side in a flash and reaching for him. He starts to pull him into a hug, then freezes when Jon lets out a small, distressed noise. “What happened? What did—are you hurt?”

“H-he—” Jon shifts his hand slightly, and now Martin can see something wet and red on his fingers. Blood. Oh, that’s not good. “His fingers—he—”

“Tim!” Martin barks. “We need the first aid kit. Now.”

“On it.” Tim turns on his heel and practically flies out of the office.

Martin guides Jon back into his chair and kneels down in front of him. “Here, let me see,” he says as calmly as he can, reaching for Jon’s hand.

Jon only presses his hand tighter against his side, despite the obvious pain it causes him to do so, so Martin stops moving. “He took her,” he gasps out.

“Took who?” Martin asks, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Th-the woman. Helen Richardson. She was—she was making her statement, I told her we believed her, she left and—and I thought—and then he was there and—” Jon swallows. He’s starting to tremble. “It was the wrong door, Martin. She went out the wrong door. He took her and I couldn’t—”

“Easy, Jon. Easy,” Martin says soothingly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not! I should have—” Jon breaks off with a whimper. He’s really worked up, and Martin is worried about it.

He’s more worried about the injury, though, so when Tim returns an instant later with the first aid kit in hand, Martin immediately sets about unpacking the gauze and alcohol wipes.

“Okay, Jon,” he says. “I’m going to need to take a look at this. Tim, can you hold his other hand? I know this is going to hurt, but I need you to trust me, okay? I want to help.”

He’s talking to Jon like a frightened child, he knows that, but right now Jon looks like a frightened child, and anyway, he nods and takes Tim’s hand. Martin carefully pulls Jon’s hand away from his side. The fussy old-man cardigan Tim’s been teasing him about since day one is torn and wet to the touch, and when Martin shifts it aside, there’s already a dark stain on the turtleneck underneath. He tries to be gentle about lifting it up, but Jon cries out when he pulls the shirt away from the wound and tightens his grip on Tim’s hand.

“Sorry, sorry!” Martin says, feeling guilty. Tim murmurs soothing nonsense at Jon, squeezing his hand and wrapping his free arm around Jon’s shoulders. Jon’s breathing heavily, and one look at what Martin can see tells him that stopping the bleeding is more important than cleaning up the skin. He grabs a pad of gauze, folds it over, and presses it to where he’s pretty sure the wound is. Jon gives a strangled noise, but doesn’t flinch away.

The gauze soaks through far too quickly, and Martin shakes his head worriedly. He manages to unwrap a second piece of gauze and press it on top of the first without any difficulty, but securing it is going to be a problem. “Here, Jon, I need your help, okay? Come hold this for a second. Can you do that for me?”

Jon’s fingers are trembling as they brush Martin’s. Martin switches their positions as quickly as he can, helping Jon apply the right amount of pressure, then reaches over and grabs the medical tape. He rips off a couple of strips, then nudges Jon’s hand out of the way and secures the gauze as best he can. It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold long enough.

“You’re going to need stitches, I think,” Martin tells him, standing up and holding out a hand. “The clinic’s only a few blocks away. Do you think you can walk?”

Jon stares at Martin’s hand for a moment, then nods mutely and accepts it. He wobbles and winces as he gets to his feet, then stumbles against Martin’s side. He’s shaking all over, and Martin is really worried.

He looks over at Tim, who bites his lip hard before saying quietly, “Call if you need backup. I’ll—I’ll stay here and help Sasha handle Elias if he turns up.”

“The tape—statement—” Jon gasps and gestures at the silent recorder on his desk.

“We’ll listen to it,” Tim promises. “It’ll be okay, boss.”

“I’ll call,” Martin assures him. He wraps his arm around Jon’s shoulders and leads him out of the Archives.

Three blocks over and one block up. It really isn’t a long walk to the clinic, but Martin isn’t completely sure Jon’s going to make it at first without being carried. He keeps stumbling over his feet and stopping for breath. Martin encourages him, but he’s about three seconds away from scooping him up bridal-style and carrying him the rest of the way to the clinic. Somehow, though, they make it. Martin texts Tim to let him know they made it safely, then opens the door and steps in.

It takes Martin a second to recognize the person behind the reception desk; they’ve changed their hair, a green bouffant with a bleach-blond stripe just above black roots and the sides shaved, and Martin’s pretty sure there’s an extra cartilage piercing that wasn’t there before, but it could just be a brighter stud than usual.

“Hey, Zig,” he says in greeting as he ushers Jon up to the counter. “Love the hair.”

Zig looks up and breaks into a grin. “Martin, hey! Long time no see…whoa.”

“Worms,” Martin says succinctly. “Bit much for you all. It was also the middle of the night.”

“Valid.” Zig peers at Jon, who is managing to look both bewildered and terrified, then back at Martin. “Work-related?”

“Yep.”

“On a Saturday?”

Martin shrugs. “They’re doing work on Monday that we apparently can’t manage around, so Elias shifted the weekend. There are some questions I just don’t ask anymore.”

“Fair enough.” Zig waves in the direction of the door. “You know the drill. What am I warning the doc about?”

“Stab wound. Thanks, Zig.” Martin steers Jon through the mercifully empty waiting room. It usually is when he comes through here, but whenever there are people waiting, someone inevitably starts complaining and Zig—or whoever’s working reception—always has to lie and say they have an appointment.

Jon doesn’t say anything as Martin leads him on the familiar route—through the heavy blue door, turn left at the corridor with a nod to the nurse sitting behind the desk, three doors down and the last one on the right. The room is on the smallish side, with enough room for the exam table, a small counter with a sink, two overhead cupboards and a set of drawers under the counter. Two people fit comfortably, three is a bit of a squeeze, but Martin for all his size fits neatly enough into the corner and out of the way…usually. Today, though, Jon clings to his arm almost tight enough to hurt, and Martin knows he isn’t going anywhere.

“It’s okay, Jon,” he says gently. He’s still afraid, there’s no denying that, but he’s also a bit more relaxed now that they’re here. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? Not unless you tell me to.”

“No—stay—” Jon sounds slightly panicked. He closes his eyes and takes a couple deep breaths.

“I will. I promise. C’mon, come sit down. The doctor will be here soon.” Martin keeps his voice as low and soothing as he can as he leads Jon to the exam table and helps him settle onto it. “You’ll like him. He’s good at what he does.”

“You’ve…been here before,” Jon manages. He’s either in a lot of pain or he’s lost a lot more blood than is optimal, and Martin kind of hopes it’s the former so they don’t have to sit here while Jon gets a transfusion.

“Mm-hmm. Remember the day Basira dropped off that first tape, when I told you Diana used to send me on whatever errand she could think of to get me out of the library for a bit?” Jon nods, and Martin continues, “Well, one of those things was bringing people here. Whenever someone in Artifact Storage gets hurt beyond the help of a first aid kit, this is the nearest place. The staff’s really good, the care is excellent, and they…”

“Don’t ask questions?”

“Don’t question answers.”

Before Martin can elaborate, the door opens, and a silver-haired man in a white coat who looks like he was sent straight from Central Casting comes in, shutting the door behind him. He smiles when he sees Martin. “Ah, Martin, good. We were starting to wonder if something had happened to you.”

“I got shifted to the Archives,” Martin explains. “They tend to…leave us to our own devices.”

“Well, they need to stop doing that. Everyone’s so damned close with their secrets. It makes things remarkably difficult.” The doctor turns to Jon with a warm smile. “Hello. I’m Dr. Early. What seems to be the trouble today, Mr…?”

“Uh, Sims. Jonathan Sims.” Jon blinks, looking a bit dazed, and glances helplessly at Martin.

“Mr. Sims, then. I hear you’ve a stab wound?” Dr. Early lifts an eyebrow in Martin’s direction. “That’s a new one. You must’ve got a really interesting artifact in. Did it explode or did you just not notice how close you were to the pointy bits?”

“It was a person this time. Jon’s the Head Archivist,” Martin says. “We don’t deal so much with…things.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Martin glances at Jon, who still looks a little stunned. “Um, unexpected visit from a being that thrives on the fear of confusion, currently in the shape of a blond man with knives for fingers? I…don’t know the details beyond that, sorry.”

“Mm. Well, Mr. Sims, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you.” Dr. Early looks Jon over and gentles his voice. “Can you please tell me what happened?”

“Uh—” Jon looks worriedly up at Martin again.

Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. “I usually just tell him exactly what happened. It’s okay.”

“It’s a lot harder to treat someone if I’m lied to about the cause,” Dr. Early explains. “Or given vague, incomplete explanations. Which is why we’ve all been extremely annoyed that they’ve been sending people who are either protective of their work or afraid of being sent to the loony bin. I can assure you, we don’t commit people from the Magnus Institute, and we’re not interested in spreading your research around, either. Martin here is very straightforward and honest and it’s a great help. We’ve missed him a lot.”

“I can understand that,” Jon murmurs, and Martin’s face gets hot. “A—a man came to—h-he appeared and—” He breaks off. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t—I can’t—”

Dr. Early looks at Martin, obviously concerned. Jon can’t seem to get his thoughts straight, which the good doctor obviously thinks means he’s more badly injured than he is. Martin knows Jon, though, and he knows he’s just scared and confused. He takes both of Jon’s hands in his own. Maybe he’ll talk to Martin.

“Jon,” he says, gently but forcefully. “Look at me, okay? Focus on me. What happened?”

Jon’s eyes clear—he’s still frightened, but at least he’s focusing, which Martin appreciates. “Helen Richardson—she came to make a statement, she encountered Michael after all. I told her I believed her and we would do what we could to protect her, and then she left. I was getting ready to come out and tell Sasha I was heading down into the tunnels, to—to tell you and Tim not to worry about me—when I heard a voice asking me if I was who I was pretending to be. There was a man standing there and I started to say he didn’t belong there, but then I realized who he was and asked if he was Michael. He said he was, and—I said Helen had escaped, and he said she hadn’t, that there had never been a door there. I tried to get him to give her back, and when he said no, I stood up, I was—I don’t know what I was going to do, something, but he just—reached out and dug his finger into my side, just like Sasha described in her statement, but—it wasn’t to help, it was to hurt. It did hurt, and I—I asked why he was doing this, and he—he didn’t answer, he just…” His voice cracks. “I-I couldn’t stop him, Martin, I couldn’t save her—”

“Hey, easy, easy,” Martin says as soothingly as he can, even as his heart sinks. “It’s okay, Jon. You did your best. It’s not your fault. Tell me what his fingers looked like.”

“U-um, like—like knives. Long and skinny a-and sharp.”

“Were they straight, jagged…?”

“Straight,” Jon says after a short pause. “Like—like my paper knife, the one I—they weren’t metal, they were bone.”

Martin glances up at Dr. Early, who makes a motion like he’s washing his hands. Martin understands. “Were they clean?”

“I—I didn’t notice? They were yellow. Like old bone. I-I didn’t see any dirt or, or blood, but…”

“All right. Let me take a look at it,” Dr. Early says calmly. “Where is it?”

Martin steps to one side and releases one of Jon’s hands; Jon clings too tightly to the other for him to let go and indicates the injured spot with his now-free hand. Dr. Early carefully lifts the shirt and inspects the double layer of gauze. “I’m going to need to peel this off, Mr. Sims. This might hurt a bit.”

It does, judging by the way Jon’s fingers tighten around Martin’s as he hisses at the tug against his skin; Martin silently gives thanks that the Primes bullied him into taking care of himself properly and his wounds healed well, because otherwise this would hurt more than it does. As it is, he can bear up silently as Dr. Early removes the tape as carefully as he can and lifts the gauze from the wound. Fresh blood wells up as soon as it’s clear, and Jon screws his eyes up tightly.

“Mm, yes, this is going to need a few stitches.” Dr. Early speaks calmly. “Go ahead and take your shirt off and lie back. I’ll go get my supplies and be right back. Do you have any allergies, any medications you’re currently taking, any medical conditions that might interfere with the anesthesia?”

“Don’t—” Jon’s eyes pop open and nearly burst out of his skull, and his breathing starts getting shallow and panicky. “No, please, don’t—”

“All right, we can do this without anesthesia,” Dr. Early says without batting an eyelash. He’s used to the quirks and foibles of the Magnus Institute’s staff, and he’s probably used to people panicking, too. “I’ll go get my supplies and be right back.” He meets Martin’s eyes, flicks a finger at the exam table, and vanishes.

Martin exhales. “Okay, Jon. Let’s get you lying down so we can get this taken care of.”

“Don’t leave.” The raw panic in Jon’s expression is almost painful to look at.

Martin almost leans over to brush a kiss against Jon’s forehead, then catches himself at the last second and simply touches his own forehead to Jon’s briefly. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I promise. Might have to stand over there so I’m out of the way, but—”

“N-no—I can’t—I can’t be alone when—” Jon tightens his grip on Martin’s hand. “Th-the last time…I almost didn’t wake up. I don’t—I need someone to—”

That is not information Martin wants to have, let alone information he wants to gain right then, although distantly he supposes he’d need to know it at some point. “You won’t be alone. I promise. I’ll be right here. Doc will probably let me hold your hand, I just might have to—to be behind your head or something. We’ll see. Let’s just get you lying down, okay?”

Jon exhales and nods. “Okay.”

Martin helps Jon take off his ruined cardigan and turtleneck, then lie back against the paper-covered exam table. He tries to focus on Jon’s face so he doesn’t have to look at the gash in his side. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells Jon, and he’s not sure if that’s a promise or a threat, but he means it with every fiber of his being. Everything will be okay if he personally has to take down every entity and being that serves them armed with nothing but a corkscrew and his mediocre poetry.

Jon keeps his eyes fixed on Martin’s, even as Dr. Early comes back into the room with his little kit. He takes one look at the two of them and doesn’t even bother to shoo Martin into the corner. “Great, you’re all set. This might hurt a bit, but I’ll try to be as quick and careful as I can.”

The wound is a bit bigger than Jon implied, once Dr. Early has irrigated it, but at least the edges appear to be clean. Jon occasionally lets out a small, breathy whimper, but for the most part just clings to Martin’s hand, while Martin rubs his thumb soothingly against Jon’s skin. While Dr. Early works, he asks Martin about his scars, and Martin readily tells him about Jane Prentiss and the worms. The fear in Jon’s eyes never goes away, but it doesn’t get worse either.

“All finished,” Dr. Early says at last. “You can sit up now, Mr. Sims. Keep the area clean and try not to agitate it. You can come back here or go to your regular doctor in about a week to have the stitches removed.”

“Thank you,” Jon says softly.

“Anything for a friend of Martin’s.” Dr. Early flashes Martin a smile as he tries not to blush. “We’ll send the bill to the Institute as usual. Do take care, both of you.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Martin says. Dr. Early gives him a wink, collects his supplies, and heads out the door.

Martin helps Jon sit up, gently but firmly stopping him from touching the row of sutures punctuating his abdomen. He starts to hand him his shirt, then pauses, looking at the tear and the bloodstain. “Think this shirt might be a wash.”

“I never liked that color,” Jon whispers, but sighs and reaches for it anyway. “I—I can’t—it’s too cold to go shirtless.”

“Wait, here.” Martin takes off his sweater—he’s got another shirt on underneath it, so it’s fine—and bundles Jon into it before he can protest. He’s so used to seeing Jon Prime wearing Martin Prime’s sweaters that he expects this will be the same, but somehow it isn’t, because this is Jon and it’s his sweater, and even though he tries to remind himself it’s just for convenience’s sake, he can’t deny that it does something to his heart to see Jon, still shaking and vulnerable, huddled in the very first sweater Martin ever completed all on his own.

“Thank you.” Jon looks up at Martin, his eyes huge.

“Of course.” Martin puts an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “You ready?”

Jon nods and lets Martin lead him out of the exam room. Zig gives them a wave and a smile as they head out the door, which Martin returns.

It’s not that cold outside; it’s actually probably the warmest it’s been all day, but there’s a bit of a breeze going that keeps it cool. Martin has enough body fat that he’ll be all right, though, so he concentrates on keeping Jon from blowing away and moving in the right direction. Jon’s pretty pliable, tucked close against Martin’s side, and they’re definitely moving better than they were when they left the Institute, for which Martin is incredibly thankful, especially when the clouds thicken and it starts raining again just before they get back. Martin shields Jon with his body and takes the brunt of the wet, although it’s fortunately not too bad and they get through the Archive door with little more than a sprinkle.

Tim must have been watching the door, because he’s right there almost before they make it all the way down the steps. He grins a little when he sees Jon in Martin’s sweater, but there’s still worry in his eyes. “Hey, boss. All better?”

Jon shakes his head mutely, and Tim’s smile vanishes. Martin decides to blame the chill that runs down his spine on his slightly damp cambric shirt. “Jon, what’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”

“No, not—” Jon wraps his arms around his midsection and tucks his chin against his chest, eyes closed and looking absolutely miserable. “I-it’s my fault, I—I couldn’t—”

“Hey.” Martin pulls Jon into a hug and glances up at Tim, who instantly joins in. They’ve done this a lot lately, the three of them, a small part of his brain muses. Whenever one of them—Jon or Tim, really—has a bit of a breakdown, can’t be strong enough, the other two gently pen them in and do their best to comfort. He pushes the thought aside for the moment. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask to get hurt.”

“No, Helen, I—I couldn’t—I should have been able to stop her. It’s my fault,” Jon whispers, balling a hand into Martin’s shirt. “I let Michael get her and I could have saved her.”

“You couldn’t have,” Tim says, gently but firmly. “The Primes tried to warn her and she still fell for it.”

“But I-I knew, I should have known, the door was all wrong, and he’s right, there’s never been a door on that wall, I-I didn’t even notice…God, I thought Jon Prime didn’t notice because he was so—so paranoid, but I wasn’t, I was paying attention the whole time and he still got her…”

“Jon,” Martin says, half scolding and half pleading. Jon’s beginning to—there’s no other word for it—spiral and if they don’t divert it he’s going to break. “You did everything you could. We all know that. You couldn’t have saved her any more than you could have saved some of the people in these other statements. It’s not your fault. I promise. It’s not your fault any more than it’s mine, or Tim’s.”

Jon looks up at Martin. His eyes shine with unshed tears. “Y-you weren’t even here.”

“Exactly,” Tim says, obviously picking up on Martin’s thoughts, and when had they come to know each other so well? “If we’d been thinking about it, we’d have asked the Primes when Helen Richardson came, and we’d have made sure to be here all day so we could have helped. We could have all sat in with her while she made her statement, and surely one of us would have noticed the door was wrong. Or held the right door for her or something.”

Martin takes a risk and runs his hand through Jon’s hair; Jon leans slightly into the touch like a cat. “And it’s not like we would have been able to keep Michael from ever taking her. We can’t guard her all the time. How would you have felt if she’d made it out of the Institute safely, and you’d called her to follow up on the statement and found out she was gone?”

“At least the last thing she saw was a friendly face,” Tim points out softly. “At least this way she wasn’t alone.”

Jon closes his eyes and sags in their embrace. “She wasn’t,” he agrees. “But that’s worse. I-I should have walked her out.”

Martin inhales sharply, and when he looks over Jon’s head he sees the same stark fear in Tim’s eyes he feels in his own as both of them contemplate the possibility of Jon accidentally opening Michael’s door, stepping through it, getting lost in those corridors. He tries to keep his voice from shaking as he says, “And if that just meant both of you were in there? What then?”

Jon simply repeats, “I should have done more.”

And there’s really nothing either Tim or Martin can do right now to convince him otherwise, so they settle for holding him until he stops shaking so badly, then coaxing him to sit down while Tim reheats the curry for him. He claims it’s good, and Martin believes him, but it doesn’t mean they stop worrying.

Especially not when Jon refuses to let anyone else open a single door for the rest of the day.

#leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#ollie writes fanfic #tma #the magnus archives #panic attacks cw #blood cw #injuries cw #medical treatment cw #implied/referenced emotional abuse #for everyone who was wondering about Helen's fate #here ya go

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