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waatermelon-sugaar · 3 years

Text

Want to kiss?

Pairing = Poe x reader

Words = 5.2k

Summary = You and Poe are friends. Acting married won’t lead to anything. Will it?

Warnings = SMUT (18+only); semi-public fingering, semi-public grinding, implication of a bj, also language

A/N = Prompt no.23 requested by @witchyavenger as part of my 300 follower celebration, thanks so much, hope you like it! Prompt was “Do you want to kiss as bad as I do right now?” w/ Poe and bolded in text

Also i might have concentrated more on the smut, than the plot, so if there are a couple of plot holes, that’s why, im not sorry

Posted to AO3

Masterlist

You weren’t looking forward to this.

A small, masochistic part of you was, but the larger part of you, the more sensible part, wanted to scream at the prospect.

Pretending to be a couple with Poe, to have the real thing so close in front of you, yet knowing that you couldn’t, made you want to cry. In fact, you already had.

The two of you had been briefed together, and told you would be acting as married senators at a gala. The way Poe’s face had tightened at the word ‘married’, made your chest hurt. He hadn’t said anything, but he didn’t need to before you’d drawn your own conclusions.

You’d tried not to think about it too much as the briefing had continued, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, and having to blink a little faster. You’d managed to keep it together until you’d gone back to your room, where you’d immediately burst into tears.

Poe couldn’t even stand the idea of being married to you?

You knew he wasn’t interested in you like that, but that hurt. Hurt more than you’d anticipated. Poe only had to pretend for a mission. And he didn’t want to do that? Now you’re sitting in front of the mirror, and you blow out a big breath. Not right now. Your make-up’s half on, and you don’t have the time to redo it if you start crying, now of all times.

And the truth was, it shouldn’t hurt as much as it did. You knew Poe. He was your friend and Commander, nothing more. He’d never given you any indication that he’d ever wanted more, never acted as anything but a good friend to you.

Now you were in the bathroom of a hotel on Coruscant, and Poe was next door and stars you had to share a bed tonight but you didn’t even want to think about that yet . All you had to do was finish your make-up, do your hair, put your fancy dress on, hope that Poe could bear to pretend to be married to you while the two of you looked for an opportunity to sneak upstairs, break into Senator Sewinn’s office, and gather any incriminating evidence stored there. Simple.

And that wasn’t counting getting out, and sharing a bed with Poe tonight, before your ship departed for the Resistance base tomorrow.

To put it simply, you were fucked.

But you’d pushed the emotions away, not wanting to address it. Not wanting to have that horrendous conversation. After all, it wasn’t a crime for someone not to fancy you.

Now you took a moment for yourself, looking up at the corner where the wall met the ceiling, and exhaling deeply.

Ok, think. What’s your first job? Make up.

You took your routine step-by step, finishing your makeup and hair, and pulling your dress on. You took the time to admire yourself in the mirror before you stepped out to face Poe, knowing that he was no doubt going to look absolutely dashing, while not caring either way about your appearance.

You knew that, except you did look good, even if you said so yourself. You let yourself breathe once more, hands fluttering out any invisible creases in the front of your dress. It had a nice cut for your chest, falling to the floor with a split down your right leg.

Ok. “Poe?” You knocked on the door before you returned to your room, not wanting to catch him in the middle of changing.

“I’m ready!” Comes the response, and you can’t help yourself, exhaling heavily again before greeting Poe.

You’d been prepared. Or so you thought.

You’d never seen Poe in a suit before, and it’s more than you could have ever imagined. He fills it out nicely, shoulders looking broader than ever. He’s brushed his hair neatly back, curls subdued for the night. They look darker than ever, strands curling over the back of his collar. Desire and heat are pooling low in your belly, your eyes slow in their movements as they graze over him

He’s freshly shaved after his shower, bronze skin glowing in the yellow light of the lamps scattered around the room. Your mouth is dry, and your breath shaky again. Poe’s looking at you funny, and you must be staring, so you clear your throat, shaking your head a little.

His tie is slightly to one side, so you step towards him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Can I-?” Your voice is a murmur as your hands reach out, one going to the centre of Poe’s neck. You straighten his tie, ignoring the warmth of his body below your hands and step back.

You hadn’t realised how intimate that would feel, how close you’d have to get, and now you feel overwhelmed, your body heating up, your heart beating faster. Poe’s looking at you with a strange look in his eyes, like he can’t quite figure out what your motives are, he can’t decide what you want.

Only, it’s not unusual, is it? Poe’s always been a touchy-feely person, hugging, holding hands, touching whenever he could, it didn’t tend to matter who it was, or what the situation was.

Except this feels different somehow, heavier. Like you crossed a line in your friendship that you weren’t aware existed. That the intimacy of fixing Poe’s tie, being this close to his body is teetering beyond friendship. Poe’s still looking at you with this heavy gaze, and maybe there’s something in his eyes, but you can’t bear to meet them, can’t bear to face the rejection you’ll find there.

So you swallow, fixing your gaze on the section of wall just to the left of his face, ignoring how your palms are singing from touching Poe, even through his shirt. They itch to do it again, hungry for more, and it takes all of your self control to stop yourself and to take a step back, widening the space between you.

“Shall we go?” You’re the first to speak, and at your words, Poe seems to snap out of it, closing down, any softness in his eyes, in his face, disappearing.

He nods, stiffer than he normally is around you, and you can only hope that he’ll loosen up when you get downstairs. “Here's your ring.” He reaches into his breast pocket and hands you a wedding band, gold and simple.

And you’ve been so distracted by the top half of him that you hadn’t seen his on his ring finger, hanging loosely at his side. You don’t say anything as you slip the cold jewellery on, your heart stuttering at the implication of something so plain.

Stepping out of your room, you take Poe’s offered elbow, and the two of you start your descent to the lobby. It takes you a while to get used to the breeze on your right leg, where your skin is exposed. The building is an old one, corridors extending in every direction with bedrooms and storerooms scattered in a seemingly random order. The lift is quiet, muzak playing faintly out of a tiny speaker.

“We’ve got this,” you murmur under your breath reassuring yourself. Poe looks at you, but doesn’t say anything, just patting your hand where it rests on his arm.

The transformation in him when you step into the hall is amazing. His smile, which you recognise enough to tell it’s fake, spreads across his face, and as you enter, he turns his head to your ear, murmuring, “I didn’t tell you how beautiful you looked before.”

There’s suddenly no air as you turn to look back at Poe, that familiar grin tugging on his lips. Your faces are close again, like a married couples, and you don’t try to hide the pleased look that’s clear across your face, feeling more flustered than you expected.

His eyes are encouraging, and you’ve never noticed how warm they are, what a soft brown. They’re lighter than you thought, having never been so close to his face before, dark irises increasing in size as he looks at you, waiting for your response.

You’re married, remember?

So you press your cheek to his smooth one, with a soft “thanks.”

You turn back to the crowd, missing how Poe’s gaze catches on you for a second longer than normal, instead concentrating on how no one noticed you walk in. Good. The room is busy already, you and Poe one of the last stragglers arriving. Soft music, not dissimilar to the one in lift is playing, largely drowned out by voices chattering away.

The ballroom is light and airy, yellow lamps creating a warm atmosphere, with a marble floor that causes your steps to click. There’s a bar near the entrance, and a stage to your left.

The beginning of the night is spent hanging off Poe’s arm, making conversation with Senators about brain-dead topics, Poe’s hand moving to squeeze yours in warning whenever you make a slightly too sarcastic comment, usually about the First Order really having an impact, and how it was about time someone made a monopoly of the galaxy anyway.

You push down the urge to be more sarcastic, if only to feel Poe’s skin on yours again.

No one seems to notice, especially not when you start to zone out, looking for opportunities to sneak away. The office had to be around this room somewhere; hours of poring over maps of the building had revealed a lot of empty space around the ballroom. And now Senator Sewinn was walking out of a concealed door in the back right of the room, which had to led to his office.

Unfortunately, he and a number of other important, puffed up looking peacocks of politicians seem intent to stand right in front of it, drawing, if anything, more attention to the door.

You huff, unknowingly scowling. What was the point of a secret door when you act like that? You may as well make a sign saying ‘Secret, Do Not Enter.’

“You alright, sweetheart?” Poe’s the one to drag you back to where you are, and you do one of those smug, self-centred couple smiles, one that you’d seen far too often, smoothing out your face.

“Yes, sorry honey.” You step back from the group, suddenly needing a moment. “If you’ll excuse me.” You direct this to the rest of the group, mumbling something about getting a drink, stumbling away, sure they won’t miss you. Poe’s behind you, his presence both stifling and a comfort.

When you reach the bar, his hand is on the small of your back, and he’s still so warm. How can his hand spread heat through your body like this? Through your dress? “Hey,” his mouth is by your ear again while you wait for the bartender. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, unsure yourself. “I don’t know Poe. Nothing.” Maybe it’s him. You can’t look directly at him, fearing you’ll combust.

It’s definitely him.

But instead, you turn your mouth back to his ear, close enough your mouth just grazes his earlobe as you talk. “Senator Sewinn isn’t leaving the door behind him.”

Poe looks behind you in a casual sweep of the room as you order two drinks.

When he turns back, his chest is pressing against you now, his arm around your waist, caging you into the bar, and you hope you don’t look as hot as you feel. You practically vibrate under his touch, the urge to push back into him stronger than ever. Poe’s blazer isn’t buttoned up, and it’s almost around you, you can feel the silk of his tie on your back.

Your breath sticks in your throat as he bends to whisper, again. This man is going to kill you. “Good spot sweetheart.”

Don’t press your hips back into him, you remind yourself, he’s there, but don’t do it.

You can smell the cologne Poe’s wearing too, the one he only uses on really special occasions and it’s making your head spin. Maybe you need some air.

You accept the drinks from the bartender, passing over some credits and turning in Poe’s arms, the cold glasses in your palms helping you a little, distracting you from the heat which seems to have settled in your core, pulsing in between your legs.

Except now you’re facing Poe, facing those warm brown eyes, and are they darker than they were before? Is this better or worse? Face to face, or chest against your back?

He’s licking his lips as he’s taking the drink from you and you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so bad. Breathe, in and out.

“Don’t worry, they’ll move,” it takes a second for you to tune back in, to realise what Poe is talking about. “Sewinn has to make a speech at the other end of the hall, we’re to move then, when everyone’s distracted, remember?”

His voice is soft, quiet, and you do remember, that the movements he’s describing are all part of the plan, have been ever since the brief, but this man who’s crowding you into the bar, the sharp edge cutting a vertical line into your back, is distracting you from the mission.

This mission, which is important for the Resistance.

The mission, which you can’t fail at.

And, more than that, you can’t let Poe down.

He’s not interested, you have to remind yourself when a pang of disappointment shoots through you as he steps back. This is fake, you’re fake married.

Somehow the reminder doesn’t help.

You sip your drink, cold liquid shooting down your throat as you look anywhere but at him.

The introductory section drags. You don’t return to the group you were talking to before, instead choosing to stay near the bar, exchanging the odd observation with Poe, the two of you consistently getting closer than you really need to talk.

He’s acting more normal now, his smile more natural as he relaxes. His hand has found a home on you, it doesn’t seem to matter where, moving from your shoulder to your back to your waist. You don’t dare mention it, afraid he’ll stop, when that’s the last thing you want.

Sometimes you feel like a black hole, desperately looking for love and touch, and sucking up whatever you can find, always needing more. You hate to think that maybe that’s what you cherish most about your friendship with Poe - that even as his friend, he touches you, and hugs you, and gives you a kiss. Although it does spark the idea of Poe being cuddly in bed, that if you ever went out with him, he would always try and have his hands on you. You allow yourself these soft dreams for a moment, before tuning back in before Poe can notice.

You’ve nearly finished your drink when the quiet background music starts to fade, and to your delight Sewinn begins to move. The crowd easily parts for him, and you wonder briefly what it is about him that makes people so responsive. What would it be like to have that kind of power?

You grasp Poe’s hand, feeling his calluses on your palm when he makes his move, pulling him to stay with you a second longer. “Wait for him to settle,” you say, knowing there’s no rush, yet.

And so you do, the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder, pretending to listen to the senator’s drivel. And then he turns, looking for the trophy he’s using to make his announcement more convincing, and you pull Poe along the back wall, still holding his hand as you lean against the hidden door and allowing a grin as it clicks open.

And you’re in.

You blink in surprise when you realise it’s really been that easy. You’d expected at least a locked door to get in the way. But no, you’re standing in the Senator's office, looking at a large desk, footsteps suddenly muffled by the plush carpet and still holding Poe’s hand.

You drop it like you've been burned, not daring to look at Poe as you go to the other side of the desk. There’s bookshelves around all the walls, creating a slightly dark and gloomy look, especially in contrast with the light ballroom next door.

You start going through the drawers as Poe plugs in the holostick that he’d been given, downloading files for later reading. Most drawers contain useless information, files on drinks needed for the party, a bill for the band later, business cards and other junk. There’s one locked drawer you can’t open, even when you try and pick it.

You give it a kick in frustration when it still doesn’t open, earning a snicker from Poe. “Did that help, sweetheart?”

You scowl at him, not bothering to answer, and determined to not mention the fact that your foot really hurts now. “How long left?” you ask, deflecting instead.

“Two minutes,” is the answer and you nod, going to one of the bookshelves, hand idly tracing down a number of spines. None are in a language you recognise, and when you turn back to tell Poe so, you find him leaning against the desk and watching you. His legs seem longer at this angle, thighs … bigger. And you’ve seen this man with a harness wrapped around his legs like a second skin.

You wonder what it would be like to … You shake your head before you can finish that thought, mouth dry even as you remind yourself that Poe’s your friend. Your friend. “I can’t read any of these,” you tell him instead, watching his head snap up to meet your eyes as you talk.

And then a lot of things happen very quickly.

Before Poe can respond, the holostick beeps, he unplugs it, just as the door to the ballroom clicks open. Before you can react, he’s closing the steps between you, holostick clasped in a fist, crowding you into the bookshelf behind you. When he speaks, it’s a low, quiet, “I’m sorry,” his forearm coming to rest next to your head, and you can smell him again, eyes falling closed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The scent is familiar and grounding, and even as your heart rate picks up, you feel calmer, Poe’s other hand holding your cheek. His head turns, your noses bumping and his lips are so close to you … he’s going to kiss you.

And then he stops, except he’s moving like he is kissing you, and you realise his hand is connecting your two faces and there’s someone else in the room, so you don’t think, you just react. You widen your legs so Poe can step between them, and you let out a breath, nearly but not quite grinding on his leg, moaning low in your throat as one of your hands flies to the nape of Poe’s neck.

“Excuse me!” The guard’s voice is sharp, and cross, which is fair enough, you later reason, when you think that you wouldn’t want to find two people snogging in your boss’s office. Awkward one to report, that.

Poe is slow to separate from you, his eyes dark when he opens them, and you're breathing embarrassingly fast considering he didn’t actually kiss you. He turns, standing just in front of you, a protective stance, whether he realises it or not.

“Sorry, sir,” his voice is more hoarse than normal, and you never realised what a good actor Poe is. You sheepishly smile at the guard who just huffs and ushers you outside, grumbling about how disrespectful the two of you are and warning you not to do it again.

The two of you stand in the hall, Sewinn just wrapping up his speech. Your head is spinning and you can’t think.

Poe seems entirely unaffected by the whole thing, winking at you as he grins, joining in with the clapping at the end of the speech. You copy him, but you feel like you’re moving at half the speed of everyone else, your whole body screaming to be surrounded by Poe again.

“Are you alright?” Poe asks you, and is it that obvious that you aren’t? You can only nod, not trusting your voice to be steady. “I’m sorry … about, in there, I just-”

“Stars, Poe.” You interrupt, not wanting to hear it. “It’s fine, it was good, quick thinking on your part.” You force a smile, and if Poe notices, he drops it. “We did it, though,” You add after a second, the silence between you somehow worse.

Poe grins, and you know you’ll be ok, the breathless, hot feeling gradually fading, your senses tuning back into the room around you, hearing the band setting up, everyone moving around you. “We did.” Is all he says, extending his hand in mock performance when the band start playing. “May I have this dance?”

You allow yourself to relax, graciously accepting it. “Why, kind sir, of course!” The two of you are giggling as you start to dance, neither of you aware of what the steps are, just concentrating on having a good time. The music isn’t particularly great; the stuffy sort that politicians think make them look classy, when really it just makes them look like pretentious assholes.

You both get bored of this pretty soon, Poe losing his jacket as the two of you get warmer and warmer, dancing ridiculously in a corner.

When your feet begin to hurt you pull on Poe’s hand, taking him away from the dancefloor. The hall is hot, and you want fresh air. You feel flushed, the cold air nice on your warm cheeks.

You’re walking along the corridor back to your room, talking about the best song you’d play to start a party. Poe’s jacket under hanging off his arms, hands stuffed in his pockets. You try not to look directly at him too much as the two of you discuss better songs. “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy is one that would definitely get everyone going.” Poe says it likes it’s the simplest thing in the world, his answer the definitive one, while you snort.

“You only think that because you want an excuse to ask everyone that all the time. No - Gimme, Gimme, Gimme is the best. Hands down.” Maybe you’re just as bad as he is. “Rasputin is another good one,” you add, “there’s dance moves and everything.”

“No!” Poe’s voice is low, exaggerating his horror by dragging out his vowels, being over-dramatic now, “the best one for dance moves is Rock the Boat.”

You ruffle his hair in that way he hates. “You like that because you can sit down!” Your laughter is interrupted when Poe’s head snaps up, looking towards the end of the corridor.

You pause, looking for the cause of the change in Poe’s attention. Hearing the voices approaching you, he grabs your hand, pulling you into an alcove, pulling the curtain across. There’s hardly room for the two of you to breathe, bodies pressed together, wall cold on your back as you listen to the footsteps coming closer.

“... and Sewinn is going to want his whores there.” A nasal voice, coming closer.

You stop breathing, glancing at Poe, who shakes his head. “The usual ones?” The question is spat by a deeper voice, while the other person presumably nods. “Fuck! They think they have more influence, always looking down on us, when Sewinn listens to us.”

Poe’s hand fumbles around yours, fingers intertwining and squeezing gently in comfort, sending electricity up your arm. The same deep voice continues down the corridor, passing you. “And he just can’t get enough of them, especially that boy with the awful fashion sense, I mean really...”

The voice fades gradually, passing you in a blur in the corner of your eye. You determinedly concentrate on looking at the fluttering curtain, a shade of blood red, suddenly too shy to look at Poe.

This mission has been a lot. Working with Poe, who you have a desperate crush on, pretending to be married, and now standing far too close for comfort while you listen to people talk complain about influence in the Senate. You can’t hold it in any longer, the two of you dissolving into giggles, bodies collapsing forwards, Poe’s jacket landing on the floor with a soft whump.

And maybe it’s the release of this tension but when you finally compose yourselves, leaning back as much as you can in the small space even though you could leave, or maybe it’s the fact that his thumb is now massaging your palm, but the words tumble out before you can think.

“Poe I like you.” He hasn’t let go of your hand yet, which is a good sign, right? But he also hasn’t said anything, so you keep talking. “Like you, like you, I mean.” Why can’t you shut up? There’s something unreadable in Poe’s eyes. “Like I would quite like to go on a date with you sometime and maybe -”

Eventually Poe stops you with his free hand, covering your mouth for a beat, enough to get you to shut up. Is he closer? You didn’t think it was possible. His face is unreadable, even as he looks into your eyes, considering something “Do you want to kiss as bad as I do right now?”

Your mind goes blank, your mouth dropping open as Poe removes his hand, going to his tie, loosening the knot. “What?” you just manage to stammer out.

Poe just tips his head, like he’s considering the best angle to kiss you. “I like you like you too, sweetheart.” He’s teasing, but it’s fond, you realise with a rush of affection. All night he’s been looking at you like this, with fondness. “Can I kiss you?” He’s almost begging.

Words escape you. You nod, unable to breathe, unable to talk anymore. Poe leans towards you, tilting his head, eyes closed, long lashes fluttering on his cheeks. At the last second, you remember to close your eyes, kissing him back.

His hand moves to your hip, pulling you towards him, where you can feel him, already half-hard under his trousers, pressing against you. Poe slides his hand under the split in your skirt, warm hand on your skin, pulling your leg up as his hand travels down your thigh, settling into the crook of your knee, opening your legs and pulling your core closer to him.

You catch on, wrapping your leg happily around his waist, not caring how exposed you must be, gasping when you grind against him again, and Poe’s even harder now, the seam of his trousers catching on something pleasurable between your legs. You’re already more aroused than you really have any right to be, considering he’s hardly done anything to you yet, but you’ve been thrumming at a low level all evening.

You’re still kissing, even as he grinds against you, pushing you more into the wall behind you, and you feel overwhelmed, already, in the best way possible. All you can hear are your combined breaths, breathy sighs that fill the small space. You feel hot, nearly overheating, the cool wall balmy on your flushed skin behind you.

You forget where you are, what you’re supposed to be doing, Poe taking over all your senses. His tongue is in your mouth, teeth biting at your lip and all you can do is let him. Your free hand moves to his hair, tugging gently and feeling a pull of satisfaction in your core at his low groan. His hair is soft, and thick and you don’t want to let go, the sudden image of pulling on his hair when his head’s between your thighs jumping to your mind’s eye.

You finally let go of his hand so you can hold onto his shoulders, the crisp white shirt becoming crumpled in your grasp and helping you balance on one leg. Poe’s now-free hand pulls your skirt fully up around your waist, no doubt causing some creases and teases you, playing with the hem of your underwear, fingers tracing circles into your hip.

You groan into his mouth, you can feel yourself getting wetter, and your hips unconsciously buck into his hands, wanting more. When Poe pulls back, resting his forehead on yours, you’re both breathless. His eyes have blown wide, and you’re sure yours look the same. You’re panting a little, even as Poe keeps his movements regular, grinding his dick into you, moving his hips up and adjusting his position with every moan you let out.

“So good to me, sweetheart.” He’s kissing down your neck now. “You feel so good, you … urgh … you don’t even know how much you turn me on…” He sounds breathless, even as he continues to talk.

And then he surges up, hitting your clit and you can’t help it, crying out. Pleasure’s building in your body, all centred around Poe, and you want more of it, more of him. You can’t see Poe’s face, but you feel the smirk he presses to your skin as he does it again. And then his hand that’s playing with your underwear moves, pulling it away from your skin, dipping his hand down and stroking one long finger through your wet folds.

The moan you let out is broken. “Poe…” That’s all it takes for him to push his finger inside you, motioning gently towards himself. You can hear how wet you are as a second finger joins the first, a steady squelch in time with his movements. His fingers are thicker than yours are, and you feel dizzy at the thought of being stretched on his dick. His palm is grazing against your clit with every movement, steady and repetitive.

Poe’s fingers feel so good, moving inside you, gently building you higher and higher while he watches your face, kissing your jaw, your ear. Your moans come out in breathy whines, repetitions of his name, and soft oh’s of pleasure. You can only hold onto him, trusting he’ll catch you if your leg gives out, only half-aware that anyone could walk past and hear or see Poe utterly destroy you.

You start to moan more and before you even realise what’s happening, Poe’s greedily kissing you as you fall apart from his fingers. He keeps kissing you as he works you through it, your pussy clenching around his fingers, his tongue in your mouth while your hips buck forwards still.

You’d feel embarrassed if it didn’t feel so good. “Yes, by the way,” His voice is low as he moves to kiss the soft spot under your ear now. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

You can only frown as Poe removes his fingers from inside you, glistening wet and placing them on your lips, pushing gently until you open your mouth, swirling your tongue around his fingers, your own tart taste filling your mouth. “What?” You mumble, Poe’s digits muffling your voice.

“I’d quite like to go on date with you sometime too.”

You nod slowly, your post-orgasm haze lifting slower than normal. “Can we go to bed first?” Poe’s fingers are still half in your mouth, and you suck on the tips a little for emphasis, widening your eyes. And then you get an idea. “Or, actually,” you purr, removing your leg from Poe’s waist, and gently pushing his shoulders so he hits the wall behind him as you drop to your knees in front of him. “Maybe we should stay here for a minute.”

***

Thanks for reading! Reblogs and comments mean the world to me 🥰🥰🥰

this is the suit I was imagining, but the hair was all wrong for Poe. also I know that there are technically no suits in Star Wars canon, but I wanted to write it this way so

#poe dameron #Poe Dameron x reader #poe x reader #star wars #poe dameron fanfic #poe fanfic #Star Wars fanfic

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 4 years

Text

We Care, But At What Price?

Summary: Sequel to "We Care Not". As Hiccup lies sick in bed, the other Riders reflect a little on the past they share with him and how overly protective they are of him now.

Rating: Teen and up

Words: 2 482

Author’s Notes: Sequel that was written quite a while ago, but never posted. Might take this idea to dabble with it in a different fic someday.

Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Enjoy!

We Care Not (The first fic)

Ao3

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"This is stupid. This is so, so stupid."

Astrid finds herself shushing Hiccup's shaky mumblings as she dabs his forehead with a soaked cloth. It is sweaty and she can feel the heat radiating through the layer separating her hand and his skin.

Hiccup is lying in bed before her on a stack of furs and blankets, all gathered from the other Riders. He wears only a single layer of clothing in spite of the cold Winter plaguing the Edge. His armor hangs forgotten on the back of a chair on the ground floor.

"I should be out there doing patrols or think of something to stop Viggo, not be stuck here in bed." There is a certain resentment in his tone that Astrid doesn't quite appreciate, she resists the urge to demand that he apologize to himself.

That kind of anger, she knows it is directed at only one man in this room and, besides her, the single other presence here is Toothless and Astrid is certain Hiccup can never be mad at him.

Her free hand is held in both of his own on his stomach.

"Don't be so hard on yourself. It's just a fever." She tries to tell him and Toothless rumbles in agreement. The Night Fury is taking up all the space on one side of the bed. Ever since his Rider has fallen ill, he hasn't left much. He worries.

"I shouldn't be having a fever. I'm not a kid anymore, I shouldn't be getting sick every Winter." Still Hiccup argues, his voice cracks. Even with the fire warming his hut, his woolen tunic, the dragon, and the covers, he shivers terribly.

He doesn't get sick as often as he used to when he was a growing boy, but when he does this always happens. The times Hiccup does fall ill, he falls hard.

Astrid sighs when she hears his comment. Indeed, the Winters here in the Archipelago are never kind to Hiccup. If he isn't sick, then the cold is taking its toll on his leg or some other old injury of his. And then there is also Devastating Winter.

"It's okay to get sick, Hiccup. You wouldn't be giving us such a bad time if we were stuck in bed." That shuts him up, at least. He can't argue with her about that, he knows she is right.

Instead, Hiccup lets his eyes fall closed. He sniffs, his nose is clogged. His cheeks feel so unbearably hot.

Astrid will never admit it to him out loud, but she does find herself worrying during the coldest seasons on Berk. Devastating Winter especially. It wasn't given this name for no reason.

If there is a season cold enough to keep even the Hooligans of Berk indoors for days or weeks at a time, cold enough to keep even the dragons inside, it is certainly that. Before the Edge, whenever she was stuck inside, Astrid would often find herself guilty of sitting around and worrying about Hiccup.

She often wondered as she sat there sharpening her dagger at the fire, was he lying sick in bed? As she ate dinner with her family, was Stoick trying to get some food into his ill son in the meantime? As she checked up on Stormfly, was Toothless watching over his Rider day and night?

Every time Devastating Winter allowed Berk to set foot outside again, it was a relief to her to see him alive and well.

Oddly enough, it wasn't a concern she ever had for the other Riders. And not because she didn't care for them, because she did and a lot more than she let on.

Grabbing the pitcher standing on a stool next to her, Astrid notices that it is empty. Time to grab some more water.

"I'm going to get some more water. I'll be right back." She tells Hiccup, even though he probably isn't conscious anymore, judging by his calm breathing. He may have dozed off.

Which is a good thing, he needs his rest and his body demands it. She lets him sleep.

Astrid briefly scratches Toothless behind an ear fin and walks down from their loft with the pitcher in hand. Downstairs, she meets with the other Riders, who are all gathered in Hiccup's hut.

There is a snowfall going on outside and so it is warmer to stay inside. She knows even the Dragons are huddled together over at their stables. She also knows that there is only one reason why the others are here and it isn't quite because of the weather.

Fishlegs is reading at the table and so is Tuffnut, though the latter isn't as into it as the former is. His face is lying on it. Ruffnut and Snotlout are playing Maces and Talons in one corner, though neither of them are all that interested in their game either.

As Astrid comes down, Fishlegs looks up.

"Is he sleeping?" He asks, putting his book down.

"Yeah, he is." She answers and makes her way over to a barrel with water. Opening the top, she lowers the pitcher into it to bring back up with her.

Ever since Hiccup fell sick two days earlier, he's been drifting in and out of sleep. He is feverish, he is coughing almost continuously, but he is, at the very least, not delirious. So far, his mind remains untouched by the fever. A good sign, they all figure.

Silence returns, but as she ascends back up the stairs, Astrid can't help but notice that the pieces on the board game Ruff and Lout are playing with are no longer being moved.

Returning up to the loft, Toothless greets her with a purr and Astrid gives him a small smile. She replaces the pitcher on its original spot next to the empty mug and then grabs the cloth she'd left on Hiccup's forehead.

Dipping it into the bowl of water standing on that same stool, Astrid stops mid-action when she hears movement. Out of the corner of her eyes, she notices him rolling onto his side away from her. He lets out a deep sigh followed by more coughing. Hiccup nuzzles into his pillow and settles again for the time being.

Astrid relaxes, she isn't even aware she tensed up. Wetting the cloth again, she wrings it out a bit and places it on his temple instead.

"Toothless, I'm going downstairs. You'll watch over him, won't you?" Though she knows she doesn't even need to ask, Toothless still gives her a croon before placing his head down on the bed to fix his gaze on his Rider as Astrid joins the others again.

Ruffnut watches her descend, a frown present on her face. Snotlout doesn't seem to mind that he needs to wait on her next move.

The quiet continues until Astrid takes a seat at the table where Fishlegs and Tuffnut are already sitting at.

She waits. She knows there is something Ruffnut wants to talk about the moment she stops playing her game with Snotlout.

Astrid even sits down on the chair with her front facing the other and looks at her. It is her way of asking "what's up?"

"It's weird, right?" Ruffnut starts now that Astrid has taken a seat. Snotlout, Fishlegs, and Tuff all look at her.

"We know Hiccup's gonna be just fine. He's pretty much indestructible at this point anyway. And yet..." Her voice trails off.

"We're still worried to death?" Snotlout finishes for her.

"Yeah, Fishlegs even says he's doing better than yesterday," Tuffnut speaks up as well and Fishlegs nods to confirm it. Hiccup is already on the mend.

"He should be back up on his feet soon."

"And yet..." Snotlout mutters. His eyes briefly travel up to the loft, though he can't see Hiccup.

Standing back up again, Astrid makes her way to the back of the hut, where most of Hiccup's stuff is kept. She can feel the eyes of the other Riders on her.

Toothless' several different prosthetic tailfins are hanging on that wall, but for as much of an eyecatcher as they are, Astrid's attention is only on one chest.

"What're you doing?" Snotlout asks, his chin resting on the table in front of him.

"Searching for something Hiccup can do? Something to lighten the mood." Astrid replies, crouching down in front of the chest and opening it up. She briefly rolls her eyes at how disorganized it is and begins to search through it. Within seconds she still finds what she is looking for, despite the mess inside.

It is a little book he uses for his sketches. Or rather, one of the many he uses that way. Hiccup went through a lot of them in just one year.

Flipping it open, she wants to see if this one hasn't been filled in yet. Something instantly strikes her as odd, however.

The drawings inside of this one were made by a kid.

They are still good. Very good. And the only conclusion Astrid can come to is that these are Hiccup's from when he was still very little and he kept them. So Hiccup is someone who can get a little nostalgic, who knew?

Struck by nostalgia herself, she keeps looking through them, sitting down on the wooden floor. She is engrossed. Many of them look vaguely familiar to her.

She halts when she comes upon one particular drawing in the book.

Astrid remembers having a dear friend once. She is reminded of her now, of little Unn that never got to grow up, as she stares at what appears to be a hand-drawn portrait of a little girl with baby blue eyes and shoulder-length black hair.

Though this had clearly been drawn by a very young individual, she can recognize these strokes from anywhere. This one had been drawn by Hiccup, too. A long, long time ago. Gods, she never knew he still had any of these. Let alone this one.

He drew this when they were... What? Four? Five years old? They are both eighteen now. How has he managed to keep these for so long?

Astrid stares quietly at the picture. A dull aching makes its way into her chest and there is a hitch in her breath, her eyes are wet. She hasn't thought of her childhood friend in a long while.

"Hey, I know her." Astrid didn't expect anyone to be standing behind her, but she doesn't jump when Snotlout speaks up out of the blue.

He kneels next to where she is sitting and Astrid allows him to take a look.

"She's-um... Ugh, what's her name."

"Unn. She was..." Astrid helps him remember, but she doesn't get much farther beyond that. It is strange, she didn't have any problem saying it before. Why is it suddenly so hard?

"One of the ones that didn't make it." Snotlout returns the favor and finishes that thought for her.

"Yeah." She takes the book back when he hands it to her. She can hear footsteps approaching.

"Oh man, talk about a blast to the past," Ruffnut mutters, her hands on her hips.

Taking a glance over her shoulder, Astrid sees that Tuffnut and Fishlegs are there as well.

"Are there any others?" Fishlegs asks hopefully. It is the timidest he has sounded in a long while.

Astrid briefly skims through the rest of this particular sketchbook and she shakes her head. There are no more.

"Should we check if any of Hiccup's other old notebooks are in there?" Snotlout asks and for once he isn't suggesting looking through someone else's stuff just for the fun of it.

"Guys, I was only looking in here to give Hiccup something to do next time he wakes up. You know how antsy he can get when he's stuck in bed for too long. I'm not randomly looking through his stuff." Is Astrid's reply when a simple "no" would've sufficed.

"Yeah, I know. I was just curious, you know." Snotlout shrugs in response. He is uncharacteristically muted today, as they all are.

It is quiet for another moment before Ruffnut speaks up again. Astrid almost feels compelled to look at the picture of her friend again.

"It brings you back, doesn't it?" She asks her friends, her tone solemn.

"So many of us didn't make it." Fishlegs happens to mention and saying it out loud somehow makes their mood even more dreary than it already is. If that is at all possible.

"I've never really thought about it before, but there are a lot of kids on Berk now. Compared to... You know." Tuffnut reminisces quietly.

"Before the war ended," Ruffnut adds and her brother nods.

It was such a change, one that happened so slow and yet so fast. With how lively Berk is now, it is sometimes hard to remember what it was like before the dragons had come to live with them, before the one responsible for so much heartbreak had been dethroned. And this change, they all know who was responsible for it.

The Riders are all quiet for another moment of reflection. They are all thinking of the same person.

It is odd. Sometimes they still have moments in which they just look at each other and ask "why did we ever dislike this guy?" as soon as Hiccup leaves the room.

"Why weren't we friends before?"

"Why did it take us so long?"

The past three years of friendship did muddle their memories just a tad bit, but this brings it all right back.

They used to dislike Hiccup because he was the weird one. They disliked him because the adults did. They disliked him because he was sure to be the next one to leave them.

And now look at them.

Hiccup is upstairs in bed suffering from an illness he has had before and would recover from again. He is doing fine. He is angry at himself, but otherwise, he is doing just fine.

And yet, they worry. They worry so much they spent most of the last two days here in his hut. The evening of the third day is drawing near.

Upstairs, Hiccup starts coughing and it doesn't let up for a good couple of seconds.

"I'm fine, Bud." The coughing fit wakes him up and the Riders hear Hiccup reassure his dragon, but still, Fishlegs is already running up the stairs just to make sure if there isn't any help that he may need.

"Fish-Fishlegs? Fishlegs, I'm fine! It was just a cough, I'm fine." The rest of them, still on the ground floor, relax again.

Look at how much has changed.

When they were kids, they were afraid to care and their effort not to had lead to them barely caring for him at all. Now that they finally do, they are too afraid to lose him.

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fanfic-scribbles · 5 years

Text

Tie a Yellow Ribbon For Me

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: Roses are red, Violets are blue, Even death can’t keep him From finding his way back to you.

Quick facts: Romance – [established] Gabriel/Reader – Nondescript Reader

Warnings: Angst-ish with a happy ending, many flashbacks handle it, use of ‘sugar’ as a term of endearment for a gender-neutral reader

Prompt: Written for @gabriel-monthly-challenge’s February prompt: Spin the Wheel. I landed on “A Dozen Red Roses”. Tagging @archangelgabriellives, @archangel-with-a-shotgun , @archangelsanonymous, @ttttrickster, @warlockwriter, and @revwinchester.

Words: 2459

Special Context Note: For people who might not know: “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” was a popular song in the seventies (I think?) performed by Dawn feat. Tony Orlando (I do recommend it; it’s a good song). It’s told from the perspective of a man writing to his lover after having been away for a few years. He tells her that if she wants him still, she can tie a yellow ribbon around a certain tree and he’ll come home, but if he doesn’t see it, he’ll assume she doesn’t want him back and he’ll keep going and never bother her again.

A/N: That summary is a little more sinister than I intended. Sorry, no dark!Gabriel here. Or “The Crow” AU. (Though hm, that’s a possible idea.) This is kind of an alt S5 post-“Hammer of the Gods” where Gabriel doesn’t go to Loki et al. This is sort of similar in premise to some other stuff I’ve written so I apologize to the people who follow me. Ironically, despite the title, this story was actually written to repeat listening of “11 Minutes” by Halsey and Yungblud feat Travis Barker ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Please enjoy! (PS: In case my formatting gets fucked up, flashbacks are encompassed by tildes (~).)

You feel like you’ve gotten used to the silence.

Sure, you had periods of it before– spending 24/7 with a sometimes-manic archangel is a pre-requisite for madness– but those quiet moments without him had always felt like in-betweens. Small breaks, or minor reprieves, sometimes purposefully taken, and sometimes just waiting. Gabriel could have popped in at any moment.

Now he can’t.

You can say you’re mostly okay now. Mostly. You’ve lost before and you’ll lose again. It’s the nature of things, just being in the world as it is. Being a hunter in it means you’ll do it over and over and over again.

It doesn’t make it ache any less.

But you’re still going, because it’s what you’ve always done and it’s what you’ll always do. Right now you’re on your way to a small desert town that seems convinced it’s living out the movie “Tremors,” and going by the reports, you can see why. You feel a smile creep onto your lips. Gabriel would have found it funny.

“Have you been terrorizing a small city in Wisconsin in your spare time?” you ask and flick Gabriel with your big toe.

“Ooo, Wisconsin. Sounds like a party,” Gabriel says out loud, but the look he gives you asks, ‘Really?’ and he holds out a piece of whatever candy he’s focused on now. You trade him for the paper and take a bite while he skims the story.

He snorts and tosses it down. “Amateur. Credit for style though; there’s worse you could do than a Mel Brooks homage.”

You roll your eyes and finish swallowing. “I’m sure the three victims would agree with you, if they could.” You fold up the newspaper and set it aside from the massive stack of other regional papers that Gabriel had whined about, and yet gotten for you anyway. “I’ll head out tomorrow.”

“So you’re done working now?” Gabriel asks. He sits up and puts a piece of chocolate between his teeth, makes sure half of it is sticking out, and waggles his eyebrows.

You laugh and lean forward, bracing yourself with your hands as you stretch to meet his mouth with yours. Just as you’re about to gently bite on the chocolate, it vanishes, and Gabriel slips his tongue into your mouth instead.

Once you’ve had your fill of each other (for the moment) you can’t help how big you smile. “You’re so cheesy sometimes.”

He grins. “Sugar, you have no idea.”

You need a shower.

Badly.

You don’t feel the slime as much as you did when the constructs first exploded, but you don’t count that as a good thing, because it’s still there and you keep getting reminded of that whenever you shift. The day is dry and warm and a wind rushes across the desert landscape. When you step out of the car a strong gust blows past you and you shield your eyes until the air settles back to its steady pace. You get to your room and put your key in the lock when something catches your eye.

All down the sidewalk are cutouts in the concrete, just spaces of dirt that look like they’re supposed to be planters. Some of them have scattered cacti, but most are empty. Yours was empty, you're fairly certain, but now there’s a spindly long-stemmed something, being blown to the side and clinging to the dirt with nothing but tenacity. You kneel down to get a better look and–

it’s a rose.

Your breath catches in your throat. Not even a desert rose; a real, thorned rose, with petals that have obviously been sandblasted for a while and a thin stem that looks sickly.

But a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

There are flowers everywhere.

Gabriel really likes this place. He’s been here for a couple of months, and it shows; every day he’s seen you (almost every single day, as of late,) he’s given you flowers– a bouquet of twelve red roses. And, as you haven’t exactly had places to put them, he has graciously offered to ‘keep them somewhere safe.’

So of course there are dozens (of dozens) of roses scattered all around the room, still miraculously alive. Heavy emphasis on the miracle.

“You're the one who said I was cheesy,” Gabriel says and sits down, but puts his drink on the side table. Champagne, of course, and he’s even wearing a ridiculous red and black patterned robe. It’s a testament to how much you like him that you are not making fun of him right now.

But you can admit you do like the roses. The petals are soft and they smell nice. You look up from your bouquet to see Gabriel smiling at you. The softness of his expression throws you off and you hide the lower half of your face in the flowers. “Why always roses?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” His smile turns all trickster. “It’s just what they have at the grocery store.”

You hit him with the bouquet hard enough that he falls off the bed. Well, his mad laughter probably helped, but you’ll still take credit for it. Asshole.

Someday, sentiment is going to get you killed.

You pick the rose anyway.

The young couple currently having their first date is pretty cute. Now that you’re not annoyed by them blocking the door, you can appreciate the beginning a new relationship. And it’s going to be one; they’re both all soft smiles and longing glances and dumbstruck lovelorn expressions. One of them keeps fidgeting with their hands, and the other shifts an enormous bouquet from arm to arm. You note the roses, of course, but it’s made up of a lot of other flowers too. It’s very pretty– and must have cost a fortune. You smile. Explains the coffee date.

“You work too much.”

“You’re a needy guy, aren’t you?” you ask and glance up from the screen. “Five more minutes, Gabriel. Then I’m all yours.”

He huffs and flops onto the table, head in his arms and pouting and grumbling enough to draw attention. You roll your eyes and, while he’s distracted, kiss the crown of his head.

He stops grumbling. But the next time you take a sip of your drink it’s like shoving pure sugar down your throat and you choke.

His smile is almost as saccharine. “I just wanted to make it as sweet as you.”

You stare at him and calmly wipe your mouth. “Twenty minutes.”

He sputters in protest.

“I’ll knock it down to ten if you walk up to the counter, wait in line, and buy me a replacement. With money.”

He starts muttering again. But he gets up.

You look at your computer and think about actually trawling for hunts, but, well, your coffee cup is empty and who can be asked to work under such inhumane conditions? You hop off the stool and almost crunch a stray rose underfoot. It must have been dropped by the happy couple by the door. As you pick it up you wonder how you’re going to interject and give it back, but when you stand, they’re already gone.

You look back at the flower. It’s truly lovely; obviously well cared for (and not just shoved in a fridge at a grocery store, Gabriel). You smile at the thought of his indignance, and set the rose on the table. It would be a shame to let it get thrown out, so you’ll take care of it.

Even at the end of the world, there are still mundane monsters to kill. You’re leaving a very shaken family with one less poltergeist and a lifetime therapy to look forward to (at least they have a have a lifetime, now,) when the youngest daughter runs up to you and holds up a rose. “Here! This is for you.”

Though you thank her and take it, the mom echoes your concerns when she asks, “Honey where did you get that?”

“I found it,” the kid chirps, like that’s all you need to know.

It’s a real rose with almost no thorns and a yellow ribbon tied around the stem. That’s an odd thing to just find. But the house has settled and you figure you can burn this and stick around for a day or two, just in case. You thank the little girl again, bid goodbye to her sisters and parents, and as you go you start to tuck the flower away when you see a small embroidered symbol on the ribbon.

An Enochian symbol.

As you speed away, you barely resist the urge to chuck that fucking flower out the window. You want to. But at the same time, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

Fucking asshole.

“I need to understand!”

Gabriel shoves you up against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but it does stun you– for a second. His grip is too light and his expression too conflicted for him to convince you what a ‘monster’ he is. “You’re not that kind of person,” you say and stare him down. “So why do you want me to think you are?”

Gabriel jerks, but you grab onto his jacket and yank him back in. “What are you so afraid of, Gabriel?” you whisper. “I’m the one thing in the universe you don’t have to fear.”

Gabriel leans in, close enough to kiss. Your eyes shut on instinct. Or maybe it’s Pavlovian.

“You're the one thing in the universe I have to fear the most.”

Air brushes past your lips, the pressure of his body releases, and you open your eyes to empty space.

He had come back within a day, as soon as you had asked, and said ‘I’m sorry’ in every conceivable way without ever saying it with his mouth. (Well, verbally, that is.) At the time, you figured it was fine.

And maybe it was. Now that you’ve had a few days to freak out, get your hopes up and down and all around, you feel a little calmer. You have the roses set aside and the ribbon spread out on the bed while you sit with your Enochian dictionary. Gabriel wouldn’t lead you along willy-nilly. You have faith (just a little) that this means something.

And if this does turn out to be some “Drink your Ovaltine” bullshit you are going to find out how to travel back in time so you can murder him with your own two hands.

It takes a while, but you find the word, and then use a few other dictionaries and translation sites to get it into English. You check it five times, in different ways, and then sit, chest swelling with hope that you’re not sure you can handle.

‘Healing.’

You want to believe, but a rough translation boiled down to its essential part can’t make you Mulder. You put the books away and lean back against the headboard, just trying to process, when something ‘thump!’s against your door. You grab your gun and stay alert as you check the outside area, but as far as you can see, there’s no one.

But there are three roses, piled neatly just in front of the door. You smile. Because really– you’re skeptical, but you’re not stupid. You pick them up and put the flowers to your face while you mind the thorns. You’re pretty good at that by now.

“Okay,” you say and nuzzle the petals. “I’ll wait.”

You find five more roses over the next couple of weeks in utterly random places. On your pillow. In a sewer. In your water glass after you turn away for a second. In the basket you grab at a grocery store. On your passenger seat. That last one makes you ache.

That night, when you open your book and find eight perfectly placed rose petals, you almost cry. Twelve roses. It’s always been a dozen, so that means he’s coming back, right? He doesn’t appear right away, but you go to bed hopeful.

Except he’s not there in the morning.

Or the afternoon.

Or the evening. Or…

It’s late on the third day of waiting and hope is fading fast. You hit your forehead on your steering wheel and whisper, “Where are you?” Did you misread things? Was this set up in advance? Did he mean for you to heal? Was someone messing with–

Your radio comes on without any prompting and you jolt up. You’re so busy trying to look for danger that you don’t recognize the song at first.

“–nt me, if you still want me Whoa tie a yellow ribbon round the ole oak tree…”

You blink. You stop being afraid. And start being annoyed. “Are you fucking serious?”

But the song plays on, and the volume even gets jacked up. “A SIMPLE YELLOW RIBBON’S WHAT I NEED TO SET ME FREE–”

“Okay!” You turn the radio off and sit in silence for a few moments before you burst into tears and laughter both. “Fuck; you’re such an asshole,” you say, with wet eyes and a smile full of teeth.

You consider trying to track down a bonsai or some plastic palm tree, but you’ve waited long enough. Still, when you get back to your room you go through all the motions of getting ready to go to sleep. Once you’re actually sitting on the bed, you put the yellow ribbon to your wrist and manage to tie a messy bow.

You lie down, exhausted by days of constant, immense stress, and sigh. As you drift off to sleep you think, ‘I’m ready, Gabriel.

Come home.’

It happens without fanfare. You simply wake to an arm around your stomach, and a morning still dark.

“Hey,” you say, sleep-addled.

Gabriel chuckles. “Hey.”

You’ve never heard anything so beautiful, even as rough as his voice is. “You sound tired.”

“Yeah.” Gabriel presses closer to you. “Almost getting murdered by your own brother is pretty exhausting.”

“Hm.” That’s a conversation for later. Or never, depending on how stubborn Gabriel wants to be. Either way, not now. Not when you’ve got him back. You turn over and wrap yourself around him. “It’s okay,” you say. “Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

He gives you a wry smile, but whatever snarky way you expect him to say ‘I don’t sleep’ doesn’t happen. He shuts his eyes, and you hold tight. “I’m glad you came back,” you say. “Even if I don’t have a hundred ribbons.”

He shifts with quiet laughter. “That’s all right.” He holds your wrist and places a kiss that straddles the ribbon and your skin. “I only need the one.”

#spn gabriel #gabriel x reader #spn fanfic #spn reader insert #Supernatural fanfic #red roses #tie a yellow ribbon round the ole oak tree

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dogbearinggifts · 5 years

Text

Secret Alphabets

Umbrella Academy: Klaus/Dave

Author’s note: After reading this awesome post calling attention to Dave’s obvious infatuation in the club scene, I thought about it for a while, especially about Klaus as the object of desire, the one being pined for rather than the one doing the pining (which, as @greenandhazy points out, is quite the departure from what we usually see when a main character meets their love interest. So, that’s what informed this oneshot here.

Also tagging @lovinglydiego—if I tagged the wrong blog, let me know and I’ll change it.

“So there I was, chocolate pudding all over my cheeks, all up my ass crack, and all I could think was God, I am so fucking hungry right now.”

Dave laughed. Not the insincere laugh of a pseudo-friend waiting to see how useful he’d wind up being, not the silence and rolled eyes of his siblings—a real one that tipped his head back toward the ceiling. Klaus had been smiling before, but he found himself laughing too.

“So what’d you do?”

“Waited for it to dry, peeled it off.” Klaus took a sip of his drink. Alcohol didn’t quite keep the ghosts at bay, not as well as drugs did, but it could quiet them enough to hear his own thoughts. “And let me tell you, that is not something I’d wish on…okay, maybe I’d wish it on a few people.”

Dave laughed again. “No, I mean, did you?”

“Did I….oh! Did I eat chocolate pudding off my own ass?”

“Yeah. You said you were hungry.”

“Nope. I learned an important lesson that day.”

“Which is?”

He took another sip. “That I do have standards after all.”

“Really.”

From Luther or Allison, that would have been an insult, a small verbal slap to remind him that what he’d said was a lie. But from Dave, it was the same sort of good-natured jab he might level at any other soldier in their platoon. “Sure I do! I mean, they’re low, but I’ve got ‘em.”

“Well,” Dave said, leaning against the wall, “glad they’re not too high.”

Klaus’ stomach fluttered, then twisted. Three different responses, ranging from flirtatious to borderline pornographic, popped into his head, but he didn’t dare voice any of them. Not for any uncertainty on his part—the looks Dave had given him, the ease with which he’d linked his arm through his, the way he stood close enough that Klaus could feel the warmth of his skin through his sleeve, left little doubt toward Dave’s preference. He could retort with any of the three quips he’d thought of—or the far filthier fourth one he’d just come up with—and had a feeling Dave would reply in kind.

That was the problem.

Klaus knew he’d let the silence go on too long, filled though it was by the music and mingled hum of dozens of conversations and dancing feet. Part of him would have been content to stand there beside Dave, feeling the closeness of him and drawing comfort from it, but he’d a hunch that any more silence would invite Dave to fill it with a more overt remark than his last.

“Still no word from home?”

Klaus gazed down at his drink, tried to resist a sip, and took one anyway. “If they did send me something, it’d probably just be a picture of them all flipping me the bird.”

“Huh.”

Letters from home weren’t common, but each man in Klaus’ platoon had received at least one since being shipped out—a few after that briefcase dropped him into their tent, most before that point. Klaus had made the mistake of mentioning that he’d never gotten a single letter since arriving in country, and while he’d had the good sense to be vague about how long that had been, he’d still made himself an object of curiosity for the others.

No. Not curiosity. Pity. It was quiet, the sort that didn’t often surface in scattered remarks or louder exclamations, but he felt it all the same, pressing around him like the humid heat of the jungle whenever the topic of families surfaced. Each man in his platoon projected it to varying degrees, but it was always strongest coming from Dave.

“What about your brother….Diego?”

“Ah, c’mon. Guy’s got a busy schedule, pretending he doesn’t have a family.”

Not that Klaus could blame him; he’d done much the same. Then again, if Diego vanished for weeks with no word, no one would assume he’d OD’d for the last time in some seedy backroom or alley or coded in an ambulance accompanied by exasperated paramedics unable to revive him.

“Tell you what,” Dave said, and Klaus looked to him, saw him with his elbow propped against the wall. “I’ll tell my mom to meet us both once we get back to the States. Let her know I’m bringing a friend.”

Klaus smiled. The notion of returning at the same time as someone you’d met out in the jungle—let alone knowing you’d return at all—was a dream. His first brush with enemy gunfire had been enough to tell him that, even without the mangled ghosts of former brothers in arms to scream the same warning. That first spray of bullets alone had made the notion of dashing for Hazel and Cha-Cha’s briefcase at the first sign of serious trouble look like the world’s worst joke.

But unlike some dreams, this was one he liked. The thought of being shipped back with Dave, of sitting beside him on a train or whatever else he’d take back to the city from which they both hailed—it was one he could entertain for hours, one he’d hold onto long after the many rips and tears in the logic of it threatened to swallow the daydream whole.

“No, I’m serious. I’ll let her know you’re coming, make sure she’s waiting. Tell her to bring more cookies.”

“Fresh ones this time?”

Dave laughed again. Klaus could listen to that laugh for hours. “If Mom saw the state of those cookies when they got here, she’d buy a ticket to the White House and give Johnson a piece of her mind.”

Johnson. Right. Old Lyndon B. was president here in 1968. “Didn’t you say you wrote her already?”

“Ah, yeah. Forgot about that.” Dave grinned. “Now that she’s good and mad about what the Army did to her cookies, the war should be over any day now.”

The cookies had been little more than stale crumbs and broken pieces when Dave opened the package from home. Even so, the box had summoned every man in that tent like moths to a light bulb, set them hovering around awaiting their turn to snatch a handful of cookie pieces. Klaus hadn’t expected Dave to call him over, too—he was the new guy, after all—but after weeks of legendary Army food and tepid water flavored with iodine and grainy with the bodies of insects it had killed, those stale crumbs had tasted like heaven.

He noticed Dave moving closer without raising his head, didn’t flinch as he ran a hand through his hair. The thought of what he should do occurred after that first touch, and by then Klaus could only close his eyes.

Dave’s hand cupped the back of his head, pulled him closer. Not forcefully, not with any sort of coercion, but softly, in invitation.

“Nobody’s gonna catch us.”

Klaus opened his eyes. Dave’s voice was just audible over the somewhat muffled music, but it was the note of consolation that got his attention. His smile had turned gentle, comforting. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, and it wouldn’t take much to finish the job.

“It’s okay.” Dave moved a few inches closer, not quite close enough to press his body against his but close enough for Klaus to imagine how it would feel. “Or we can head somewhere a little more private, if you want.”

Klaus bit back an eager reply. “Dave, I….”

Fingers brushed through his hair again, and Klaus resisted the urge to trace the line of Dave’s jaw.

“What?” The question was gentle, like one of those breezes just strong enough to cool the air. “Klaus, what’s wrong?”

“Why?”

Dave’s smile had faded a bit, but it curled ever closer toward a frown and Klaus spoke quickly.

“I mean—why me?”

“What do you mean, why you?”

Klaus blinked. For a moment, he nearly brought all the unspoken things out into the light, but he didn’t know where to begin or what Dave had guessed already, if he was still wrapped up in the Maybe he has a problem stage or if he was already on his way to Even a fucking war zone can’t keep this guy clean. Whatever the case, he’d know sooner rather than later.

Back in the present, or the future, or whatever the hell it was, Klaus wouldn’t have cared. He hadn’t cared with Antonio, or Alessio—he couldn’t recall which name he’d been given at introduction; all he remembered was a pretty face and a place to sleep, delicious osso bucco and a decaying sense of optimism—a belief that there was some good in him, good that Antonio or Alessio or whoever he was could fan into greatness once Klaus stopped longing for the next high.

Three weeks. Three weeks under his roof, in his bed, and Klaus couldn’t remember his name.

“Why not you?”

Klaus could have offered a list—alphabetized, or in order of importance—but the look in Dave’s eyes kept the list in his head, kept any further words there too.

There was tenderness in that glance—a tenderness he’d seen before, but never so pure, unmitigated by any flicker of disappointment or longing. It wasn’t the kind of look that tried to stare past what he was, what he’d depended on since his teens and what he’d done to get it, to see a few sparks of beauty and kindness underneath. No, from the way Dave looked at him, all of that alleged goodness was all he saw. He looked at Klaus as if Klaus was fun and joy and love and everything else he deserved.

Dave leaned in closer, and Klaus knew he ought to pull away. Duck out of his embrace, head back out into the club and leave Dave alone. A little disappointment now would save him from far more heartbreak down the road.

Dave touched his lips to his.

It was a gentle kiss, so soft and subdued that for an instant all Klaus felt was the pleasant warmth of Dave’s lips; but soon he was aware of nothing but Dave, the scent and taste and feel of him, of being pulled closer and closer but still not close enough. He didn’t want it to end, didn’t want the moment to pass, wanted to freeze time and stay forever if it would keep Dave there.

Too soon, Dave pulled back. Klaus watched that same smile tug at his lips, breath trembling as Dave’s hand brushed his hair, his cheek. For an instant, just an instant, it looked as if Dave might say something; but soon it faded back into a smile so warm Klaus had the sudden urge to cry.

Love. The word sprang to mind with an ease that surprised him. He hadn’t heard it often, hadn’t said it often, yet there it was, written all over Dave’s face, in his touch. He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t explain it, couldn’t guess at why it existed. He could only return it….or reject it.

Without a word, with scarcely a thought, Klaus pulled Dave close and kissed him again.

#the umbrella academy #fanfic #klaus x dave #umbrella academy fanfic #tua #tua fanfic #klaus hargreeves #klaus #dave #dave katz #oneshot #first kiss

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xandars · 6 years

Note

thorbruce 25 :)

25: librarian/avid reader au

page by page

word count: 1494

warnings: none

ao3 link

Mythology was always something his family treasured, as his mother used to love reading Norse myths to Loki and him as children. They both loved it too of course, with the two of them always fighting over who got to choose the story for the night. His mother would laugh fondly and take it upon herself to choose the story for them instead.

He missed those bits from his childhood the most. Reading mythology brought a comfortable nostalgia for him and he found himself visiting the library more and more every week.

When Thor walks into the library, he takes in the familiarity gladly. He knew the entire staff at this point, who would always greet him with waves or soft smiles. He always enjoys how quaint and quiet it is, how warm they always keep it and how he can just slip away.

Except this time, someone new was sitting at the desk.

When Thor walks in, he’s not greeted by a wave or smile, but instead he sees a mop of curly hair. The man behind the desk peeks up to look at him, eyeing him curiously behind thick rimmed glasses.

He doesn’t pay him much attention and a part of him misses Steve, who he would usually find behind the desk. He was always reading up on art history and whenever Thor would come to check out books, he’d shove his sketchbook aside and help. Thor loved catching glimpses of his art, he would have to remember to ask if he could flip through it someday.

Thor situates himself, plopping his book bag near an armchair and mindlessly pulling a book off the shelf. He curls up on the chair comfortably before getting lost in the words.

He doesn’t look up from his book until his phone buzzes. He ignores it until it starts whining over and over again. Annoyed, he fishes it out of his backpack, knowing texts from Loki await him.

His brother makes it entirely known that he’s frustrated with him and that their movie night started ten minutes ago. If there was anything Loki was, he was annoyingly punctual.

Thor’s phone buzzes again with another text from him, indicating that their friend Brunnhilde has already eaten an entire bowl of popcorn. Thor smiles to himself and shakes his head, shoving his phone into his pocket. He sighs, picking up his belongings and holding his book close to his chest.

He approaches the front desk quietly, seeing the setting sun peeking through the windows of the building. The man is still there, his nose buried in a thick, large textbook. Thor gently sets his book on the counter and meets the other man’s eyes once again.

“I’d like to check this out.” Thor says simply, taking out his library card. The man nods and sets his book down. Thor’s eyes glance over at it, it’s a rather extensive physics book.

“Norse myth---”

“So what are you---”

They both look at each other awkwardly, the other man's hand frozen between the cover of Thor’s book.

“You can go.” The other man offers and Thor thinks he sees the tips of his ears turn pink.

“I was just going to ask what you’re reading that for.” He resumes, leaning forward onto the desk and gesturing to the textbook.

The man scans Thor’s book, sliding it over to him. “I’m studying actually, I’m working on my third PhD.”

Thor is taken back and finds himself admitting, “I was never really into science growing up, though I was good at it, probably not as good as you.”

“Norse mythology more your thing?”

“Well when you are blessed with a name like Thor, you’d assume so.” The other man’s eyes widen a bit.

“Is your name really Thor?”

“I have a brother Loki as well.” Thor decides that the man looks extremely cute when he gives him a half smile.

He stares at Thor for a moment and then says “That’s… I mean--- I’m Bruce,” He holds out his hand which Thor shakes. “It’s not as interesting, but you know.”

Thor’s phone buzzes again and he pulls his hand away to check it. Another text from Loki.

“Excuse me, I have to actually meet my brother now.” He grabs his book, placing it under his arm and gives Bruce a wave. He gives a slight wave in return before Thor is out the door.

When Thor returns, he’s now a little sad to see that Steve is back, but he forgets about it quickly after they start talking again. He does get to flip through his sketchbook, in which he finds lovely drawings of buildings or people. There are an abundance of sketches of someone which Thor can’t say he’s ever seen before.

“Who’s this?” Thor asks, pointing at a sketch of a man with a lopsided grin and goatee. Steve cheeks go red and he puts his hands behind his back. Thor gets it now.

“It’s uh, just a guy.”

“Ah…” Thor lets out, flipping the page to see even more sketches of the mystery man. “Just a guy, huh?” He smiles and flips to another page where his eyes linger on a cute sketch of Bruce. His dark curls are shaded in, his lips pulled into that half smile that Thor likes so much. It’s hard to look away from it.

He assumes he’s been staring at it for too long because without even looking he hears the smile on Steve’s lips when he mocks, “Just a guy, huh?”

Thor slams the sketchbook shut and pushes it towards Steve who bubbles up with laughter.

Thor can’t remember when he fell asleep, just that he hears a loud thud and jolts awake. The book he was reading slips off his stomach and he catches it swiftly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bruce bending over to pick up a fallen book and his shoulders relax.

“Oh shit,” Bruce mutters, glancing at Thor. He slides a book back into the shelf. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You’re fine.” Thor rubs his eyes and fishes his phone out, seeing a single message from Brunnhilde that’s probably just a dumb picture. He starts to gather his things again and slips his backpack onto his shoulders, walking past Bruce towards the front.

“Wait!” Bruce calls out to him, carrying a dark green book with him. “Uhm, here.” He holds it out to Thor who takes it in his hands.

“I found this book the other day, I thought that you’d like it.” Thor does love it in fact, well, he loves it because Bruce gave it to him, not that he’s read it before. He looks it over, as it’s seemingly a small modern book about Norse folktales. He can’t help but smile at him.

“Thank you, it means a lot,” Thor says, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. He feels Bruce tense up and quickly pulls his hand back. “Oh, I’m sorry if---”

“Don’t worry about it, really,” Bruce replies a little too quickly. “I hope you enjoy it.”

Before Thor can say anything else, he runs off deeper into the library shelves, leaving Thor to try and ignore tightness in his chest.

When he turns up at the front desk, Steve gives him a weird look.

“How’d you get this?” He asks him, flipping it over in his hands.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we aren’t supposed to put these on the shelves for another month or so, but I’ll let you check it out anyway,” Steve gives him a soft smile and hands the book back to him after he’s finished. “Must of been a mistake.”

“Yeah,” Thor lets out, looking at the book again. “A mistake.”

Thor finds a post-it note on the last page of Bruce’s book, which makes him smile like an idiot. He wastes no time saving the number to his phone, but decides he should probably tell Bruce how he liked it in person.

So Thor returns the next day with the book in his hands and he sees Bruce at the desk again. He walks over and sets the book on the desk, resisting the urge to grab it again. Bruce looks at him and the book with worry in his eyes.

“I devoured this book, though I probably should have savored it a bit more.” Thor admits, ”It was great--- loved it, actually.”

Bruce’s worried look turns soft as he subtly flips the book to the back cover and checks for the post-it. Thor takes out his phone and waves it in front of him playfully.

“Don’t worry, that was my favorite part,” He kicks himself internally, because that really sounded better in his head, but when he sees Bruce turn a bright pink, he asks, “Coffee isn’t uh, too unreasonable right?”

“I would love to.” Bruce blurts out and suddenly, everything becomes a lot easier.

#thorbruce #thruce #gammahammer #thunderscience #marvel #my writing #thank u so much lins ily #butchvampyre #asks

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shift-shaping · 6 years

Text

Glimpses: Ma Nuvenin, Da’len II

the sequel to ma nuvenin, da’len, as requested by you filthy animals

Rating: Explicit

Genre: Romance/Smut

Pairing: Solas x Surana

Warnings: Age gap, D/s, Teacher x Student, degradation, mild humiliation, insults, stretching, spanking, choking

She panted heavily, closing her eyes for a few long moments before bringing the water back to her lips. When she finished the glass she left it on the counter and looked across the room at him, admiring how his clothing clung to his fit, muscular body. He was still dressed, wearing his black slacks and white dress shirt, though he’d gone without the tie. He’d never taken his pants off, which meant that when he fucked her earlier he’d just unzipped -casually, easily, like this didn’t mean anything and was just so he could get off.

The image made her hot.

She bit her lip, ears pricking in curiosity as he faced away from her, examining the various tools he could use. The attitude with which he conducted all of this, the near-bored expression he had on, the way he treated her like just a toy to serve his purposes --all of it made her weak.

He turned around then and crossed the room, looking up at her now with a serious, controlled expression. “Bend over again.” She obeyed and returned to her previous position, body bent over the table and ass pushed up into the air. A black slip of fabric fell over her eyes and he tied it tight around the back of her head, blinding her.

There was a moment of pause before he suddenly and harshly smacked her ass. She gasped and braced herself against the table, surging forward, pain sharpening her mind immediately. He gripped her hips and forced her to turn over, then pressed her down until her back was against the table.

Her eyes strained against the black fabric, struggling to make out any shapes or hints of color as his smooth hands slid down her body, pinching her nipples, rolling circles over her hipbones. She shivered and tried not to squirm, her hands itching for a hold somewhere.

His presence vanished again, and when it returned he brought cold metal handcuffs to her wrists. “Unfortunately, you seem entirely incapable of doing this without moving. I thought it a relatively simple command, but evidently you still need more training.” There was no tension though -he’d only handcuffed her, not bound the cuffs to anything else.

“Now then,” he said, and his deep voice alone was enough to make her shiver. “How can I make you better fit my liking?”

“However you want, hahren-” But before she could say anything further one of his huge hands wrapped around her throat and she stiffened, eyes wide under the blindfold. He squeezed slightly, just enough so she could tell him whether he could proceed with this particular act. They’d established she wanted to try it, but hadn’t actually had an opportunity yet.

“Do not speak unless I give you permission.” He squeezed harder and she struggled to take in a sharp, excited breath. “Is that clear, slut?”

The word made her shudder and she nodded weakly, determined to do as she was told.

“Good.” He finally released her and she gasped, her heart pounding in her ears. He didn’t give her time to recover before suddenly shoving something hard and long into her cunt. She jolted and shook, trying not to move too much as he thrust the thick toy inside her.

A weak, high-pitched whimper left her mouth and pain radiated out from inside her. It had to be one of the thickest toys he had, and she could feel it stretching her walls. He drew it out and forced it back inside her, drawing so much pain from her body that black spots appeared in her vision. Her eyes rolled back inside the blindfold and she bucked her hips, wanting more despite apparently being at her limit. She heard a quiet vibrating noise, then felt his hand squeeze her hip as he lifted her off the table. Something smooth and soft wrapped around her body, just above her hipbones, and a soft click sounded as he clasped it on to her.

As soon as the toy touched her she moaned, her head falling back into the table. It worked only on her clitoris, vibrating against her as he slowed his movement with the other toy. She couldn’t keep still, despite his orders, and let out a load, deep moan as he found a rhythm. It pulled at her, drawing another orgasm from her core, reaching from across her hips and deep in her cunt. Her breathing quickened, her lips parting as she struggled not to wake every neighbor in the building. He kept going, kept pushing her, until she was just on the verge. The first wave of electric pleasure built, but he stopped suddenly and let it fade.

She groaned and cursed him, squirming as he turned the vibrator to a lower setting and held the toy still. He broke character with a soft snort and she bucked her hips toward him. “Hahren, please... don’t do this...”

He cleared his throat and slowly began moving the toy again. “But you look so beautiful like this.”

She groaned again, frustrated, and tried to glare at him through the blindfold. “It’s not fair...”

“No?” She could hear the smirk in his voice as his hand clasped around her neck again, tighter now, and he raised the setting on the vibrator. “What isn’t fair? You having the privilege of taking my cock? Getting to cum earlier despite being ill-behaved? Hm... perhaps you are right.” He pushed the toy into her again, hard, and began to fuck her with it just as hard as before. She cried out and gasped, her legs shaking, her body flush with red heat. “I’ve treated you far too well.”

He turned up the vibrator and an even louder moan tore from her lips before he squeezed her throat tighter, stealing her voice. He brought her to her limit twice more before stopping completely, pulling the toy from her sore, pleading hole, and putting the setting on the vibrator back down again.

She felt so empty and cold when the toy left her, but her mind was too fogged from repeated near-orgasms to form a coherent remark. His soft hand stroked the side of her face, and he shushed her gently. “Tell me what you want, da’len. Perhaps I will grant it to you.”

She shuddered and let out a shaky breath. “Please let me cum, hahren. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything? What can you possibly do that you haven’t attempted already?”

“I’ll be good,” she managed between harsh breaths. “I’ll do whatever you ask me to. I’ll fuck you for as long as you want. I’ll suck your cock while you grade... anything.”

He hummed as his hand strayed down her body, drawing a line from her cheek down to her navel. “Those hardly sound like sacrifices for you, da’len.”

She whimpered. “Please...”

A soft chuckle from his chest made her shiver, and his hand strayed down further. “I like the sound of your begging.”

“Please,” she managed, trying to resist the urge to buck her hips toward him. “Please let me cum, hahren, please.” She drew out the word, whining now, desperate for him. “I need it, I need to cum, please.” His fingers brushed over her soaking cunt and she gasped. “Hahren, I need you -ah...” He pressed down and her back arched, a rush of heat gushing from inside her. “Hahren... please let me cum.”

He traced the outline of her labia, his finger dipping toward her hole. Every movement made her shudder and threatened to draw another moan from her lips. “I will let you cum.” His words ought to give her relief, but she could hear the anticipation in them -there was more. “Under the condition that you stay here, for the rest of the day, and take my seed whenever I wish.”

A hot blush bloomed under her skin and she swallowed hard. All day was a very long time. She assumed there would be breaks, but he sounded so harsh and serious that she almost didn’t think so.

“Well, da’len?” He slid his finger into her and she stiffened, breath hitching as her mind suddenly blanked. “Or... perhaps I should simply call you my slut?”

She whined and pressed her hips toward his hand; she could no longer help herself. He didn’t move, just kept his finger inside her, fully capable of letting her finish or torturing her even more. “I... yes, yes hahren.” He pressed his thumb into her clit.

“Yes, what?”

“I- I’ll be your slut. Fill me with your cum until you can’t anymore.”

She heard a zipper noise and her body tensed. Instead of letting her finish, he pulled his hand out and, without a word, shoved his massive cock inside her. She moaned as he fucked her, his thick length filling her with every hard thrust, making her see stars as he used her. She was loud again, gasping and moaning and barely holding herself together. Her orgasm built once more, her body tightening around him and pulsing until suddenly releasing around his thick cock.

She came hard, but he only fucked her faster and harder. It was such an incredible feeling that she could think of nothing else but the feeling of him inside her, pounding her cunt, drawing waves of pleasure through her body again and again. Something like another orgasm took her, and seconds later he sheathed his cock fully inside her ruined hole and dumped his seed inside her.

He pulled out after a moment and made her lick him clean, forcing her to taste her own pleasure, then reattached the vibrator and left her there on the table. She could feel his hot cum leaking from her cunt, but couldn’t do anything to stop it.

He left her there as he promised, and did not remove her blindfold. She strained her ears to hear him, to pick up on when he would approach, but somehow he still surprised her. There was so much teasing, so much torturing for what felt like an eternity. By the time he fucked her again she thought she might be losing her mind.

Despite her daring words, she only lasted another hour and a half before asking him to stop. He gently freed her from the handcuffs and removed her from the table, taking her into his arms as she groaned and smiled stupidly.

if you enjoyed this fic, please hit the reblog button on this post. comments are cool but not necessary -you can leave no tags, a keysmash, or even just ‘nice’ if you’d like! thanks for your support -arden <3

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avi-stella · 7 years

Note

Hiya Im gonna attempt to make an interesting request lol so uh- please excuse my crappy English, srry will be long. I saw this post about a necklace with charms of the moon phases each person of a couple was born under and I was thinking/ what if there were couples who were destined to be together, as in one born under halfmoon and the other born on the other half (also works with crescent and others) also remember that texting chat w/ zen when he was drunk I think lol/ about fairies cont.

This is so late! I’m so sorry for the long delay! ;_; Your request was really interesting (I’m a sucker for fantasyyy), and I hope I was able to do justice with it. Thank you for requesting!

Everybody who was born on this earth possessed a strange mark on their left wrist: a phase of the moon. They say that there is somebody out there in the world who possesses the other half of your mark—your soulmate—and once the two of you touch, the marks will glow and change to that of a complete full moon.

Zen was confused; he already had the mark of a full moon on his wrist. Did that mean that he already found his soulmate? His other half, and that he just missed them? Or did it mean that he was his own soulmate? It wasn’t that farfetched and uncommon, and though the idea amused him, he couldn’t deny the aching need for love and attention from someone else. The actor put a lot of focus into his work, but even so, he still wanted to know what it was like to be his other half. To feel like a whole.

It was late at night when the young man finished up with rehearsals. He had ended up sticking around a bit, not yet ready to go back to his cold and lonely apartment. The actor walked slowly, burying his hands in his pockets while idly kicking a pebble down the street. The night was dimly lit with the light of the full moon hanging overhead in the sky. The same full moon as his mark. The same full moon as those who were complete, but Zen felt empty.

Breathing out a reluctant sigh of defeat, the young man continued on his way back home, trudging along as his heart ached with longing. The loneliness always seemed to become much more painful whenever there was a full moon. Sometimes, Zen would joke to himself that it was because he was a werewolf, but he knew himself better than anyone. He couldn’t lie to himself, no matter how hard he tried.

Zen decided to take a small detour from his usual route. The young man allowed his feet to take him wherever they wanted, not really paying attention to where he was going. Eventually, Zen found himself at a small creek. It was a beautiful sight, the greenery almost giving off an ethereal glow; the young man couldn’t believe his eyes.

There were…things, floating around and glowing. Zen almost thought of them as fireflies, but that wasn’t it. They were something else, but the actor couldn’t figure out what. They seemed almost…otherworldly.

Just then, the actor could hear light laughter sounding in his ears, the voice almost child-like and mischievous. Zen spun on his heel, but he was greeted with nothing but air. The laughter continued to surround him, carried by the wind. Usually, the actor would have found himself terrified with such a situation, but oddly enough, he felt…safe. He didn’t think that whoever or whatever these voices belonged to wouldn’t harm him.

Suddenly, there was a strong gust of wind that sent Zen’s hair flying all around him. His hands immediately shot out of his pocket to tame the long locks, and then everything stopped. A stillness passed over the creek, the wind gone and air eerily quiet. The laughing voices had hushed, and the atmosphere seemed to shift somehow.

Zen took a step back at the abrupt change, ready to turn on his heel to leave when several voices started to chime in the small breeze that started to pick up again. Whispered voices speaking amongst one another with a hopeful tinge.

“He possesses the full mark.”

“Perhaps he is the one.”

“And perhaps not. Why bring our princess further grief by giving her hope if it is nothing but false in the end?”

“The possibility still exists. She wanes with each cycle. It is worth a try.”

“…”

“Come.”

The voice abruptly directs itself towards Zen, catching him off guard. Following the voice’s command, all the glowing “things” form a straight line. It’s an entrancing sight, and Zen finds himself completely captivated. His eyelids slowly start to become heavy, and when the glowing line moves forward, Zen is tempted to take one step towards it.

He follows the trail without much thought, his mind in a blissful haze. It feels as though he would be promised something if he follows these things, and he can’t find the strength to resist. The voices continue to encourage him, urging him to keep moving.

“Our princess is waiting.”

“She will be so happy if you are the one.”

“Perhaps you will be happy too.”

“Maybe you will finally be complete.”

“Complete…” Zen repeats, finding the word to feel pleasant on his tongue.

The actor’s feet drags into the water; he isn’t too sure when that happened, but he doesn’t resist whatever hold he was currently in. The moon is reflected on the rippling surface of the water, and Zen can’t look away. He stares at it intently, finding the water’s surface to move closer and closer to his face before he is completely submerged.

Drowning, drowning. Zen is drowning, but it isn’t suffocating. His chest feels so light, his vision fading as he sinks further and further down in the deep blue.

When the young man’s eyes flutter open, he finds himself to be lying in the middle of a bed of flowers. He slowly sits up, pressing a hand to his head as he tries to remember what happened and how he got here…wherever “here” was, exactly. Crimson eyes glance around, trying to get an understanding of the surroundings.

It looked to be in the middle of a lush forest, the greenery vibrant and full of life. The open air felt so clean and light, and every time Zen breathed, it felt as though he was being cleansed. The young man stands up and sees a small trail. Seeing as he had no other idea on where to go, Zen starts to head down the trail.

Following the trail, the actor delves deeper into the forest. There was something about this place that made his heart leap in anticipation. It feels as though this was where Zen was supposed to be. Like this place was waiting for him. Like he was waiting for this place.

The actor is broken out of his thoughts when he hears the familiar voices from in the creek lingering in the air. They sound distant yet close, and so Zen decides to follow them. The volume increases with each step he takes, signalling that Zen is getting closer to the source. He comes across a curtain of vines, the voices coming from just behind it.

Not knowing why, Zen takes a deep breath to calm his nerves and excitement. He draws the vines back, and he’s greeted by the sight of a gorgeous young woman kneeling amongst the grass, head and arms resting on a tree stump. Delicate-looking wings protrude from her back, giving lazy flaps which sends leaves to dance with a gentle breeze.

Zen is mesmerized, unknowingly taking one step closer to get a better look and accidentally stepping on a twig. The snapping sound breaks you away from your thoughts, and your head shoots up, looking at the male before you with curiosity and wonder.

“Um, hello…” Zen awkwardly greets you with a nervous laugh. “I’m Zen.”

You stare at the newcomer warily before returning his introduction with your own name, standing up from your position and dusting yourself off as you give your wings one final flap. Zen nods, repeating your name in a whisper to get a feel for it, finding heat to rise to his cheeks when he does. “Are you…an angel?”

“Angel?” You repeat in surprise at the male’s impression of you before bursting into a fit of giggles. “No, not at all. I’m what you humans call a faerie.”

“A faerie…” Zen breathes out. “You’re beautiful.”

You’re taken aback by the blurted out compliment, and you bow your head, embarrassment flooding your cheeks. “How did you get here?” You try to change the subject.

“I’m not sure…” the actor responds. “I was at a creek, and I followed some voices, and…well, now I’m here.”

“Oh, I see…it must have been a full moon then,” you answer wistfully, tilting your head back to gaze at the sky. Sensing the young man’s confusion, you explain, “The line that separates the realms of the supernatural and humanity weakens with the full moon. My children must have guided you through one of the doors for you to enter this realm.”

“Children? Door…?”

You giggle at the male’s perplexed expression. “Those voices you heard. They most probably belonged to my children—the ones who serve me. They must have guided you here for a reason. Tell me, Zen, what is your reason for being here?”

Zen’s heart skips a beat when you say his name, and he scrambles to answer, “I-I’m not too sure, exactly. I just…felt…‘lonely’, I guess…?”

“Lonely… I see,” you respond idly, staring down at your hands that seem to flicker in transparency. “I can understand that. I’m lonely too…waiting.” Your eyes stare faraway, your fingers gingerly rubbing your inner wrist.

“What do you mean…?”

A sad smile crawls onto your lips. You don’t know why you continue talking, but you do. “I’m waiting. For my 'other half’.”

Zen seems to freeze at your words. Taking his silence as your cue to continue, you try to explain to the best of your abilities, wondering just how much information a mortal like him can hold. “Long ago, there was a faerie who was blessed by the moon spirit. She fell in love with one of the first humans to ever exist, but at some point, they were separated. They promised to find each other again—their other half.”

“The moon marking…” Zen realizes. His eyes widen with surprise, not having known that such a thing dated back so long ago and had such a magical root to it.

“Is it the same for you humans?” You ask, not having expected a mortal to be aware of the tradition amongst your kin.

The young man nods, stretching out his hand to show you his mark of the full moon on his inner wrist. “They say once you touch your soulmate who possesses the other half of your mark, it will glow with the mark changing to that of a full moon, but as you can see with mine… Well, maybe I just don’t have one.”

“I’m sure they exist somewhere. You just haven’t found them yet,” you attempt to cheer up the male, your heart clenching at his defeated expression. “…I should go. There are things I must tend to.”

Not quite understanding the strange feelings in your chest, you swiftly turn on your heel to leave, almost afraid. In your haste, you trip over your own feet. You brace yourself for the impact, but it never comes. You feel a warm hand clasp around your wrist, effectively stopping your fall. A faint glow shines from both your inner wrist and Zen’s, surprising the both of you.

You turn to look at Zen, your eyes wide with wonder. Slowly, the actor lets go, and you both glance down towards your marks. For Zen, it’s still the same mark of a full moon, but it seems different somehow. He can’t quite explain it, but there is one thing he’s certain of: he’s finally found you.

#Mystic Messenger #Zen #Zen x Reader #F: Mystic Messenger #C: Zen (Mystic Messenger)#R: General #G: Romance #reader insert #avisteliterature #fic request #Anonymous #avisanswers

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jessicakehoe · 4 years

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8 Tips to Help You Adjust to Working From Home

With six weeks of lockdown behind us and many more to go, a socially distanced world has become our new normal. We’re ordering our groceries online, catching up with friends over a screen, and limiting all outdoor activities. Perhaps the hardest adjustment, though, has been learning how to work from home. Especially tricky for those with children or large families, figuring out how to co-habitate 24/7—literally—with others is a challenge. Add to that the stress of a global pandemic, and it becomes tougher still.

With no more boundaries between work and home (or school and home), learning how to be productive takes patience—and planning. While we’re by no means propagating that productivity-during-quarantine meme, we also can’t ignore the fact that for those still employed, there are still deadlines to be met and tasks to be completed. So we drew up a list of tips to help get you in the zone and focus on the task at hand, with inputs from Clare Kumar, a Toronto-based productivity coach.

Carve out a separate “work” space

Whether you live in a one-bedroom apartment or a large house, it’s important to demarcate your “work” space from your “living” space so that your days don’t all meld into one blurry haze, hunched over the couch (been there). The biggest advantage of having a “work” space and a “home” space is that it eliminates distraction, says Kumar.

“If you’re in an office and you’re looking at your laundry, maybe you’ll start thinking ‘I should do this’ or ‘I should cook dinner’ or ‘I should help the kids with their games.’ So by having some kind of separation—and it might even be just putting a table against the window so you’re looking outside—you’re minimizing the conversations that would be going through your head if you were looking at the other spaces in your home. That’s visually. If you’re able to separate your space from an auditory perspective, that’ll help maintain focus too.”

So if you’re fortunate enough to have a separate room to call your “office,” shut the door during your “work hours.” If all you have is a kitchen table, try noise-cancelling headphones to shut out distractions from your “coworkers.”

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Figure out how to share space efficiently

“If you live with roommates you have to get more people functional in that same space, so look at the work surfaces you have, and try to make them comfortable to work at,” says Kumar. “Reimagine your kitchen counter as a standing desk. Or your dining table as a work space.”

Kumar also recommends having an honest and “curious” conversation with the person you’re living with, whether that’s a partner, a roommate or a friend. “Ask each other, ‘what do you need right now and how can I support you?’ If you could just ask each other that, it’s a great framework to explore the topic before it gets derailed [in arguments].”

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Create a ritual

While we can no longer do simple things like stop by our favourite cafe on our way in to the office or pop out for an afternoon walk with a colleague, Kumar advises trying to create similar ritualistic traditions at home.

We need these rituals, she says, to get us in the mindset to work. “We might want to start our day with a walk around the block if it’s safe to do so, and get some sunshine. It keeps our circadian rhythm in check, and can give us a transition, which we probably had earlier in terms of going to work with some sort of commute. For me, it’s yoga that gets my body ready to work. Those transitions are really important.”

So instead of just shuffling from your bedroom to your desk in the morning, savour the ritual of making your morning coffee. Spend five quiet minutes with your cup of coffee (or tea) in a sunny spot in your home, preparing your mind for the day ahead. If you like to start your day with exercise, make that a part of your ritual—do some yoga, an at-home workout, or start your day with a spot of meditation if you prefer.

Try to create a similar ritual for the evening. Mark the end of the “work day” by lighting a candle, putting on some music or even just spritzing your favourite perfume—anything to signal that the relaxing portion of your day has now begun.

Have a comfy WFH uniform

As tempting as it might be to spend your entire day in sweatpants, resist the urge. Similar to the rituals that help transition from work mode to relax mode, a change of wardrobe does the same. This doesn’t mean you need to spend the day in jeans in order to be productive. Stick to something comfortable, but make sure it’s different from what you wear when you’re lounging or relaxing at home. Get some WHF outfit ideas—such as a cashmere hoodie or cozy fleece pants—here.

“Choose a wardrobe that energizes you,” advises Kumar. “I don’t know what that looks like for you but for me it involves pops of colour. It’s really phenomenal what we can do not only to energize ourselves but to even extend that energy out through our connections now, through video, to energize other people.”

Kate Middleton, for example, made a case for a cheery WFH wardrobe by showing up for a Zoom call in a bright yellow sweater and gold earrings.

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Have a roadmap for the day

Draw up a list of the major items you want to get accomplished during the day. It could be a large task, such as finishing a project, or a small one, like answering all the emails piling up in your inbox. Set aside chunks of time for the things you want to finish, and at the end of the day, make your to-do list of priorities for the next morning so you can dive right in.

“I think the biggest anchor in anybody’s day—whether it’s working in the office or at home—is having a roadmap for your day, which is outlining your day in the calendar so you’ve got something to come back to in terms of setting intentions,” says Kumar. “I encourage anchoring any big work project in your calendar so you can look at it and know what your intention was for the use of that time.”

Follow a normal eating schedule

Similar to the roadmap of tasks, it’s important to have portions of your day allocated for non-work tasks such as, you know, eating. It’s easy enough to get caught up in work and end up having just eaten scattered snacks throughout the day, but getting complete nutritious meals in is key. Plus, having to get up to fix yourself a quick sandwich for lunch gives you an excuse to move around a bit instead of sitting at your desk all day.

“I would definitely encourage movement,” says Kumar. “Because even when you go to your office, you’re not sitting in your chair for the entire day. It’s going to vary for each person depending on what their individual nature is, but you do want to have some movement throughout the day.”

Take short breaks

In lieu of a walk around the block or coffee with a colleague, set aside chunks of time for short breaks from work. Call a friend or family member for a 20-minute chat, or step away from the computer screen and fix yourself a cup of tea to enjoy on the balcony or backyard if you have one. Even just stretching or doing breathing exercises for a few minutes can make a big difference.

“You have to have your re-centering go-to practice,” says Kumar. “Some people are daunted by meditation if they haven’t tried it but we can go to something as simple as a breathing exercise. Breathe in slowly for four counts and out for a count of eight. That’s 12 seconds. If you do that 10 times that’s a two-minute ritual that will have you feeling absolutely different than when you started it. That deep breathing calms your nervous system and your mental state.”

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Cut yourself some slack

“We need to redefine what productivity is right now,” says Kumar. “We’re in a global crisis, which nobody knows how to navigate. So you’ve got to practice extreme self-compassion. What I love about this period of time is that we’re getting so much closer to being in touch with our humanity, which is really the way we need to operate all the time, but now we’ve been given an excuse to talk about it.”

Stay attuned to your needs, and give yourself the space to process feelings of anxiety and stress without the guilt or fear of being unproductive or inefficient. These are unprecedented times we’re living through, and we have to adjust our own expectations accordingly. During this time of crisis, Kumar advises identifying the people in your life who bring you joy, and reaching out to them as often as needed.

“Think of who in your network lifts you up,” she says. “And really be intentional around knowing who those people are so that you can reach out to them whenever you need to. Know who those people are, those pick-me-up people. People that you always laugh with… you want to make sure those people are in your week.”

The post 8 Tips to Help You Adjust to Working From Home appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

8 Tips to Help You Adjust to Working From Home published first on https://borboletabags.tumblr.com/

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tanmath3-blog · 7 years

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Jasper Bark is infectious – and there’s no known cure. If you’re reading this then you’re already at risk of contamination. The symptoms will begin to manifest any moment now. There’s nothing you can do about it. There’s no itching or unfortunate rashes, but you’ll become obsessed with his books, from the award-winning collections ‘Dead Air’ and ‘Stuck on You and Other Prime Cuts’, to cult novels like ‘The Final Cut’ and acclaimed graphic novels such as ‘Bloodfellas’ and ‘Beyond Lovecraft’.

Soon you’ll want to tweet, post and blog about his work until thousands of others fall under its viral spell. We’re afraid there’s no way to avoid this, these words contain a power you are hopeless to resist. You’re already in their thrall and have been since you began reading this bio. Even now you find yourself itching to read the whole of his work. Don’t fight it, embrace the urge and wear your obsession with pride!

Please help me welcome the amazing Jasper Bark to Roadie Notes….

1. How old were you when you first wrote your first story? If you count comics, I was five years old. I saw a kid’s TV program in which other kids, a little older than me, were drawing their own comic books and I was beyond excited. I don’t think any idea has ever appealed to me so much in my life. The kids on the TV were using paper, felt tip pens, a stapler and their own imaginations. I had access to all those materials and I had more imagination than was healthy for a boy my age. I sat down right away and began making my own comics. I became so obsessed with doing this that, the next Christmas, my parents actually had to confiscate my pens and paper, so that I would stop drawing and come and open my presents.

If you count prose stories, then I was six. My dad used to bring home old log books, from his union (he was a shop steward at the local shipyard), to use as notebooks, and I began filling them with stories and illustrations. I was a lousy artist, but I got a lot better as a story-teller over the years.

2. How many books have you written?

I’ve written five novels, four novellas, nine graphic novels, three collections of short stories, twenty children’s books, countless pages of comics and even a couple of books of poetry (I was young and I needed the money, though if the truth be told, I’d have made more doing porn than writing poetry).

Now that I’ve counted them up, I’m quite surprised actually. Because I’m always beating myself up about not working hard enough.

3. Anything you won’t write about? Y’know, I’ve asked this question myself, on quite a few writers panels at events over the years and the responses vary. At first, most writers will say “no”, there isn’t anything they won’t take on. Then, when we begin to probe the subject, they all end up admitting that there are things that are taboo for them.

My own experience is, that, things will surface in one story, that I will find I’m unable to write about, so I will consider that topic, out-of-bounds. But then another story will start to go in that direction and I will find myself writing about something I thought I could never address. So whenever I think I’ve found something I can’t, or won’t, write about, I end up finding a way to address it.

As writers of dark fiction, we are often confronting the darker sides of our nature, the things we fear most and the things we’re least proud about in ourselves. The same is very much the case for readers of dark fiction too. Dark fiction, whether it be gritty crime, weird stories, or out-and-out horror, is a way for us to face up to, admit, and examine that dark side to our nature in the controlled, and a safe, environment of a story. As a psychologist friend of mine once said: “If you can play with it, you’ve got it. If you can’t play with it, it’s got you.” Fiction is the best way to play with out dark sides, and we should approach it, with as few limits as are comfortable for us.

4. Tell me about you. Age (if you don’t mind answering), married, kids, do you have another job etc…

I’m in my late 40s, I’m married to an amazingly clever, talented and beautiful woman called Veronica, but every calls her Ronnie. She runs her own Marketing and Communications business, and she’s a wonderful role model to our two teenage daughters – Freya and Ishara, who are every bit as indomitable as their mother.

I write full-time and have done since my kids were born, having previously been a national film and music journalist and a professional stand up. I’ve been in and out of trouble most of my life and, in spite of my age, have yet to develop the wisdom to avoid this.

5. What’s your favorite book you have written?

That’s like asking me to pick my favourite child, they’re all special in one way or another. However, like most writers I know, my favourite book is always the one on which I’m currently working. It’s my chance to redeem myself for all the books I’ve already written, for which I had such high hopes, but which, inevitably came out flawed. The book I’m currently working on, still has that possibility to be great, to be my legacy to the world, so, for that reason it is my favourite.

6. Who or what inspired you to write?

Just about every book that I’ve ever read. The great books inspire me to reach similar heights myself, and the lousy one make me think: ‘wow, I can do better than that, maybe I’m not so lame after all’.

7. What do you like to do for fun? I recently joined an all female, octopus mud wrestling team. I’m not actually female (as you probably guessed) and I can’t wrestle for shit. But I think the other ladies let me join because they find it hysterical to see me getting my butt kicked by all manner of octopi. Recently, they’ve taken to replacing the mud in my bouts with avocado puree, jut for the hell of it. It certainly seems to please the crowds, but it leaves me picking green goo, out of unmentionable places, for at least a week afterwards. Mostly causing my poor, long-suffering wife, to raise an unamused eyebrow at my antics.

8. Any traditions you do when you finish a book?

Yes, I sacrifice a virginal avocado, on altar of mud and avocado stones, in front of a select audience of pre-eminent Octopi. This is mainly to increase my standing within the Octopoid community. As you’re probably aware, octopi don’t read, so they have no clue about my literary reputation, they only know me as the short, strange guy who constantly gets his ass whupped in a big vat of puree. So, these rituals help me gain their respect a little more.

9. Where do you write? Quiet or music? I have a study at the bottom of the garden, that used to be a garage until we converted it. It’s full of thousands of books, and hundreds of spiders, who sometimes like to descend onto my keyboard, in the middle of the night, when I’m right in the middle of a particularly disturbing passage.

I sometimes write to music and I sometimes write in silence, it depends what I’m working on. If do write to music, it has to be something without lyrics. Like many writers, when I’m working on fiction, I like to use film scores, as these are composed specifically to support a narrative art form, and as such are really good for getting you in the right mood to write.

10. Anything you would change about your writing? I like to think that through the daily act of writing I am already changing it and growing as a writer. So if there is stuff I’m not satisfied with, I trust to the process to eventually fix it, and allow me to grow out of it. In fact the wonderful thing about being a writer is that, right up until the point of publication, if there is something you don’t like about your writing, you can always go back and change it, and even change it some more.

11. What is your dream? Famous writer?

Over the years, so many amazing writers have had such a profound and life changing effect on me, have written stories, essays and books that have meant to so much to me, that I can’t begin to list them all. They’ve totally changed the way I view the world, and my place in it. They have given me hope in dark times, joy in sad ones and entertainment in periods of unimaginable boredom.

My real dream, as a writer, is to be able to write something that will affect a reader in the same way, that will move them as I have been moved, so many times in the past. If I can give something back, like that, to even a handful of readers, then I will have fulfilled my dreams ten times over.

12. Where do you live?

Why Becky, don’t you already know? Isn’t that you at the bottom of my garden watching me through binoculars?

Wait, no… sorry, that’s my FBI handler, they’re easy to confuse with a stalker, but they’re usually a little more polite.

To go back to your question, I live in the small medieval town of Bradford on Avon, in the UK. It’s quite close to places like Stonehenge, Glastonbury and the Georgian city of Bath, only it’s less well-known, but no less beautiful. If you’ve ever read a novel by Jane Austen, or Thomas Hardy, you’ll have encountered the corner of the world in which I live. It hasn’t changed much in the preceding 200 years and you still can’t get a good broadband connection.

13. Pets?

Well we do have a couple of cats, and the disembodied spirit of a lobotomized gorilla hanging around our cottage. He was a bit unnerving at first, but we’ve taken to leaving out bowls of warm ectoplasm for him, and he’s actually become quite endearing. He even has his uses, such as scaring away Jehovah’s Witnesses and other door to door tradespeople.

14. What’s your favorite thing about writing? It’s that moment when the writing really begins to flow, when you sink fully into the world you’re exploring and time stands still. When the story itself takes over, when you hear the characters voices so clearly in your mind it’s as though they’re there in the room with you. When you’re as utterly surprised and delighted by your work as anyone else who is going to read it in the future. When it goes places you never foresaw, and reveals things you knew nothing about until you began to type it up. When your fingers can hardly keep up with all the words that are tumbling out of you.

Those are the moments we all live for as a writer.

15. What is coming next for you?

Hopefully the shambling hordes of the undead aren’t coming for me.

I have a new novella out, called Quiet Places, which is a story of cosmic folk horror with overtones of psychological horror, set in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. Unusually for me, it’s an entirely bloodless affair that depends more on atmosphere and dark folk-lore. There is no sex, no violence, yet it is probably the most disturbing thing I’ve yet written.

You can grab a copy here: https://www.amazon.com/Quiet-Places-Novella-Cosmic-Horror/dp/1640074708

I also have a new graphic novel out as well, it’s called Parassassin and it’s a dark blend of sci-fi and horror. Politics, parody and paradox collide in a tale of time travel and attempted assassination.

It’s available here in the US: https://www.amazon.com/Parassassin-Jasper-Bark-ebook/dp/B074Y5NGPS

And here in the UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Parassassin-Jasper-Bark-ebook/dp/B074Y5NGPS

Aside from that I have a novel and a novella due out next year, a lot of different anthology appearances. I also have a graphic novel starting on Comixology in 2018 and a couple of hush – hush projects, I’m going to allude to in an annoyingly vague way.

I am launching a new webcomic, called ‘Fear Fix’ on my website. It’s very much in the tradition of those classic black and white horror comics from the 60s, 70s and 80s, like Warren and Skywald, and also EC horror comics. Like those comics it has a horror host, but, in the tradition of Rod Serling, I am the host of the comic. It has some of the best artist from both mainstream and indie comics and it will be running monthly. You can read the first story – ‘The Bad Girl’s Guide to Making a Killing’ here

I’m also turbo charging my YouTube channel, with monthly updates, the first of which you can see here

And I have just launched a Patreon page, why not check it out and become a patron here You can connect with Jasper Bark here:

Here’s the link to my Patreon Page again: https://www.patreon.com/JasperBark

Here’s a link where you can get a free eBook, a free story and an exclusive video of my blooper reel, by signing up to my mailing list:

http://www.crystallakepub.com/jasperbark/

Really, you’d be foolish not to.

Some of Jasper Bark’s books:

Getting personal with Jasper Bark Jasper Bark is infectious - and there’s no known cure. If you’re reading this then you’re already at risk of contamination.

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nicholasbickford · 7 years

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Let's just ignore the fact more than six months have passed since I last published a post on this site. Let's also not talk about the numerous post ideas I have listed in my notebook that haven't seen the light of day. Let's instead focus on how we came up with the design for this extension of ours (which, despite six months later is still three roof sheets short of being watertight from above! It's been... well it was all good until last month when the rain didn't stop and we had no roof. But that is a story for another day... Not six months away though, promise!)

So. When we were house hunting four years ago we had a few musts: it needed to be a fixer-upper because we wanted to make our own stamp on it. Location was important - we wanted to be close to the water. It had to have good light, good structural bones, a decent yard and the potential for us to add to it. We found the ugliest house in the best street with water views and snapped it up. The good thing about it being an ugly house was there was no history or architectural details which we had to work around which is often the case with old houses. This was fibro. It had plain walls, plain windows, plain cornices, plain everything. It was essentially a blank canvas (and I hate using that term, but it's true). Our last home had pretty cornices, timber windows and a real cottage-y feel to it we tried to keep while modernising it. Our first house was a historical semi we didn't dare touch aside from paint in tones true to its style. This house had nothing really. It gave us freedom to do what we wanted without feeling guilty about veering away from its "style" or stripping it of character. I believe in working with what you have and if it had any redeeming features, we'd definitely have worked with them in the design process. As it happened, we ended up creating the story of our house once work started - we recycled parts of the old roof into stair treads, changed the floor direction in the extension and kept a few original parts like the old knocker and house numbers. We have piles of hardwood from the roof that will become a bar top and library shelves. We reused the huge beams as heads above doorways and windows, moved some windows around and recycled doors. It's nice to have a kind-of-cool answer for the "why is that like that..." questions that might come.

But before we even got to creating a story, we had to create a plan. And while it's tempting to look at magazines and Pinterest and blogs and imagine yourself in that space, there are so many more factors to consider aside from loving something because it looks pretty. Captain Obvious, right? Well yes and no because despite all my constant writing about this stuff, it's easy to get swept away imagining something when the reality is likely to be very different. And know that it's not just a matter of things being different due to your tastes or location, but it's to the rules of YOUR property - and they might be different to your immediate neighbour's. It's the way you live your life. It's your actual home's ability to handle the changes you wish to make. It's your budget. And weather patterns. It's your personal needs and those of every person who lives there. The list of things that can affect your home's design is endless, so by all means look to others for inspiration, but be sure to design the best space for you and your family, taking into consideration all the musts/have-tos and can'ts along the way. After a few harsh realities from Steve (who rolled his eyes every time I showed him an all-white Swedish space and explained "something like this!"), I wondered how close to the mark we would get in terms of creating a home perfect for us. While we've not finished or been able to use our space completely, so far, I can't see much I'd change if I had free reign. Which makes me think the long, long design path was the right road to take. If you're looking at taking yourself on a similar renovation journey, here are a few things we learnt along the way.

Resist the urge to get renovating immediately

Any magazine article on renovating will tell you to live in your space before you do anything major to it. There is a good reason for this - because it helps you make better decisions. If you can do a full year, do it - because honestly, your home is so different throughout the seasons and you want to ensure you know it back to front. The light falls differently in winter to summer - we discovered the afternoon sun bounces off the verandah of the house across the street from us and rebounds into our bedroom in summer and lights up the south side of the home in winter. We know the afternoon sun is unbearable in summer at the back of our house (which faces West) but that the sea breeze cools things down most days too. We know how the yard floods and where the shade falls for prime planting. We've worked out where we have mould problems, where we like to dump our wallets and keys, how we don't walk down the driveway but across the middle of the lawn to the front door, which way the weather usually comes from and where the rain affects us most. Putting up with all the annoyances that come with an unrenovated house is worthwhile because you work out what annoys you, what you like, how you live, what you need to make living better - knowing all these things is essential for good design.

Create a wishlist

For us, we needed more space - we had a tiny three-bedroom, one-bathroom home. It had a living room, kitchen/dining and that was it. All up, it was 80sqm. We weren't after a huge house, but with four kids, we definitely needed more space! We renovated the bathroom and kitchen spaces with an extension in mind - we decided we could just extend from the back out so worked out a way to do just that so whenever the time came, the existing house shouldn't require much work. And then we planned and planned. We worked out what we wanted exactly: some kind of loft space, raked ceilings, two living spaces and a fireplace. We wanted at least four bedrooms, but five would be better so everyone could have their own room if they wished (I am now DYING for them to all be in their own rooms because I'm over the bed-swapping, whinging, kicking and meltdowns over who gets to stay up later and who doesn't...). I wanted lots of storage because the house had none. So we incorporated a dedicated storeroom into the plans. It turned out that Steve changed careers while waiting for council approval and so the storeroom has been renamed his workshop for all his tools. It will be the world's tiniest workshop but still! Luckily I still had large storage areas planned for the roof - having a high-pitched roof means the unusable areas can be walled off and used to store alllll sorts of things!

Get drawing

I've been a lover of floorpans forever! I'd draw my dream homes all the time complete with indoor pools, ballrooms, sweeping staircases and libraries. Being able to draw up a more realistic one for my family that we would actually build was so exciting! Several variations were drawn up - the first was turning one of the bedrooms into a staircase and adding a whole second storey to take advantage of the water views. Then I thought maybe not the whole hog and just a really high-pitched roof so we can have an attic bedroom. Another version had a master bedroom at the back next to second living space. Another kept our master where it was but stole the bedroom next to it for an ensuite and wardrobe and added two smaller rooms to the back. Yet another plan extended to the side of the house over the driveway. But I kept coming back to the attic idea - why couldn't we just make one big room out the back with a staircase up to a loft bedroom in a new roof? Sounded pretty easy to me, so I called in the draftsman...

Call in the experts

The thing with major renovations is this: there are SO MANY DIFFERENT ANNOYING RULES AND ASPECTS TO THE PROCESS. And you don't really know about any of them until you're at that stage. First up for us was the biggest bummer of all: we had to do a full development application for council. Many renovations and extensions won't require this - you can go through a private certifier and they can have your plans approved within a few weeks. But if you live in a flood or bushfire zone, you most likely won't be that lucky. We live in a flood zone and so straight up we had bonus conditions - the biggest being we had to raise the floor height by 60cm. This meant the nice walk-straight-out-of-your-living-room-onto-your-deck-onto-the-grass moments and easy view of the kids playing in the yard from anywhere in one side of your home wasn't going to happen. It would be about a metre or so off the actual ground. Having to step up the extension means a split level to the ground floor, which means extra materials in height (more bricks for footings/longer pieces of wood) extra precautions in stabilising the building and a more difficult build as it's higher off the ground (we had to lay a subfloor so the builders didn't just rely on standing on bearers and joists - this was an extra couple of thousand dollars immediately). The huge pitched ceiling I wanted with a bedroom in it? Couldn't quite do as I wanted - did you know habitable rooms (living/bedroom) require your ceiling height to be at a certain height (for memory it is 1.8m but I could be wrong there) for 2/3 of the volume of the room? We wanted the angled ceiling to just hit the floor, so in the end, knee walls had to be built to decrease the size of the room so our master bedroom won't quite be as we imagined it at first, but the library can be. There are also height restrictions (we just snuck in for how high our house can be), light-to-dark ratios through use of windows and doors, shading requirements (we need little awnings on our east-facing bedroom to shade them) and so. many. other. annoying. things. The draftsman/architect/builder who designs knows these tricky little things and will outline your options. In the end, our draftsman discovered if we submitted the second story as an "attic bedroom" rather than a second storey, we had a little more freedom with our plans. One thing I suggest is to give your draftsman/builder/architect a ball park figure of what you want to spend - underestimate it, though. Because if you give them no budget to work to, they will design just design to all your whims and you might end up with a house you actually can't afford to build! And never feel you have to do EVERYTHING all at once. It is a good idea to design your home and submit everything in one application with a view to doing it in stages as budget/time/circumstances allow. We never planned to complete our extension in one hit. We wanted to do it in two to three stages with our master bedroom and ensuite being the last thing. If you have plans to put in a pool or garage or separate studio down the track, consider doing it all as one DA and get the approval now. It will save you in extra drafting and application fees later on.

Draftsman vs architect vs builder vs carpenter Depending on the scale of your works you might not need a draftsman or architect. Many builders are able to draw up and submit plans on your behalf and if it's less complicated works to a place that doesn't change the footprint of your home, a carpenter might be all you need. We knew we needed plans drawn up but as we had a good idea of what we wanted, we knew a draftsman was all we needed. If you're stuck for ideas about what you want, I'd still start with a builder who can at least point you in the right direction of an architect if they believe one is required.

Make all your changes at this stage

Every time I got a draft plan from the draftsman I printed it out and got out my trusty red pen for changes - because there were always changes. I lived and breathed these plans - even dreamt about them sometimes! But that is the good thing about drafting plans - they are drafts and can be changed. And you should change them at the planning stage because it will cost you a lot more time, effort, money, patience and possibly relationships if you change them once the build begins! For me, I'd use the printouts to just see what it might look like if I moved the wall a little more this way. Or if I moved the door layout or added an extra room. Always sit on the current draft for a while and get a feel for what it might be like. Measure things out - I would use string and mark up the walls/doors/windows on the grass so I could physically see the floorplan in the right scale. Get a feel for the space in terms of size and look for things like views from windows and doors, door swings and potential furniture placement. There is often a little wiggle room for small changes once construction begins such as window size and placement, but nothing too drastic, so get it right now. We took our time with our plans - probably waaaay too long but there were a fair few delays on both sides of the process and in the end, we're glad there was a wait because we love our plans. We were also lucky in that our draftsman had a fixed price so it didn't matter how many changes we made, our $3000-odd fee for the measuring/drafting/submitting didn't budge. Spoiler alert: the engineering fees were a surprise $5000 we weren't expecting!

Turn negatives into positives

There are going to be restrictions but it's what you do with them... We had to raise our floor level which brought a few headaches for the builders and extra costs for us, but we started to see the advantages of having this split level. For one, it broke up the extra-long space and created two distinct living areas. It allows us to see the water views from the back room and has created a large under-house space where we will able to store our water tanks, excess building materials, kids bikes and surfboards etc. The fact we have to apply builder's bracing (which is essentially thin plywood sheets made from hardwood at $35 a sheet) to all of our existing interior walls killed me (and here I was thinking we wouldn't have to touch the existing house too much!) but it meant we were able to insulate them as well, meaning the bedrooms on either side of the bathroom are now a little more soundproof. It also got rid of the wallpaper that had been painted over and often bubbled up during wet periods and means our Gyprock walls will be nice and straight and new. The engineer's obsession with bracing, particularly expensive materials and extra strengthening requirements means our house is the strongest, well-built thing in town. It's not going anywhere!

Be realistic with your choices

Sometimes I would look at our plans and wish for larger expanses of glass by way of bifold doors from the family room onto the back deck. And then I remembered the heat in the middle of summer. And the bugs. And the sand and crap that would fall in the rails of the bifolds. And that I love French doors more... We went against the norm because it doesn't work for us. Realistically we knew we needed a decent size door opening but also windows on either side of them that could be open all night long if we wanted for safe, mozzie-free breezes and airflow. We knew as much as a big deck sounds great in theory, it would encroach too much into the backyard, which was more important. And we're not big entertainers anyway. We know pretty pendant lights are going to have to take a backseat to ceiling fans. And timber windows or louvres everywhere were just going to eat too much into the budget. Getting the right mix of practicality and aesthetics is hard and if you really want to live in a place, aesthetics will most of the time lose out to practicalities in a battle of the wits. Like my whitewashed floors. I love them to bits but we're going with a mid-range natural colour for floorboards because we're a rough and tumble family and that's the best colour to mask wear and tear and the inevitable dirt that comes with living with children. (Though Steve is still A-OK with my painting our eventual master bedroom floor pure white. It will have to be a no-shoe zone!) Think honestly about how you live, what your budget is and what is important to you and plan your home around them.

Expect delays and to pay a lot upfront

Dear God did we have delays... The whole process has had delays! And they will happen at one stage or another. For us it was just getting the plans right, then not pushing the draftsman to get them back to us as quickly as we should have. Then it was council approving our plans (after a couple of months) but not noticing we had asked for a one-metre extension to the existing house (four square metres in total) at the existing floor height to give the dining room a little more space before the floor level rose. So it was back to council for another six or so weeks as they had to start all over again. Then it was a matter of organising a certifier who couldn't give you a construction certificate to start works until you had waded through their list of things: engineer's report, home builder's course etc. In the end we forked out close to around the $15,000 mark before we even bought any materials or began labour. Here are some approximate figures for you because I honestly can't recall exact amounts and I am too lazy to sift through my disorganised paperwork to find them (sorry!)

Draftsman: $3300

Engineer: $5000

Council fees: $2000

Certifier: $3000

Surveyor: $200

Home owner/builder course and white card: $250

Long-service builder's levy: $500

In short, an architect told me when I wrote the Real Living Renovations magazine to never sign up and start building if all you have is the dollars the builder quoted you. Because it will ALWAYS cost you more, somewhere along the line. And it's usually before the builder even begins!

I hope this was somewhat helpful. Because frankly I haven't typed this much in a while and my fingers hurt (Kidding. I still write a fair bit; just not here!). If you're about to renovate, you can track down a copy of the reno magazine here or at your newsagent if they still have them in stock. Otherwise I did find a lot of what I wrote has been uploaded to the Homes to Love website. It's not everything, but it's a fair bit. I've linked to a few of the sections below.

Guide to hiring an expert

Choosing the right team

Researching and shopping

Surviving the construction stage

8 steps to a well-designed home

Kitchen design

Bathroom renovation

The owner/builder: what you need to know

The power of paint

Spotting the warning signs

Where your money goes

Renovating sourcebook

And for more of my Reno Files posts...

{The reno files} A real-life renovation guide: introduction

Our house plans: spending big to live small(ish)

A very exciting renovation update

A real, hopefully helpful and honest guide to renovating your bathroom

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