#i already knew that the fish soup was his own recipe because he said it in the f8 key interview like over 20 years ago | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aphrodijin · 1 year

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swing life away | min yoongi

pairing: min yoongi x fem!reader

synopsis: it's your first anniversary as a married couple but not only did you forget today's special occasion, you also didn't prepare a self-made gift for your husband -- except for the bundle of joy in your womb.

rating: 18+

word count: 5.2k

tags/content warning: married au, pregnancy, slight angst, miscommunication, mentions of infidelity (no one's cheating), mentions of food and being vegan (no one's vegan), usage of babe/baby as endearment, semi-public sex, SMUT in the forms of oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (don't do this unless you want kids or std), slight spanking, yoongi being a carpenter/loving husband/dumpling/etc.

this fic is inspired by the song "swing life away" by rise against and yoongi's woodcarving vlog :] enjoy!

Min Yoongi was many things.

He’s a skilled carpenter with his own woodshop business by day, and a rising songwriter/record producer by night. He’s a confident all-star basketball player back in his high school days and can still shoot perfectly whenever he plays with some of your shared friends in the backyard these days. He’s a great cook too, always indulging your cravings.

Min Yoongi was many things but most importantly, he’s your husband.

And a very observant one.

It’s been more than a month when he first noticed it. He wasn’t exactly sure what was “it,” but he knew it wasn’t good. He could tell there was something bothering in your mind one night you went home from work and claimed it’s nothing instead of ranting to him like the usual. Just a bad day at work.

A week after that was when you started to stay long hours at work, looking more pale and exhausted when you get home. It baffled Yoongi why you would spend more hours there if it’s stressing you and you’ve never actually worked overtime, but he knew he’s not one to talk about spending more time at work when he has two jobs and does one of those said jobs at home, so he shut his mouth. He didn’t say anything.

Not when you changed your perfume from an intoxicating fruity scent to a soft floral one. Not when he saw a receipt of you having your car interior cleaned and also changed the smell of it. Not when you didn’t want to have sex anymore, always pushing his hands away when they start to wander down there.

A lot of new small things bothered him, especially the last one but what made him almost lose it was when you had mistaken his dish, the one you claimed to be your favorite, for a different one.

x◇x◇x

“Do you like it?”

You nodded, despite still blowing the steam off of your spoon. When you finally tasted it though, he could tell on the look on your face that there’s something missing on his dish. “What is it? Did I not put enough fish sauce or tomato sauce?”

“You put fish sauce in this?” You asked, smiling adorably at your husband and reached across the table to hold his hand in assurance. “It tastes fine, babe, but there’s no need for fish sauce in this. You could’ve added more liver spread and cheese though. You know I love a lot of cheese in this.”

Yoongi closed his eyes for a moment to breathe. He understood the cheese part, you always add cheese to a lot of dishes that doesn’t even need cheese. “Y/N, I didn’t put liver spread because that dish doesn’t require liver spread. It needed fish sauce.”

“What are you talking about? Caldereta is all about the tender beef, tomato sauce, liver spread, and cheese!”

“That's afritada, Y/N. You’re favorite dish back home is afritada.”

Yoongi blinked and composed himself, trying not to look so wounded. He’s so damn sure you’re favorite was afritada, you’ve talked about it a lot. Hell, he’d already cooked it a couple of times before. He had the recipe that he searched online bookmarked on his browser, and he even went to the lengths of jotting them down on his journal just in case the link is taken down.

“Afritada… you mean this is chicken?” You scooped for some meat parts from the reddish soup dish, and there it was, your recent enemy: chicken. “I can’t eat chicken right now, Yoongi, I'm sorry.” You sat straight up, covering your mouth and nose with your hand.

“Of course, it’s chicken. It’s always been chicken, Y/N. It’s a chicken dish, that’s why you love it so much. Or loved, apparently, judging by your actions tonight.”

“I'm sorry,” your voice came out muffled as your hand was still covering your mouth.

“When did you start hating chicken?” he asked as he stood up to take your plate away and check the pantry to prepare something else for you.

“Um, my coworker, Seokhoon, he’s practicing to be a vegan lately so we thought we’d support him by also not eating meat…”

Yoongi’s ears perked up, hearing how your answer sounded uncertain and more like a question, so he pressed more, looking over his shoulder at you. “You were more than ready and excited to eat beef and cheese earlier but you wouldn’t eat chicken right now?”

You stared dumbfoundingly at him before shrugging. “I’m trying with small things like egg and chicken.”

“I made you an omelet for breakfast earlier.” He pointed out, holding your gaze.

“I… just started… to try being vegan earlier at lunch. And also meat are becoming pricey these days, our salary might not be enough. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to cut back on our expenses. What would you rather give up—chicken or beef?”

Of course, Yoongi would rather eat tofu and bean sprouts for the rest of his life if it meant you get to eat properly and satisfy your cravings. But he didn’t bother to reply that as he cooked you a different dish that night. Fuck Seokhoon for influencing you to be vegan. Fuck the government for the rising prices and not handling the economy better.

x◇x◇x

Ever since that dinner night, Yoongi began to question your marriage. He wanted to talk to you because he didn’t know what to make of your actions anymore, but everytime you two were in the room together, he could you tell you were uncomfortable and couldn’t wait to get out of the situation. Besides, he’s afraid to ask because he knows he’s not prepared for any possible answers you'll give him.

You cheated? Yoongi knew it’s impossible. It had to be because he wouldn’t know what to do with that with that revelation. That would honestly break him.

You lost your job and was just actually driving around town to look for a new one and pass the time? It sounded stupid but not impossible. He would be disappointed and wish that you had told him sooner to prepare and possibly take on a third job.

You’re pregnant? He supposed this is a realistic scenario. You two had talked about this sincerely before getting married, of course, both wanting two kids. He just feels like it’s still early for babies and you two haven’t done all your goals as a married couple before becoming parents.

So he told himself to wait, that you would open up to him when you’re finally ready to unburden your problems. He’s a patient man after all.

But his patience seemed to be running thin today on the morning of your anniversary when he rolled over to your side as he woke up to cuddle you closer and hopefully start the day buried inside you.

He knew you’re awake, even with your eyes closed. You've been waking up earlier than him lately, one of your many changing habits. He took your hand that was hugging your stomach and pressed a soft kiss on your fingers, on your palm, on your wrist, trailing them across your arm up to your shoulder.

“Y/N,” he whispered your name, wishing for you to open your eyes when he nipped at your jaw. He called your name once again as his lips were ghosting over yours. Your eyelashes fluttered open just enough to look at him and when he finally saw your eyes, he leaned down to kiss you deeply.

You freed your hand from his to curl your fingers up into his long hair, urging him closer while the other slid up beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his body that you’ve been missing for weeks now. You pulled your knees up as Yoongi settled himself in between your legs, grinding his hard cock against your core.

But just as his own hand started to drift down on your hips, you slowed down, giving his lips one last kiss before pressing your forehead to his. You both stayed there without any movements at all, just gasping for air and holding each other’s skin and flesh tightly every now and then.

When it sounded like you were about to apologize, he pressed a kiss on your forehead and whispered, “Happy anniversary, baby,” before bolting right out of the bed, before you could even say it back to him.

x◇x◇x

Despite your husband having his own woodshop and fulfilling his dreams in the music industry, you didn’t let go of your job when you and Yoongi got married.

You were on your way back to your desk from your third visit to the bathroom that morning when you saw the delivery man on the front door of the store carrying a gigantic bouquet of flowers he almost disappeared behind it.

“Min Y/N?” he asked, looking around the store.

Jia turned to the direction of the bathroom and pointed at you when she saw you. You stayed your feet at your place. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move. The flowers looked beautiful—a bouquet of pale and dark red carnations, along with sunflowers, wrapped meticulously in craft paper and tied with a golden ribbon—but there’s a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach that’s making it hard for you to appreciate this.

“This is for you!” The delivery man presented the bouquet to you with a proud smile. When you didn’t move, he gingerly took your arms to place the flowers in them and then took off.

A minute must have passed by yet none of you and your colleagues moved or talked. It wasn’t until a client came in and needed assistance. Jia wrapped her arm around you and walked you back to your desk. As you sat down, you caught sight of the red card sticking out of the flowers. HAPPY 1ST ANNIVERSARY, BABY.

Reading Yoongi's handwritten note, you recognized that bad feeling again that you knew all too well lately. Shame and guilt. You had to close your eyes and practice your breathing exercises before those bad feelings in your stomach turn into a pile of chunky vomit across the floor.

Jia, oblivious to your anxiety, swooned over the flowers. “Happy anniversary, Y/N!”

It’s the second greeting you’ve received today and you couldn’t help but wince when you remember how you froze when Yoongi greeted you.

You didn’t know how this special event slipped up your mind when staring at your calendar was all you’ve been doing lately. You were aware that your own anniversary was near and you even had a lot of ideas for DIY gifts to give to your husband.

You tried to make it up to Yoongi by going after him and showering together to have some hot shower sex even though the thought of sex was making you nervous lately. Yoongi turned down the offer though, saying you’re both gonna be late for work, which was a very pathetic excuse considering he’s his own boss and your own work doesn’t start in a couple of hours. So you showered together in silence.

Just as you’re about to calm down, you’re eyes widened in panic because not only you forgot your own anniversary day, of course you also forgot to actually make a gift despite tons of ideas in your journal and Pinterest board.

“Jia, I didn’t get him a gift!” It wasn’t even noon yet, and you’re already close to breaking down for the third time today.

“Well, the department store is just around the corner. I can come with you at lunch to buy something last minute.”

You shook your head and explained to her that buying some expensive stuff isn’t enough. Knowing your husband, he already made you a gift days ago. You’re not sure if it’s something from his woodshop or if he composed you a song, all you know is Yoongi probably made you a gift with love. No amount of money could compare to that.

“Well, there’s always sex?” At the sight of your face crumpling once again, Jia took back her suggestion. “Or not! Honestly, Y/N, this is why I’m all single and alone in life so I don’t have to give people gifts and you’re making me stress about your own anniversary gift.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“And really, you’re worrying about gifts when…” she paused to look down at your belly. “Have you told him yet?”

You shook your head.

“Well, there’s your anniversary gift, congratulations!”

“This is a stupid gift." Despite your harsh words, you wrapped arm protectively around your middle.

“Why? You said you want to give him something you made, well you made that. He even helped, too!”

You couldn’t possibly just announce you’re pregnant on your anniversary day? Right? Sure, it’s convenient and practical – two celebrations in one night!

But that’s not the actual thing that’s been bothering you. You’ve been hiding your condition to your husband for weeks now, when you should have told him that he’s a gonna be a dad the moment you saw the plus sign on a stick. But you didn’t because you’re scared and if you’re gonna be honest, also selfish. Selfish to have Yoongi the Husband™️ all to yourself just for a couple more days before he turns into Yoongi, your husband and the father of your unborn fetus. And then that selfishness turns into guilt for not telling him, for distancing yourself.

A part of you wished he’ll figure it out on his own, that’ll save you a speech.

x◇x◇x

Even before you started to spent late hours at work, Yoongi always comes home an hour or so before you. It usually gives him enough time to prepare for dinner.

However today, he asked his friend Seokjin to prepare a romantic dinner for you two as he would busy himself installing the porch swing he made as his anniversary gift for you.

With his long hair tied in a half bun, a few strands tucked behind his ears and locked into place with pins, and a safety googles on his face, Yoongi began by drilling two holes up into the ceiling joists where he would screw the hooks. When he’s done and swept away the dust, he took the chains that’s wrapped in rope for extra support and aesthetic purposes and attached them to swing before hoisting them up to the hooks.

Despite wanting his gift to be all handmade, Yoongi had no choice but to buy a small foam mattress and throw pillows to decorate the swing. He placed them all nicely and removed his googles before sitting down and testing the swing if it runs smoothly.

Swinging for a couple of minutes gave Yoongi enough time to relax from the stress of his jobs, from setting this swing up, from all his fears and worries.

It gave him enough peace from all the doubts and questions inside his head. He hoped that this would give you the same. He hoped that you seeing this swing – the one you dreamed for so long, the one that he promised you because how could he ever say no – will help you remember that the fact that you two get to celebrate this day was because of your love for each other and the trust you’ve built all these years even before marrying.

Yoongi had set up the swing in the right side of the house, facing a line of tall trees that secludes this house from the main road, and close enough to the backyard for some peace and privacy that if anyone walks or drives in to your lot, they wouldn’t see you right away as the beams would hinder their sight. But anyone who’s sitting here would see just fine if there’s someone coming in.

Just like Yoongi saw your car rolled in right away to park next to his pickup truck. He stood up and waved his arm to call your attention, excited to show you his gift. When you didn’t see him, he jogged up to the front and flashed a smile when you jumped up in surprise at the sight of him.

“What are you doing outside?”

“I have to show you something, come on!” He went to cover your eyes for surprise and guided you to the back.

You were expecting some surprise in the backyard, probably a dinner he cooked but your assumptions came into a halt as Yoongi stopped only after taking a few steps. When he removed his hands and told you to open your eyes, a cozy porch swing greeted your sight.

“That’s…” you trailed off, walking closer and wrapping your hand around the chain-rope. From the bulky design of the chain and rope to the uneven height of the wooden slabs of the back support, Yoongi made you the exact wooden swing that you drunkenly drew a long time ago when you two just started dating.

“Happy anniversary, Y/N.” You heard Yoongi say behind you, and you wish he had said it the way he greeted you this morning – with such coldness and hurt. You felt like you didn’t deserve this with the way you’ve been treating him this past month.

Not wanting to hurt him any longer and bring back normalcy in your relationship, you turned to look at him, your eyes teary and said, “I… I'm sorry, babe.”

“Why? What is it?”

“I…” You cleared your throat and wondered which should you say first: you didn’t get him any gift, or you’re pregnant. You figured you should go with the bad news first before softening the mood with the good news, you’re just not sure which is which. “I didn’t get you any gift. I actually forgot it’s our anniversary today, I’m sorry.”

Yoongi fell silent before chuckling nervously. Sure, forgetting your own anniversary was bad, but that’s little compared to what Yoongi was imagining these past few days. “That’s alright, I thought it was something serious.”

“Why? What did you think I was going to say?” you prodded before you drop your next bomb.

“I don’t know what I thought, honestly. Things haven’t been quite well with us lately, Y/N.” He shrugged, scratching his nape. “I thought of pregnancy. There’s one where you don’t actually have a job anymore and just didn’t want to say it. I also thought you’re cheating with fucking Seokhoon—”

“Seok-Seokhoon? Why the hell would you think that? I couldn’t stand that guy.”

“I don’t know Y/N, you tell me, you’re the one who suddenly didn’t want to eat chicken because fucking Seokhoon is trying to be vegan.”

You thought about the lamb chops Seokhoon devoured at lunch today. You also remembered the night Yoongi was referring to, when you almost spilled your guts literally and figuratively at the smell of the chicken.

“Seokhoon isn’t vegan. But one of your hunches is true.” You walked towards him, taking his hand in yours and placing it on your stomach. “I’m pregnant.”

Yoongi froze for a minute, staring at your eyes down to your stomach that he’s touching. His gummy smile slowly broke into his face, giggling as he asked to confirm, “Pregnant? With babies?”

You nodded, matching his smile. “Yeah, pregnant, but hopefully just a singular baby. Or fetus, I’m not sure, I haven’t been to a clinic yet. I was putting it off because I want you to be there at the first checkup since I left you in the dark when I took the test. I'm really sorry about that, Yoongi, I just didn’t know how to say it. I was scared and nervous myself about this baby and I kn—”

Yoongi cut off your ramblings by kissing you. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I thought you were cheating when you were feeling this way all on your own. I should’ve asked you.”

You shook you head. “I'm sorry I let you think that, too. But there’s no way I would’ve betray you for Seokhoon or anyone else, really. I love you so much, Yoongi.”

You stood in your toes to kiss him again, muttering again and again how much you love him and how sorry you were. His hands stayed firmly on each side of you, and you didn’t pushed him away this time. You looped your arms around his neck and tugged him closer.

This one kiss – after all those weeks of just pecking and short kisses, after the frustrating mess that happened earlier morning – was so hungry and powerful and mind-numbing. You wouldn’t even wanna stop if a lightning strike near you two. You missed him so much, you would’ve take him right here, right now.

But Yoongi pulled away, breathing ruggedly as he said, “You haven’t tried it yet.”

“Tried the what yet?”

“The swing, don’t you wanna take a ride on it?”

Despite his innocent question referring to the swing, your eyes mischievously glinted and an idea popped into your mind. You took his hand and gestured for him to sit down. Trying to calm yourself down, you kissed your husband first before prying his legs open and kneeling down between them, instead of sitting beside him.

“What are you doing?” he smirked, enjoying the sight in front of him.

“I was thinking I could ride you on it instead, but first…”

With a coy smile, you unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down along with his underwear, freeing his hard cock. Licking your lips in anticipation, you wrapped your hand around him, thumb circling at the precum beading on his crown.

Yoongi hissed at sensation, bucking his hips up. “Fuck, baby, don’t tease me. It’s been a month.” His hands ran through your hair to keep them out of the way and prompted for you to start.

“Happy anniversary,” you greeted him before placing sloppy, wet mouth kisses on the head of his dick and moving them down while your hand was steadily stroking the base and the other was gently squeezing and rolling his balls.

When you made sure to coat every inch of his cock with your saliva, you kissed his crown one more time before taking him in your mouth, trying to fit whatever you can while your hand covered the rest.

“Ahh, that feels so good, babe. I’ve really missed you,” he rasped.

You moaned around him as you felt yourself getting wet even just at the sound of his voice and at the feeling of his heavy cock sliding in and out of your mouth. One of his hands weaved into your hair once again to carefully guide you at the pace he wanted. He bit his lip in concentration as he tried to restrain himself from just snapping his hips up to fuck your face but failing a couple of times, making you choke and teary-eyed.

Yoongi couldn’t help but groan at the sight of you, mouth wide open full of his cock, eyes in tears staring up at him. His other hand cupped your jaw, his thumb caressing your cheek.

“You’re doing so good, baby, taking my cock so well.”

His moans were getting louder and he started to lose control of his hips, a sign that Yoongi’s close to his orgasm. You released his cock to tease him a little bit, swirling your tongue over again at the sensitive spot of his crown as you pumped his length, making him all whiny as he repeated your name again and again like a mantra along with few curse words, before sucking him whole again with the intention of swallowing his hot cum. Which Yoongi delivered, a lot. And loudly.

You pulled yourself off of his cock, still semi-hard, and opened your mouth to show him that you’ve swallowed every drop of his cum. Still breathing heavily, Yoongi smiled proudly at you. “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me, Y/N baby. Come here.”

“Not to doubt you, but are you sure this won’t give out on us?” You asked, looking up at the ceiling where the swing is hanging.

“Of course not, at least three people can sit here. We’ll be fine, even when we finally have our kid sitting down here with us,” he replied, helping you get up at your feet.

You stared down at him, grinning at the thought of your kid playing at this very porch swing their daddy made in the future. But first, it’s gonna mommy and daddy’s turn on the swing for a while.

Because of the disastrous shower session earlier, you tried to make it up to your husband by wearing his favorite black lace lingerie underneath one of your red dress that gave out the equal vibe of classy and slutty to entice him on. You also figured, might as well wear them while you still can.

You unbuttoned the dress open from the top, revealing the lacy bra, causing Yoongi to raise his eyebrows.

“You wore lingerie to work?”

“Yeah, it turned out to be quite itchy and uncomfortable to wear for a long time actually,” you pouted. “Help me out of it, please.”

Yoongi leaned forward, one of his hands held you firmly by your waist while the other slipped beneath your dress, running his fingertips along the edge of your underwear before pulling them aside to sink a finger inside your cunt and moving it in a ‘come hither' motion. He added another finger while his thumb drew circles on your clit to send you over the edge.

You gasped, your hands paused from unclasping your bra to balance yourself on your husband’s shoulders as he stretched you out, spreading your slick all over your slit. When your juices had dripped down on his wrist, Yoongi took that as a cue that you’re wet enough and hooked his hands around your underwear to remove them before pulling you into his lap.

He gathered the skirt of your dress, bunching them up to your waist. You bit your lower lip as your pussy was pressing against his cock, feeling hard and thick against your wet core. Feeling impatient as Yoongi kissed your neck, you tried to move your hips, chasing that pleasure the friction gave you, in which you earned a gentle slap in the ass from him.

“Take this off,” he said, toying with the strap of your bra.

You nodded like a good girl, unclasping them from behind and took the straps of your shoulders. Yoongi pulled down your dress, revealing your tits. He stared at them for a second, both of his hands cupping each breast gently, thumbs grazing your soft skin and hardened nipple. You were about to make a joke when he leaned down to start licking and sucking one of your tits, while he massaged the other one.

While he was busy, you attempted to get yourself off by rocking your hips against him again, whether on his cock or his thigh, you didn’t care. A cry left your lips when he slapped your ass once again, a bit harder this time, before proceeding to grab your ass in his hands and dig his fingers in to help you move. You whimpered every time your sensitive clit rubbed pass his tip, making him almost poked your entrance.

Yoongi switched his attention on your other tit, but never faltering his movement to make you come on his cock. He could feel you’re close, your folds fluttering against his cock, your hips jerking more uncontrollably, your juices running down on his skin to the foam cushion he newly bought, making a mental note to buy a new one.

“Y—Yoongi…” you moaned, eyes scrunched close and head thrown back. “Oh, I'm gonna—oh fuck Yoongi—”

He looked up from your chest to stare at the fucked out expression on your face as you come, his hands on your hips controlling your move to help you ride out your orgasm. When he felt that you’re almost done coming down from your high, Yoongi lifted you up to line his tip against your entrance and helped you sink down on his cock. You moaned loudly at the feeling of your cunt being stretched out so deliciously after a month without an intercourse.

None of you spoke for a while, but you were thankful that Yoongi didn’t fuck you right away and instead let you adjust to the size as he sucked and nibbled every inch of your skin.

“If I’m pregnant right now, does that mean we don’t need a condom for a while? Or you can still get me pregnant while I’m pregnant?”

“It can happen, but it’s rare.” Yoongi saw your concerned expression, so he asked, “Do you want me to wear one?”

You smiled and shook your head immediately. “No. I want to feel you.” With that being said, you hooked your arms across his shoulders and started to bounce on his cock, grinding your clit on his pelvis everytime you come down.

Despite the frustrations and longing that Yoongi had built up for a month, he managed to calmly hold back and sit there as you ride him. At the back of his mind, he was also hesitant to pound his dick in and out of you without a care because he’s afraid he might hurt the baby. So he let you control the pace while his hands wander over your body, palming your tits and smacking your ass.

“Ahh Yoongi… please, fuck me.” You couldn’t keep your upper body straight anymore as your walls began on clenching around his dick, so you leaned your head on his shoulder. “I can’t—I feel so close again…”

“I know, baby, I got you now. You did great,” Yoongi whispered tenderly, placing a kiss on your head. He gripped your thighs in place, thrusting his hips upward into you and picked up the pace to bring you to your second orgasm.

You cried out in pleasure as Yoongi kept hitting that sweet spot inside you, your body beginning to tremble in his arms. You could feel him getting close too by the way his thrusts were being quick and sloppy so you curled your hand around the curly strands on his nape, your lips leaving wet kisses on his neck as you tried to give him hickeys.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, holy shit baby…”

You were lucky you live in a remote place and didn’t have any neighbors for miles as they would’ve surely heard Yoongi's loud groans and your high-pitched moans as you came together. Yoongi had thrust one more time inside you, bringing your hips down as he flushed your bodies together and filled your cunt with his thick cum.

None of you wanted to move at that moment, just catching up on your breaths and occasionally rocking your hips into each other for a potential round two when your stomach had a sudden craving — dumplings.

And dumplings reminded you of — “Oh my, god, we’re gonna have a baby dumpling in a few months.”

“I’m not a dumpling,” he groaned, burying his face on the crook of your neck as you laugh.

Min Yoongi was many things—a carpenter, a songwriter and producer, a basketball player, a dumpling (despite his denial), your loving husband, and in a few months, a proud father.

Hello! Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it and please, reblogs and feedbacks are always welcome and appreciated :)

If you want to support me and help with my dental care funds, please consider tipping me at ko-fi.com/aphrodijin or commission me to write you a fic. I could really use some help.

Thank you so much once again, have a great day! x

©️ 2022 aphrodijin

3K notes · View notes

dcforts · 3 years

Text

[day 4: cooking and baking]

Now, Bobby Singer didn’t always exactly enjoy having Sam and Dean around – he was used to living alone and he liked his routine; they got loud when they bickered and he always had to make sure they were clean and fed and far from the stuff he had laying around that they weren’t supposed to touch.

He never wanted to be a father after all, nor get stuck running a daycare for hunters for that matter, but he just couldn’t bring himself to say no to John whenever he asked, even if he had his garage to run and hunting on the side.

He felt bad for them. He might have known nothing about raising children, but he sure knew that they were supposed to have a home, not to be dragged across the country in an old car, exposed to all kinds of dangers.

So, if washing an extra set of bedsheets and hiding his booze and getting a headache or two from their feet stomping upstairs meant giving them a roof over their head for a few days, a familiar place where to feel safe and proper food in their belly – if one could count canned soup as proper food – then he could bite the bullet.

And they were good kids, they always did what he told them and never complained about anything.

Even when one year they got stuck at his place on Christmas Eve. The air was heavy around the dinner table and Bobby had turned on the tv in an attempt to liven up the atmosphere and distract them. Still, they remained quiet, hunched over their plates wearing gloomy faces.

Their father was supposed to pick them up but he’d called and said he wasn’t gonna make it. Bobby knew it was gonna happen as soon as he’d heard the phone ringing that afternoon.

"But it’s Christmas!” he’d hissed angrily trying not to be heard by the kids, “What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Uh - I don’t know, Bobby," John had replied, with that tone he got when he was uninterested in what you were saying and had already uncorked one too many beers. "It’s just this one time.”

When Bobby had delivered the news, Dean had shouted "Why hasn’t he called me?" and Sam had grumbled "You should have convinced him", so they most likely hated him too.

Bobby didn’t take it personally, if he were a kid he sure wouldn’t have liked to spend Christmas with someone like him and without his only parent.

Bobby didn’t do holidays at all. He hanged a wreath on the front door just cause he kept it in the hallway all year round. He made himself a turkey sandwich. He enjoyed a classic movie just as the next guy and he passed out on the couch with a glass of store-bought eggnog. That was it. It was not like he had anyone to share it with. It had been like that for years and he didn’t mind.

Knowing that the kids would be around though, he’d hanged on the window a string of lights he’d found in the basement and had put on display a weird looking statue of an elf - although if he wasn’t sure if it was Christmas related or just an old dark artifact. The boys had spared those things barely a glance and not brought up Christmas at all so Bobby had just figured that they didn’t do holidays either.

But then a commercial featuring a big holiday banquet came on tv for the umpteenth time, filling the kitchen with its obnoxious jingle and Dean finally spoke up.

“Hey Bobby,” he asked, tearing his eyes from the tv. “Did your mother ever bake for the holidays?”

Bobby didn’t even remember the last time he’d talked about his mother with anyone. It always brought up bittersweet memories he didn’t like to deal with. Still, he cleared his throat, “Sure,” he said, but now Sam was watching him too so he added, “she was a good baker - made a mean blueberry pie.”

Dean gave him a small smile. “Really?”

“Yeah, and she’d always make two, one for everyone and another one just for me."

“A whole pie? Just for you?" Sam asked with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"I could eat that," intervened Dean immediately.

Bobby snorted, “Yeah, I know that, kid."

Dean smiled proudly, but then Sam said "You couldn’t, Dean. You’d get sick."

"No, I wouldn’t," he shot back.

"Yes, you would. Not even an adult can - "

"What do you know, if you never - ”

“I know - ”

Bobby groaned and got up from the table to start collecting the dirty dishes, "Alright, break it up".

They fell into silence again as he put the dishes in the sink and started washing them.

"Go get ready for bed."

He heard the scraping of chair legs on the floorboards, but he was still thinking about his mother and didn’t realize that only one pair of shoes had left the room and the other one had come to stand next to him.

"Does your oven work?" Dean said, making him jump.

"Wh- my oven? Yeah. Why?”

"Just ‘cause... you never use it," was his reply, a little unsure.

"That don’t mean it don’t work."

"Have you ever used it?”

"Can’t remember, honestly.”

"Mum used to bake pies for me too," Dean said then. "Sammy wasn’t there so he gets upset when I talk about it."

Bobby gave him half a smile. "Bet Mary's pies were the best, uh?”

"Yeah", he said, but he sounded thoughtful. He still made no move to leave and Bobby didn’t know what else to say. The last thing he wanted was to make the boy sad, or worse, make him cry for his mom.

He started working faster on drying those dishes.

"Maybe your father remembers the recipe. You should ask him,” he said, casually.

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. Dean tugged the hem of his jacket and looked at him with the most scared expression Bobby had ever seen on him. “Don’t!" he said, "Please. Dad doesn’t like talking about these things. Don’t tell him I told you."

Bobby gritted his teeth and tried to not let his rage show on his face. He put down the rag and grabbed one of his shoulder, “It’s okay, Dean. I won’t.”

Dean gulped and quickly nodded and Bobby itched for a drink.

“Now go. It’s time for bed.”

"Yes, sir," said Dean.

“You don’t have to cal-” he started, then sighed, “Nevermind. Just go.”

As he heard the door upstair close he opened the highest cabinet and grabbed his bottle of scotch. He sat down to pour himself a glass, took his cap off and rubbed his forehead.

His hands tightened into fists at the thought of John. How could he leave them like that? What would’ve happened if he’d died on a hunt? Who would have cared for them? Bobby certainly couldn’t – John couldn’t possibly expect –

The tv was still on.

His second glass was already empty when that stupid holiday commercial with that stupid jingle came on once again. Annoyed, Bobby stood up to turn it off and that’s when Dean came to his mind and a thought hit him.

The kid wanted a damn pie.

He just didn’t know how to ask, or even if he could ask. And of course he would think that, with that father of his, his taboos and his rules. Bobby felt anger and stubborness rise in him.

If the kid wanted a goddamn pie, Bobby would’ve given him a goddamn pie. Even if he had to drive for miles at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day for blueberries.

And now where the fuck did he put Karen’s recipe book?

The morning after, he cracked the bedroom door open and Dean blinked awake as soon as he brushed his shoulder.

“Don’t wake your brother. Come downstairs," he whispered, motioning him to be quiet.

In the daylight Bobby was willing to admit that he was a little nervous about his idea.

Yet he couldn’t resist watching Dean’s face as he entered the kitchen ten minutes later and stopped in his track when he saw flour, eggs, sugar and blueberries lined up on the counter.

It was like his face couldn’t settle on an emotion. He frowned, smiled, frowned again. Then he just looked at Bobby as if he was asking him what he was supposed to do or say.

"I was thinking it’s about time I make that oven work again. What you say? Wanna bake your own pie?"

Dean surprised himself with a laugh. "But Bobby - I don’t – I never -"

"What, you think I do?" Bobby shrugged, "If it’s bad, we’ll just throw it out."

Dean seemed too overwhelmed to say anything. He just nodded.

Bobby went towards him. "See, I got this book here, it was my wife’s. We’re more than capable to follow a bunch of instructions, right?"

It took way longer than Bobby had anticipated, and surely longer than it generally took other people. And it wasn’t easy. At all. Not just because in the last few years he’d reduced his diet to mostly pre-cooked stuff, but especially for the smells that filled the kitchen and the long string of memories attached to them - Karen and his mom, guilt and comfort, sweetness and fear.

But Bobby went through all of it, the fishing out of the egg shells, the spilling of the flour, the hour long wait for the dough to set and the million questions Dean seemed to have – because the boy enjoyed himself.

Bobby was pretty sure of it, from the way he groaned in disgust as he dipped his hands in the mixture with raw eggs, in his cheeky face when he lied about stealing the blueberries they were using, in his clear laugh when Bobby slipped and almost crashed on the dirty floor; all of that made it worth it.

When the oven door was closed and the timer was set, he even sat cross-legged on the tiles to watch it as it baked.

Bobby moved around him to clean the mess they’d made and then went to wash himself up. When he looked himself in the bathroom mirror he saw flour all over his beard and bits of dough on his flannel. He found himself smiling a little.

He might not be able to bring the boys the spirit of Christmas or whatever crap they sold these days, but he would’ve been be satisfied if he managed to make them happier for half a day.

Dean started pounding on the door right in that moment. “Bobby!” he was shouting, “The timer! Hurry up! We need to get it out!”

Bobby’s reflection rolled his eyes and sighed. “Coming!” he shouted back and heard Dean running away again.

When he entered the kitchen half a minute later, Sam had joined Dean in front of the oven. He was still in his pyjamas and looked up at him with sleepy eyes. “Dean’s screams woke me up,” he said.

“Yeah, alright. I’m here, let me through and step back. I don’t want you to get burned.”

As carefully as possible, he took the pie out under the scrutinizing gaze of the brothers. As he sat it on the table he noticed the uneven colour of the crust and the filling that had spilled all over the sides and through the cracks. He made a face. “Well - doesn’t look half bad as far as first attempts go -" he tried to say but his words were drowned by the boys shouting “Whoa!”

"It smells so good," said Dean, wearing a proud smile.

"It’s perfect," said Sam with the solemnity of a renown critic. "Can we try it now?"

"Let’s give it a moment to cool down. You go get dressed. Dean, go wash your hands."

They both sprinted in different directions. Sam immediately ran up the stairs banging a hand on the banister in excitement. Dean bolted in the direction of the downstairs bathroom.

“Be careful!” he thundered.

They both shouted back at once: “Yes, Uncle Bobby!”

A rush of affection washed over him. He shook his head looking down at their pie.

“Merry Christmas kids.”

joining @bend-me-shape-me in this!

#SPNAdventCalendar2020 #spn fanfiction #christmas at bobby's #bobby singer #2k #he does his best - i love him #sam and dean are 7 and 11 i guess #john winchester a+ parenting #i know that im kinda obsessed w bobby but i was thinking that #apart from the kitchenettes in motel rooms #bobby's kitchen was the only real one the boys got to see #maybe pastor jim's ?? we never saw that thought #honestly i have no idea if this fits into canon #but when dean was 10 bobby played catch w him so - why not #also im obsessed w bobby hating john because he sees his abusive father in him #my writing #bobbyverse

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forever-rogue · 4 years

Note

Hi darling. I would like to request Frankie being overprotective when reader is sick. I have headache rn and I would like to see how our cutie boy can handle it. Thank you 🤩

I love the idea of an overprotective Frankie 🥺 He would be such a good caregiver.

»»————-　♡　————-««

You set the warm kettle back down as you finished pouring the steaming water into your mug. Spying your favorite tea in the cabinet, you grabbed and opened it fishing out one of the last teabags. You'd have to get more when you went to the store next time. You loathed running out of it, especially now that colder months were starting.

"What are you doing?" Frankie caught you completely off guard as he came back into the kitchen, canvas totes in each hand, filled with fresh groceries. You had dropped the tea in surprise but offered him a sheepish look as he came over and set the bags on the counter, "Honey Bee, you should be in bed."

"I know," you managed to croak out, your throat still dry and scratchy. You'd come down with a harsh cold, which had caused you to have stay home from work and rest. Frankie, the ever doting boyfriend, had taken on the role of caregiver rather well, and had been waiting on you hand and foot, trying to help you to feel better. You hated depending on someone else for everything, but this cold had really knocked you down and out, "I didn't know when you'd be back and really wanted some tea. I can do some things myself."

"I know," he agreed, taking the bag and dipping into the mug for you, adding just a bit of honey like he knew you enjoyed. His hand found your cheek as he stroked your skin delicately before placing a kiss to your forehead, "but its okay to let me help you out. You always do it for me. But come, let's get you back to bed."

"Are you sure?" you asked quietly, "I can help put away groceries and stuff. At least let me help that much..."

"Absolutely not, out of the question," he insisted fervently, wrapping an arm your waist and holding your tea in the other as he led you back to bed. You didn't even bother to argue with him, knowing there was no point.

Setting down your tea on the bedside table, next to a picture of the two of you that you loved, he pulled back the covers and ushered you under them. It was like the universe was on his side because as soon as your head hit the pillows, you were heavy with sleep again. Sniffling a yawn, you offered your love a soft smile, "thank you, Frankie. You're the best and I love you more than words could describe."

"I love you too," he promised softly, "now just rest. But if you need anything, call me. I'm going to and make some soup, okay? After that I'll draw you a bath, if you would like."

"I don't deserve you," it was a wistful sigh as you snuggled into the blankets and he offered you a gentle kiss on the forehead.

"Of course you do," he promised gently, "you deserve the world. Now rest, and if you need anything-"

"I'll call for you," you confirmed with a sleepy grin. He nodded before leaving the room closing the door ever so slightly.

He'd gone to the grocery store early that morning in order to get everything for homemade chicken noodle soup. It was his Abuela's recipe and he swore by it, sure if he had helped him through many colds in the past.

Frankie hated seeing you sick, knowing how independent you were and much you despised relying on the help of others. But he wasn't about to let you handle things on your own either. He had a feeling you'd be okay and feeling much better after the soup anyways, and surely you'd he right as rain in a few days.

»»————-　♡　————-««

When stirred from slumber again, the sun was setting and casting the room in a soft, pinkish orange glow. You stretched and yawned and almost as if on queue, Frankie popped his head into the room.

"Hi baby," he said softly as he came over to you, his hand going to your forehead to set check for any signs of fever, "how are you feeling?"

"Better, I think," you admitted, the tired heaviness of your aching body feeling ever so slightly relieved, "I must have been out for hours."

"You were," he confirmed, "but you need to listen to your body as well and right now your body needs the rest."

"Apparently so," you agreed as you pushed back the blankets, "is that your Abuela's soup I smell?"

"Indeed it is," he grinned at you, "it can work miracles after all. It just needs to finish simmering for a while and it will he ready soon. I made some bread to go with it too."

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Francisco. Thank you for taking such good care of me," you beamed as you ran a hand through his dark locks.

"Like I said, you do the same for me," he said gently, "and I love you. Now, what do you say about a bath?"

"Are you saying I stink?!" you joked as he leaned in and pretended to smell you. He jerked back and scrunched up his nose as you glared at him.

"Very stinky, baby," he almost giggled with laughter, "definitely time for a bathroom. You smell like honey and vaporub."

"Jerk," you teased as you slid your legs out of the bed in order to head to the bathroom. But Frankie was quicker and easily scooped you up into his arms and carried you to the ensuite bathroom, "ahh, what a prince my love is."

"Nah," he teased, "don't get used to it."

But you already were. Because Frankie was like this all the time, treating you like you were the only thing that mattered, because in a lot of ways to him, you were. But you loved and adored him with just as much reverent devotion.

Frankie gently set you back down before turning on the water, fiddling with the taps for a moment to get the temperature just before dropping in some of your favorite bubble bath. Stripping off your pajamas, you quickly stepped into the water, sinking down and letting the rising water start to envelope you. A small groan of pleasure left your lips as Frankie sat down the floor next to you, resting his arms atop the edge and watching you closely.

"What?" you asked as you grabbed a few bubbles and placed them on the tip of his nose, "never seen a pathetic sickling take a bath before?"

"Shush," he said as you blew some bubbles right back at you, "you are always beautiful, no matter what you look like or how you feel."

"Mhmm," you replied as you leaned back and closed your eyes, "whatever you say, mi amor."

"Exactly," he insisted, "do you want me to wash your hair?"

Your eyes opened as a little grin crossed your features. There were few things you loved more than the feeling of getting your hair washed, especially by Frankie. He often took it upon himself when the two of you showed together.

"Really?" you asked as he nodded, "I would love nothing more. My body is still tired and sore, and if I'm being quite honest, it's never as good as when you do it."

"Ahh, I've spoiled you too much already."

"Indeed, you truly have," you agreed.

"I'm joking-"

"I'm not," you promised, taking his face in your hands and staring into those soft, deep chocolate eyes, "I mean it, Francisco. I love you more than anything. You make me so happy."

"You do too," he promised, taking your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, "now come, let me help you wash up and then we'll have dinner."

»»————-　♡　————-««

"Okay," you said, swallowing a hearty bite of bread and soup, "it's official. Your Abuela is a miracle worker and whatever secret ingredients she puts in the soup are magic."

"I know," he grinned at you, as he took your bowl and laddled some more soup into it, "one day you might even learn the secret ingredients. But she has to give permission first."

"Oh?" you quirked an eyebrow at him as you eagerly took the second helping, "and how does one go about getting permission?"

"Gotta be part of the family-"

"I am part of the family," you insisted, knowing full well it was true. His family, including his Abuela, adored you and always considered you to be one of them.

"I know," he agreed, a flush of pink rising in his cheeks, "but she means family family. Like we gotta get married."

"Ohh," your eyes widened as you stared at your soup, "maybe...maybe one day."

"Obviously," his response was sure, but nonchalant that your head snapped in his direction as he looked back at you with a simple shrug. You'd talked about marriage before, more or less in passing, but you'd never given it that much thought before. You figured if it was meant to happen, it would happen eventually, "what?"

"You want to get married?" you asked shyly as he gave you a surprised look.

"Of course," he beamed, "I'm going to marry the hell out of you. Don't you worry, Honey Bee, its going to happen. When you least expect it, but it will happen."

Frankie was just was just waiting for the opportune moment to pop the question. He'd had the ring for months, carefully hidden away as he tried to plan the perfect moment. Hell, he was half tempted to grab it and do it now. Despite still being sick and tired and run down, you looked as beautiful as ever. The soft expression on your face was enough to make his heart melt.

"Well..." you trailed off, staring at your soup and barely able to contain your smile, "I...I look forward to it. Just, you know, so I can get your Abuela's recipes."

Frankie snorted with laughter as he shook his head and reached over to wipe a crumb from the corner of your mouth.

"You must be feeling better if you're giving me this much sass," he stated as you nodded in agreement.

"Its the soup..." you said as you brought the bowl to your lips and downed the rest of it, "and the amazing care from my Frankie. Thank you for everything."

"You don't have to thank me," he promised, getting up to clear away the dishes, "now, what do you say to a movie? If you're up for it? We'll get under the covers, you can rest, and I'll even let you pick the movie."

"Deal," you eagerly agreed, "I make no promises to stay awake but I will try."

"Perfect," he busied himself with the kettle on the stove, "now get back into bed, turn on Netflix, and I'll be there in a few minutes with tea."

"And honey?"

"Only the finest for my Honey Bee," he promised, waving the bottle at you.

"I love you, Frankie," you said softly, "truly."

"And I love you," he shot you a quick wink, "now get into bed and I'll be right there."

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #triple frontier

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

Cross Poison

(She appears briefly BUT read Anne as Courtney!Anne)

owo what’s this? another gift for @the10amongstthese3s?? yeh. I’ve lost all control hghhhfhghg it’s not even their birthday month yet but 🤟🤟 party hard

me: frantically google searches if luna is in fact moon in spanish (good news gang, it is)

also this is the third fic with a Pokemon move for a title. i am very ashamed of my lack of creativity

Word count: 6311

———————

“Catalina...Catalina...Catalina....”

Her eyelids were glued shut; no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t open them. Not that she cared- the lights would be too bright, anyway. She had felt like she was going blind the day before from just her nightlight.

“Oh no. She doesn’t look too good.”

“Stay out in the hall if it bothers you, Jane.”

“Will she be okay?”

“Yeah, I think. It’s just a little bug.”

A soft moan breached her chapped lips. The sound grated against her throat like talons of fire- she needed water so badly.

“Catalina? Can you hear me? It’s Anne.”

There’s a cool touch on her hot forehead. Despite herself, she leaned into it, desperate for the coldness.

“Anne, I don’t think she’s going to be waking up anytime soon. She’s out cold.”

“I felt her move.”

“Still. She’s not going to be performing today. She looks...not good.”

That had to be Kitty. Aragon knew not by the voice, which was muffled and far away, but the choice of words.

“Yeah. We should go get someone to take care of her.” There’s a rustling right beside her ear; acrylic nails tap on a phone screen.

“Who are you texting?”

“Joan.”

There was disbelieving sputtered laughter.

“Joan? Are you serious?”

“Yes! She’s close to Catalina and she has a ton of vacation days saved up. I know she’ll take off if I explain the situation.”

“Yeah, and the minute Aragon sneezes she’ll keel over and die.” Kitty snorted. “You know what’s wrong with her. She can barely talk to people without losing her mind.”

There’s nothing wrong with my girl! Aragon thought fiercely. She tried to get up to rain hellfire on Kitty for saying that, but all of her limbs were heavy and weighed her down like ten ton pieces of lead.

“She just has anxiety.” Anne said dismissively.

“Saying whatever she has is anxiety is an understatement. She worries about EVERYTHING.” Kitty said. “Like— I have anxiety, but I know how to pee in public.”

“And yet you faint at the sight of a hatchet. So don’t even start.”

“It’s—!!”

Anne barked something, but Aragon’s hearing was fading out. She moaned again and then she could feel her head flop to the side on what she’s pretty sure is a pillow. Blackness consumed her—but she doesn’t know the difference from everything else she’s been surrounded by.

—

Freezing water cascaded down Aragon’s face, snaking down her neck and seeping into all of her pores. She jolted awake, breathing harshly, and whipped around to the man trying to comfort her.

She should have known. This was why she always tried to take care of herself—because she KNEW Henry would try and slither back into her life. Long ago, she used to comfort herself with that thought, her husband crawling back to her after realizing all of her replacements were horrible and nobody would ever be able to top her, but now it filled her with nothing but sticky dread that fuels her nausea.

She doesn’t want to feel his hands brushing back her sweaty hair, his lips when he kisses her and tells her how she’s still beautiful, his body when he holds her when chills wrack through her. She wouldn’t let that happen again- not ever. So, even with an illness weighing her down, she gathered herself up to her full size and—

Wait a minute.

Her vision may have been edged with blackness and very blurry, but she knew Henry was not as thin as the person on the floor of her bedroom. And definitely didn’t have blonde hair. In fact, he didn’t even have hair at all.

“Joan?” She said—or tried to. Her voice was so raspy and weak that simply saying a name hurt. The water that had been running down her face cleared her nose for a moment, but her sinuses were already pressing back in. Even in her own ears, she could faintly hear how nasally and wobbly her words were.

“Y-yes?” The girl on the floor responded. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you! I-I was just trying to...” She glanced over at the bedside table and Aragon saw a bowl of water and a rag sitting on it.

Oh.

“I see,” Aragon blinked. “That makes more sense than...” She shook her head and pain ricochets through it.

“I’m sorry,” Joan said, looking down at the floor. “I—”

“Hush, love.” Aragon said. “It’s alright.”

She threw her legs over the edge of the bed, and that movement alone jarred her weak body horribly. She took in a shaky breath and put her head in her hands, massaging her pounding temples. She heard Joan scramble to her feet in front of her.

“C-Catalina?” She stammered nervously.

“I’m fine.” Argaon grit, and then her stomach churned audibly. She set a hand over it as Joan grimaced. “Actually- Can you hand me that rubbish bin?” She swallowed thickly. “And then give me some privacy?”

Joan’s eyes widened and she nodded frantically. She gave Aragon the trashcan and then walked out, hearing gagging and coughing a moment later.

—

Nerves were crawling and writhing in the pit of Joan’s gut like snakes. She could almost hear them hissing as they slid past each other, making her stomach roil. But she would not spill her guts, especially with Aragon being sick. She was supposed to be taking care of the queen—she couldn’t act like this!

And yet, her anxiety continued to rise. And it definitely didn’t help that there was flour everywhere.

Joan blamed it on the kitchen. It was, at least in part, responsible, being rather cramped because of the large island. One quick turn and smack! An arm-to-flour-bag collision sent the product flying to the floor, landing in a cloud of white powder.

And it was loud, too, making a rather distinct thump that likely resonated throughout the entire house.

And throughout the entire house meant—

The girl jumped from her position across the kitchen, dropping the measuring cups and spoons she had been carrying to squeak nervously. They clattered to the ground, much to her dismay, but she had to deal with it later. Right now, she had to face the door down the upstairs hallway creaking open.

Joan squeaked again and stumbled up the stairs towards Aragon’s room, tripping over her own feet and a pool of flour in the process. She attempted to urge the disoriented queen back into her room, idly brushing off the coating of flour that covered her entire being.

Aragon’s voice is rough and her accent mixes with the words horribly when she starts asking questions: “What happened? What fell? Are you alright?”

“Nothing! Nothing! It’s fine—everything’s fine so, please, um, go back to your room now! Get more rest, you’re still sick!” Joan yelled in response, voice faltering and increasing in pitch as she went.

“It’s only a slight fever, I’m fine. I don’t understand why you are so—”

Joan, not knowing what else to do, screamed. In surprise, Aragon responded with a sharp yelp. They were probably, most likely, definitely causing a disturbance by now. Joan would write five-page apology notes later.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Aragon asked, frantically now, her voice becoming a hoarse whisper due to illness.

“Um, I, um,” Joan felt her lungs seizing up in the way they usually did when she was about to have a panic attack, but she beat the feeling back. She couldn’t lose herself to her anxiety right now, especially with Aragon in much worse shape. “I-I’m dealing with it, d-don’t worry!”

“But what is it, that’s all I’m asking—”

“It is being dealt with!”

There was a brief pause, leaving the house in silence. Then, Aragon sighed, muttered a soft, resigned, “forget it, whatever it is, I don’t want to know,” and turned around to return to her room. Joan scampered back to the kitchen and braced herself against the sink, struggling to breathe for a moment.

She felt utterly pathetic. How could that simple interaction nearly spiral her into full blown panic? She had to get her head on straight!

After taking a few calming breaths like Aragon had taught her, she stepped back and then began cleaning up. She lost about half of the flour in the fall, much to her dismay, because it was a brand new bag. She made a mental note to pay the queens back for it, then moved on.

Once she finished cleaning up, she set everything she needed neatly on the counter. She glanced several times at the recipe she was going off of as she mixed the specific ingredients together, since she wanted this to be perfect. Aragon must have been feeling miserable- she HAD to make something good for her to hopefully cheer her up.

Several dirty dishes, incorrectly measured ingredients, and one incident where her long hair got caught in the mixer later, she has her treat tucked away in the oven to bake. She smiled proudly to herself, then moved onto cleaning up and making some soup on the stove-

-only to remember that she had no idea how to make soup. Even the recipes she looked up seemed way too complicated for her stupid fish brain. She worried over this for a long time before deciding to just make some porridge. Somehow, that is something she’s able to make.

Her mind whirled as she began taking out the necessary ingredients. The usual voices she heard in her head were, for once, not warbling over her, but rather Aragon.

Hot porridge. I’ll make hot porridge. She’ll like that.

Hot porridge will make her throat worse. It hurts right now. Cold porridge will cool it down and soothe it.

Cold porridge would chill her bones and make her fever worse. Hot porridge is softer on the stomach.

Hot porridge burns tongues.

Cold porridge—

“Aaagh, shut up!” Joan cried miserably, clamping her hands over her ears. It took her a moment to realize what she'd done and she looked around the kitchen bashfully, as if she thought someone had materialized nearby and watched her yell at herself.

“You’re fine, Joan,” She whispered. “You’re okay. You can do this. Just like you used to back then. It’s not that hard.” She paused. “Aaand you’re still talking to yourself. Good job.”

She shook her head and wracked her brain to remember what was needed. Water, milk, rice, seasoning. Easy.

And yet, it still took her three tries to make a simple pot of porridge. First she poured too much seasoning, then she burned herself on the stove and dropped the bowl she was holding, and finally, she somehow managed to turn the food into a gross goop that would only succeed in making Aragon even sicker. After finally getting it right, she sunk to the ground with a woeful noise, wallowing in her own shame.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic- Her mind screamed. Can’t even make a simple meal? What an embarrassment.

She whimpered softly, feeling a panic attack rise in her chest, but she stamped it back down. She would not lose herself. She couldn’t.

Think about rain, She thought over and over again. Think about rain, think about rain, think about rain...

There was a crash of thunder- actual thunder. Joan jumped backwards, slamming her body up against the oven and staring with wide eyes as a downpour of rain suddenly came down against the glass back door. She scrambled for her phone, wondering if the queens did something to protect the glass from a storm, and then realized how stupid that was. She put her phone down as a blush blazed over her cheeks.

Stupid, Her thoughts hissed. Can’t you do anything right? Use some common sense.

She tried to think about rain again, but the peaceful drizzle she usually calmed herself with has turned into a raging storm within her head. Lightning slashed the mindscape as thunder rolled through her eardrums. Cracks appeared everywhere, jagged and fang-shaped when they split open like oozing wounds. She wondered if her cranium was being destroyed as the internal storm veered into a baby hurricane.

There’s a loud beep. It lanced through the tsunami and Joan’s eyes snapped open.

She’s on the floor, curled in a fetal position, clutching at her head. She rose slowly, feeling embarrassed.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic- Her mind roared, but she did her best to ignore it as she took the cake out of the oven.

It’s an effort that takes a lot longer than it should, but when she finishes icing the cake, Joan has a brief moment of pride. She was satisfied with the result as she fawned over how pretty it was, even if it was thin and slightly deformed in shape, and the golden-orange frosting was gooey and haphazardly spread across the surface.

Joan cut a generous sized piece for Aragon, grabbed a fork and a plastic bag, and practically bounced up to Aragon’s room, the cake balanced precariously on the plate held behind her back. She was barely able to stop herself from chiming out loud when she saw the queen’s form upon entering.

Aragon was lying on her back, one hand resting over her stomach, the other drooped listlessly at her side. Her eyes were scrunched shut and her mouth was open slightly to breathe- her nose must be too stuffed to get air that way. Beads of sweat clustered together on her forehead. She doesn’t stir when Joan walks in.

“Catalina?” Joan called out softly. She stepped closer. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed vomit in the waste bin. She winced. “Catalina?”

Aragon’s body shuddered in a way that sent jolts of anxiety crackling through Joan’s entire being. She moaned softly, then her eyelids peeled back and she stared blankly up at the ceiling.

“Catalina?” Joan said again, this time much quieter. She edged towards the door slightly, expecting the queen to snap at her for waking her up. But instead, Aragon’s head rolled over the pillow to face her and she smiled weakly.

“Hello, little luna,” She croaked, her voice rough with illness. She sounded worse than she did earlier. “Were you baking?”

Joan blinked. “Ah… You…”

“Smelled it?” Aragon chuckled a little. “Barely,” She snuffled through her stuffy nose then made a very unqueenly face that caused a giggle to bubble up from Joan. “But it’s enough.”

She fell into silence as Joan sat on the edge of the bed, then slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position. She winced as she did so, even letting out a soft gasp of pain, and one of her hands shot to her stomach. Joan nearly dropped the cake reaching for the trashcan, but Aragon stopped her with a dismissive wave of her other hand.

“I’m alright, dear,” She said. “Just some cramps.” She leaned back against the pile of pillows against her headboard, breathing out softly through her mouth.

Joan quickly regained herself from her flash of panic. She pulled the cake out from behind her back and presented it to Aragon, beaming.

“Look! I worked really hard on this! Maybe it’ll cheer you up!” Joan nearly glowed with satisfaction. Aragon gingerly took the plate from her.

“Ah,” Aragon said. “Thank you.” She stared down at the plate as if it were holding a human heart rather than a sweet treat.

Joan continued to give her a look, one of adoration and anticipation, and Aragon has the choice to either swallow down her hopeless devotion to her daughter figure or swallow down the cake in front of her on an upset stomach, risking further nausea...or worse. She cast an uneasy glance to the trash can, but Joan doesn’t notice it through her eyeball-scorchingly bright radiation of bliss and pride.

“I’m sick, you know.” Aragon stated. Joan nodded, about to respond when Aragon continues, “So I can’t… really eat this right now.”

The realization appeared to dawn on Joan rather painfully, and in seconds the girl has apologies spilling from her mouth like a waterfall. Aragon can’t even get a word in edgewise to stop the torrent of despair coming from Joan, who seemed to think that she’s ruined everything— “I’m so sorry, how rude of me, I should’ve known better, oh Catherine, I’m sorry—”

“Joan!”

Joan flinched away, nearly teetering off the bed. Hot shame poured down her throat and set her insides ablaze. At the same time, icy cold dread shoved its way in and the two conflicting emotions clamored for space inside of her until she felt like she was going to be sick.

“Joan.” Aragon said again, clearing her throat. She reached out and gently touched Joan’s cheek; her hand was shaking with exhausted tremors. “Think about rain, baby. You’ve got this.”

Joan closed her eyes. She imagined collapsing all her thoughts about nearly worsening Aragon’s sickness into dozens of raindrops and whisking them into a background storm. It works—for now. She opens her eyes again and Aragon is smiling at her, despite the tiredness and pain very obviously glinting in her eyes.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, PLEASE just let me sleep, Joan imagined her thoughts crying. You nearly poisoned me with your blasted cake! The least you can do is let me rest!

Joan put that into a raindrop, too, although it was a little harder to shove inside. The tone the internal voice spoke with sounded exactly like Aragon’s- what if she had said that out loud? What if she was upset with Joan? What if she wanted her to leave?

“Raindrops, baby,” Aragon murmured, caressing Joan’s cheek. Her shaking fingers press into the coolness of Joan’s skin, like she was hoping to lower her fever with the touch alone.

Raindrops, Joan repeated in her head, and she shoved the Aragon-mimicking thoughts into one of the shimmering droplets falling from her internal rainstorm.

“Good girl,” Aragon said breathily. Despite having to take a moment to breathe through a wave of dizziness and blink away the black spots that come with it, she’s still able to recognize the way Joan’s face would relax when she successfully blocks out her anxiety. “Good girl...”

Every worried thought suddenly exploded out of their raindrop, splattering icy water throughout Joan’s brain, but she could hardly care because Aragon is tipping over and she has to rush to catch her. Her hands grappling the queen’s forearms seemed to be enough to jar her awake, because her eyes snapped open and she sat up quickly.

“Catherine?” Joan said worriedly. “Are you okay? Can you hear me? Should I call someone? An ambulance?”

Lightning cracked in her internal rainstorm, illuminating a puddle upon the mindscape that she always tried very hard to keep covered. There were three, actually- one wreathed in thorny vines around the edges with brilliant emerald flowers sprouting from the snarls, one with pinkish-green snapdragons lurking around the perimeter, and one that has soft white petals floating upon the surface. As beautiful as they may have been, she dreaded having their contents bubble out of the pools—and that’s exactly what was happening with the third puddle.

Images flashed behind her eyelids- a sickroom, stained sheets, a fretting king and a writhing, gasping queen.

“I’m alright,” Aragon’s voice surfaced through the clamor of noise resonating through her skull. She seemed to be too busy recovering from her near-blackout to notice Joan’s rising anxiety.

“That’s good.” Joan said distantly. The sickroom again, blood oozing down a bedside, half of a placenta sprawled out of a dark red abyss of torn flesh and blood and inflamed vaginal tissue. “I’m...I’m glad.”

She turned stiffly to the edge of the bed, and at first she thought she was moving to vomit in the trash can, but then she reached for the plastic bag she brought in with her.

Oh yeah, She thought. How could I forget? Stupid.

“What’s that?” Aragon asked after clearing her throat again. Her voice was slimy with mucus, but she was still doing her best to hold herself like a regal queen.

“Oh, just some medicine.” Joan pulled out a bottle filled with some kind of dark pink liquid. Aragon squinted at it and curled her nose. “I went shopping before I came over.”

“What is it exactly?” Aragon asked.

“Something that will help you.” Joan informed. “I also got ginger shots, throat coat, Ibuprofen, Motrin, Mucinex-”

“Are you trying to overdose me or something?”

A blush lit up on Joan’s cheeks and Aragon chuckled lightly. She gently touched the girl’s hand; hers is still shaking.

“I’m joking, baby.”

Joan smiled thinly, then unscrewed the lid of the bottle she’s holding and filled the cap up with the thick liquid. She looked at it, smelled it once, and was glad she’s not the one about to drink it.

“That’s probably enough, right?” She looked at the queen.

It was a big lid. A little over the stated amount wouldn’t be that bad, right? The more Aragon takes the better it’ll work! Probably.

“You’re the caretaker.” Aragon said.

Joan inspected the medicine-filled cap for another moment before handing it to Aragon. The queen stared at it like it’s poison. Joan giggled softly.

“Just...take it like a shot!” Joan encouraged her.

“Bold words from someone who has never taken a shot before,” Aragon said, earning a ruffled look from Joan. She flashed a smile at the girl, then punched her nose shut, tipped her head back, and downed the liquid as fast as she could. Almost instantly, she made an ungodly sound similar to that of a cat coughing up a hairball. Joan dissolved into giggles.

“Oh Lord,” Aragon said bitterly. She snatched the water bottle sitting on her nightstand and took a big sip.

“Hang on, there’s more.” Joan said before Aragon could get too comfortable with feeling like she was done.

It probably wasn’t good to take all that medicine on an empty stomach, but Aragon still wasn’t up to eat much, even when Joan told her she also made some porridge. She just shook her head and laid back down after taking several pills and shots of foul-tasting liquids.

Upon peeling herself out of the room, Joan was met with a rush of worry and fear that nearly caused her to spill the trash can she told Aragon she was going to clean out for her. She gripped the edges tightly and trekked into the kitchen, trying not to succumb to her nervousness, but it was so hard with every possible bad situation shoving its way in. Soon, several endings to this sickness were laid out to her- the least alarming one was Aragon recovering, but being deaf for life due to her high fever, but the others were much, much worse: Aragon seizing in the bed, foaming at the mouth; Aragon being dead the next time she checks up on her; Aragon being brain dead because her fever fried her brain; Aragon spewing blood and vomit from her mouth because Joan accidentally overdosed her; the other queens looming over Joan, their faces twisted with hatred and disgust, while Maria and Cathy wail over Aragon’s horribly pale corpse in the background; Joan being shunned and hated and called a killer for the rest of her life.

Then, she blinked and they’re gone, disappearing into the mist of her internal rainstorm and she doesn’t even try to scramble after them. Even if she wanted to, it’s almost impossible for her to pull thoughts back out of the storm once they’ve drifted inside.

She takes to washing the dishes she dirtied from making the porridge, and it took a lot of time because she knew that Jane was sort of a neat freak and would kill her if she left a smudge of rice on one of her pots. Doing the chore eased her mind slightly, got her away from thinking about every worst-case scenario, but she can feel them lurking in the back of her head, waiting.

The storm outside the house hissed. The backyard was turning into a small lake, swelling and churning and eroding the ground into a stew of mud and weeds. Joan walked over to the back door and stared out at the pouring rain. Weather like this reminded her of reincarnation, which was rather strange because she was the only one who didn’t come back when it was raining.

Aragon and Anne had told her about it a few months after everyone was settled. The queens came back first, all on the same day, all during a terrible storm with “thunder so loud it could chip bones”, as Anne had stated, and they all met the same day at the chapel Jane was buried at. Soon after, they got the huge house in ways they still couldn’t really understand, and then, four months later, the ladies in waiting appeared, although they came back in two day intervals. Maria on Monday, Maggie on Wednesday, Bessie on Friday, and then Joan on Sunday. However, they said the storm cleared up the day of Joan’s reincarnation, making them think that nobody else would appear. But that night was one of the brightest they’ve ever seen, and she showed up in their backyard, underneath the glowing moon. Completely naked, too. That part always made Joan very flustered, but she liked the way Anne and Aragon would laugh when she would-

Aragon.

A sudden gush of adrenaline sent Joan careening up the stairs and to Aragon’s bedroom. She nearly kicked the door off its hinges, but she couldn’t care because Aragon-

-was perfectly safe in her bed?

Joan blinked. As much as she loved seeing that the queen was okay, she couldn’t understand the sight. Was she hallucinating? Why did she have such a bad gut feeling all of a sudden?

She waited by the door, thinking that maybe something might happen, but nothing did. Nothing bad, at least. Aragon stirred at one point and sneezed in her sleep, which nearly made Joan fling herself at her and give her CPR (as if that would help even if she WAS dying, anyway—she didn’t know how to give CPR correctly at all).

Her nerves were on fire. Alarm bells were ringing in her ears, screaming, “GO! GO! SHE’S DYING! HURRY! YOU HAVE TO HURRY OR SHE’LL DIE!”

Cleves had once asked her how she managed to be so anxious all the time, and, at the time, she didn’t have an answer. But now she did: she didn’t manage it. Being this nervous was exhausting. And she hated it, but she didn’t know how to turn her brain off or quiet her flurry of worried thoughts that poured through her brain every second of every day.

The pet cat, Tea Cake, strolled by and meowed at Joan. She swore even IT was judging her nervousness. She sighed and finally left the room, despite her brain crying, “NO! NO! GO BACK! SHE’LL DIE!”

She collapsed down onto the couch and put her head in her hands. When she glanced up, she saw that the time displayed on the TV cable box read: 12:04. It was a double show day today, so she probably had another good four or five hours before the queens got back. If she could just keep Aragon alive until they took over, then it wouldn’t be her fault if she died!

She squeezed her temples against her palms. How could she ever think like that? Besides, she would find a way to blame herself, anyway. Just like-

A whimper bubbled to Joan’s lips, which turned into a sob. Suddenly, there’s tears running down her cheeks and she doesn’t really know why, but she does know that she hates them and they make her persistent headache worse.

She cried alone on the couch for a while, at some point flopping over to bury herself against the back cushions in a fetal position. She was planning on just crying herself into a pathetic puddle, but then her phone rang and she had no choice but to pick it up. The caller idea said that it was Jane, and usually her heart would leap in joy to see that her queen was calling her, but, right now, simply seeing her name said spirals of bad, bad things coiling through her brain.

“Hello?” She said in her best not-having-an-anxiety-attack voice.

“Hey,” Jane replied coolly. She sounded nonchalant, but Joan has become good at detecting the annoyance that would edge her voice whenever she talked to her. Even on a phone call, the stinging irritation was bristled around her words like needle-sharp thorns. “I’m just calling to check up on Catalina. How is she?”

Ironically, it was the one afraid of illness doing this. Perhaps it’s to make up for her not being able to physically comfort her fellow queen.

“Okay,” Joan answered. She struggled to keep her voice steady, but she knew it was wobbling treacherously. “She’s- she’s, ah— she’s sleeping. Right now. S-she’s sleeping.”

“I see.” Jane said. Then, she paused. “Are you alright?”

A whirl of new thoughts filled Joan’s head: Jane cares, Jane doesn’t care, Jane is worried about her, Jane is going to tell the others about how pathetic she is and they’ll all laugh at her, Jane knows.

“I-I’m f-ine.” Her voice cracked horribly and fresh tears ran down her cheeks. She has the art of crying silently mastered, but she knows Jane can still hear her sharp breaths and hiccups and whimpers. The fact that the queen isn’t saying anything makes her feel even worse. Scenarios shove their way into her brain faster: Jane putting her on speaker so everyone in the theater could hear her break down, Jane hanging up on her so she doesn’t have to listen to her sniffle and weep like a baby, Jane laughing at her.

“Listen to me,” Jane spoke up. Her voice is firm and hard, but Joan swore she could hear softness seep through the thorns edging her words. “I’m the calmest voice you hear. Use me as your anchor. I’ll keep talking until you calm down.”

Joan was nearly startled into calming down. Was Jane...trying to comfort her?

“Remember that you are safe. Look around you.”

Joan sank to her knees on the hardwood floor. Her chest ached with the weight of her guilt and anguish, which are mixing together awfully inside of her. She whimpered softly.

“You’re okay. We’re okay. Catalina is okay. The cat is okay. Anna’s dogs are, regrettably, okay.”

“Wh-why regrettably?” Joan stammered, sniffling.

“Ah, so you are listening.” Jane said. Joan thinks she may be tipping her head. “Keep listening. I know you can do that, Joan. You’re a very smart girl.”

Jane thinks I’m smart, Joan thought dizzily. And then, those thoughts spiral downwards, That doesn’t make sense. Jane is dead. I know Jane is dead. I saw her— I was— I felt her blood.

Joan closed her eyes and remembered the way she tried to help Jane after she gave birth to Edward. She had tried so hard to stop the bleeding, but there was just too much blood and it wouldn’t stop coming out and the smell was so bad and everything was yelling and Jane wouldn’t stop screaming.

“-my voice.” Jane was saying, a little more frantic. “Don’t let yourself fall in.”

But it was too late. The petal-strewn puddle in Joan’s mindscape frothed over its own edges until every bad thing she tried so desperately to hide within its depths came pouring out: Nurses shoving through the sickroom, midwives clamoring in a panic, blood and birthing fluids and placenta and sweat and tears, a tiny baby soaked in blood- They all flooded her mind with full force.

“Joan? Joan?” Jane called loudly. “Joan, are you there? What’s going on?”

Joan doesn’t answer. She simply dropped her phone, curled into a ball on the floor, and cried.

An unknown amount of time passes. It’s nearly two o’clock when Joan looked up, though. Immediately, a headache crashed into her head like a sledgehammer. Sweat glided down her body, but it felt more like blood to her.

She had to check on Aragon, but she couldn’t bear to see the queen while she was sick. She was too afraid of possibly seeing her as a corpse, so she just half staggered, half crawled to the downstairs bathroom, stripped off her clothing, and stumbled into the shower to scrub off the feeling of blood coating every inch of her skin.

Leaving her to suffer, Her mind hissed. Good job.

———

“Alright, that’s it—”

Aragon had been laying in her bed for what felt like hours, and she couldn’t take it anymore. She threw her legs over the edge and hauled herself out, which nearly landed her face-first on the floor when she put pressure on her numb legs, but she managed to grapple onto the door frame and steady herself. After a moment of breathing, she’s able to start walking.

Joan isn’t anywhere in sight when she finally makes it down the staircase, but she can faintly hear Cleves’ shower running. She chuckled, wondering how her nervous little moon conjured up the courage to use someone else’s bathroom, but was proud of her nonetheless.

She poured herself a bowl of porridge and sat down at the couch to eat. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until that moment; it was good to eat, especially something so light and easy on her stomach.

Somewhere down the hallway, she hears the shower sputter to a halt. A few minutes later, Joan trudged out, dressed in the same bumblebee T-shirt and sweat pants as she was in earlier. Her hair is still soaked, though, and she had a distant look in her dull grey eyes.

“Hello, little luna,” Aragon cooed over at her. She didn’t know if it was her fever making her delirious or if the girl’s touch starved aura was rubbing off on her or even if it was from her dreams of being with her daughter again, but she’s been itching to hold Joan in her arms. “You took a shower, I see. I’m not THAT contagious, you know.” She winked with a laugh, but Joan doesn’t react. She didn’t even look up at her. Aragon frowned. “Joan?”

Aragon set her bowl of porridge down after one more bite and walked over to where Joan had stopped in the living room. She’s clenching fistfuls of her shirt so tightly her knuckles were turning white. Something was wrong.

“Joan,” Aragon gently touched her shoulder, but even that is enough to make her jolt back. “Hey, sweetie, it’s okay. It’s just me. It’s Catalina.”

Joan looked up at her with wide eyes and there’s something in her gaze that she’s seen in Maria’s before, but much, much worse.

“Joan,” Aragon took her hands. “Think about the rain, baby.”

Joan’s eyes shut tightly and a strangled sob escaped her lips. She shook her head, making a miserable keening noise that sent cracks through Aragon’s heart.

“Think of the mist and wind and distant thunder,” Aragon continued softly, stroking Joan’s knuckles with her thumbs. “The fog and lightning and rainbows.”

“I-I can’t-“ Joan gasped. She shook her head. “I can’t. Y-you— You’re—sick— not okay— just like—”

Suddenly, it dawns on Aragon.

“Oh, Joan,” She murmured. “Oh, baby.” She cupped the girl’s tear stained cheeks. “You’re worried that I may end up like Jane, don’t you?”

With a feeble whimper, Joan nodded and then sobbed again.

“My poor girl,” Aragon guided Joan over to the couch and pulled her into a tight hug. Joan clung to her instantly, burying her face into her chest and clearly not even caring if she may catch whatever the queen has. “You have a lot of pent up anxiety over that, huh?”

Another nod, this one much weaker. Joan’s entire body is now wracked with weeping. Aragon holds her tightly, afraid she may fall apart if she didn’t. She stroked her soaking wet hair and rocked her back and forth.

“It’s going to be okay, honey,” Aragon whispered. “I’m okay, I promise. I’m alright. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

Joan, surprisingly, doesn’t argue against that claim. With a frown, Aragon realized it’s probably because she doesn’t have the energy to.

Joan cried for a long time, and all Aragon could do was hold her and wait until she’s well enough to talk to. However, when the sobs do eventually die down, Joan was already far gone in unconsciousness. She looked peaceful, at least, with her head resting atop Aragon’s chest. The queen closed her own eyes, feeling her illness take control over her once again. She, too, fell asleep, but awoke some time later to someone standing over her. She jumped back, instinctively holding the girl in her arms tighter.

“Sorry,” Jane said. “How are you feeling?”

“A little better,” Aragon answered. She was surprised that Jane was standing so close to her.

Jane nodded. She glanced down at Joan and expression became something that Aragon couldn’t really discern. She pursed her lips.

“Is she okay?” She finally asked quietly.

Aragon blinked, then looked down at Joan. “She...went through some stuff earlier.” She said. “She was pretty freaked out. Had an anxiety attack. She’s been asleep since.”

The flat line set on Jane’s mouth turned into a frown. She extended a hand and gently touched Joan’s head, then pulled back.

“I see.” She whispered. So many emotions were flashing in her eyes. “Well.” She turned away. “Take care of her. Oh— and yourself.”

Aragon watched her walk to the staircase and disappear upstairs, then looked down at Joan in her arms. She pulled the girl closer.

“Will do,” She said, long after Jane was gone.

#im love you duck mama 💕💕#six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six fanfic #six fanfiction #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #jane seymour #joan on the keys #katherine howard #anna of cleves #catherine parr #mamagon #cross poison

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 4 years

Text

ASoUE REWRITE - Season 1; The Miserable Mill - Part i.iv

⇢ Klaus x Reader⇠

[not my gif]

A//n: Thank you all for being so patient and understanding. I'm sorry I couldn't get this to you sooner and that it's so short. I got stuck in one spot and then I began the Eddie Kaspbrak rewrite and it slipped through the cracks. I do hope to continue this series and I have also figured out your special talent! If you previously knew it to be running, I have made changes back under chapter "important" and updated it, feel free to check it out if you'd like! Thank you for taking time to read this authors note and i hope you enjoy this chapter! Love you guys!! ♡♡♡

+++

Klaus sat timidly in the waiting room of Dr. Orwell's office, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the severed left temple of his glasses. His eyes darted around the room worriedly, trying to decipher all the strange shapes he saw. A poor choice of words as he couldn't actually see very well, the lenses of his glasses were hopelessly cracked and it was lucky - a word so rarely used in the lives of the Baudelaires - that the glass lenses hadn't come apart as he wore them.

Phil, who was sat upright next to Klaus, was happily humming a little tune. He was completely oblivious to the boy's troubles, as usual.

In an attempt to calm his racing mind, Klaus turned to the hope of reading, as he always did. He picked up one several magazines, the only choice out of the selection that lay organized on the coffee table, that wasn't some form of optometry piece. He picked it up to examine it, and quickly found his hopes stamped out when he saw the title:

Dreadful Pennies: RARE WORLD COINS and VALUABLE ODD COINS. The article of which I will spare you, advertised an analysis of coin trends, featuring the latest coin prices. Klaus had read hundreds of books in his life, and several of these books were of little interest to him. But this particular issue did not grab his attention so much and perhaps if he were bored, not worried, he would opt to pick it up and give it go, but the time simply wasn't ripe and he discarded the magazine distastefully on the coffee table.

It was at that moment that the dull thud of a pair of three(?) footsteps echoed across the room from the small landing of steps. There stood Dr. Orwell, cane in hand - which had solved the quick mystery of three footsteps - and she gave Klaus a knowing look.

"Klaus Baudelaire," she drawled, and Klaus gulped.

He stood up in her presence, recognizing her as the woman he and his sisters saw pacing in the window when they first arrived.

"You're Dr. Orwell?" He stammered.

She stepped forward into the lobby and nodded.

"Yes, I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I was on my lunch hour. Looks like somebody broke their glasses."

Klaus felt a nudge on his shoulder.

"See?" Phil said. "Perfectly friendly."

Klaus removed his glasses and held them in his hands.

"Well, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." Dr. Orwell said.

"Actually, you catch the most flies with manure." Klaus pointed out.

"Aren't you smart?" Dr. Owell stated, a twinge in her voice. "It's just an expression. A fancy way of saying you're more likely to get what you want by acting in a sweet way, than in a distasteful way, like vinegar."

Dr. Orwell reached over and grabbed Klaus by the hand suddenly and pulled him away to the stairs.

"Wave goodbye to your friend." She ordered.

Klaus, who had stumbled over the coffee table as he was being so rudely dragged across the room, squinted at the Phil shaped blob in his blurry vision. His head whipped back and forth between the doctor and Phil in panic.

"Goodbye?"

+++

Violet, Sunny, and Y/n sat at the very same table at which they met, waiting for Klaus to return. Night had fallen and their shift was long over, they sat at the table, the room illuminated by candles. Sunny, who had a particularly exhausting day, had fallen asleep on a mess of blankets next to her sister and her friend.

"He should have been back by now," Violet thought aloud.

"The handful of workers I've seen go to the optometrist usually take a while. I'm sure he'll be back any minute," Y/n assured, though her own confidence was beginning to waver.

It had been a little longer than most.

Phil, who also sat at the table with a deck of cards, looked to the young sorrowful girls and gestured to his game of solitaire.

"Why don't you ladies play a game of go fish to pass the time?"

The two girls looked at one another and then at the optimist, shaking their heads.

Violet looked out at the moon, wishing for her brother's safe return.

"Violet?"

In response, she looked to Phil. "Hmm?"

"That's not a window," Phil pointed out gently.

Just as soon as he had said it, Jimmy began drawing more details of the moon in chalk. And Violet saw the illusion disappear before her very eyes.

She turned her attention to the flickering candles that sat on the table and the two friends sighed in worry.

"Lights out," Phil said quietly.

Phil leaned down and blew out the candles, extinguishing all light from the dorms. Violet and Y/n were now feeling as lonesome as ever despite each other's company.

Violet looked to her sleeping sister and smiled weakly. She was still fast asleep on some cushions that Violet had made into a little bed for her. She pulled the blanket up further around her sister and gently stroked Sunny's soft head fondly.

A muffled pair of footsteps captured the attention of the two young ladies. It had come from outside the door and both Y/n and Violet's ears perked up when they heard the wooden door creak open. A phrase which here means, the two girls' attention was brought to the door, eager to see if the person opening it was Klaus Baudelaire. Their ears did not move in any way.

"Klaus!"

The girls rose to their feet when they saw their beloved friend and brother standing in the doorway alive and well. Well, the term "well" is an inadequate word for this situation, meaning it is a poor choice of words for how the only boy Baudelaire was. "Well" would be a good choice of words if you were describing the quality of a good soup, not a fantastic soup but a soup that followed the recipe just enough. The point is the Baudelaire boy was not well, like a good hearty soup, but he was alive and that was what the three girls had been hoping for.

Violet and Y/n rose to their feet and greeted the boy eagerly at the door.

"We were worried. You were gone so long." Violet said.

"Your glasses are gone, are they still being repaired?" Y/n asked.

Klaus didn't utter a word, nor did he ever look the girls directly in the eye, but right past them. Like they weren't there. Naturally, this worried Y/n. In her time at the mill, she had seen several people go into the eye building and come out acting strange. She did not mention this to the Baudelaire sisters because she knew they were already worried and there was no sense in worrying them further unless he showed signs. Unfortunately - a word I'm afraid I will use many more times in the Baudelaire and L/n story - Y/n did see the same signs in Klaus. He kept to himself, and he had the same faraway look that had chilled her to the bone several times.

"What was it like inside the eye? Klaus?" Violet asked.

With the same faraway look, he began walking slowly and sluggishly towards his bed. Violet followed him worriedly, trying desperately to pull any words, any at all, put from her brother. Y/n stayed rooted to the floor, watching sadly as she saw the same patterns emerge in her friend. Klaus finally stopped at the end of his bed and turned around to face the girls. He was smiling.

"You're smiling," Violet said uncertainly.

"I'm happy to be here, sir." He said finally.

Y/n felt the final punch to the gut, and she frowned. Nobody punched Y/n for real of course, but the emotional toll she felt at her friend's condition felt as if someone had. Violet was feeling very similar at that exact moment.

"What? I'm not Sir, I'm your sister. While you were gone, Sunny, Y/n and I heard Sir talking to Charles. He said he made a deal to cover something up." Violet continued even as her brother laid down for the night. "There's something bigger going on here."

Jimmy and Ceasar rolled over in their neighboring bunks and began sushing Violet. Y/n finally left her spot by the front door, timidly she stepped around the bunk to face Violet, who was sitting in the chair that sat up against the wall.

"Violet?"

"What?"

"Maybe we should turn in for the night? I know you must be very tired, and I'm sure Klaus is too. To tell you the truth, this behavior isn't that uncommon from what I've seen here at the mill. But it does always seem to wear off in a day or two, perhaps if we let Klaus get some sleep, and you too, we will all have a clear mind to regroup in the morning. Does that sound okay?"

Violet thought about this for a moment, like she wanted to argue though she knew there was some truth to Y/n words. She looked back to her brother sadly, and she spoke to him soothingly.

"Would you like to do that, Klaus? Would you like to go to sleep for now?" She asked.

"Yes, Sir," Klaus said and closed his eyes as easily as one turns off a light switch.

Both girls frowned and looked to one another curiously.

"I know this must not be easy," Y/n said grabbing Violet's attention. "I am worried for him too, but as I said, I have seen this behavior before around here, and it always goes away at one point. I'm sure it must be something Dr. Orwell prescribes, everyone always seems rather tired after visiting her, I'm sure that must be the case."

"Maybe you're right," Violet sighed, looking anxiously at her brother. "But I can't help but feel like something is wrong. Am I crazy?"

Y/n looked at Violet sympathetically. She shook her head.

"No, Violet, I don't think you're crazy. I must admit, I do not understand why he is calling you Sir, but I'm sure there must be some kind of explanation."

"But what could possibly explain that?"

"I don't know, Violet. I'm sorry, I wish I did."

Violet sighed, and she frowned when she saw Y/n yawn. She stood to her feet.

"I'm sorry I've kept you up all this time, thank you for waiting with me."

"Of course, I was worried about him too and I'd hate to leave you and Sunny by yourselves. And there are no worries, you didn't keep me from anything, I like you guys and while the circumstances are not great, I'm glad I met you guys." Y/n smiled sweetly, and even Violet felt a small smile tug at her own lips at her friend's kindness.

"We like you too, Y/n. Thanks for all your help."

"Of course, what are friends for?" Y/n yawned once more and she turned, eyes on Sunny behind her still curled up on the pillow. "I'm sure Sunny will be happy to hear Klaus is back and to get to bed. I know I'm eager."

Violet nodded, and Y/n stepped aside to let her through. She gently picked up her sister and placed her on the top bunk before climbing up the latter and situating herself. Sunny had been so tired, she had barely noticed she had moved. Y/n took her spot on the bed across from Klaus, and Violet bid her goodnight.

"Goodnight, Violet."

"Goodnight, Y/n. Sweet dreams."

"Sweet dreams, Violet." She said, her eyelids already growing heavy. "I'm sure tomorrow will be a much better day."

Unfortunately, it wasn't.

#asoue rewrite #klaus baudelaire x you #klaus baudelaire x reader #violet baudelaire #klaus baudelaire #sunny baudelaire #malina weissman #louis hynes #presley smith #asoue #a series of unfortunate events reader insert #a series of unfortunate events imagines #a series of unfortunate events x reader #the miserable mill #part four #the miserable mill part four #dr. orwell #catherine o'hara #asoue y/n l/n

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silvensei · 4 years

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In This Mad Machinery

A human and an android swap bodies, resulting in identity crises, existentialism, philosophy with the boys, and fun!

Detroit: Become Human | gen | 20k | rated T | introspective comedy/sci-fi

Chapter 3 (2.5k words) | [AO3 link] | [first] | < prev | next >

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A bell chimed above the door as it swung open. A portly woman turned around from the counter, a practiced yet warm smile and greeting at the ready. When she noticed who her new patrons were, she paused and propped a hand on her hip. “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” she teased amicably. “Hank Anderson! Haven’t seen your face ‘round here in ages!”

“Sorry, Bel. You know how life gets in the way,” Connor said, parroting Hank’s briefing from the car. “Is the usual still on the menu?”

“Aw, hon,” she laughed, “joshing as always!”

Connor smiled. He had no idea what that meant.

Fortunately, she turned her attention to the other member of his party. “As much as it’s good to see an old favorite, new faces keep the business going. Name’s Ysabel.”

Hank waved. “Connor.”

“Well, Connor, want a menu? It’s just your typical array of diner classics, but with enough pizzazz to knock your socks off, guaranteed!”

“Oh, no, thanks, ma’am, just a coffee for now.”

“Two cuppa joe and a patty with the fixin’s.” She waved them off and adjusted her apron. “You boys go make yourselves comfortable, y’hear?”

She left for the kitchen. Hank ushered Connor into the diner proper, over to the rows of red booths with black and white marbled tables. With windows on two sides, natural light filled the space. Only a handful of other tables were occupied, people chattering amongst themselves. It wasn’t terribly spacious, but in the way that it felt cozy rather than claustrophobic.

Hank settled in a corner booth, his back to the wall. “She seems nice,” Connor commented, sitting across from him.

“Bel? She’s more than nice. She’s probably the closest thing to an angel I’ve got.” His head turned to look out the window, letting Connor notice a momentary bout of erratic flickering in his LED. “It doesn’t matter who you are or where you’re from, but she still makes this place seem like a mother’s kitchen. Just home recipes abound. And to top it all off? She don’t take shit from no one.

“One time—” he laughed, “—One time, ages ago, Jeffrey and I came by for lunch just pissed off. An easy drug bust flipped right around and left us with nothing, sending us right back to the drawing board. One officer was so furious she quit that morning. So we came in here, fuming, cussing up a storm, just miserable bastards looking to drown our frustrations in some good ol’ comfort food; it was too early for booze, but hell, did we come close. Bel came over with absolutely not the right thing, like soup and salad or something. I’ll admit, I was a bit of a hotheaded prick back then—”

“‘Back then’?”

“Watch it, boy,” Hank warned with a grin. “Anyway, I snapped at her, saying I wasn’t in the mood to deal with this, we didn’t want this, how hard was it to grill a fucking burger, I didn’t even have my coffee yet, and so on, and she shut me up by throwing a glass of water in my face. It was nearly empty already and didn’t have ice, but it was enough to do the trick. Then she said, ‘If starting over is so easy, why don’t you kids stop bitching and suck it up?’ Then she walked away.” Hank rested his chin in his hand, the smile still on his face. “It was the literal smack to the head that I needed. She gave us the soup n’ salads on the house as an attempt to get us to eat healthier. The coffee was free, too, but it was mostly hot sauce to get back at me for yelling at her.

Connor’s own smile had only grown. He wasn’t entirely sure why; it seemed like an involuntary response. “If that’s not the definition of a guardian angel, then I don’t know what is.”

“What can I say? You really do need a friend around who’s not afraid to knock some sense into you.”

Connor leaned back, sinking into the red cushions. This was comfortable. Natural light diffusing through the windows; fun conversation with the white noise of other discussions over quiet music he couldn’t place; the ever-present aroma of a kitchen hard at work; a pleasant warmth from the sunlight (without the radiation). He would like to come here again.

With such fond memories, though, why hadn’t they come here before in the six months Connor had known him? He decided to ask.

Hank continued looking out the window. His expression shifted into something Connor couldn’t interpret, but the brief red light gave him some clues. “It just seemed a bit boring to bring an android to a restaurant, y’know? You don’t really eat and all….”

“You boys gossiping over here?” joked Bel, sliding two mugs of coffee onto the table. Connor jumped; he hadn’t heard her approach. Or maybe his ears did, but his attention was focused elsewhere. Bel laughed. “Late nights at the bar making you jumpy?”

“Ah… not so much anymore,” Connor improvised. “Some late nights on the job, if anything.”

“Oh, I’d bet. Between homicide and android rights cases, you two are probably set on work for the next couple years.” She fished around in the pocket of her apron.

“Where did you hear about our casework?” asked Hank.

Bel found her target and deposited a couple small cups of thirium into the bowl of half-and-half creamers. “All over the news, hon! You’re really paving the way for androids in the work force. Setting the bar pretty high, too, while you’re at it.” She smiled before whisking off to other tables.

“As nice as ever, that Bel,” Hank commented. He inspected one of the thirium cups and asked, “How is this compared to plain old creamers?”

Connor’s hands hovered around his mug. He lacked his infrared temperature sensor, his unfamiliar tactile senses only told him ‘hot,’ and he couldn’t even remember what a fourth-order differential to estimate heat loss through radiation looked like. He’ll just give it a minute or two to cool. “I’m sure thirium doesn’t taste pleasant, but because the android program recognizes it as essential to mechanical function, it won’t register the taste. It’s just used like a nutritional benefit.”

Hank’s nose scrunched for a moment as he regarded tainting his sacred drink. Then he shrugged, poured one in with a stir and downed a gulp. He stared past Connor, eyes narrowed as he critiqued the taste. There was a smattering of yellow in his LED. “Mmmmm,” he soon hummed. “0.12 calories.”

A snort of laughter caught in Connor’s nose, which turned into a short bout of coughs. The tickle it left in his nasal cavity was completely alien. “Shit,” he choked out. Hank was much better at containing his reaction to just a smirk. “I don’t like how involuntary that was.”

“Hah. Welcome to the club.”

“And hot off the presses!” Bel swept over to them once again, setting a platter in the middle of the tabletop. “Did the onions myself! It was such a treat to break out the cheddar patties again, too; they just go to waste when you’re not around.”

Connor sat mesmerized. He and Hank had gone to many—if not most—burger joints in and around Detroit, but the hamburger in front of him was the tallest, most layered sandwich he had ever seen. Two burgers, flecks of cheddar dripping from them, overflowing with caramelized onions, roasted peppers, mushrooms, slices of some other cheese, lettuce, pickles—is that macaroni? A sharp kick to the shin snapped him from his trance long enough to thank Bel and send her off. “Lieutenant!” he hissed. He leaned forward to keep his voice down, regretting the full whiff of that savory, melty scent he got. “Do you know how many calories are in this?!”

“With this head of yours, I do now, yeah. And no way am I telling you, impulsive programming be damned!” Hank set a devious grin in his borrowed expression; this mischievous image of his doppelgänger made Connor uncomfortable. “Give it a try. I can guarantee it’s delicious.”

He knew he shouldn’t. It was unhealthy, grease-laden, and caloric. As if the burger wasn’t enough, the bed of beer batter waffle fries that coated the plate with accompanying cups of barbecue sauce could’ve been a meal on its own. It also smelled incredible.

It was technically a command from Hank, he realized, but without a HUD of objectives, it was nothing more than words. Nothing binding about it.

But it smelled so good.

He picked up the burger, leaving in the steak knife skewer holding it together. Before he could second-guess himself, he took a bite. There was a crunch from the brioche, a different crunch of the onions, then too many to distinguish, each with its own flavor that he had no previous reference on which to base any categorization, but together, it was splendid.

His instinct was to isolate and analyze each individual component, but without his tech, it was just a bombardment of information. By the time the taste stopped overwhelming his senses, half of the burger was gone.

Hank was swirling the coffee around in his mug, expression dripping in ‘told ya so.’ “A goddamn culinary masterpiece, right?”

Connor took another quick bite (getting mostly onions and macaroni) before he replaced it on the plate. He wiped off his hands on a paper napkin to buy processing time. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Hank. I still disapprove. But I understand now.”

“Fuckin’-A right!” Hank took a bite out of a waffle fry. “Listen, I get that you guys don’t need to eat, but it wouldn’t kill ya every now and then. CyberLife at least could’ve built in better taste buds. All I’m getting is calorie count and salt content, not any of the finesse.”

Trying a fry for himself, he noted the tang that he deduced as saltiness. Though not the main dish, they were also quite good. He took another. “It’s not vital to androids’ function—”

“And it’s not ‘vital’ to come and eat out like this. It’s just fuckin’ delightful.”

That is true. Much of his existence these days isn’t spent out of necessity. He didn’t have to pet Sumo, but it made him happy to do so. Munching on a third fry, he realized that humans were the same, except with more of a sensory benefit, like the fluffiness of Sumo’s fur. Why weren’t they the ones with compulsive programming? It seemed like they would need it more, what with all these distractions that can physically affect their mental state. “Ohh…,” he realized, “no wonder addictions are such an issue.”

“Now— hold on, now, how’d you jump to that conclusion? Like, yeah, but—” Hank’s LED began blinking. He flinched from something before raising his eyebrows. “A call from Jeffrey. Now this’ll be interesting.” He hesitated before he looked around the room. “I, ah, should probably take this elsewhere, ‘case it’s on the down low.”

“Tap the temple to answer,” Connor advised as Hank slid out of the booth and went to the door.

Connor crunched another fry, one that was extra crunchy. He should probably pay Bel soon and get a box for the rest, should they have to leave in a hurry. If only he knew how much two coffees and a—shit.

He picked up the untouched coffee. It was barely warm now. Unhelpful one-track human brain. Can’t even set a reminder in the background. He took a sip. It didn’t warm him or anything, but it tingled his tongue in a sort of dry, sharp way. Coffee was bitter, right? He didn’t think it would be this bitter, but Hank did like his coffee black. Despite complaining he couldn’t taste much, Hank’s mug was completely drained.

He spotted Bel this time as she approached. “Could I get a box for the rest of this? It sounds like we might have to leave soon.”

“Always off to save the city, you two are. I’ll get this all wrapped up in a jiffy!”

“And how much do I owe you?” Connor asked before she left with his plate. He was pretty sure Hank’s wallet was in his left pocket.

Bel cocked a grin. “Hon, has it really been so long you don’t remember?”

He paused. “Got two coffees this time.”

“Oh, silly me, that’s true! How’s an even ten bucks sound, then?”

Connor couldn’t help a small frown. “That seems a bit low….”

“Nah, call it a ‘welcome back’ discount.” Her expression lost its teasing edge, becoming something warm. “It’s good to see you again, Hank.”

While he liked the woman, if the conversation was going to turn sentimental, he wasn’t sure how well he was going to keep up his act. “It’s good to see you, too, Bel,” he replied before bringing his cold mug to his lips, hoping to end it there.

“And I hope you kept your talent for parenting.”

Connor almost choked. “What?”

“You were always a good father.” Bel was looking over his shoulder, off down memory lane. “Cole was the brightest kid in the county. But while more tragedy has befallen you than I would wish on anybody, I still hope Connor’s lucky enough to be in the same kind of care.”

“No, sorry, Connor’s not my son, he’s a detective—my coworker—not to mention an android.”

“Which means he might need it most, eh, sugar?” She shifted her weight and her gaze, looking back at him. “Sure, he looks what, twenty-five? Thirty? But isn’t he a new model? He probably ain’t even three yet, and he’s been deviant for way less than that. A father figure to show him the societal ropes sounds perfect to me.”

He felt like a process or ten had stalled. Fortunately, Hank returned to the table, so Bel took his plate and left with no more than a wink.

“Jeffrey wants us at the office today,” Hank said. Connor blinked and took a breath, trying to not focus on Bel’s inanity. (RK800 androids were the most advanced—hot off the production line immediately—he didn’t need—)

“Specifically, he wants me,” continued Hank, “so technically, he wants you. Said it shouldn’t take long.”

Connor cleared his throat. “So why didn’t he call me directly?”

“He did. A few times.”

Startled, Connor quickly dug out Hank’s phone. The screen lit to two missed calls, one new voicemail, and some new emails. “Oh….”

“Not so easy when it doesn’t directly invade your brain, huh? Now can you forgive me for not texting immediately?”

“I thought we were supposed to be unraveling the secrets of existence, Lieutenant, not dissecting your communication and dietary habits.”

Hank laughed. In Connor’s opinion, it didn’t sound right with his voice, but it made him smile nonetheless. “So, are we both going or just me?” he asked.

“I dunno, what else am I gonna do?”

Connor hummed. “It’s Saturday, right? Markus might be home.”

“Markus? As in rA9 Markus?”

“If CyberLife keeps this up, he’s bound to hear about it sooner or later, so why not tell him now? He usually checks in on his human on the weekends.”

Hank shrugged. “Might as well, I guess. Gives me something different to do. Where’s he live?”

“Around. Don’t ask me, you’re the one with the GPS today.”

Bel returned once more and set a cardboard box on the table. “Well, boys, it was my pleasure!” she boomed. “Y’all better come back soon, alright?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hank said with a smile as he stood. “Wonderful coffee.”

“Aw, c’mere!” She pulled him into a hug, something that didn’t fluster Hank at all. When the embrace broke, she held him by both shoulders and said, “Oh, Hank, he hugs like you already!”

The real Hank’s eyebrow twitched. “What…does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing!”

Connor avoided their eyes until he found a ten and some ones in his wallet and handed them to Bel. He picked up the box and used his free arm to give her a quick hug. It was warm. Nice. “Thanks, Bel.”

“Anytime!”

[next >]

#Detroit Become Human #DBH #Connor RK800 #Hank Anderson #my writing #DBH fanfiction #body swap #my roommate set off the smoke alarm while I was writing up this post #she was trying to fry an egg #her only response was 'you learn something new each day'#like sure dude but also this is our fifth year of college #you are twenty-four

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rayne-storm · 6 years

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We Loved With A Love That Was More Than Love

A story I wrote for a challenge. I had 1 hour for the prompt: Love Story. It still feels a bit incomplete, maybe rushed, but I’m proud of what I did.

Benny loved Martha. That much was absolutely certain. Anyone with eyes in the sleepy town where they lived could tell that they were soulmates. Benny was always out buying her nice things: jewelry, makeup, clothes; anything she wanted he bought. Everyone in town knew that she was a very lucky woman who never wanted for anything if Benny could help it.

He was a quiet man who kept mostly to himself, and never went out unnecessarily, though when he did he had a tendency to stay out a while. He worked in the small town’s rec center as an art teacher and a daycare assistant. No one could create things like Benny. He was a painter, a sculptor, and a master of the Hurdy-gurdy. Children always lit up and flocked around the small, decorative box as he began to crank out dirges, singing old shanties he had learned as a teenager on a fishing vessel. Sometimes he’d let the bigger ones crank the handle for him, or make up words to the haunting melodies, particularly when it would rain and he chose to wait it out with them rather than scurry home and risk damaging the instrument.

Perhaps, on a sunnier day, he would recite his favourite poems from Edgar Allan Poe, or tell a wild tale of his many adventures as a young man. His story-times could last for hours, but would inevitably end in, “and then I met my own Annabel Lee, and knew that she would be my greatest adventure,” and the children (and adults, no one could resist his way with words) would know that story time was over, and that they should not press for more.

Truly, Benny had a gift with children. It was a shame he never had any of his own, but his Martha was, sadly, barren, and adoption was both expensive and a painful reminder that she could not achieve the most natural of female bodily roles. Benny loved her far too much to do anything about it, and so was content to dote on everyone else’s children.

It was such a shame that Martha could no longer join him. Her illness had progressed, and she couldn’t leave the house for any period of time, which brought a dimness to the community. Everyone that knew her adored her, and it was easy to see how Benny could be so singularly devoted, never straying or tempted, even with her declining condition.

All the residents who had lived in the town for at least 10 years could recount the tales of when the lovely young couple had moved in - he was a robust young sailor, and she was a quiet beacon of light. Martha was confined to a wheelchair even then, but that never stopped her from living to the fullest or being the unofficial mother of the neighborhood. If anyone had a problem with regards to the more feminine arts (baking, sewing, childcare), she always had a gentle, patient answer.

The women of the community and mothers of the little ones Benny worked with frequently asked about her, and he was happy to keep them updated with anything they could possibly care to know.

Typically the conversations went like so:

Millicent Bystander, perhaps, would walk up to him after an art class.

“That was lovely. It’s a shame Martha couldn’t be here to help,” she would begin, and Benny would nod his head.

“How is she doing, Benny? We haven’t heard anything in a while.”

“She’s not doing well, honestly, but you know her, Millicent. She’s always asking after you all and sends her love. She’s stuck in her bed and chair, and with the cold setting in like it is, it isn’t safe for her to be outside now, with how her lungs and heart are, on top of it all.” Benny’s worry was nearly palpable, sadness an apprehension thick in the air. That simply wouldn’t do for good Millicent.

“I understand. Tell her the others and I send our love back. You be needing any meals? I know a great chicken soup recipe, and Daisy just perfected her rhubarb pie.”

��That’s mighty kind of you. Thank you. She would love it.”

Then they would go their separate ways until the evening, when Millicent and Daisy would be by with soup and pie, and he would sometimes allow them to look in on Martha. She was usually reading in bed, but on good days was asleep on the couch. He would thank them again, reassuring them that Martha would be terribly grateful. Finally they would be on their way, happy to know that she was being taken such good care of.

Occasionally they would try and stop in when Benny was at work, be it to visit or with a question, but she never answered the door. That was hardly unusual, though, as she was stuck in her chair or the bed and couldn’t make it down the stairs with how sick she was, or she simply couldn’t hear due to her television programs. Her health had been steadily declining since they had arrived, and by the end of their sixth year, she rarely left the house, and Benny became her eyes and ears in the world around them.

It was plain that Benny only went out because Martha needed him to, to tell her of the town. Otherwise, everyone knew, he’d be right by her side. He loved her in a way that most could only dream about, seeming to encompass the romantic ideals set forth by Benny’s favourite authors.

Benny was a perfect Prince Charming, and had eyes and a heart only for his Martha, and he made it known. Anyone with eyes or ears could tell the man was in love - a deep, everlasting kind of love. A love that was, well, more than love.

And yet, for all his grand romantic gestures, he only wanted one thing in return: her love. Yes, it may sound cheesy, but Benny was a simple man with simple wishes. All he ever really needed was companionship, and Martha happily provided it. Or, at the very least, she always smiled for him, regardless of either of their days. She was always quiet, always listening, always there when he needed her. That was a virtue, to be sure, Benny thought, and there was no one else to whom he would rather come home.

That very night, after a long day at work teaching some youngsters how to paint a bunny, she was lying in bed, waiting for him, ready to listen to his stories of the day.

“The Johnson boy can draw perfect circles, Martha. It’s quite a sight,” he said with a chuckle.

“I bet he’s going to be an artist of some kind,” he continued, gently stroking her hair. He remembered when it had shone like the stars, back before she had gotten so sick. When she would play outside with the neighbor children, just as joyful as they were about life and the world...

That reminded him:

“Remember little Louisa that used to live next door with her aunt and uncle? The one that brought you all those pretty flowers from our yard,” he added with a soft chuckle. “She just sent an invitation to her wedding. It’s beautiful,” he said, getting out of bed to find and show it to her. After some rummaging through his bag, he came back, but paused when he saw her.

“Oh, I’m sorry my love. You’re asleep already? I’ll show you tomorrow, then.” He smiled and kissed her forehead, taking the opportunity to simply gaze at the love of his life.

Her hair was arranged just right on the pillow, her eyes closed peacefully. Her lips, however, were starting to peel off again. That simply wouldn’t do, and with a heavy sigh Benny began the arduous task of remolding them from clay and resetting the supports they’d fallen away from on her mouth, now more wax and clay than flesh. This whole process of constantly perfecting and re-applying such minute things was tiring, but it wasn’t like she could do it herself. She’d been dead for eight months, after all.

#tw illness #short story #my writing #prompted writing

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lokisgame · 6 years

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Good Things Come...

[part 1-4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7]

I'm pregnant. There wasn't much he could say after she dropped a bomb like that. Still he kept it cool, asked how long and when was she due and how she's doing and if she's happy.

But there wasn't much he could say beyond polite small talk. He wasn't happy, he wasn't fine, although the hypocrisy wasn't lost on him, father of two by another woman. He wasn't rational, not when it came to her. He was one, big, red, exposed nerve, and life just shoved a taser up his ass. She knew it and didn't stop him when he said goodbye sooner than usual. They both cried for an hour after they hung up.

He went home and helped Emily finish the puzzle she was playing with before dinner, bouncing Danny on his knee. The boy munched on toys and ran a slight fever, but was happy to be a part of the game. Mulder showed him each piece and let the boy guess where it should go, missing every time but laughing anyway. Diane thought it was just another awful case and left them in peace. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last.

Mulder was convinced that he didn't have that thing only moms have, that thing that could right all wrongs and made everything better, but if he could take care of himself in college, he could take care of a couple of teenagers. Once it was decided, that the kids would move in with him, he promised himself that under his roof they won't live solely on tv dinners and junk food. He learned to cook something more than pasta and canned soup, they all ate their daily dose of veggies and fruit, went shopping together and shared chores proportionately to their arm's reach and abilities. Lately Emily started helping with the cooking, though her love of salads was disproportionate to their needs. Danny took out the trash each night and didn't have to be reminded to do it anymore. Homework was done, tv was rationed, opinions heard and considered. Sometimes a strong and final no was needed, but those occasions were few and far between, for now at least. If anyone asked, they would unanimously agree that they were fairly happy, and for Mulder, that was something to be proud of.

"Guys, I need to talk to you about something" Mulder began, hoping that the rare pizza dinner wouldn't cloud their brains completely, just softened them a little. Two pairs of curious eyes and full mouths looked up and he almost chickened out, wiping his plate with pizza crust to buy time. Man up, he berated himself, tell them. "You know, I've been helping a friend lately" Danny went back to his food, deciding pizza was more important, but Emily raised her eyebrows and smirked knowingly "set up their new apartment, for her and her son, because they're moving here from Boston" words tumbled out in a rush, the need to explain himself overcoming embarrassment. "She's an old college friend, and she moved there a while ago, and now she's coming back and I'm the only one she stayed in touch with so she kind of has no other friends left around here, just her mother, and I was wondering, if you guys would want to meet her and Will sometime before Christmas" the last part sounded like one word in his ears, leaving deafening silence around the kitchen table. "Okay" Danny shrugged, unfazed, dipping his crusts in garlic sauce as if nothing happened. Mulder looked at Emily, watching the gears behind blue eyes spinning, connecting the dots she collected over the last few weeks. "How old is Will?" she asked, sipping her coke. "He's ten, and probably will go the same school as Danny" that got the boy's attention "Don't worry, you won't have to babysit him or anything, if he's anything like his mom, he'd probably be offended if you tried" The kid snorted and went back to his crusts. Emily kept silent, the good cop bad cop routine in her blood. "Emily, she's a good friend of mine, we've known each other forever, I just want you to know that they are not someone random people and maybe give them both a chance" the silence stretched for an uncomfortable minute. The girl regarded him carefully but finally her expression softened. "Okay dad" He tousled her short brown hair affectionately and Emily shook her head giving him half a smile in return and in that moment, Mulder felt like she was the grown up and he the teenager one step closer to getting what he always wanted.

Will got out of the car, leaving the telescope he guarded with his own life all the way from Boston on the back seat, and looked up, wondering which windows were his. Top floor, so much he knew, the neighboring buildings the same hight or lower, perfect. Queequeg was already sniffing around, marking the nearest tree he could find. "I don't get it" Scully stoped beside them, looking up and down the street, seeing nothing but some parked cars and heaps of swiped away snow, no truck in sight "They should be here by now" Fishing the phone out of her jacket pocket she dialed a number the movers gave her, sinking feeling growing in the pit of Will's stomach. He had funny feelings sometimes and usually they were right. "Hi, this is Dana Scully, we've just arrived, can I ask where you guys are?" she listened for a moment then covered her eyes and sighed, then seconds later her head sprang back up. "Four hours?" she exclaimed, color rising to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold "why does it take four hours to change a tire in D.C.?" the man on the other end sounded defensive, speaking quickly. "Okay, but I expect a solid discount for this mess, call me when you get here" Hanging up, she looked at the boy, the struggle to stay calm hidden behind a smile. "You heard that? The truck won't be here anytime soon" "Is everything okay? with our things I mean" Will reeled in the dog's leash. "We'll see once they get here, but we're insured" saving her strength for later, she put one arm around his shoulders, guiding him up the six steps leading to the front door "in the meantime, let's go see the place"

The ride up was fairly short and Will was getting more excited with each floor. "This is yours" Scully declared, stoping in front of brown doors at the end of the hall and showing him bright silver key on a plain ring "Do the honors" Will grinned and unlocked the door, pushing them open into a bright hallway. Dog's paws clicked on wooden floors pulling the boy and his mother inside. The place was warm, smelling faintly of fresh paint and something else, that had no reason to be there. Will went straight through, into the living room and stoped frozen in place. "Mom, come see this!" She knew the view was nice, but it took only few steps to see, that his wonder came from something else entirely. In the corner between two windows stood a tree, a Christmas tree, tall and elegant, filling the place with scent of fresh pine. Blueish green and bare, except for a string of warm white lights and a single funny ornament next to a greeting card. "It's a UFO!" Will laughed looking closer at the silver glass trinket. Scully took the card, knowing exactly who it was from. Mulder's elegant cursive was unmistakable.

Dear Dana and William Welcome home and Merry Christmas Mulder, Emily and Daniel

"Is this from your friend?" Will asked as he knelt down to free Queequeg. "Yes, you like it?" she handed him the card and he read it quickly. "It's awesome, who's Daniel and Emily?" he asked returning the card and she set it on the window sill next to the tree. "His kids, Daniel is about your age" she looked at the twinkling lights and smiled "you want to meet them? We could go and say hi, the truck won't be here until after lunch" "Only if you show me my room first" he dragged her by the sleeve and started to open doors one after another.

Mulder licked his fingers, declaring himself a cherry pie God. Or at least someone related to one, the recipe he got from his cousin came with a DEA seal and was stamped confidential. The second pie cooled on the counter, waiting to be gift-wrapped. His phone buzzed, then rang, and without looking he knew who it was. He answered, phone held between ear and shoulder as he sliced the pie. “Mulder” “Hi, it’s me, are you home?” “Yeah, how’s the move going?” “That’s the thing, it’s not, can we crash your place for a while?” “Sure, come on over” the kids looked up from their video game like deer caught in headlights. “Thanks, I’ll explain everything once we see you” “Okay” he smiled seeing their wide eyes. “Wait, you don’t mind if we bring Queequeg?” “That beast is still alive?” He remembered she had a dog when they were in college but that was ages ago. She huffed out a small laugh. “No, it’s not the same Queequeg” she assured, surprised he still remembered such details. “In that case, bring him with you, the old one hated my guts” and that really made her laugh “you have the address” “Yeah, I’ll see you soon” “Bye” Hanging up he took a quick survey of the room, the only thing out of place were Danny and Em, still in their PJ’s. “You two, get dressed, we’re gonna have company” “I thought we're not going anywhere until dinner?" Danny whined but dragged himself up, doing a fairly accurate imitation of a zombie he and Emily just spent an hour slaughtering. "Come on" Emily pushed him forward, her tone turning into a playful playground mocking "Dad is bringing home his girlfriend" Mulder in return almost caught her with a kitchen towel. He hoped, it was just the mystery of enigmatic doctor Scully and that once they finally met, her charm would win both of them over. He straightened the pillows, gathered empty glasses and put on a fresh pot of coffee.

#Good Things Come...#msr fanfic #x files fanfic

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mirajens · 7 years

Text

a cosmic shift

paring: mirajane/laxus rating: t chapter 5 of the rockabye series part two of sandbox bullies found on ff.n

Sometimes, all it took was one action to rearrange a galaxy. For Mirajane, whose Milky Way took shelter in the adorably round face of her six year old, Yukino, the shift felt cosmic.

She'd been worried about Yukino's transfer to another class. Her girl had already been through so much with the move; was it wise to make her adapt to more change when she barely settled into the last one?

The transfer to the other class proved to be a good one. Mira wished she knew it would be that simple. Kids weren't picking on Yukino anymore and she came home from school still excited about the friends she played with. Mirajane felt her heart was swollen with joy. The whole household was drastically altered: cheerful since they left the comfort of their old lives. It felt like things were finally, finally falling into place.

The decision to leave behind the town she grew up in, all the family and friends that supported her through her pregnancy and the first years of Yukino's life, had been a difficult but necessary one. But no matter how crucial, it had been painful. There had been challenging moments when Mira considered going back with her tail between her legs, were it not for the desire to give her child a better life. In the end, homesickness couldn't trump ambition.

These days, Mirajane would settle into bed exhausted, but warm thinking of how her baby had a bright future ahead of her, how she bubbled with giggles so often or how her aura radiated. Sure, things weren't perfect, but they might as well be.

Mirajane wished she had the foresight to take better care of herself, though.

She was supposed to take Yukino to the lake today but the tightness in her chest last night turned out to be a fever this morning. Yukino only looked disappointed for a few minutes before crying from driving herself into a pit of pity for her ashen-faced mother.

"I promise I'm fine, baby." Mirajane smoothed a hand down her daughter's cap of hair, a shade nearly identical to her own. "I'll just take a nap for a while and then you can help me cook lunch, okay?"

"Yes, mama." Yukino sniffled, her nose pink and running. It almost made Mirajane laugh. Kids had a tendency to be entertaining when they were being dramatic.

"You can watch TV for a while, but don't sit close to the screen."

Yukino scrambled off Mirajane's bed and sat by the foot of it in front of the television. When the History Channel blinked into Elmo, Mirajane let her eyes flutter close, falling asleep to a song counting in multiples of two.

Mirajane startled awake a couple of hours later to the loud ding of the doorbell. She saw Yukino bolt up from her sprawl on the floor.

"I told you that you can't answer the door without me, Yukino." Mirajane sat up and put her feet into the house slippers Yukino got for her.

"Don't worry, mama, it's only Mr Dreyar," Yukino told her as she exited Mirajane's bedroom.

Maybe it was the fever, but Mirajane took a while to remember a Mr Dreyar. When she did, she was speed walking down the hall, the stairs, while simultaneously taming her hair into something that didn't resemble pulled cotton. When she reached the landing, Yukino was already smiling up at her old teacher as he hung his coat on the hat stand.

Mirajane had kept correspondence with Mr Dreyar enough that she was on a first name basis with him. There was a lot to discuss about the transfer, meetings with the guidance counselor, reports of academic process, more meetings with the new teachers, and then some. Mira enjoyed most the unnecessary but absolutely appreciated status reports that Laxus sent her about how Yukino had crawled out of her shell and played raucously with the children in her new class.

Admittedly, it was a bit weird that he was here, in her house, apparently expected by her daughter. It wasn't a bad weird, though.

"You… look like you don't know why I'm here," Laxus said cautiously when he finally saw Mirajane.

"I'm sorry, I just woke up."

"Mama has a flu," Yukino said.

"A fever," Mirajane corrected. "Did I-?"

"Yukino called me on your phone. She asked me to make lunch for you because you were sick." Laxus couldn't quite stop his amused smile. "I assumed she told you about it, and that she had your permission."

"No, it's fine. I'm just sorry to trouble you." Going down the rest of the stairs, wishing she wore anything other than the most embarrassing clothing she owned (matching yellow Yoshi pajamas that she reserved specifically for days that had zero chances of anyone seeing them), Mirajane told herself to calm down. "I was gonna call a sitter for her," she said, feeling the need to defend herself for some reason.

Laxus shrugged. "Great. I normally charge an exorbitant forty bucks an hour because I have a PhD in babysitting. But we can discuss alternative payment later. I bought supplies for lunch." He shook the bag of groceries in his hand. "I hope you're not violently opposed to soup. It's the only thing aside from Hennessy that I know is good with fevers."

The laughter that bubbled out of Mira made her temple throb. She placed a hand on Yukino's head and lead Laxus to the kitchen. "If I'm going to pay a premium, I might as well make proper use of you, shouldn't I?"

There was a funny look on Laxus' face when he stopped by the counter, one with a brow raised and a small, smug tilt to his lips. "I suppose you should. I wouldn't be opposed." He began to sort out the groceries, and then helped himself to the utensils and equipment.

Mirajane probably shouldn't be so at ease with a guy she barely knew cooking in her kitchen. Red-faced (and definitely not from the fever), she made her way to the eat in area, intent to check her email for all the work she missed for the last couple of days as she listened to the quiet noise of someone cooking.

"Do you like celery?" she heard Laxus ask. When Mira looked up, she saw him addressing Yukino who sat on the counter beside his chopping board.

Yukino stuck her tongue out and made a disgusted face in answer.

"Too bad. It's good for you, so it goes in the pot," Laxus said as he continued chopping.

"You're putting an awful lotta green in there, Mr Dreyar," Yukino remarked, her face retaining the sickened look. "You said this was gonna be chicken soup."

Laxus turned to dump the cut vegetables into the chicken broth. "It's chicken soup with vegetables." Laxus' eyes flickered up to catch Mirajane's gaze for a second, before facing Yukino again. "Some crazy old lady yelled at me because you didn't eat veggies so I'm putting some in the soup. It's my grandfather's recipe and he used to make me eat it before he let me go out to play with my friends."

"Crazy old lady, huh?" Mirajane called out.

"Yeah. White hair, angry little face. Pretty, though," Laxus replied. He celebrated internally when it got his intended reaction, which was a smile.

"I have white hair!" Yukino declared with a beam.

"You sure do, kid. Wanna go set the table for your mom? This is gonna be done in a bit."

Mira tried to relax and not hover as Yukino retrieved three bowls from the dish racks. The small girl asked Laxus for help getting the pitcher of water in the refrigerator before bringing it to her mother with a glass. Yukino sat in the curve of the nook, her legs swinging under her.

"Thank you, baby. Isn't this very nice service? And all I had to do was get sick."

Laxus hefted the steaming dutch oven from the burner and brought it to the table. It smelled good enough to bypass the nausea.

"I didn't know I was so hungry until now. Thank you, Laxus. This is great."

Laxus placed a filled bowl in front of Mirajane. "Good. Because you're gonna have enough leftovers for a few days. This keeps really well in the fridge."

Mirajane didn't make it a point for any man she was interested in to meet her daughter (much less bring him home) unless she knew it was serious. So far, none had gotten past the third date, and yet here Laxus was, no date, but already making lunch with Yukino. It was kind of surreal, wasn't it? And funny. It seemed to Mira that it was Yukino who found Laxus first and brought him to her. This time, in a literal sense.

She ate and watched Yukino collect the peas from her soup on her spoon.

"Mr Dreyar?"

"Yeah?"

Yukino gave the bigger man a sweet, heart-melting smile before putting her spoonful of peas in his bowl. She giggled when Laxus made a play at being distressed.

"Now I gotta eat peas. I don't like peas."

"Why did you put them in the soup?" Yukino asked.

"Because we're not the ones sick, so it doesn't really matter if we like peas or not."

Mirajane grinned at him over her soup. "I don't like peas, either."

"Right. I'll keep that in mind next time."

Next time. That sounded nice.

"Mama, can Mr Dreyar see Angel?" Yukino asked, already inching out of her spot in the banquette, soup untouched if not for the bits of chicken she fished out of the mix.

"If you clean the pen real quick, then yes. She wouldn't want her guest to see a dirty home. Be careful." Mira called out to her already sprinting daughter.

Laxus jogged his memory. He remembered an Angel from one of Yukino's art projects. "Her rabbit, right?"

"She begged and begged. I'm only human and I couldn't say no. I got her a pair."

"Understandable. Only a rock could say no to that face."

"I'm glad you agree." She studied his face for a bit, unabashed. She liked the way his expressions hardened, and then gave way to softer ones. "I've been trying to figure out why you look so different today. I just noticed that you're not wearing your glasses."

Laxus' lips fell into thin lines and his eyes expressed the fakest attempt at annoyance. "I doesn't go with my outfit."

His dry tone made her laugh. "Well, who really needs good vision when you're wearing a band shirt, right?"

Laxus made a not very subtle attempt to sweep his gaze over Mira. "I can see well enough." And the view looked terrific. Even in Yoshi pajamas.

The silence that passed between them was easy. For a very brief moment, Mirajane thought to herself that she could get used to this: having quiet meals with a gorgeous, educated man who got along well with her daughter. The idea made her blush before it could even pass. Hoping to clear the heat simmering under her cheeks, Mirajane cleared her throat and set her spoon down beside her empty bowl."So… about that payment."

"I was kidding. I don't really charge forty bucks an hour."

"Cool How about dinner, then?"

"Dinner as in you want me to stay a bit more and make you guys dinner?"

"I was thinking along the lines of me getting an actual sitter. We can go somewhere fancy. Maybe you can take me back when Yukino's in bed." Mira was sure her hand wasn't shaking when she reached for her glass of water and sipped. All things considered, she was being really cool about all this. She liked the man. Really, really, really liked him. The fact that he was a kindergarten teacher made her heart swell, and to make it burst was the fact that he saved her baby from bullies. He was efficient, kind and he knew how to cook soup. His ass was great in his jeans and his glasses, when he wore them, turned her on. Why shouldn't she, for once in her life as a mother, do something potentially reckless? "She's a very heavy sleeper."

Laxus looked like he was about to choke or go through several red-hued complexions at Mirajane's suggestions. "You're forward. I love it."

All Mira could do was smile proudly because Yukino chose that moment to come running back into the kitchen.

"The cage is clean!" Yukino announced, planting her palms on the table, looking straight at Laxus with the manic eyes only an excited child could possess. "Come see her, Mr Dreyar."

Laxus got up and took Yukino's proffered hand. The conversation wasn't over with Mirajane and he thrived off the promise of more.

"Angel has a friend named Racer because he's fast!"

As Yukino urged Laxus away, Mira settled back into the breakfast nook and smiled at the sight. When Laxus looked back to grin at Mira, she winked back, feeling, perhaps for the first time in a very long time, both frightened and thrilled to let someone into her life.

#miraxus #Mirajane Strauss #Laxus Dreyar #Yukino Aguria #fairy tail #single parent au #rockabye series

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dearlybeelovedreadingroom · 7 years

Text

Voided Reveries: Book Three, The Epilogues

V. Fortune’s Wheel

It had only been a couple months, but the pair had adjusted to life on Skyloft, and permanently outside the Void, fairly well. Autumn’s mother had taken to preparing pumpkin and selling it at the market (the only thing she couldn’t perfect was soup) using the pumpkins, and a few other squashes and vegetables, they grew in part of Pipit and Karane’s garden. They also took frequent flights to the other smaller islands in the sky, sometimes to make deliveries, other times to visit friends or pretend they were tourists from the mainland. Occasionally, people on the mainland sent orders up as well, and Autumn would take those down. But one time, Autumn and her mother decided to bring some pastries to a certain house on the mainland as a surprise.

“You know…” Autumn turned around at the sound of her mother’s voice to look at her. “No, no, keep your eyes on what’s in front of you, I’ll talk louder.” Autumn faced forward again. “There we go. You know, your father always promised that he would take me flying on Red—well, I called him Red—at some point, but of course I was pregnant, and then you were a baby, and then there was Olive, and then he was teaching you how to fly…”

“And?” Autumn wasn’t trying to be rude; she just wasn’t sure what her mother was getting at.

“Well, I appreciate you taking me with you, is all. I wanted to ride a Loftwing.” …Wanted to see the world from up above, but still be a part of it, a voice in the back of her mind finished. She looked down at the grass below them, a near-endless expanse of green. In the distance, she could see rivers and the sands of the desert, but where they were—and where they were headed— it was green and lush.

She continued staring down at the massive field passing by below, and now Autumn joined her, preparing to land. They had arrived at the house.

Autumn slid off Teal, then helped her mother down after setting the basket her mother had been carrying down at her feet, so she could reach up with both hands. As their feet touched the ground, they had both brushed themselves off, as though Teal had set enough dust flying to warrant that reaction. Autumn’s mother picked up the basket and headed to the door, knocking quietly. Autumn watched her shift from foot to foot on the doorstep, kicking her feet into it and looking in any direction but at the door as she waited for it to open.

Finally, it did. Sky looked utterly shocked to find her outside his door, holding a basket and smiling. “Birdie?”

She dropped the basket and flung herself into his side under the arm that was outstretched and holding the door, wrapping both of her own tightly around him. “Shh,” she admonished. “I don’t want the others to hear you.”

He immediately switched to a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

She let go of him, gestured at the field behind her and Skyloft above it, and smiled even wider. “I moved back.”

“No. Why are you here?”

“Oh! I wanted to deliver these.” She handed him the basket. “You can share them and say Karane made them.” He lifted the soft cloth covering the basket’s contents and breathed in the scent of the pastries within.

“They smell lovely. I’m sure everyone will love them.”

She smiled. “And… I wanted to apologize.”

He cocked his head. “For what?”

“For not apologizing earlier.”

He laughed. “Oh. Okay. Well, thank you. It’s okay.” He pulled her closer and really embraced her. “Do you want me to go get the others? Well… it’s just Time and Twilight now, since Olive moved out…”

She shook her head against him. “No, I’ll tell them some other time. For now, just let me stay here and hug you. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve… missed you too, Birdie.”

“I love you, Sky.”

“I know.”

Apart from them, and astride Teal, Autumn broke into a wide grin.

The pair never saw each other in person again, save one other time, but kept up a lively correspondence and every Sunday morning, a fresh batch of pumpkin pastries arrived on the doorstep, hand-delivered by Autumn. One spring morning a couple years into the routine, instead of dropping them off and flying away, Autumn stayed on the porch and knocked, hoping her father would answer.

When he did, she greeted him with a quiet “Hi, Dad.”

He invited her in. When they settled into chairs, he said to her, “I told you it was just ‘until next time.’”

She grinned. “You did.”

“What can I do for you, pumpkin?”

“I wanted to invite you to my wedding.”

His eyes widened, and he put down the pastry he had started to eat, licking some of its filling off his lips to buy some time to think. “You’re getting married!?”

Autumn grinned again and nodded. “Yup!”

“To whom? Not a fish person, right?”

At that, Autumn threw back her head and laughed. “No, Dad! At least two of my best friends are fish girls, though. To Cormorant.”

“Ah.” Sky visibly relaxed. “Will your mother be there?”

“Naturally.”

He smiled, leaning back into his chair again. “I’ll have to dress up.”

“She said the same thing.” Autumn said, giggling.

Sky laughed, too. “What about your uncles?”

“Aren’t they busy with Olive’s wedding? It’s soon, isn’t it?”

“It is. She just got done with what Zel was calling ‘finishing school’. How did you know about it? I didn’t think she’d invited you.”

Autumn sighed heavily, then brightened again. “…She didn’t. People have been talking about it.”

Sky leaned forward again, knitting his brow. “What people?”

“Oh, you know, Zellie talks, and since she’s in charge of Skyloft and has to talk to Zel…”

“Yes, I can see how the information would get around Skyloft that way…” he laughed nervously.

“So you’ll be there?” Autumn asked, wide-eyed.

“Of course I will,” he replied, “I would hate to miss it.”

The wedding took place in the middle of that summer, close to Autumn’s 20th birthday, in Skyloft’s plaza, and everyone on the island was invited to attend.

The day of, Autumn received a large stack of letters, postmarked from all sorts of places. One from the Slicks read, among a few other things (mostly tips and advice for married life,) “Congratulations! I know Cormorant must be lovely, and lucky, if he attracted someone like you. I wish you just as much luck in your life together. Love always! Mrs. Paint-Slick” and, “good for you, kiddo. try to have fun. don’t be a nag. –Spades.” Another, from Vella, expressed her regrets that she couldn’t be at the wedding, but she was prone to altitude sickness from the low pressure, and Olive needed her for something about the (other, Autumn noted) wedding. Autumn decided she would read that one later. Others were from her mom’s friends, sending their congratulations and occasional gifts; one was from Aunt Ti, whose bar she worked at and whose lilies she tended; her Aunt Tori, also sending marriage advice, especially for when the going got rough, and had a few recipes enclosed (including quiche); and her favorite of them all, from the other fish girl: Dy sent a multi-page letter about how much she missed Autumn, and wished she could have been at the wedding. Apparently, she would have had just the suit for the occasion. Autumn’s eyes teared up while she read, but when her parents came to get her from where the older women of Skyloft were keeping her and dolling her up, she wiped her eyes and settled herself.

It was sunset—the best time for a wedding in Hyrule, if you were non-royalty. So the time had once again come for Autumn. It was a special day.

There wasn’t a great deal of pomp or circumstance to the ceremony, just a blushing bride and an equally blushing groom (Autumn thought it was so cute). Autumn’s parents, as was the custom, presented her to Cormorant, Karane, and Pipit, and they presented Cormorant to Autumn and her parents. Once the marriage was “agreed upon,” the parents sat down and let rest of the ceremony go on. The gold cloth used to tie Autumn’s wrist to Cormorant’s, and teal cloth for the reverse, complemented each other almost perfectly, which was rather rare for couples on Skyloft, leading to comments that it meant that Autumn and Cormorant must be soul mates.

Once that was over, and the knots in the cloth had been tested to show that nothing could break Autumn and Cormorant up, the pair kissed, and then the dancing and partying began.

Weddings in Hyrule, especially in Skyloft, were all-night affairs. So people quickly ran back to their homes or shops to grab the copious amounts of food and drink they had made, or the presents they had made for the couple. Often, wedding gifts were tools for the job the couple did (though, since Cormorant and Autumn farmed and bred Loftwings, there was little to give them), or things that would be needed for the future children. Autumn and Cormorant accepted those gifts gratefully, but with nervous smiles.

While Sky danced with Autumn, Cormorant approached his new mother-in-law. “Mrs. Skychild, I don’t think most people here knew that Sky is Autumn’s dad.”

She shrugged. “So she’s the local celebrity’s love child with a mostly-unknown citizen. I don’t think anyone minds having just found out now.” She smiled at him. “Or is the problem that now you’re under a lot of pressure, because everyone knows who your father-in-law is?” Cormorant chuckled nervously in reply. “Well, there’s no need to feel that way. Sky likes you. And after all, Autumn had no problem dating and marrying the son of the most trusted man on Skyloft.”

“I guess that’s true.” Cormorant mumbled.

“Yes. Now go dance with your mother while Autumn dances with Sky. Unless you’d rather dance with me, and then dance with your mother while Autumn dances with your dad?” Cormorant extended his hand to her. She smiled as she took it. “Alright then.”

Later on into the night, Autumn’s parents were sitting off to the side, tucked against each other and watching their friends celebrate and dance—even when some of the musicians had already gone home to bed—when Sky sighed and mumbled something about love.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He said abruptly. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s dance?” Sky extended a hand to her, which she took eagerly, and they twirled a little. When Autumn and Cormorant saw the pair dancing, they both smiled. Autumn’s parents smiled back, then went back to looking at each other.

When the song was over, Sky said, clearer than he had before, “you know, you said it a while ago, and I said ‘I know,’ but I love you too, Birdie.”

“Oh, you do?” she giggled.

He looked away. “You know what I mean.”

“Of course I do.” She tightened her grip on his hand and pulled him closer. “So why don’t you keep dancing with me? We are here to celebrate our daughter’s wedding, after all. And you look so nice tonight. We can celebrate together, just like you wanted to. As parents supporting her.”

He grinned. “I’d like that a lot.” So he held onto her tightly; a woman he loved as a dear friend, a friend who’d raised his child without him, and who was willing to forgive him for how he’d treated her before she’d done that. He felt he owed her for it, and hoped this one night would make up for a little of it, at least the fact that he had barely touched her for five years before she left.

When she flew him back down to Hyrule, he helped her down for a moment, so he could kiss her forehead. “This was… really nice, Birdie. I’ll expect your letter soon?”

“It’ll come with the pastries on Sunday.” She rolled onto her toes and kissed his cheek. He helped her back onto the Loftwing, and she took off.

It was barely a year after that that Autumn was antsy for her mother to see Change’s Shrine. Autumn would make it an excursion, an experience. “Mama, Chance told me about this place. A… a shrine.” Her mother looked confused. “Well, she didn’t tell me so much as I found it a couple years ago, but she told me why it matters.”

“Alright?” she replied, slightly confused. Did it have to matter?

“You might like it. It’s beautiful. I want you to see it, Mama.”

“Okay. Take me there.” As she got older, and she didn’t have to worry about Autumn as much, she wanted to explore more of Hyrule. She’d seen some beautiful places, but it was a huge land. She was sure there was even more out there to see—the fabled deserts, any number of forests, lakes, castles, tiny villages hidden away. This place Autumn was telling her about seemed like as good a place to start as any. So, soon after the idea had been proposed, the pair saddled up and took off towards Lake Floria.

“I did always love Lake Floria,” her mother mused.

“Me, too,” Autumn agreed, “but that’s not where we’re going.”

“Oh.” Her mother said quietly. They touched down in front of Skyview Temple and slid off their mount.

“We should be safe going through here. Everything that was in there is dead, from age at this point, or I did it.”

They headed through the temple in a straight shot, and Autumn waded into the spring at the end and unlocked the gate with her mother’s lullaby again, then came back to the entrance for her mother. When the two entered the small room, Autumn breathed a sigh of relief, feeling good to be back in the place. Her mother looked around in awe.

“This place is… gorgeous,” She breathed. “You were right. It’s like it was made for me. You found it like this?” She stared at the tidal pattern along the wall, and the elaborate tile on the floor. Everything still shone from Autumn’s last visit, with maybe a little more moss in some places.

Autumn smiled. “Yeah. Come here, I think you’ll like this even more.” She said, guiding her mother over to the statue. Her mother sank to her knees in front of the pedestal, looking up into the peridot eyes of the statue, and fondling the rich brown gown draped on it. As she laid her hands on the pedestal, her eyes widened.

Any mortal vessel of a goddess’s soul needed a mortal guide when she went to the goddess’s spring to retrieve her memories. It’s almost certain that she would faint, trying to take it all in at once. So it was good that Autumn had brought her mother to the spring in the ground, and was able to catch her when she collapsed. While she lay cradled in Autumn’s arms, her eyes fluttered back open. After a moment to let her mother collect herself, Autumn spoke. “What do you remember, Mama?”

“Too much to even start telling. Mostly, sitting in a crystal pool and seeing people needing protection. All I wanted to do was help them. I remember watching your dad’s quest and wishing I could reach out to him, hold him, keep him safe…”

Autumn’s eyes widened, then she looked away. “So…now what? Do you have powers again? Are you immortal?”

“As far as I can tell—based on what happened to Hylia—not that much has changed, really. I don’t have any powers, just her memories. I’m just a vessel.”

“What do you mean, ‘her memories’? You are her, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so. I’m still just your mother, Autumn. I carried you, fed you, smoothed your hair and sang you to sleep. I remember everything I’ve done for the last twenty years. It doesn’t feel like I did any of those things in my new memories. At least, not yet.”

Autumn nodded.

“But you know what?”

Autumn looked at her mother, raising her eyebrows. “What, Mama?”

Her mother grinned. “This means I have even more stories to tell you now.”

The Wheel Turns Onward

The day of Sky’s funeral, some thirty years after Autumn’s wedding, was a rough one for her and her mother. They had received the news by letter, and flown down to the surface that day in moods as black as their clothes. Because they lived on Skyloft, they would be responsible for making sure Sky was buried there, but the funeral was held on the surface because he’d spent his entire adult life in the large house in its center.

But they hadn’t been expected at the actual ceremony. So when they touched down, Time and Twilight were slightly shocked, but mutedly greeted them. Twilight hugged Autumn more tightly than she had anticipated, once he’d gotten over the shock of seeing her as not only an adult, but one nearly in middle age.

Olive and her entourage came along not too long after, and Olive expected to be introduced to this woman at her uncle’s funeral. It was only when Olive saw Autumn’s mother’s earrings that she realized who she was looking at. And then she burst into tears and clung to Autumn.

While they tried to catch up with some quiet dignity, Time approached her mother. “So what brought you here now?”

Twilight shushed him. “She’s family! She’s his widow; she’s allowed to be here.”

She smiled. “I can’t be the widow of someone I never married. But yes, Time, because I loved him. And I love you two, so I wanted to come share this moment with you and make it a little easier to bear. Plus, he’s Autumn’s father.”

Time nodded and they returned to the others to begin the ceremony.

Autumn cried fairly openly. Her mother just let silent tears slip down her face. Afterward, the men present helped the two women get Sky’s body onto a carriage, to be drawn by his Loftwing, Teal, and a younger third. Neither Autumn nor her mother had ever driven a carriage, and only Autumn knew how to fly a Loftwing very well, but they were his family, and they lived where he wanted to be forevermore, so they tried their best. The pair cried the whole way home. They had remembered Sky as a lover and as a father, but now he was neither. He was a memory.

But Autumn was closer to 70 when her mother passed. “Finally” wasn’t a good word for it, but her mother lived much longer than Autumn could have ever hoped, considering the hard life they’d had for all of Autumn’s childhood. It was an easy departure for her, peaceful and comfortable. She had spent the last few years going out less, until finally she left home for the last time, to sit amongst the pumpkins and gather her family.

At least, who she could of it. Some people would never get to be there. But Autumn, Cormorant, their children Tanager and Vireo, and their families were all there in the patch with her. She sat there supported by Autumn, and she said a few prayers to Chance or Change, thanking whichever for the years she had been given. Autumn insisted on hoping it was Change, regardless of the odd circumstances that situation would create.

She didn’t want to be sage, or have remarkably significant last words, so she decided to go the way she had always gone in her life. She looked up at Autumn holding her and just said “You’re in charge now, Hero of the Broken World. You’ve done well, and made me very proud. I love you. Tell the others I love them too.”

“…And Mr. A?”

She laughed shakily. “Yes, tell him, too.” Her mother coughed and picked at her clothes. Autumn took her hand, which was cool. The skin was mottled white with blue. This was it. She nodded.

“Alright, Mama. I will.”

“Thank you.” After that, Autumn’s mother was silent in the last moments of her life.

They buried her in Skyloft’s cemetery, next to Sky. They each had memorial stones, ones which had no mention of the other, but Autumn insisted that her parents be together in death, since they weren’t in life.

The day after the burial, Autumn flew one of the younger Loftwings down to the Surface and went to the island where Mr. A lived.

She hadn’t been there since the day she had picked her mother up and sealed the Void, and had only seen him in pictures since then, so she was very surprised when he opened the door. He hadn’t aged much, just enough to look about Autumn’s age.

“Hi, Mr. A.”

“Good morning, Autumn.”

“I’ve come with some unfortunate news.”

“Your mom?” Autumn nodded wearily. “Come in and have a drink with me. Then we can talk about it.” Autumn followed him into the house, looking around again. 50 years had done so much to her, and so little to anyone in the house—they all looked the same as they had half a century before. Well, other than Eri. He had grown up and gotten older too, and now looked about the same as Mr. A, other than the pair of glasses that rested between his fingers, and the jewelry on those fingers. She nodded to him as Mr. A. gestured for her to sit and poured her a drink. She lifted the glass to her lips and took a tiny sip. He finished his in two swallows and poured another, half as large, and drank it slowly as Autumn spoke.

“So tell me about it.”

“She asked me if she could lie in the pumpkin patch, where she could see the Loftwing pen and stare up at the sky and smell the dirt.”

“And she got to?”

“We all sat around her as she prayed, then she talked to me while they all looked on.”

“She prayed?”

“Yes, to a goddess called Change. She’s a companion to Chance, who was the one that sent me on my quest. I saw one of Change’s shrines a long time ago.”

“And she said some stuff to you? Can you give me an example?”

“I made her proud, I’m what’s left at the head of the bloodline, stuff like that.” He nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “Oh, and she wanted me to tell you that she loved you.”

“I figured as much.”

“That I was supposed to tell you that?”

“No, that she loved me.”

“Oh. I mean, she really did. She loved my dad, too—”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“—but she really loved you.” He was silent, his head resting on his hand. Autumn couldn’t tell how he was feeling. “And I have a question.”

He took another sip of his drink, then said “Shoot.”

“Well… do you want to be buried with her? We buried her with my dad, but there’s this lovely place by the river on Skyloft, and it’s by where she is. It’d be symbolic—” He held up a hand to silence her.

“I’ll live too long. Your dad died like thirty years ago, right?”

“Twenty,” Autumn corrected, “but he…”

“Regardless. Your mom just passed. You have grandkids. I’ll still be around by the time they they’re your age.”

“How?”

“It’s just my race’s existence, aging like that.”

“…oh.”

He was quiet while he finished his drink. But then he piped up, leaning in towards Autumn. “But there is something you could do.”

“Of course.” Autumn responded.

When she returned to Skyloft, she had the stone at her mother’s grave modified to read “Dollie, The Lady of the Lake” under everything else it said. She took the vial off her necklace and pushed it into the still-loose dirt. Perfect. A little piece of Mr. A. was still with her mother.

The Lady of the Lake’s Journal

Autumn thought she had seen it all, had finally known everything about her mother, once they’d gone to Change’s shrine together, thought that she would never find anything new, once she’d heard all of those stories, Change’s memories, straight from the mouth of Change… sort of. But she had never seen her mother’s journal, never known her mother had kept a journal, until she was gathering her mother’s things. But here it was.

She picked up the worn journal. It was leather-bound, and the leather was softer than Autumn had expected. As she ran her fingers over the front, she noticed—although it was faded—the seahorse with wings that her mother had used as their last name carved into the front of the book. Autumn tried to flip through the pages, to see how much of the book had been filled, but it fell open, split in half. Autumn looked at what that page said.

The first things she saw were the failed starts of letters to Mr. A.

Calder,

Skyloft is as beautiful as it ever was, but I find myself missing you.

Calder,

I keep trying to write, but

Calder,

I’m home and settled in here again. I sell eggs, pumpkins, pies, and cider. If I thought they would keep in the mail, I’d send you some of each. I’m enclosing some pictographs of Skyloft, so you can see it, maybe make believe you’re here. Frame the one of the view from outside my window and put it next to the pod you sleep in, and you can pretend you’re still waking up next to me.

It would have been nice to grow old with you. I know you think that I already did, because to you, red blood means an early death, but let me tell you—I was a ruler once myself. I abdicated to have Autumn, actually.

Every morning, I swim in the river that fuels all but one of the rivers and lakes in Hyrule, and every night, I dip my feet in the same one and look up at the moon, thinking of you. Maybe you could do the same in the ocean?

But maybe

Autumn grabbed a large chunk of pages and turned them backwards, going for the front of the journal. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a paragraph, so she turned a page back to get more context, and began reading: But Sky is right, and I have to tell it like it is– I met Calder one day while the girls were swimming with Vella.

I was immediately shocked, because he wasn’t a Zora. I used to see tons of Zora every day. But I hadn’t seen his kind for a long time. I think I’d started to believe that they didn’t exist anymore, that they were extinct.

He was living under Zora protection, but he wished he was more like me than them. And I guess I found him fascinating because of that. And everyone could tell—I thrilled at the idea of taking the girls swimming, even more than I had before. Autumn kept asking if I was excited to see my new friend.

Oh, if only we were just friends. Friends like me and Sky. No, we’re so much more than that. Both locked in a world that was certainly not their own, it made us kindred spirits.

I started slipping to the lake alone, and dreaming of tasting the kelp-y water off his lips, even while I lay sleeping next to someone else, knowing that this was getting more and more wrong every time I did it. I guess I wanted to be with both at once, but I couldn’t, and I knew I couldn’t. So it was no surprise that when Chance found out, I was almost separated from both of them.

But Calder gave me something that I wasn’t getting from Sky. Sky looked at me the same way he looks at the ground when he rides Red; he’s fine being on the ground, but not forever, and he doesn’t want to land too quickly. At the time, Calder looked at me like some sailors look at land– something they want more than anything, but know they can’t stay with, even if it’s home. I couldn’t torture both of them by staying with Sky. He was trying to get away from me, anyway; he didn’t kiss me for five years because he couldn’t stand doing it. Granted, he said goodbye with the sweetest kiss he’d ever given me, but it… It broke my heart to watch him have to try.

And so I created the new seal for myself, for trying to write letters to the both of them: a seahorse, with the wide wingspan of avian mounts, which would be recognizable as singly mine to the both of them.

And I taught it to Autumn as our last name, because I was all she had in the world, anyway. She wasn’t Calder’s, and she wasn’t Sky’s… anymore.

Autumn shuddered and kept reading.

And then, of course, between leaving Sky and deciding to be with Calder, there was Problem. “Call me Problem and I’ll solve all of yours,” he said. Not as a come-on or anything. He’s a friend of the Slicks, had heard about Autumn, and had run into me by chance in a bar in the City of Night. By Chance. Haha. He kissed me once in the entire time we spent together, and it never went further than that, but it was nice to have a crush that paid attention to me, especially considering how big a crush it was. He gave me the ring that I wore around my neck with the stones from Sky, so I got to keep him with me, kind of. Autumn looked at her mother’s fish necklace in her hand, suddenly noticing the black stone in the fish’s eyes, mumbling an “Oh.” She shrugged and kept reading. He was a good friend, him and his partners, Tony and Phil. Ah, those three. Problem S. Marlowe, Anthony Dante Holmes, and Phillip Ignatius Dupin. Not the best detectives in the City of Night, but the hardest working (and playing, but I suppose they would be, being friends with the Slicks).

Autumn laughed at her mother’s sharp memory and turned to the end of that entry, still learning about her mother and the things Change had done for love—for Autumn, and for her lovers, and the world she’d had a hand in creating.

She brought the journal to the shrine and left it there, atop the pedestal. There. All of Change’s memories put together in one place.

#Voided Reveries modded

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