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howaboutcastiel · 2 years

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Bondage (Marc x Reader)

Kinktober Prompt 8 (Kinktober Masterlist)

Word Count: 2.2k

Content: slight choking, bed-humping, shibari, improper and inaccurate use of the suit, slight use of “sir” as a dom title, softdom!Marc a little bit. Fingering, oral (f receiving)

You were just so… stressed.

It was that time of the year when work tended to pile on heavier than you could bear. Of course, you always got through it, but that didn’t mean you weren’t struggling. Your workday had run late again tonight and you were barely able to hold your head up as you finally exited your workplace well after dark. You’d had the forethought—and frustration—to send Marc a message letting him know you’d be getting home late. It was just a quick text, nothing more than the words “busy day, working late,” but he understood immediately how much pressure you must be under.

When you finally dragged yourself through the front door of the apartment, Marc was waiting for you in the kitchen. There was supper on the table for you, fresh and warm and smelling delicious. It was one of your favorite meals. You were immediately thankful and you dropped your bag off your shoulder before enveloping him in a large, tight hug.

“Hey, baby,” he breathed into your hair, a soft chuckle in his voice.

“Thank you,” you whimpered at him. You wanted to be sure it was the first thing out of your mouth. “For making dinner. It smells delicious.”

“Of course. I know you had a long day. Why don’t you wash up and then we can eat?”

You pulled away from him, already missing his warmth, and headed to the bathroom to wash your hands. On the way back, you shed your overshirt and tossed it in the hamper, wanting to separate yourself from any sensory reminders of your work day. You sat down at the table, where Marc was waiting opposite you. As you started to dig into your food, he smirked at how quickly you devoured it. In the busy mess of your work day, you’d failed to eat lunch.

“You like it that much?” He scoffed. You could feel some of your stress dissipate as the filling warmth overtook your chest.

“Compliments to the chef,” you muttered between bites. “I’m sorry, love. I’m just really hungry. And yes, it’s very good.”

“Don’t be sorry. There’s plenty more on the stove if you want it.” He consumed the food on his plate more slowly, admittedly having more fun watching you than anything else. Marc noticed all of the tension in your frame, but he didn’t dare mention it as you hummed and moaned lightly between bites. You could at least get through your meal without him bringing up your stressful day. “Steven helped a little with the cooking.”

Neither of you talked much as you finished your dinner. The food filled you with warmth and satisfaction that eased your sore back and headache. You stopped yourself after one plate, knowing the rich food would only make you sick if you indulged yourself further.

Marc didn’t give you the chance to move from the table when you finished your plate. He gave a subtle glare to you as he placed the dishes into the sink, instructing you silently to stay where you were. You obliged, happy that you didn’t have to think about making any more decisions on your own today. He took your hands into his when he returned, coaxing you to your feet.

“You had a long day, baby?” He hummed sweetly and you nodded at him. His voice turned patronizing and his face grew into a smirk. “Do you need a distraction? Need someone to take your mind off the work?”

You nodded again.

He cupped your head in his hand, running his thumb across your cheek as you peered up at him. Marc pressed a soft, sweet kiss on your lips and pulled away while tugging your hand toward him.

“Come to bed with me, baby.”

He knew exactly what you needed. Marc was sometimes better at meeting your needs than you were yourself, able to see your problems without overthinking them the way that you do. He coaxed you onto the bed, kissing you more deeply and running his hands along your body as he did. You melted under his touch. A familiar heat started to rise in your core as he slipped his tongue through your parted lips.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning into his kiss, and he straightened his back to pull you up against the headboard. When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but softly whine at the absence of his touch. His face fell into a more serious, more lustful gaze.

“Sit up for me,” he murmured with a soothing voice. “On your knees, with your arms behind you.”

It was confusing at first, but you did what he asked of you. Marc knew that your stress stemmed from all the responsibilities you had right now—all the weight on your shoulders. He intended to take off all of that weight for tonight. You positioned yourself on your knees, sitting back on your heels and bringing your hands together behind you. He gingerly reached out around you, crossing your arms so that your hands nearly touched your elbows.

“That’s a little hard to hold,” you pointed out. The position was already putting a little strain on your shoulders. Marc tried to keep his face flat, but a smile was trying to force its way onto it anyway. He pulled your hands back apart, nodding in understanding.

“Go ahead and take off your shirt, baby. Let me worry about that.” You pulled your undershirt off over your head before returning to the position he’d shown you. He cleared his throat, eyeing your breasts with a raised brow, and you reached back down to unclasp your bra as well. Once it was off, he seemed satisfied, so you once again folded your arms behind you.

Marc raised his chin, his expression going distant for a second before his eyes flashed white. You startled as you felt something soft and smooth suddenly tug at your wrists. The mysterious fabric winded around your arms, binding them in place, and darting upward till it reached your neck. You looked up at him for an explanation and his eyes were still glowing, focusing down on your body. The fabric continued over your front and you were relieved when it finally came into view and you could see that it was the linen that normally made up his suit.

A strong knot wove itself at the center of your collarbone, pressing firmly against your skin just too low to affect your airway. A part of you almost wished that it was a little bit higher. The wrappings continued to fold around your body, cupping your breasts and winding in a diamond pattern across your stomach. Marc’s eyes stopped glowing.

“Are they too tight?” He asked as he surveyed your form. His pants were growing tighter, you could tell just by looking. You shook your head. “I need words, baby.”

“No,” you breathed feverishly. “No sir.”

“Good.”

He knelt onto the bed, pulling a pillow against the headboard and pushing you back until you were leaning into it. Marc’s hands grazed the bindings and the pads of his fingers left goosebumps on your skin. You gasped as he brought his hand lower to the band of your pants. He fiddled with the button and zipper, not too attentive to the work of his fingers as he pressed his lips back onto yours.

Marc worked your pants down over your thighs as he kissed you. The fabric bunched against your ass until he brought his hand underneath to pull you up, tugging the fabric until it was over your ankles and off you altogether. He groaned at the thong you were wearing underneath. You figured he would leave it on you, and you were right. The dark, bold lace drove him absolutely crazy, not to mention even more now that it was drenched in your arousal.

“Try to just relax,” he cooed. “Let me take care of you.”

He moved the fabric of your panties aside, gathering your slick on his fingers before pressing two of them inside of you. The stretch sent waves of pleasure and warmth into your belly and you shuddered against him. He curled his fingers and you involuntarily pulled your knees together.

His eyes were glowing again and suddenly there was pressure on the inside of your thighs. You whined and grunted as the wrappings pulled your legs apart, giving Marc complete access to your aching, dripping cunt. He pumped his fingers in and out of you, which made your body shudder. His thumb flicked up across your clit and you all but screamed as you threw your head back.

“You want to cum on my fingers, baby?” He asked devilishly. You shook your head and he tilted his to the side, amused. “You don’t? Then what do you want?”

You groaned again and mumbled something quite incoherent. He laughed breathily and brought his other hand up to your face. His fingers petted your hair as his palm rested on your cheek. You tried to focus on his eyes and he slowed the pace of his other hand.

“Come on, you gotta use your words. If you don’t want what I’m offering, you gotta give me an alternative.”

You could have just asked him to fuck you. He could have easily pounded you into the mattress or carefully made love to you if you asked. That’s likely what he was expecting you to ask of him, but you had another thought in your brain. You didn’t know exactly what put it there.

“Can you—can you use your tongue?” His eyes grew wide and his face turned red at your feral request, but he was more than happy to oblige. He leaned back, ready to dip his head and bring his mouth to your core, when you suddenly stopped him. “Wait! Don’t… Can you take off your clothes? Just some of them at least? Please, sir?”

“Of course, baby.”

He pulled his shirt off over his head and stepped off of the mattress long enough to remove his jeans. Marc was back on you in a second, his hands rough on your hips as he splayed out on his stomach. His hard cock formed a sizable tent under his boxers and he stifled a groan as it made contact with the bed.

If Marc was good with his hands, he was unbelievable with his mouth. He flicked his tongue over your clit before bringing it down to your opening, making sure to angle his chin so that his nose still pressed into your bud as he took deep laps into your pussy. Marc’s mouth worked you up to the edge much quicker than it should have. Your groans turned into dragged-out whimpers as you started approaching your climax.

He started rutting into the bed.

You leaned down to watch him, but the pleasure running through you forced your back to arch. When you did catch a glimpse of his pretty face and his eyes met yours, he gave a naughty wink before tightening his grip on your thighs. His eyes started to glow again.

This time, the pressure came around your throat, constricting the blood flow and tightening around your airway. Marc started to grunt and whimper the longer he rutted into the bed, and the combination of the sight and his mouth and the binding on your neck had you quite literally seeing stars as you crept toward the edge.

His nails dig into your skin, and that was all that you needed to crash into your climax at full force. Your vision darkened and your brain went entirely blank as the pleasure ripped up through your body, and Marc continued in his pace even after you started to come down. You writhed against the touch, overstimulated and unable to think, and he thankfully stilled as his own orgasm hit him. He was still in his boxers and he pulled away to bury his face in your thigh as he rode it out against the mattress.

When he lifted his face, it was blushing and tired and glistening with your slick. His lips were red and swollen and he looked like a man who’d just seen heaven, or perhaps the field of reeds.

“Baby?” He asked blindly, his body lax against the bed. You hummed in response. “Do you feel okay?”

You nodded, and he forced himself up on his elbows. His eyes glowed again—for the final time of the night—and you fell onto the bed as the wrappings withdrew back into the air. The headboard supported your weight, and Marc dropped his head back into your lap, panting.

“I didn’t know you could do that.” You admitted, and Marc only laughed breathlessly at your statement. You looked down at him and his gaze was soft through his eyelashes. Your sore arm swooped down to his face, your hand running through his damp curls.

“What else can you do with those?”

@rmoonstoner @ahookedheroespureheart @theaussiedragon @moonmoonboys

#moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight x you #moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #kinktober #masterlist

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drvitaltips · 2 months

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hopeintheashes · 2 years

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Okay I’m gonna stray from my usual and go with:

Bobby + “I burnt dinner”

Thanks 💕

❤️❤️❤️

He's afraid, for a second, that Eddie isn't going to pick up the phone.

Which would certainly be his right. Bobby's not his captain anymore.

"--'lo?" Distracted, sounds like. Stressed, for sure.

He takes a breath and makes sure his own shoulders are lowered. His voice calm. "Hey, Eddie, just wanted to call and see how your first day went."

"Yeah. Fine. Lots to learn."

Bobby waits him out.

Eddie's good at silence, though, and Bobby's already saying "So--" when Eddie finally says, "I burned dinner."

Bobby blinks. Part of the whole appeal of the new position was that it was normal workdays; no more 24-hour shifts. "You..."

"First day, got home, burned the fuck out of dinner. The smoke detector just stopped going off, finally. Chris is out in the backyard. I'm trying to scrape this-- shit--" a grunt of effort with every word-- "off of the pan, but I might as well just toss the whole thing." The clatter of the pan being thrown back down on the stove, or counter, or possibly into the sink. "Fuck." Pulling himself back together. "I'm really sorry, Bobby, that's not why you called."

Raised eyebrows. "It's not?"

Eddie doesn't say anything to that.

"Okay, first thing, nothing's currently on fire." He doesn't phrase it as a question, because it's not. Eddie knows what he's doing here.

Eddie sighs. "No. Nothing is currently on fire."

"Okay. I have no idea if the pan is salvageable or not, but I do know that you have to soak it before you scrape it. Soap and water." He waits, and there's the sound of running water, and then Eddie says, "Yeah."

"And you have other food in the house?"

"Not really!" Frustration boiling over again. "I was supposed to get groceries yesterday, but then Chris had this project for school, and I was trying to get ready for my first day, and we had just enough stuff in the fridge to make this one dinner but now--" He breaks off, breath uneven.

"Remember that delivery is always a thing; hell, the McDonald's drive-through is a thing. But if you don't want to leave your house, there's always cereal? Eggs? PB&J?"

A controlled exhale on the line. Bobby's pretty sure Eddie's counting out his breaths, the way he's seen him do for Buck sometimes. "We've got cereal, but no milk. Peanut butter and jelly, but no bread."

"Now we're onto something. Do you have crackers? Tortillas?"

"Yeah. We've got some slightly-stale tortillas in the fridge."

"Tortilla, peanut butter and jelly, roll it up, cut it into little spiral slices if you want. And then once you and Chris have both had some food, you can work on putting in a grocery order. Only has to be for a couple of days, don't stress about trying to meal-plan an entire week."

"Yeah." Bobby can picture him scrubbing at his eyes. "Sorry. This is all such basic shit. I should be able to figure it out on my own."

Bobby gives him a second, and then gently asks, "Is that the answer to how today went?"

The silence is answer enough.

"I have no fucking clue what I'm doing, Bobby. No fucking clue."

"That's normal."

So tight he might break: "Not for me."

Bobby takes a slow breath in, then out, listening for Eddie to echo him on the other end of the line. When he has some evidence that Eddie's breathing again, he says, "Give yourself some time."

"How much time?"

"More than a day?"

Something like laugh, even if it is a little choked. "Yeah, okay. Point taken." A deep breath. "Okay, I'd better make some PB&J things."

"Roll-ups. You've got this," Bobby tells him. "And remember, we've got your back."

This quiet sort of disbelieving sound that Bobby is just about positive has to do with Buck, but that's not something that it makes any sense to get into while Eddie's got a hungry kid and a kitchen that still smells like smoke.

"I've got your back," he says instead, in a if you believe nothing else, believe that kind of tone.

"Yeah," Eddie says, and it sounds like he's willing to at least come that far. "Thank you, Bobby. Seriously."

"Any time. Seriously."

Fifteen minutes later, his phone pings with an incoming photo: The Diaz boys on their back porch, Eddie's arm around Chris, who's holding a PB&J roll-up in one hand and giving a thumbs-up with the other, face scrunched up in a dazzling smile. The caption says, They're a hit!

Bobby smiles, and goes back to work.

(Send me a little something and I’ll write a little something!) (Yes, prompts for this are still open; I like this format a lot!)

#911fic #9-1-1 #bobby #eddie #by:hopeintheashes #tiny little things #does 769 words count as tiny?#lol

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givemethatgold · 3 years

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Fix’er Upper - Part Twelve

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader Warnings: Mentions of sex, swearing, mentions of drug use, fluff, smidge of angst? Length: 1.7k Notes: Managed to whip up this bad boy during a quiet moment today and should probably make y’all wait for it but I don’t really do posting schedules (as you’ve noticed) so enjoy. Not beta’d, not proof read, I’ll die on this messy hill.

Series Masterlist

Surprisingly, life didn't change too much after that night. Frankie continued to run his acreage and oversee the making of this year's cider. With some encouragement and support from you, he was starting to expand the business and already had a few pubs in the closest city clamouring to have his product on tap.

Meanwhile, the improvements on the house were nearing an end, for the indoors list anyways. The first thing Frankie had helped you do was to install your new soaker tub, immediately followed by christening it by making soft, slow love to you inside of it.

There hadn't even been any water, your impatience to be close to each other wouldn't allow for that. You had just stripped out of your coveralls, convenient work-wear for people who fucked like rabbits you had to admit, and sat in his lap with your arms and legs wrapped around him. His hands guiding your hips in a slow rocking motion, breathing each other's air as your open mouths hovered in a not-quite kiss, only breaking eye contact when you threw your head back as you came.

Autumn passed quickly and Winter had gripped Vermont, cloaking the countryside in a heavy blanket of white. Christmas was a cozy affair, you and Frankie had been asked to join Jacquie and Mark in their family's merriment. It had stirred something inside of you, watching a functional family laugh, sing, argue, eat, and love with such abandon.

It was everything you'd dreamt, initially, for your future with Brad. Now? Now you were starting to picture that future with Frankie's face as the patriarch, you just haven't built up the nerve to broach the subject yet.

You'd started working at the bakery, enjoying the early mornings surrounded by rising dough and sculling back coffees with the adorable older ladies who ran the place. You'd also begun doing the books for Morales Acres and Catfish Brewery. Frankie was a veritable genius but he claimed he had no patience for keeping receipts and tracking numbers.

You had a sneaking suspicion he was playing dumb in an effort to give you more time together but you really didn't mind. Your break-of-dawn mornings at the bakery had you tired, but after a full day of renovating or bookkeeping, you were downright exhausted and ready for bed by eight pm. This, mixed with Frankie monitoring the brewing, bottling, and distribution of his cider and networking at bars and pubs throughout the state meant the two of you rarely saw each other.

All of your hard work in your own house had made you a popular friend to call when someone needed decorating advice, or a helping hand once they realized they couldn't tile their kitchen backsplash solo. You never charged for your time, although payment had initially been offered until work had got around that you preferred a good meal and conversation over money. I mean, sure, you could use the cash but it just didn't seem right. And you loved helping people and making deeper connections with the town you now truly felt you belonged in.

Tuesday evenings had become an unofficial date night for the two of you. The bakery was closed on Wednesdays and bar owners tended to be less interested in business halfway through the week, something to do with the rush of the previous weekend having worn off and the worry of setting up for another one starting to grow.

This meant you could stay up late, enjoy a proper homemade dinner, maybe even watch a movie or share a bottle of wine while soaking in your big ass tub. It usually ended as a sleepover, your house being the preferred location; Frankie's loft was perfectly fine but it did lack a certain homey appeal.

This pattern, this life, that you'd created for yourself was making you happier than you'd ever been in your entire life. You weren't one hundred percent content, not yet anyway, but the path to getting there was on a direct trajectory. You still wanted to finish your college degree, maybe switch it over to horticulture. Building a greenhouse and selling flowers was still a pipe dream but something your heart truly longed for, something that Frankie was constantly encouraging you to do.

"Look, hun," he had called out to you a few weeks ago while supposedly researching the new line of bottles. "There's an auction next county over and they have all this confiscated stuff from a grow op that got busted!"

"What?" You'd made a face and laughed at the absurdity of it all. "What on earth would you use from a pot farm?"

He just gave you a salacious wink as an answer.

Frankie had been open about his past drug abuse and while some recovering addicts may want all mention of it banned from a conversation, Frankie found levity in treating the topic like any other person would.

It had taken you a couple of hours to realize why he'd brought up the auction. It had hit you with a jolt, knowing that he’d remembered your rambling from on top of the Ferris wheel. You didn't realize he'd been listening when you'd told him about your idea of taking over the flower stand at the market once the current couple retired.

Your heart had swelled and there was a concerted effort to prevent the sudden onset of tears from running down your face. God, you loved this man, maybe one of these days you should tell him...

This particular routine was working well for the two of you. It gave each of you your own space to relax, destress, enjoy the shitty tv shows you were too embarrassed to watch in front of another living person. It also forced the two of you to take your relationship slowly, communication being a constant learning curve. You were both really good and telling each other when you needed time alone, when you were feeling stressed or sad. You each had learned the tells for when the other was angry or just hungry, if it was hormones or if there was something that was actually pissing you off.

The thing you each seemed to struggle with was expressing the softer side of the relationship. Neither of you appeared to have the Words of Affirmation love language skill, yet you both craved to hear it. You showed how much you cared for Frankie with your acts of service; helping him with the boring side of the business, baking, deep cleaning the loft, even scrubbing out the massive fermenter in the Catfish Cider warehouse.

Frankie, on the other hand, showed his love through physical touch. At first, you had assumed it was a staking-his-claim kind of thing but then you noticed how he'd do it all the time. A hand on your lower back while walking, caressing your hand with his thumb when driving in the truck, carding his fingers through your hair while you watched tv.

This week's date night found you at his place, relaxing in the loft after a busy workday. You were making dinner while he 'helped' by sneaking bites of the prepped ingredients, arm slung around you with a hand in your back pocket.

"What're you looking for?" He asked, taking advantage of your distracted searching through his cupboards to sneak a few more pinches of grated cheese.

"A can opener!" You replied, exasperation raising your voice an octave. "I could have sworn I saw a white one around here somewhere..."

“No, pretty sure that one's yours. I don't think I have one?"

"Frankie," you deadpanned "how did you survive as a bachelor without canned food?"

"I ate a lot of take-out?" He looked indignant at your laughter, "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Can you stop judging me long enough to eat some burritos?"

Smoothing his playful scowl with a kiss, you sat down at the counter and enjoyed your first meal together of the week.

An idea was formulating in the back of your mind, though, and you barely tasted anything. As the evening progressed, the idea grew and you were liking it more and more. The final straw was you not having a toothbrush in his bathroom anymore, having forgotten that it had fallen off the counter and into the trashcan the last time you'd spent the night.

Using his, with a strange mixture of distaste and nonchalance, before making your way over to the bed, you began to plan how the conversation could go:

Hey Frankie, so you know how I have a big house all to myself? Yeah... And it had everything we need in it? Yeah... And there's more than enough room for two adults to store all of their things? Yeah... And I wouldn't have to use your toothbrush ever again? Yea- wait what? I think you should move in with me.

It wasn't very romantic but it was the most likely, considering your dynamic. Just as you were crawling into bed and snuggling under the arm he'd raised to allow you to get closer, his cell phone rang.

"Hello? - This is he. - Yeah, biological. - Oh god, when?"

The immediate change in his tone from questioning to horrified caught your attention, sitting up to face him you grabbed his free hand, silently letting him know you were there for support.

His eyes were out of focus and a panicked expression was slowly morphing his face as the conversation went on, but he gave your hand a squeeze back in acknowledgement.

"Yes, in Vermont. Do you have my address? - Okay, good, good...okay - When? - I'll have something ready. Umm... does she... does she remember me? - Oh. Okay, thank you."

Slowly lowering the phone from his ear, Frankie sat staring into nothingness for what felt like hours. His side of the conversation and the way he was reacting had you rattled. You could guess as to what was happening but weren't sure if now was the right time to pry.

"Babe? Is, is everything okay?"

Silence.

Gripping his hand tighter and rubbing his back you sat with him for a few more minutes before trying again. You didn’t want to push him but your heart was constricting in your chest from nervousness and concern for him.

"Can I get you anything? What do you need?"

His hand was now completely dead in yours; eventually, he turned his head towards you, eyes never fully focusing, and shook his head.

"I- she- fuck... I think you should go.”

Part Thirteen

#Frankie Morales x F!Reader #Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader #Frankie Catfish Morales x F!Reader #Frankie Catfish Morales x Fem!Reader #Francisco Morales x F!Reader #Francisco Catfish Morales x Fem!Reader #Frankie Morales x Reader #Frankie Morales x you

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parkjess · 3 years

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Hey!!! Hope your doing well and having a good time

Are you taking requests??if you're can I request for an optional bias-where reader is working late and he comes to pic them and they take a romantic walk in the middle of night with sweets

It's okay if you're not taking any requests 😅

Have a great time ahead and I love your work 💖💖💖

I am! Thank you for requesting🥰

TYSM for the support🥺❤️

Midnight sky/ Optional Bias

Genre: Pure fluff

“Oof...” you sigh, letting your head fall on the table infront of you as you sit down, almost loosing control of your own body that falls comfortably on the chair. Your phone vibrates in the pocket of your jacket, you spend few seconds to wonder whether to answer or not, and eventually you do when you see who’s calling.

-“Baby, are you still at work?” Your boyfriend’s voice speaks up, comforting every worry you had in mind and makes it fade away in seconds. “Yeah...” you sigh heavily this time, shutting your eyes clothes, the entire work day goes through your mind for 3 seconds and a single tear leaves your eye. -“What is it?” He asks.

“I missed your voice.” You softly say, almost whispering, and take a deep breath. -“My baby... Are you tired?” His voice softens as well, You can hear the wind blowing as a background noise. he must be outside now, you think.

“Just a bit exhausted, where are you?” You ask as a reply. The wind has stopped and a car’s door sounds to be shut closed. -“I’m coming to pick you up.” He says, and does what seems to put his phone on the phone holder in his car. “I can’t wait to see you.” You reply shortly, not even bothering to start an argue with him about coming to pick you up, since you know he wouldn’t listen to you anyways.

-“Me too baby,” the way he calls you by this pet name everytime, which is his favorite, makes your heart flinch, even though you’re already used to him and it, that feeling never stops.

-“I’ll see you soon,” he says and hangs up. You can’t help but smile at the echo of his voice that stayed in your head for a while after he hung up.

Your mananger passes by the place your sitting at, and you stop him to ask if you can leave. “Is your boyfriend not coming today?” He suddenly asks, noticing how exhausted you look, your manager already got used to him picking you up on Thursdays. -“He is.” A voice behind him speaks up, too familiar to your ears, too warm to your heart. A smile from ear to ear is stretching on your face, automatically, without you even feel your face muscles.

Your manager steps aside and you see your boyfriend standing there, leaning on the doorframe, smiling at you. “I guess you’re leaving now. You worked hard today.” The older man says and leaves. Once he’s no longer seen in your sight, your loved one comes closer and you stand up to meet him eye to eye.

-“I missed you so much.” Your voice is muffled into his hoodie, hugging his waist as if you didn’t see him for years.

“I have something for you...” he looks deeply in your eyes, holding you by the waist with one hand and caressing your face with the other, you almost forget where you are and all you can see is his face. -“What is it?” You pull him closer, feeling his hot breathing brushing softly against your face, it’s that feeling again, home.

“Let’s get out of here first, I guess you can’t see this place after working so many hours.” He giggles at the end of his sentence, placing the slightest peck on your forehead, gently rubbing your neck and then grabs your hand. -“I honestly don’t mind staying anywhere as long as I’m with you.” You say and could feel the race of your heart after saying those words, you didn’t plan them, your feelings just came out, as if he didn’t know that and felt the same already.

“So cheesy this early?” He lets out the most beautiful sound, his laugh. “Come on.” He leads you outside, holding your hand the whole time.

-“What you got there for me?” You ask, peeking over your shoulder towards the backseat as he distracts your attention. “Not yet, hun.” He replies, stops you from looking properly into what seems to be a basket.

He suddenly pulls over in an unfamiliar place. “I thought were going home.” You say, surprised. -“It’s our release-stress day of week, remember?” He says and gets out of the car, taking that thing he called ‘a surprise’ and you follow. -“Don’t you just love the midnight sky?” He takes you by the hand, starting to walk on that road with flowers all around it.

It’s his thing, making your days better.

-“I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea giving you some sugar on weekend, after you worked intensively...” both of you step slowly on the empty road, it’s already late so the place wasn’t crowded. “Thanks baby, although you’re the only sweet thing I need after a workday.” Your’e being cheesy again and he likes it, yet gets cringed.

-“Ay... why are you being so cheesy today?” He sighs, you could notice his slight smirk when he looks up at the dark, full of stars skies.

“How can I not? Then stop being sweet!” You playfully yell at him. His laughter fills the cool air with warmth and joy to you as he reaches out his arm to the basket full with your favorite sweets and snacks, opening the little chocolate wrap.

-“Open your mouth.” He says, smiling at you immediately obeying. He shoves the candy in between your teeth slightly, which makes both of you smile and stare at each other. -“How is it?” He asks as you keep chewing on the sweet chocolate. “You decide.” You reply and pull him by the neck for a chaste kiss, even sweeter than what’s in your mouth.

“So... how was it?” You pull away and ask along with a smirk. -“Not sweet enough, try again.” He sarcastically replies, making butterflies appear in your stomach and pulls you for a deeper, much sweeter kiss, under the romantic midnight sky. -“I love it, but I love you more.” He softly says, caressing your cheek. “Look who’s being cheesy.” You giggle. “I love you too.” The cool air hits your face as he takes your hand again and you continue your late night walk, full of laughter, chocolate and butterflies.

#optional bias #optional bias scenario #optional bias imagine #optional bias scenarios #optional bias imagines #astro imagines #astro scenarios #kpop scenarios #astro reactions #kpop imagines #kpop reactions #bts imagine #bts scenario #exo scenario #exo imagine #nct scenario #nct imagine #kpop scenario

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drxwsyni · 4 years

Text

Petrified (pt.4)

Yandere Erasermic x f!Reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

a/n: oooooh boy this took a hot minute to write, but i finally forced myself to finish it. and we reached 600 followers recently too!!!! i can’t believe there’s so many of you guys like holy heck. i hope you continue to enjoy what i have to offer :)

4.8k words

Warnings: reader experiences mild anxiety

As much as every ounce of your being begged to escape the confines of your small apartment and return to work, there were certain...motivators, holding you back.

For one, you presumed it’d be safest to heed the words of a medical professional―at least for the time being. Your condition had greatly improved since Friday, disregarding some lingering head pain, and now your self-preservation and common sense seemed to be functioning properly at the moment. In that regard, resting was likely the better idea.

As for the other thing keeping you home...perhaps it would be healthier not to think about it.

You felt ashamed, having been so undeniably intimidated by a couple of men who were simply being kind enough to drive you home last night. However the sensation didn’t come as a shock once you had taken the time to think the ordeal over.

It’s just what came naturally―your brain internalizing experiences, shaping them into something that should scare you.

Any rational person would laugh at your behaviour.

They’re heroes. Clearly what happened was just them expressing harmless concern.

And yet the more you tried to convince yourself of their innocent intentions, the harder it became to ignore the gut feeling that still lingered the morning after.

However, you knew how your brain could be sometimes―refusing to move on from initial impressions despite having rationalized the topic as a whole.

Hizashi was just naturally drawn to affection as a way of showing distress. There was no other meaning behind his lingering touches or endearing nicknames―just concern.

As for Shouta, well he always seemed to be a stern man. It was likely that it just manifests a bit more when he’s worried, it’s just the professionalism in him.

There was no need to stay so fixated on the subject when you could be using your time to catch up on hobbies that you’d greatly neglected as a result of your occupation. Having no reason for doing anything else, a little self-indulgence was practically your only choice.

It was still early, at least for your standards―knowing full well that your lifestyle kept you in bed longer than the average human.

You kept searching for things to do here and there, never staying on one task for too long. First it was cleaning the kitchen, then attempting to read a long abandoned novel. You tried finding something on t.v to watch, but everything only offered you the same empty feeling of boredom. Nothing could pique your interest long enough to hold you to one pastime―and for good reason.

There was a message from Hizashi that remained unopened on your phone since you woke up.

It felt ridiculous, being so hesitant to look at the damned message. Even after telling yourself that there was nothing to worry about, you couldn’t bring yourself to read it. So when you heard the familiar ping not once, but twice in succession while organizing your magazine collection, the feeling of your heart sinking into your stomach did not come as a surprise.

The device was still on your nightstand where you disregarded it last night, and subsequently neglected it this morning. Even through the walls of your bedroom you could still hear the notifications go off.

Inwardly cursing, you had a faint idea that continuing to block out the intrusion would likely lead to more issues between you and the two men. Not that it should, everyone forgets to answer their phone here and there. But you weren’t an idiot―even if it was just paranoia, the consequences of ignoring the messages weren’t something you particularly wanted to think about given the recent behaviour of the heroes.

As expected, the screen was lit up in wait for your return.

From: Hizashi

morning sunshine! just checking up on ya, how r u feeling?

9:17 am

ya doing okay? didn’t pass out again i hope ;)

12:53 pm

if ya keep leaving me hangin i’m gonna get worried songbird…

12:54 pm

Ah yes, you thought, he’s as coddling as normal it seems.

You figured it’d be wise to send a reply before he bust down your door to make sure you were still alive in person.

You:

I’m alright! Just slept in a little :)

12: 54 pm

The response that came instantly was almost a little inhumanly fast.

From: Hizashi

oh thank god, don’t need a repeat of last friday

12:54 pm

You:

Yeah, definitely not. Thanks for checking up on me though!

12:56 pm

From: Hizashi

lemme know if ya need anything picked up, probably not a good idea for you to be going out rn

12:56 pm

Naturally, you wouldn’t let him do that even if you did need anything. God knows how much trouble you’ve been so far―no need to cause more.

You:

Sounds good, I’ll let you know if I do.

I’m actually in the middle of cleaning right now so how bout we talk later :)

12:57 pm

The more you conversed with him, the harder it became to think about anything other than the embarrassing experiences you had with the man. It was probably best if you gave up the conversation, knowing you’d have more than enough time to chat when you regrettably were forced to eat dinner with him and his partner.

Thankfully, he seemed to be okay with the proposition as well.

From: Hizashi

aww alright, don’t work urself too hard sunshine!

12:58 pm

Too bothered to give a proper farewell, you turned your phone off, leaving it on do not disturb to avoid further distress.

_____

You’d spent the rest of the day tidying up here and there. It turns out focusing solely on going to work only to come home for rest had left your apartment shamefully messy. Every now and again your thoughts would drift back to the two intrusions in your life as of lately. It was invasive―not being able to leave well enough alone. You weren’t physically near them they still plagued you with anxiety, even if it was just barely recognizable.

Dinnertime came soon enough, and you’d spent it mindlessly scrolling through social media. The feeling of wanting to chuck your phone across the room was fleeting―but present―as you momentarily laid eyes on a post having to do with Present Mic and his radio show. It would seem not even in your perceived distraction could you distance yourself from the thoughts and feelings related to him and his somber counterpart.

The night went on, slowly but surely. For better or for worse you let yourself get lost in the endless play-through of television. Some shows you’d seen before, others you hadn’t. It didn’t really matter when the only purpose they served was to keep your mind on something that didn’t have your hair falling out from stress.

Eventually you felt your mind become foggy with exhaustion once again―and you couldn’t be more thankful.

_____

Wednesday was spent doing many of the same things as the day before. Cleaning―so much cleaning. Turns out you’d missed a lot yesterday, and the lighting of the somewhat early morning sun was more than enough to highlight all the dirt and grime that had yet to be scrubbed away.

So you got to work, feeling rejuvenated with a good night’s sleep.

By the time you made it to six o’clock you felt thoroughly beat, and in the best way. You spent your time eating thinking about the work day you would have tomorrow. Sure, you were aware that it’d only bring the all too familiar sluggishness to your body. But you were a people pleaser, so really that sensation didn’t matter at the end of the day. What mattered was the motivation you felt that spurred you to work―both the verbal and nonverbal praise those who purchased the fruits of your labour gave.

Expectedly, when you woke up Thursday morning, although it was closer to the afternoon at that point, there was a spring in your step as you readied yourself for the day.

As always the comforting smell of fresh greenery in the air was much appreciated as you stepped into the floral boutique. Your coworker greeted you with open arms, regarding your seemingly healthy recovery. It was nearing the end of their shift, and therefore soon to be the beginning of yours, so you headed to the employee designated portion of the building to make the few preparations for the start of your night.

Naturally, you were quickly subjected to the whims and demands of customers when you took your place at the front counter. Given the monotonous time you spent away from any meaningful stimulation, the activity was appreciated.

You were assorting foliage left right and center, the company you worked for obtaining quite the substantial amount of earnings in the process. The time went by steadily, you working diligently alongside of it. Request after request was met, not even the few unsavoury interactions phased you all the much amidst the bustling atmosphere. A few familiar faces entered the shop, to which you greeted with a comforting warmth only good service could provide.

It felt good to be caught up in routine, making the nearing end of it only the more bitter. But it still came, and you were going through the motions of tending to the final arrangement with somewhat slowed movements as a result of your quirk usage.

The awaiting customer hastily took the finished product before paying and exiting the establishment. People tended to be in a bit of a rush at this hour, likely due to the lateness of the night. You disregarded the occurrence and settled for cleaning up for the rest of your shift.

There was sweeping and disinfecting to be done, along with tidying up the assembly station and checking on the greenery room one last time. You went through the tasks absentmindedly, having done them countless times before. The routine was like second nature, allowing your thoughts to go over the events of the workday.

You were giving a final once over of the plant life when the high pitched jingle of the front door bell rang out through the shop.

Really? At this hour you’re trying to buy flowers even though it’s literally closing time?

Giving a sigh of frustration you stepped out of the room and headed to the front. But low and behold, it was not in fact an incompetent customer waiting to be served.

“Did you even consider staying home for the whole week?” The erasure hero was leaning against the front counter when you entered the room. He was smirking ever so slightly, almost as if he knew that both of you were aware that you wouldn’t stay away from work. His tone was even teasing, making your frustrations go away only to be replaced by a slight feeling of flusteredness under his intense gaze. You didn’t know whether you preferred this side of him or the side that made you want to curl into a ball after being berated by unyielding lecturing mixed with interrogation.

“Hello to you too. I’m sorry if you're here for flowers cause it’s pretty much closing time.”

Just then Hizashi walked out from behind a display stand, making his way next to Shouta. “Not quite listener! Just wanted to make sure you were still up for that repayment we talked about.”

Ah yes, like you could forget that any time soon.

“Of course. Still not sure how it makes up for things but since you insist...who am I to say no?” You were behind the counter, taking stock of today's earnings as Shouta continued.

“I suppose it’s not really a traditional form of repayment, but we promise you’ll enjoy it. To be honest we don’t have company over often, so it’ll be a nice change of pace for us too.”

It was a relief to see that their behaviour wasn’t nearly as hostile as it was a few nights ago. Frankly, you just barely got out of that situation without breaking down from your highly anxious nerves.

“Ya finishing up there songbird? We’ll give you a ride home.” Joyous as ever, Hizashi was all too eager to put you further in debt.

Expectedly, his partner was quick to agree to the proposition. “That’s not a bad idea. Not to sound patronizing, but it really is dangerous to be out by yourself at this hour.”

You wrapped up the assessment of the register’s contents, closing the drawer and locking it up. “Thanks for the offer, but I refuse to impose on you two anymore. Besides, walking home can be kinda therapeutic―at least when I’m not tired out of my mind.” You gave a slight chuckle at the end of your statement, having long gotten used to that recurring condition at the end of the day.

“We weren’t asking, (y/n). You're still recovering, even though you probably won’t admit it. And I won’t beat around the bush―you’re too vulnerable in this state.”

It would seem Shouta’s previous attitude was just for show. Does he ever get tired of being so serious all the time?

It was like second nature at this point―direct confrontation leading to an initially mild panic that would soon snowball into a full blown breakdown if the occurrence persists.

You kept up the friendly appearance nonetheless.“I just think I’d prefer―”

“It’s no problem, sweetheart. You know we don’t mind helpin’ ya out. Besides we still gotta work out when you’re comin over, yeah?” The blond’s smile did little to calm the growing apprehension you felt.

Just be a little more stubborn. Some people need that extra reminder.

“It’s fine, really. I’ll just message you for the details and―”

“(Y/n).” It made your stomach churn―the lowness in the erasure hero's voice. He wasn’t having it. For a moment you pondered whether he’d ever really care about what you had to say.

“Just finish closing up, ‘kay hun? We’ll wait right here until you’re done.” Hizashi kept his eyes on you in wait for a response, or even an action that would show you’d comprehended what they said. And of course you had―you just desperately wished they’d never said it in the first place.

You felt ashamed, and it was becoming an all too familiar feeling when you were around the two men. But it was just who you were, met with compassion but only getting dejected by it. You were uncomfortable, there was no denying that. Backed into a corner that shouldn’t exist, but does because you didn’t have the will to change the situation into your favour.

Despite your distress, the part of you that put others before yourself prevailed.

“Okay, I guess. Just―um...gimme a few minutes please.” You wondered if they could even hear your reply, given that even to yourself it sounded almost non existent. It didn’t matter. You were fleeing to the employee room without bothering to find out.

You stood in front of your locker, hands shaking in the slightest as you got changed―apron off, jacket on, backpack slung over your shoulder. The coolness of the thin metal offered some relief, you keeping your hands atop the closed door for a moment to calm your rapidly beating heart.

At least you’d get home quickly, you thought.

As they promised, the two were waiting in the seating area at the front of the shop, quietly making conversation with each other. The sound of your footsteps alerted them to your presence.

“Ready to rock and roll?” Hizashi stood up from his seat, his partner following suit.

You gave the room a quick once over, making sure everything was where it needed to be. “I think so.” A quiet ride back home was what you hoped for, but there was more to be discussed, much to your dismay.

Shouta held the door open for the two of you, letting you pause to lock up when you had all exited. “How was work today?”

The closeness of his voice as you turned the lock into place made you jump slightly, but you did your best to ignore the temporary fear. “Fine, I suppose. Like any other Thursday night…” You tried to hide the underlying anxiety with a smile, but you couldn’t tell whether or not it did the trick. Giving the front door an experimental tug to make sure it was locked, you turned back to let the two lead you to their car.

You felt a hand settle on the small of your back―Shouta’s hand―as he walked with you while Hizashi remained on your other side, slightly ahead of you. “How’s your head doing, is the medication working?”

The two walked at a casual pace, but to you it felt unbearably slow―what you wouldn’t give to just walk home without the admittedly unwelcomed company. “It still hurts a bit every now and then, but the pills keep the pain at bay for the most part.”

By now you were approaching their car which was parked on the side of the road, the blond opening it for you to step in. Shouta took up the responsibility of driving once again, Hizashi in the passenger's seat.

“Ya gettin’ enough sleep?” You were sitting behind the driver's seat, letting Hizashi have the opportunity to comfortably look back at you while he talked.

“Probably more than enough.”

You heard Shouta start the car before he responded. “That’s good to hear. It’s unfortunate that your work keeps you out so late though.” The car started forward, and you were thankful that at this rate it’d only take a few minutes to reach your apartment. You kept your eyes trained on the passing scenery to avoid any awkward eye contact.

“So when do ya think would be a good day to come over. I’ve got my radio show on Fridays and weekdays don’t always sit too well with teaching ‘n stuff.”

“Yeah...Fridays definitely won’t work for me either. Honestly I don’t really get much time for myself outside of work.” Not that you weren’t used to this reality by now, but every so often you wished your life allowed for just a little more free time. If anything, the horrid state you found your apartment to be in when you were forced to stay home would surely attest to that.

It would seem that Shouta agreed with his partner’s statement, “How about this Saturday? I can come pick you up at around 5:30.”

You contemplated whether it was even worth arguing over letting him give you a ride to their place. And then you remembered exactly what landed you in their car in the present.

You probably wouldn’t get very far with that fight.

“That should be fine.” It was only in your nature to want to offer some form of compensation. You knew that this whole ordeal was meant to be you repaying them, so you should at least try to cater to that reality. “I can make something to bring so you guys don’t have to do all the work. Cooking isn’t really my strong suit but I’m a pretty decent baker―maybe I could put something together for dessert?”

“Nah don’t bother with that babe. We’re supposed to be treating you, remember?”

“Exactly, and I doubt any of us will have room for desert. Another time maybe.”

“Yep! Besides, you being there’s all the sweetness we need.” You didn’t have to look at Hizashi to know the grin he had on his face as he threw around careless sentiments like his literal partner wasn’t sitting right next to him.

The car was pulling into the parking lot of your apartment complex. To be honest you didn’t know how to respond to the nonchalant compliment, “Ah...yeah. Just let me know if there’s any change in plan I guess.” The vehicle came to a stop, you pulling your backpack into your lap while unbuckling the seatbelt.

“Don’t stay up too late, okay?” This time you didn’t make the mistake of looking at Shouta as he talked, for fear that his glare would burn holes through your skull. Instead you pretended to fiddle with something on your bag while responding.

“Yeah, thanks for the ride.”

The car door unlocked, letting you step outside into the brisk fresh air. Before you could close the door you heard Hizashi calling out to you, hand placed behind the headrest of his partner’s seat as he turned to speak to you. “We can give you a ride home tomorrow after work if ya’d like. Shouta’s got nothin’ going on―it’d be no trouble.”

“No,” that was definitely not something you needed, “I’ve got something I need to do after work actually, but thanks for the offer.” There was nothing to attend to after your shift, but they didn’t need to know that. Lying was never something you were the best at, and you hoped the shakiness in your voice didn’t give too much away.

“Alrighty then songbird, just thought I’d ask.”

“Have a good night (y/n).”

You smiled at the blond facing you, “Thanks, you too.” Before they could get another word out, as at this point you felt they would take up more of your time if possible, you shut the car door. Once again giving a small wave before you entered the building, you found it all too hard to contemplate how you’d politely weasel your way out of this newly developed relationship after the ensuing Saturday night.

_____

Friday came and went as expected. Waking up with the familiar sluggishness plaguing your body, moving past the sensation to go about your duties―everything falling into place as routine. Meeting the demands of love-stricken individuals was as taxing as normal, but it was all you had to make you feel like you were contributing something valuable to society. At the end of the day it was worth doing questionable things to your health.

The slightly less honourable motivation in the form of decent tips was always an added bonus. Your co-workers mentioned a few times that somehow you always ended up with a higher profit than the rest of them. It made you feel slightly guilty, but the usage of your quirk was likely the reasoning behind the occurrence.

Nights like these always ended with more earnings than normal―given the sheer volume of customers compared to the typical weekday traffic. Right now you took solace in the reward as you usually do at the end of your shift, thumbing through the few generous bills you received.

Satisfied with the haul, you completed your mental checklist that you’d formed over time to ensure that all tasks were completed by the end of the day. Your keys felt heavy in your wearied hands as you locked up, turning on the heels of your feet in the direction of your awaiting apartment.

You’d be lying if you said you were surprised to see that the two mildly invasive heroes hadn’t checked in to see that you were actually busy after work. Not that you wanted them to―having to lie once again wasn’t in your best interest. Still, the phenomenon that was their recurring presence had not gone unnoticed. More often than not you found your thoughts drifting to past experiences with them, and therefore regrettably resurfacing some unpleasant feelings.

For now however, you did your best to fixate on other, less mentally damaging things. In light of recent events you chose to take the long way home, inwardly shuddering as you passed the alleyway which you ever so carelessly ventured into exactly a week ago.

Maybe you were just hyperaware due to some lingering paranoia, but you could’ve sworn you could make out rustling in certain places around you―places that shouldn’t exactly be making that much noise.

Behind you. No...above you? Or was it both―the sounds distinct but lacking just enough to throw off your comprehension to make a full analysis of their origin.

Forget about it for God’s sake. You’re tired. It’s been a long day and you’re anxious because you got jumped just seven days ago in the same area.

But you could hear it.

Shifting in the shadows. Muffled but there all the same.

Footsteps?

The possibility had your heart rate growing faster by the second.

Not footsteps, just your mind playing tricks on you. You’re okay.

Unconsciously, your pace grew quicker, the patter of your shoes hitting the pavement sounding off below you. In the midst of your panic riddled thoughts you failed to register that you’d reached your destination.

An audible sigh escaped your lips as you observed the towering building with gratitude.

You kept up the hastened strides, reaching your apartment in good time. The time between stepping through the threshold of the abode and when your head hit your pillow was a blur―but really those monotonous details weren’t all that imperative.

As much as you wanted to get a good night's sleep, your subconscious had other plans. You reached the state of deep slumber that you desired, but it was riddled with offending nightmares.

Dark looming figures in the corner of your eyes, disappearing when you tried to get a good look at them. Running from something that placed a deep set fear into your very being, despite not having even seen what the atrocity was.

It left you to wake in a cold, sticky feeling sweat. Disheveled and disoriented, the time didn’t quite matter―wanting only for the feeling of trepidation to dissipate so you can return to a hopefully more peaceful sleep.

_____

Keys clattered loudly on the glass countertop of the side table in the entryway as Shouta haphazardly emptied his pocket’s contents. The sound of a running shower could be heard on the floor above him, making the presence of his boisterous partner known. He removed the heavy combat boots of his hero costume and lazily sauntered to the shared bedroom.

By the time he got there the shower had turned off, and he occupied himself with changing out of his attire for something less restricting in wait for the blond to make an appearance.

He’d just finished getting settled when Hizashi exited the attached washroom to their bedroom, hair still damp and lightly soaking the t-shirt he’d thrown on. “Well, don’t keep me waiting’”

The voice hero leaned against the headboard of their bed, “She didn’t have any plans, I watched her walk straight home after her shift and she never left the apartment either.”

Hizashi’s usually persistently bright smile faltered, “Ah...she probably forgot about them or something.”

“Do you really believe that?”

The disappointment was evident in the blond’s face, “Would she really just lie to us like that, even though we’re tryin’ to help her?”

The erasure hero sighed, “She’s self-destructive, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve seen her put herself in danger without second thought.”

“God, Shou’―and she’s always shakin’ like a leaf. I don’t even think the poor thing realizes she’s doin’ it either.”

Shouta looked to the ceiling for a moment as if searching for an answer that would please his partner, “We can try and bring it up with her―see if there’s a reason behind all this.”

“And what if she lies to us again, huh? I can’t keep watching her hurt herself babe.”

At that the erasure hero stood up from his position on the bed, making his way over to the washroom in hopes of a shower relaxing his nerves. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Let’s just see how dinner goes first, okay?”

“But what if she never tells us what’s goin’ on? I mean she’s already avoiding us for christ’s sake, what’s to stop her from―”

“If anything happens we’ll deal with it ‘Zashi. I don’t want to hear anything more of it until after we sit down with her, got it?” He paused at the doorway as emphasis, waiting for his partner's agreement on the matter.

“Yeah okay, sorry.”

“Don’t be, I care about her too, remember?” With that he closed the door before his partner could add to the conversation.

_____

When you did finally wake up from that hellish night, almost entirely riddled with disturbing dreams, you were left with a lingering feeling of dread. A pit in your stomach that remained persistent no matter how much you tried to think of something other than the incomprehensible yet sickening scenarios that unwillingly played out inside your head.

Looking at your phone didn’t help you settle into a more agreeable state either.

It was just past midday―giving you roughly five hours until you had to pull yourself together to sit through what was hopefully the last encounter with the two heroes.

For now however, you listened to the sound of the birds chirping outside your window―it was always easier to get lost in your surroundings than actively trying to solve your own issues.

Maybe by the time you had to leave you’d feel better. But even if you didn’t, the dull ache of ailment was always persistent in your life in one way or another―so what was one more problem?

End of Part 4

_____

taglist: @roseloverofpastels @shinsous-eye-bags @tjhonoluluprezstitch626 @pekusofixus @riarora @glitterypinkkitty

#yandere bnha #yandere erasermic #yandere eraserhead #yandere present mic #yandere my hero academia #yandere shouta aizawa #yandere hizashi yamada #yandere mha

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blackmissfrizzle · 4 years

Text

City Boy and His Country Girl

Characters: Erik x black!reader

Summary: Erik promises to help the reader navigate New York.

Request: "Country Girl goes to New York and meets a tough guy New Yorker who teaches her the ropes and then they get together"

Requested by @nervouspetsonanime

With a lot on your mind, you set your purse down on the table and went to refill your drink. The stress of the workday was getting to you and you were only midway through it. Before you went back to work you had to figure out a way to deal with some of your shady coworkers.

Making your way back to your booth, you saw two men standing there arguing. You were hesitant to go back and was about to find a new seat to avoid the scene but then you remembered your purse.

“Man, I’m telling you put that shit back or we gonna have a real problem here,” you heard, getting closer to the two.

“How about you mind your business?” The other guy asked, moving his arm behind his back. That’s when you noticed he had your purse in his hand. The dread head was trying to get this thief to put down your purse.

Noticing movement near him, your savior turned to you. Pointing to your bag, he asked, “Aye, lil mama is that your bag?”

Your mind short-circuited for a moment because of this man. He was so damn sexy. Tall, dark, and thick just like you liked em. He sorta reminded you of the guys back home except for the Oakland accent.

Finally, gathering your bearings you answered the man. “Yeah, that’s my bag and I don’t know why it’s in his hand.”

The Good Samaritan stared down the potential thief and pulled up his shirt to reveal his gun and v-cut you couldn’t keep your eyes off of. “You got 10 seconds to figure out if that purse is worth a hospital bill.”

Dropping your purse like a hot potato, the thief handed you your purse and ran out the restaurant. He wasn’t as tough as he thought.

“Next time don’t be leaving your shit hanging around.” The asshole told you before leaving.

Even though he was a little rude, you didn’t want him to leave. To stop him, you tried wrapping your hand around his bicep, but you were only able to cuff half of it. “At least let me buy you lunch as a thank you.”

He looked down at your hand and back to you. Quickly, you removed it, sensing he didn’t like being touched. “All right lil mama.”

His big body slid into the booth and you followed his suit. Stretching his hand across he introduced himself. “I’m Erik.”

“Y/N.” You took his hand to shake and his grip was tight, and you were thoroughly impressed. Your daddy always said you could tell a lot about a man by his handshake, especially when it was with a woman. A firm handshake with a woman said the man respected you, saw you as his equal.

“So, Y/N why you leaving your stuff where just any ole body can steal yo shit?” Erik took a sip of his drink and eyed you curiously.

Erik’s gaze made you hot and nervous. You had to train your eyes to look anywhere but him just to speak. “Well it wouldn’t have happened back at home and also my mind was elsewhere.”

The waitress brought both of your meals and y’all laughed at the identical plates, bacon cheeseburger with a side of onion rings.

“Ok then, what had you all messed up that almost got you robbed?”

Deciding you’ll probably never see this man again, you told Erik your office drama. “Basically, I’m the boss’ new favorite and my coworkers can’t stand it. God, sometimes I wish Tony Stark never found out about me.”

“Word? You work for Stark?” Erik raised an eyebrow, beginning to become more intrigued with this southern belle. He met Stark plenty of times before and respected his work as a scientist but couldn’t understand how someone could put up with him for hours on end.

“Yes sir,” you replied, making Erik shift in his seat at the mention of you using such a formal name for him. “My mentor who’s an old college buddy of Mr. Stark’s, sent my business management assignment to him and then the next morning, Mr. Stark was on my daddy’s porch offering me a job.”

Erik chuckled and stretched his fist out for you to dap him. He was proud of you, a black woman seemingly from a small town, working for the most renowned business mogul. “Oh, shit! That’s how you do it. Lemme guess your co-workers lack melanin?”

“Yes! And I really tried to work with them, but they hate my guts for whatever reason. But they have no problem taking credit for my ideas.” That’s why you were in a frenzy now. Cody (which btw was such a typical douchebag white boy name) pitched your idea of throwing a big gala to impress a fellow businessman for a potential partnership as his own to Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts. Then guess who he expected to do all the work? You, of course!

Finally getting the chance to vent felt good, so poor Erik had to hear all your frustrations. “And then don’t get me started on this stupid city. First off, people are rude! No one knows how to say excuse me and when I call someone ma’am, they look at me like I just called her a bitch. Second, rent is expensive! Thank you to sweet baby Jesus, for Mr. Stark hiring me, because I wouldn’t be able to afford living here. Do you know what kind of house I could buy back in Texas?”

Erik was amused at your rant. He enjoyed seeing you get all this passionate despite only knowing you for half an hour, so he decided to entertain you. “No, what kind?”

“A big ass house! Probably a ranch with all the damn animals already on it. And then this city has no good bbq. How is a girl suppose to live without some brisket!?”

Done with your rant, you took a bite on your burger and realized you just dumped your whole life story on a man who was basically a stranger. “I’m sorry, you had to hear all that. It just whenever I vent to my friends back home, they tell me I’m not appreciating this opportunity and I can’t tell my mama and daddy, because I’m paying their bills and I don’t want them to feel guilty.” Catching yourself offering up more information, you slapped your forehead. “Oh, there I go again oversharing. I’m sorry.”

Erik somewhat understood your situation. Adjusting to life in Wakanda was a culture shock and he had to figure out how to navigate in his father’s homeland. Grabbing the hand that hit your forehead, Erik massage it, focusing on the knuckles and the spaces between the fingers. “Nah, you good ma. But I do know what you need to do.”

“And what’s that,” you asked, leaned back amused.

“You need to toughen up, Texas.” Erik advised you.

Leaning on your elbows, you teased Erik with your own nickname. “Oh, really now? And how’s that gonna happen, Oakland?”

Immediately on the defense, scared that you were someone from his past, Erik asked, “How do you know I’m from Oakland?”

“Calm down, cowboy,” you patted his forearm to soothe him. “Your accent is a dead giveaway. You sound just like Marshawn Lynch.”

Erik kissed his teeth and crossed his arms. He liked Marshawn, even respected him, but when you mentioned him with practically heart eyes Marshawn became public enemy number 1. “That nigga a’ight. Anyway, imma toughen you up. Teach you how to survive these mean streets of New York and how to deal with these colonizers.”

Your eyebrows furrowed and you repeated Erik, “Colonizers?”

“White people,” he said as if he should understand his lingo.

“Oh okay, what a weird insult, but when do we start?” you asked anxiously, you were excited at the chance to spend more time with this diamond in the rough man.

“This weekend?” Erik tried his best to keep his cool, but he was so excited to see this country girl as soon as possible. He would’ve asked for tomorrow, but he didn’t want to come off clingy and he had too much work to do at the Outreach and Y/N would’ve been a major distraction.

Making yourself be still and hide your excitement, you replied, “That’s perfect. I had no plans but to do my laundry and catch up on some Netflix.”

Erik bit back a smile. “Cool. I gotta get back to the office, lil mama. Give me your number and you’ll hear from me very soon.”

You and Erik exchanged numbers. While you were putting your number in his phone, you didn’t notice Erik slyly pay the waitress for your meals. When you both were done exchanging numbers, you said your goodbyes and then Erik left, making you already crave his presence.

“Excuse me, miss, can I get the check?” You flagged down the waitress, digging into your purse for your wallet.

“Oh, your friend paid for it already. He said you had enough troubles today and that you didn’t need to worry about paying for him.” The young lady walked away and started cleaning your table as you stood there dumbfounded. Erik was a man full of surprises and you couldn’t wait to find out more.

Tagging: @twistedcharismaaa @marvelmaree @ladydragonpurplefire @l-auteuse @thehomierobbstark @titty-teetee @nerd-lovely @nervouspetsonanime @soufcakmistress @chaneajoyyy

#black!reader #erik stevens #erik stevens x reader #erik stevens x black!reader #erik x black!reader #erik x reader #killmonger x reader #killmonger x black!reader #erik killmonger #erik killmonger x reader #erik killmonger x black!reader #erik stevens fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #black panther fandom #black panther fanfiction #frizzlesfic #frizzlefic #city boy and his country girl series

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ironmandeficiency · 4 years

Text

home

pairing: achilles (oc) / reader

word count: 2256

summary: sometimes a deviation from a simple routine can yield highly pleasant results.

req: May I request a short drabble (or whatever you feel like writing) for Achilles with 3 or 6 from the first prompt list? Thank you JJ, I love you - @roseofalderaan (3- smiling into a kiss, 6- chasing someone’s lips after they pull away)

a/n: i went with both bc both is good (and also bc this boy deserves all the love ever). read all abt him here!

“will that be all, commander?” you questioned. your workday was drawing to a close and you wanted nothing more to get your nightly escort home and wind down from yet another stressful day at the office. the nightly ritual had begun not long after you got this job and befriended the coruscant guard, some of them sticking a little closer to you during the day when possible.

but only one ever walked you home, claiming that the streets he worked to protect every day were no place for someone so… unsullied, he would say, guiding you home with a steady hand on your back and a smile hidden by his bucket. his soft laugh would bring yours bubbling to the surface like a simmering pot of homemade soup, nourishing your soul and leaving you full of joy and… something else.

thoughts of one of said guardsmen had you zoning out while fox was talking, very likely giving you another task to complete before the people you’d need to go to left for the night. you had spotted him over fox’s shoulder from where you stood several feet from him, having a gentle conversation with hearth and a few others. it made you so happy to see him bonding with his brothers this way, getting the attention and care he deserves from those closest to him.

fox notices the distracted, glazed look in your eyes and knows that you’re not hearing a single word he’s saying. looking over his shoulder, he’s quick to realize why: achilles. “that’ll be all,” fox assures you with a hand on your elbow before turning to take care of the task himself. he can give his younger brother this much happiness, what little bit he’s able to get. “get home safe.”

ever since he joined the guard, fox worried for achilles. he was too headstrong, had seen too much in so few years that he wasn’t going to let this assignment beat him into the submission that allowed many others to cope day to day. it would have made his life a little easier, fox believed, but it would have also made him believe he was unworthy of the joy found when with you.

when you’re dismissed, you make a beeline to where your trooper stood bucket in hand, a gentle smile gracing his lips. maker, he looked so young when he smiled. you’d do anything to keep that smile on his face. lacing your fingers with the hand not holding his bucket, you smile at him and his eyes are immediately caught by yours.

achilles was the first to speak, hand squeezing yours as he felt himself ascend to the stars when you smiled at him. “are you ready to go, cyar’ika?” hearth notices the way some of the weight rises from his vod’s shoulders when you’re nearby, the smile he wore a bit more genuine.

“i’m more than ready, ‘chilles. it’s been a long day and i’m ready to be home.” he nods and bids his knowing brothers a farewell for the next while. until you got to your front door, every iota of his attention would be devoted to you and only you; the way your bright smile alone could power galactic city, the sparkle in your eyes when he said something that brought out your laughter. he’d walk every kilometer of this planet if it meant he could keep seeing such unbridled joy radiate from you.

but these moments — these little pockets of time where he was someone more than who he really was, yet nobody significant all the same �� would tide him over until the next one arrived with the same inevitability as waking in the mornings.

conversation was a swift river, flowing freely within its confines. there were things you both believed should never be said; they served as the riverbed, the bounds within which conversation flowed. everything else, the things you were allowed to say, were the water. they were powerful and clear in intention yet stayed within their bounds. the two of you floated along it with ease, letting the currents sway you however they willed. there was never anything to fight against, never with him.

he recounts the day’s most notable and happy events (a shiny’s codpiece detached while trying to rescue a tooka from the top of a vendor’s stall, and hearth was glitter-bombed when trying to give fox dinner) with his usual spark of animation, leaving out the darker events that always serve as reminders of his harsh reality. you don’t need to be tarnished by his sadness, the daily struggle he and his brothers face simply because of the circumstances of their existence. that wasn’t your fight to take up arms in, not your sadness to feel.

no, he couldn’t dim your light with his permeating darkness.

it’s why he still hasn’t kissed you the way his lips ached to, why his hands haven’t held your hips as he tasted your honeyed smile for the first time.

you told him of the menial tasks that had been made more than you bargained for when you stumbled onto two maintenance workers snogging in an elevator, the small muffin that was gifted by the commander of the 420th on his way to the office of his senator friend, and the way it paired well with your lunch. achilles hung onto every word and the way he could hear your smile in every syllable, saving it for lonely nights when he needed something to distract him from himself.

the thing about time is that when you don’t pay attention to it, it’s quick to make haste with its passing.

sooner than either of you would have enjoyed, the door to your apartment was in front of you, a beacon of home tinged with an afterglow of loneliness that seemed to never leave. yes, all of your belongings were here and your bed was housed within those walls, but none of those things made it a home. something was missing, but exactly what that something was had yet to be discovered.

his hand fell back to his side, the sight of your door a reset button to his decorum. your hand was colder without his in it, you noticed for the first time. you didn’t like knowing this and desperately yearned to get that warmth back immediately despite the fact you were walked to and from work by the man in front of you every day and it’d only be a few hours until you’d feel it again.

you couldn’t wait hours to hold his hand again, to be surrounded by his radiance in all its glory. in a bold move you never thought yourself capable of, you extended an invitation you’d mulled over for weeks.

“i’ll, uh, see you in the morning—”

“would you like to come in?”

achilles was stunned. why you would want to invite him into your home? this place was your sanctuary, your respite from the workday and from all expectations the world thrust upon you. he didn’t believe himself worthy of such an honor, but only a fool would look a gift blurrg in the mouth.

so he followed you inside slowly, eyes flicking around the entire space to drink up everything he could. this was an opportunity to know you better, to see you at your most comfortable. “welcome to my humble abode, make yourself at home.”

there was a soft-looking blanket draped across the back of your couch that he imagined you curling up under on cool nights spent watching holofilms. photos of you and your friends covered the walls, smiles bright and abundant. there was a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter that he was eyeing and you were quick to notice how his attention was drawn to it. “you can have some, if you’d like. i have plenty to share.”

how were you so generous with what you had, being so willing to share everything you owned in this vast galaxy with a clone? better yet, how were you real?

a pink lady apple was snagged from its former resting place and relieved of a bite-sized chunk. achilles hummed in enjoyment of the sweet-tart flavor that invaded his mouth as he joined where you sat on the couch, hand patting the space beside you. he obliged and was able to wedge himself between you and the arm of the couch but only when he leaned a little closer to you than he would have ever dared to outside of this safe haven.

you two sat in almost-silence for a while (achilles was still enjoying his apple, after all), a small bit of his weight pressing cozily into your side with one arm resting on the back of the couch. to be honest, you weren’t sure what to do now that he was here. so much time had been devoted to how you’d get him inside that there was not even a vague idea as to what you were supposed to do now.

the armor he wore did nothing to ruin the coziness of the moment, still being able to enjoy his company and the comfort his presence brought you. it was a big reason you felt so safe when walking home (besides the fact he had a blaster and was very proficient in wielding it). his apple core was soon the only thing left and it was gingerly set upon the endtable beside the arm of the couch he was close to, but after that there was stoicity.

neither of you knew where to go from here.

you turned to face him to ask if he wanted to watch a holofilm the same time he turned to ask you whether he could have another apple and wow you’d never been that close to his face before.

achilles drank in the proximity like a parched man on tatooine, branding the image of your slightly blushing face into his retinas for later enjoyment. then you laughed softly and he was a goner, an honest to maker goner. he was going to say something, he swears he was, but it slipped his mind for the moment. you were too busy biting your bottom lip and letting your chin fall, depriving him of those eyes he saw every time he closed his.

he couldn’t have that.

his fingertips took your chin, lightly lifting it back to the angle it formerly was posed at, where he could see your eyes and the smile behind them. in turn, your eyes were flitting between his eyes and lips that you were positive weren’t that plump before… were they?

then he pulled your chin ever closer and closed the vast centimeters that had kept you apart.

you weren’t sure how your lips had been able to resist the magnetic pull of his for so long now that they were together. truthfully, you had no clue how you were going to pull apart now that you knew what they felt like against yours. it was sweet velvet bliss, the taste of him. the pink lady mingled with something else that you knew had to be all him and oh stars was it intoxicating.

pulling away? since when was that an option? if it hadn’t been one before, it became one when you needed to breathe again. his lips chased yours, desperate to keep the blessed point of contact that he’d never wanted with anyone before you. the intimacy had your mind spinning.

he liked it, he actually liked it. he genuinely enjoyed that kiss and was wanting to continue kissing you, and who were you to keep him waiting? the magnetism won yet again and as he pulled you into his arms, you could feel him smiling into the kiss and you smiled back just as lovesick as he did.

muscles were slowly beginning to notify you of a dull ache caused by an angle you were unused to. you ignored it until feigning ignorance was no longer an option. it was time to move.

leaving the living room was an olympic effort. what if the boat in your river grew holes the moment one of you rose from the couch? how would you save the boat and not get washed away by the current? the answer was simple: get a bigger boat.

armor was shed and sleepclothes changed into before you guided him to your bed where you opened the blankets up for him, beckoning him ever closer and into your waiting arms. any hesitance was nowhere to be found as he crawled into the bed and wrapped himself around you. once he was under, time was taken to find a comfortable way to sleep. comfort was found with surprising ease, like he had been climbing into this bed for eons instead of seconds.

the change in environment did nothing but allow you closer to each other, nothing being damaged like you had both feared. in your bed, under your blankets and on your pillows, he still tasted of the same pink ladies and honey and clove he did on your couch. he still held your face in one trained hand that had known little more than violence before you came into his life.

as you carded your fingers through his hair, his other hand being held tenderly to your lips with all the affection you could muster, the final piece came together. achilles was what your apartment was missing, the building turning into a home at long last.

#star wars reader insert #clone trooper achilles x reader #clone trooper achilles #blue jay’s boys #clone trooper oc #original character #oc clone #star wars imagines #star wars the clone wars #star wars fanfic #swtcw #star wars

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copperbadge · 4 years

Note

i'd like to start using something like Google Tasks but i'm not sure how to start. would you mind sharing what lists you make and use? totally cool if you don't want to, of course. also apologies if this has been asked before.

I don’t mind at all! Bear in mind that I always say you have to find what works for you, so if my method doesn’t work, or Google Tasks itself doesn’t work for you, there should be no shame in that.

I used to have a list for every day of the workweek plus a weekend list. I would prioritize items based on which I wanted or had to do first, rearranging them as the day went on to reprioritize as necessary. I would split the list with a blank line so that the upper part was workday stuff and the lower part was stuff I was going to do when I got home. If something didn’t get done on the day’s list, I moved it to the following day (and that would automatically float it to the top). The weekend list was for larger projects, stuff I wanted to do to relax, cleaning I needed to do, etc. I also had a grocery list that I would add to as I thought of things I needed, and then I’d consult that when grocery shopping or making a PeaPod order.

I still have the weekend and grocery list, although the grocery list is a little different now that I don’t order online much anymore -- I tend to sort it by where it’ll be in the store so I can get in and out quickly. I stopped doing weekday lists eventually and now I just have one list for the whole week, and I prioritize it by stuff I want to get done today and stuff that can wait until later in the week.

Some of the weekday stuff is recurring and I check it off daily (it still recurs on the weekends too, when I’m not looking at the weekday list, but my phone app notifies me it’s “due” and I can either ignore it or check it off from the lock screen). Some recurring items include “morning reading”, “Shower and meds” (I added this when I started working from home, I didn’t used to need it because I had to leave the house to work and that definitely demanded a shower), and “lunch break” (which I needed to be reminded to do even at work). Some weekly recurring items are stuff like “donor screening” (a work task I have to do every Friday) and “change cat litter” (Friday nights at my place are a real party). If I have an important meeting/appointment during the week, I’ll often add an item like THURSDAY - DOCTOR VISIT and just leave it on the list until Thursday so I keep seeing it.

The goal isn’t ever to have an empty list at the end of the day -- my to do list is never actually 100% empty. This kind of list making where you can’t ever reach the “end” stresses some people out, which is one reason this kind of system isn’t for everyone. The goal is simply to remind me of everything that needs doing so I don’t have to keep it in my head. If it’s on the list I’m less stressed about it, because I know I will see the reminder and do the thing eventually.

So usually on a Monday, for example, my list may look like:

Daily Reading (recurring)

Take out trash (because I didn’t do this the night before)

Shower and meds (recurring)

Radio Free Monday (weekly recurring)

(several work items that need to get done like “submit document” “pull travel list” “talk to boss about vacation” etc)

Lunch break (recurring)

Dishes (added after eating lunch because at lunch I noticed the sink was getting full) (this then 100% does not get done on Monday and is floated to the top of the list and eventually probably gets done on Wednesday, because life be like that)

Finish Six Harvests Rewrite (this just kinda sits on the list, usually at the end of that day’s items to do; it doesn’t really get checked off even though I’m working on it)

6PM MONDAY - D&D IN THE PARK (added a few days ago on my phone when we were setting up a time for our next session)

(a few more work items that I plan to do on Tuesday)

And then at the bottom sometimes there will be a couple of items that are just URLs copypasted in: fanfics I wanted to read and didn’t get the time to when I found the link, news articles people have sent me that I need to review before I can respond to them, things I want to buy but need to look at in more detail when I’m not distracted by work, etc.

So yeah, that’s how I do Tasks. Anything that I think I might forget or neglect to do, anything that absolutely has to get done even if I think I’ll remember to do it, and anything that doesn’t need to be done immediately and thus might be forgotten, it all goes on the list. And then it’s not in my head, thank goodness.

#Anonymous

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crowsnests · 3 years

Text

taste of certainty - part three

Fandom: The Arcana Pairing: Julian Devorak x OC Apprentice (Syran Elkas) Tags: friends to lovers; modern times au; friend group dynamic; slow burn; pining; really just Julian being Julian and Syran being Oblivious Words: 7453 Warnings: mention of anxiety, migraines, insomnia, alcohol

part 1 2 3 4 5

playlist

I see the walls that are torn and bent The tug of war in the now, not yet Holding back what they can contain Can you tell me why I feel this way?

- trust; half-alive

III. sweet hurricane

Wednesdays are chill enough workdays, usually. It’s when Miss Eirsdottir has the least meetings, so Syran gets to calmly sit at her desk, processing new proposals and arranging schedules.

Not this Wednesday, though.

Miss Eirsdottir has Syran basically assist Varya in running all sorts of errands: moving from one side to the building to the other, carrying boxes of products for her to review, making sure the interns get the right coffees for the guests in the meetings, rushing to bring important folders to the PR office, assisting in said meetings. Varya is nice and helps Syran feel more at ease with the amount of workload, but it’s still quite stressful.

Syran forgot the days close to the launch of a new product could get so hectic. Her recurring migraine starts to make itself heard.

In the midst of it all, she gets a moment to catch her breath, during her lunch break. She goes and sits outside, despite the cold, on a bench in the courtyard inside the building. As she unfurls her lunchbox – a chicken sandwich, a carrot, and a bunch of blueberries – Asra and Pasha join her at the bench.

“Well, you look like shit,” Asra says, not even bothering with formalities as he sits down and opens his ricebox. A spiced scent trails out from it.

“Thanks, feel like it, too,” Syran answers, then bites into her carrot. Her head is pounding with pain and the nausea that comes with it doesn’t make her food look all that appealing, but she’s used to it at this point. She vaguely explains the reason for her exhaustion, her two friends nodding in understanding.

“Yeah, this week is tough, huh?” Pasha looks concerned as she takes out her lunch from her bag. A clear box with pasta in it and some orange juice.

“Yeah, pre-release is hell up in management,” Syran sighs.

“Well, at least you get to have fun next weekend! It’s gonna be a blast.” Pasha winks.

Syran looks at her confused, blinks a couple times, her brain slowly moving its gears together.

Asra looks at her pointedly, mouthing something.

Syran can’t decipher it, but a light goes on in her brain nonetheless.

“Oh shit, it’s your birthday! Yeah! Can’t wait for that!”

“You and Nadi always know how to throw a good party, I’m excited,” Asra smiles, bright eyes wrinkled up in joy. He does love partying.

Pasha laughs, then goes on to describe how she’s planned this carefully, how the theme is Vintage Masquerade, or something, and how she can’t wait to see everyone’s costumes. Asra engages with her eagerly, giving advice for decorations and getting excited over the food.

There and then, Syran realises two things.

One: she has no fucking clue what to wear to something like that.

Two: she’s supposed to see Ilya today and get Pasha a present.

As if summoned, her phone goes off. Ilya’s name on the screen makes her insides squirm but she opens the text trying not to arouse suspicion.

dr. hulian - 13:12 Do you think Pasha would like this?

Attached to the message, there’s a picture of a– well, a skull, looking pretty real and being held by what’s clearly Ilya’s hand. Syran finds it a little eerie, but she can’t hold her smile back.

To: dr. hulian - 13:13 Mmmh, maybe if you decorated it a bit?

She starts eating her sandwich, itching to get a reply, but acts as if it’s nothing. She gets back into the conversation with Pasha and Asra, trying to get distracted. Asra is now suggesting he could give tarot readings to the guests for a little bit during the party, Pasha seems elated at the idea.

Then, Syran’s phone vibrates again.

from: dr. hulian - 13:16 - You mean like this? - His name is Ferdinand, by the way

This time, the skull has a thin golden scarf with an intricate flower pattern tied all around, complete with a fancy bow on top. It’s ridiculous and endearing at the same time. Syran tries to stifle a laugh.

To: dr. hulian - 13:18 - hell yeah, ferdinand looks perfect in that, love it - where did he get that, looks extremely fashionable

from: dr. hulian - 13:18 - We stole it from nadia’s bag while she went to the bathroom. I suspect mere seconds before we get punished for our crime. - oh no, she found us

Syran laughs again, this time she can’t hide it as she types a reply.

To: dr. hulian - 13:19 - Just blame it on Ferdinand! i’m sure she’ll understand

“–kay, what’s going on, Syran?”

“Huh?” She blinks up at the two pairs of eyes scrutinising her.

“Who’re you texting?” Asra looks smug, ready to pounce.

“Looks like a pretty nice convo you’re having there.” Pasha adds, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand.

Syran scrambles for a reply. There’s no way in hell she’s going to be honest with them on this, not today.

Or ever, probably.

“Just– Ran. She was showing me her dogs, back at home,” She smiles at the end, desperately hoping to sell the lie.

Pasha lights up at the word dogs, but Asra doesn’t seem convinced.

“Really? She never mentioned dogs to me,” He narrows his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, she has two mixed breeds and– and a parrot.”

I mean, it’s not as much of a lie as a past truth. Ran used to have two dogs and a parrot in her old home. Now it’s just one of the dogs, who’s gotten pretty old, too.

“That’s cute! Can I see?” Pasha eagerly leans over to glance at Syran’s phone, now sitting face up on the table.

“Uh– I– I guess–” just as Syran tries to make something up, the phone goes off again, this time with a call. Ilya’s name flashes on the display for everyone to see.

Syran just stares at it, startled.

“Well, aren’t you going to answer?” Asra suggests, teasingly.

Syran chuckles nervously, then reaches for the phone.

“Hello?”

From the other side there’s noises and two distinct voices arguing, albeit muffled. None of them talking to her.

“H– hello?” she tries again, this time genuinely confused.

“–ust for a second! Don’t get mad at me, come on–”

“–you should know better than to steal from me, Ilya,”

“Come on, Nadi– ust a joke!”

“–going to have a better excuse– this was a gift!”

Asra and Pasha lean closer to try and hear what’s going on, but Syran swats them away.

“Must be a butt dial or something,” she mutters, just as Ilya keeps talking and exclaims an apology.

Pasha rolls her eyes. “Is it my brother?”

As Nadia seems to reprimand Ilya more, Syran nods, looking confused enough for her friends to frown with her.

“– an excuse to talk!” Ilya’s exclamation gets Syran's attention.

“You’re a lost cause, Devorak,” This time Nadia’s voice is a little more clear.

“I know,” Ilya says.

When they go silent Syran tries again.

“Uhhh, hello?”

More noises. Something scrambling by the mic.

“Oh, shi– goddamn– hello? Syran? That you?”

“Yep,” She deadpans, avoiding Pasha and Asra’s eyes, “In the flesh.”

“Uh– did you– did you call me?”

“I believe you called me, Ilya,” she arches an eyebrow.

On the other side of the table, Pasha is making a kissy face and hugging herself, then mouths the word smooch. Next to her, Asra snickers. Syran rolls her eyes and turns on her seat, her back facing them.

“Ah. Right. Well, that was– not intentional. I was– discussing, with Nadia, you see.” Ilya utters, embarrassed.

“I figured,” Syran laughs, “Pretty important discussion, it seems.”

“Uh– did you hear much of that?”

Syran could barely understand, really. “Nope, mostly that Nadia’s mad about your theft.” She smiles.

“Yes, indeed. But Ferdinand and I will be okay,” He laughs, clearly more relaxed. “We fought hard and we lost our treasure, but we came out of it unscathed.”

“That’s not true–” Nadia chimes in from somewhere next to him.

Syran can’t help but laugh louder at Ilya’s theatrics this time, “Well, I’m glad you’re alive, at least.”

She is also glad that her friends can’t see her face right now, because it would be so, so, incriminating.

“So, uh, well,” Ilya continues, “Since we’re here, I was– I was wondering if you’re still on for later? For the– uh– secret mission?” Syran smirks at the way he whispers it, not subtle at all.

Suddenly aware not only of the pair of devils behind her, but also of the fact her and Ilya’s mission involves a surprise for one of them, Syran tries to not give herself away. She also probably needs to close the call, before she makes things worse for herself.

“Yep, yep, sure.” She says, quickly. “No worries.”

“Oh, great, so I’ll come–” Ilya starts.

“Yeah, work’s definitely busy today!”

“Uhm, okay, so– does that mean–”

“No, it’s fine!” Syran exclaims, trying her best to act convincingly. “Well, good luck with your– things!”

“Okay, bu–”

Syran hangs up before Ilya can finish.

“Wow,” Asra says from behind her.

Syran breathes in and takes a moment to turn back towards them, then hides her face in her sandwich.

“You two were straight-up flirting,” Pasha says, smile on her face.

Syran talks with a bite of sandwich in her mouth. “Do you even know what flirting entails? Because that was not it. That was a normal conversation. If that was flirting, then I’d be flirting with all of you. All the time. That’s not flirting.”

Cool, now she's talking way too much.

“Ah, the sweet taste of denial,” Asra sighs, dramatic and starry-eyed.

“Seriously, you guys are delusional.” Syran gives one last bite to her sandwich. “That was just an accidental dial, nothing more.”

“Yes, but why, oh, why, I wonder, was it to you? Were you so high up in his recent contacts?” Pasha squints at her, sly.

“You’re reaching. We all have a groupchat together, it could have been for any reason. You know how clumsy Ilya can be.” Syran shrugs, praying that they’ll let her live. Seriously, she does not deserve this torture. “Why are you guys so obsessed with this anyway?”

Pasha and Asra exchange a look, then they both lean back, in sync.

“Okay,” Asra states. He narrows his eyes and crosses his fingers on the table like he's a renowned detective, or something. “Let’s assume you’re right.”

“Which I am–”

“Did you mind, though?”

“What?”

“Did you mind that Ilya butt-dialed you?”

“What sort of question is that?” Syran widens her eyes, taken aback. Really, why are they so stubborn.

“Just answer, perp!” Pasha points a finger at her. Now it really feels like Syran is in an interrogation room.

“I have nothing to answer, because that is a stupid question.” She closes her lunch box with finality, looking straight into Pasha’s eyes.

“Admit it!” Asra slams a hand on the table, “You enjoy talking to him!”

Syran groans, exasperated, “Of course I do, he’s my friend! It would be mean if I didn't!”

Pasha and Asra smile at each other, “We got her, chief.” Pasha says.

“You got nothing,” Syran glares at them, “I’m going back to work.”

She gets up and gathers her things, ignoring the chorus of booos coming from her friends.

God, she loves them to bits, but they can be so annoying at times.

🂱

Somehow, she manages to slither away from the others and get back home safe.

After having sent Ilya a few explanatory texts and having agreed to meet at a cafe nearby, she finally takes a look in the mirror.

She really does look tired. Without distractions around her, the migraine is harder to ignore. She takes a relief pill and washes her ruined makeup, her face feeling cleaner. The heaviness of the day is starting to take a toll on her, she can feel it in her muscles.

When she checks the time, she realises that she’s going to be late if she doesn’t hurry up.

Quickly, she reapplies her makeup as best as she can, then throws on some clean and more comfortable clothes.

Persephone meows at her from the foot of her bed; it’s almost as if she’s smirking at her, knowing more than she lets on.

“Oh, not you too,” Syran pleads.

🂱

When she arrives at the cafe, Ilya is waiting by the entrance, casually leaning on the wall behind him. She takes a moment to look at him while he’s distracted by his phone, all perfectly styled auburn hair and dark clothes. She hates how good he looks.

(She doesn’t hate it, really, but she’ll die before she admits it.)

When he meets her eyes, a big smile sparks on his face.

“Hey,” she waves. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Hey,” he echoes, “Not at all.”

“Shall we?”

“Ah, yes, uh– should we get some coffee to go, first, since I owe you that?” He smirks, but then his eyes glance down to the side straight away. “That’s if– if you want, of course.”

“Sounds great!” Syran nods, delighted at the thought of a hot beverage in her hands.

The cafe is cozy and warm, most of the tables are filled with people chatting or working on their laptops.

As they wait in line, Ilya and Syran talk a little about their days, how Ilya’s research is driving him insane, how Syran’s boss gave her a hundred errands until late.

“Yikes, that must be tiring,” Ilya says, concerned, as they wait for their drinks.

Ilya has ordered a black coffee with a splash of milk, Syran has opted for a matcha latte. She likes coffee, but on days like this it makes her a little too jittery.

“Yeah, I mean, no more tiring than any other job. Plus, I learn a lot. Miss Eirsdottir is tough, but she’s brilliant.” Syran finds herself fiddling with her hands. “Hopefully one day I get to do more of the parts that I really love, though.”

Ilya smiles down at her, handing her the drink. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes Syran feel light. “I’m sure you will.”

Finding a present for Pasha isn’t as easy as they thought. They scurry through shops, trying things, looking at clothes, bags, books, videogames, jewelry, vinyl records– they contemplate wine at some point but realise Nadia would like that more. Then they go back to books, but nothing seems right.

Syran would lie if she said she isn’t having fun, though. Despite some moments where she really wishes she could hide her blush, she and Ilya fall into a rhythm made of jokes, laughter, chatter, and comfortable silences.

It’s nice. Really nice. It's. You know. Friendship.

Eventually, they walk by a window that’s displaying a various array of scarfs, ranging in colours and materials.

Syran does a double-take and spots a muted orange one that makes her think of Pasha immediately.

“That one!” She exclaims pointing at the glass.

“Huh?” Ilya seems taken aback, interrupted in the middle of his story on how he once got his hand stuck in a vending machine.

“Look at that scarf, isn’t it perfect for Pasha?”

Ilya squints at the glass, trying to figure out what Syran is pointing at. “The orange one?”

“Yep! It looks so pretty!” Syran turns to him, beaming, “We should go see it!”

Ilya nods, smiling back.

The scarf turns out to be even better than they thought. It’s made of soft and light cotton, with a delicate golden pattern woven on the edges. Ilya seems elated, saying that she will love it, right? Will she love it, Syran? I think she will.

Syran smiles at his excitement, glad to see him happy about the choice. The clerk wraps it up in a beautiful gift box, eagerly explaining how the cotton is of a refined but durable quality, it makes for perfect everyday use, but also works really well for more elegant events. Ilya listens intently, as if he’s trying to remember all of it to then tell Pasha.

Ilya has a big smile plastered on his face as they exit the shop, then he turns to Syran and hugs her, all-encompassing. She’s startled, but she gingerly hugs him back.

“Thank you so much, seriously,” He mutters in her hair.

She really really hopes he can’t hear how loud her heart is beating this time.

It’s not a crush.

Is it?

When he pulls back, they’re both a little flustered. “Ehm– I mean, yeah. Thank you.”

Syran is still trying to regain herself from the sudden hug, but something in Ilya’s tone makes her wonder.

“Can I ask you something?”

Ilya seems a little surprised by the question, but nods nonetheless. “Sure.”

“Why were you so worried about this? Besides the regular stuff you told me, like. What are you really worried about?” More than out of curiosity, Syran is asking because she can sense that there’s still something bothering Ilya.

He blinks, eyes wide. Then he looks down, as if caught in the act.

“Well– I– to be honest, it’s been a little tough lately, and the work at the university isn’t helping. So I haven’t been able to be there for Pasha as much as I’d like.” He sighs, but Syran gives him time, sensing that’s not the whole story.

He looks at her, visibly worried now. “And. Well. Pasha and I have– not always been close. Our parents divorced when we were fairly young and we took different paths after I graduated high school. I left, wanting to get away from it all, and she stayed. I made mistakes, resented her for it. We argued a lot, eventually had a big fight, and– didn’t talk for a while after that. It didn’t feel good, but I was reckless and hurt and too prideful.”

He looks so sad Syran can’t help but reach out to hold one of his gloved hands. Then, he smiles, although a little bitterly. Syran thinks she sees tears in her eyes. Her heart drops to her stomach.

Ilya continues, “I mean, we fixed things in the past years and now that we live in the same town it’s great, but– I still feel like there’s an unspoken distance. I fucked up so many times before–” He cuts himself off, like it pains him to go on. “So– yeah, I just want us to get close again– I feel like I need to make it up to her, somehow.”

He blinks the tears away, chuckling nervously. “God, you must think I’m an idiot.”

“What– no!” Syran’s chest is tight. She never imagined Ilya had all of this inside. She knew there was some sort of situation between the two of them, but Pasha never liked talking about it much.

“I–I think you’re very thoughtful. And mature for wanting to own up to things. It’s heartwarming to see how much you care,” She continues under his cautious stare. “Look– I don’t know, maybe it’s not my place, but I don’t think you need to make anything up to her. You’re a wonderful brother and person. Look at how much thought you’re putting into this! Whatever happened, I am– I’m sure she knows how much you love her. I can see how happy she is to have you back in her life, too – well, in between all the bickering.”

Ilya laughs at her last words and she joins, happy to see him smiling again.

Then, her gaze softens. “I think you will be just fine. You are trying really hard, you should give yourself a break.”

Ilya smiles, gentle. Then, he seems more relieved. “Thank you. You’re– uh. Quite good at pep talks.”

She winks, “I know.” She can’t help but squeeze his hand a little. He squeezes back. Syran feels a little dazed and her chest feels a little tight, her and Ilya exchanging a soft gaze.

She’s so fucking gone, it’s no use ignoring it.

It might just be a crush.

Then, Ilya’s eyes widen, and he gasps. “You still need a present!”

“Oh, yeah,” Syran realises, waking up from her thoughts, “We don’t have to get it right now, though, I can always–”

“Nope, you helped me, now it’s your turn! Let’s go!”

He drags her through more streets like he’s a kid on a mission, it makes Syran laugh. They stop at various shops, once again searching for something perfect.

She can’t deny it, though, there’s a newfound feeling between them, maybe one of strengthened trust. They’re both laughing more, feeling more comfortable with each other than before.

Finally, a small antique shop catches Ilya’s eye. Syran walks back to look at the window with him.

It’s filled with various objects, old pocket watches, silver paraphernalia, old vases and pots, ragged dolls. Ilya seems enthralled by an old model ship, perched precariously on a small shelf.

“My grandma used to have one like that in her house,” He smiles, fondly. “I demanded to play with it whenever we visited, but she always told me it was too delicate to even look at, let alone touch.” He laughs. “I’d get all whiny then, but I get it now.” He turns to Syran, almost a little sorrowful.

“Some things are just too delicate to be reckless with.”

Syran blinks at him, ignoring the blood rushing to her ears. She turns to look at the ship again.

“I don’t know,” she says, “It looks pretty sturdy to me. It might not be ruined, but now it’s sitting in a dusty display.” She turns to him and shrugs. “Isn’t it better to enjoy things while they last, instead of holding back? ”

She’s not sure they’re talking about the ship anymore– Ilya’s gaze on her makes her breath hitch in her throat.

She turns to the window again, flustered. As she stares intently, she realises that there is a little jewelry display on the bottom. In the midst of overly ornate rings and delicate pendants, she notices what looks like a brooch.

“Hey, what do you think of that?” She points at it, hoping that Ilya will see it amongst all the things.

He leans over her shoulder– too close to her, it takes all her might not to wince, ignoring the butterflies eating at her stomach. “Which one?”

“The– uh– the little brooch with the flowers?” She looks closer. It seems like real dried flowers encased in resin. They’re small and of a pale yellow, with a few crimson ones, on a white background. A delicate pattern made of golden metal frames it.

Ilya gasps, “That looks wonderful! It might go well with the scarf too!”

Syran agrees, although she hadn’t thought of that. She swallows, then suggests they head into the store.

As she talks to the owner, Ilya looks around the shop, curiously admiring the various displays. The brooch is even more beautiful up close, and the shopkeeper explains to her how this is special and one of a kind. Promises that she will give Syran a good price for it. She thanks the woman, and asks if she can wrap it as a gift.

“No problem, dear,” The lady says, reaching for a little red satin bag. As she fills it with some cotton to shield the brooch, she glances up at Ilya, who’s now looking at a small display of old books.

“Those ones are almost all first editions, you know,” she tells him.

“Oh– really?” Ilya turns, eyes filled with wonder. “They seem well preserved!”

“Of course,” The lady nods, delicately putting the brooch inside the bag, “I only get the best quality things.”

Ilya laughs, then moves onto another window. The lady slowly ties the bag with a textured ribbon, “Your boyfriend’s got a good eye,” she whispers.

Syran’s eyes widen, and she starts to stutter. “Oh– n– he’s not– we’re not together– he’s not my boyfriend.” She matches the shopkeeper’s tone, hoping that Ilya hasn’t heard them. Luckily, he seems too enthralled by the various objects to notice.

The lady throws another look at Ilya, then raises an eyebrow with a sly smile. “Are you sure?”

Syran doesn’t know how to answer for a second. Then she nods, slowly. “Yeah, uh. I am.”

When they leave the shop, Syran sighs in relief. Partly, because she’s got a present she’s really happy with. And also because she’s out of the shopkeeper's enquiring gaze.

“Happy?” Ilya asks her, smiling.

Syran looks up at him, startled. “Ye–yes! Very! I really hope she’ll like it.”

“Oh, she will,” he reassures her.

As they make their way back, Ilya starts wondering about what to wear at the party.

“I mean, I love her, but what sort of theme is Vintage Masquerade? Like, couldn’t she pick something simple? I don’t know, casual party attire?”

Syran laughs, although she agrees. She has no idea what to wear either.

“I mean, you kind of got it easy, you could throw on some slacks, a shirt, and some suspenders or something. Or a vest. Those are vintage.” She shrugs. She doesn’t know much about this stuff, really, but she does like dressing up. That is, when the theme is clear and easy.

“I guess– not even sure I have a vest, though,” Ilya ponders.

“Well, hey, you’re going to have to ditch your bomber jacket anyway.”

He gasps, fake offended. “Excuse me, this is my piece of resistance! Keeps me warm and looks amazing!”

Syran laughs it off, “Sure, but– still doesn’t quite hit the mark, does it?”

Ilya huffs like a pouting child. It’s endearing. “Whatever, I’ll figure something out, I guess.” Then he turns back to Syran.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are you gonna wear?”

Oh. With all the business of the day, she had forgotten to look for clothes or even think about it. Again.

“Uhmm–” She thinks back to her wardrobe. Mentally scans through her more formal things.

“Dunno– I guess I have a lilac dress I could wear? It’s kind of vintage? It’s the best I can do, honestly.” She huffs a small laugh, but the more she thinks about it the more she thinks the dress will be fine.

It’s made of a light and flowy material, with a high neck that closes with a few small buttons, leaving a drop–like window on the chest. It’s a delicate dress, but the knee-length skirt and cut are vintage-inspired, at least.

“That sounds nice,” Ilya hums. “Now we just gotta find some masks to go with it,” he sighs.

“Oh, well, we have about a week for that, at least.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Ilya frowns as if he’s trying to think where he could possibly find a mask.

“Although I think Pasha said there will be an array of masks to choose from at the party? Nadia knew a place or something, I think it’s to prevent people from showing up without one,” Syran realises with a smile, thinking of Pasha’s resolve and Nadia’s attention to details.

“Well, one less thing to worry about then,” Ilya sighs. “Although I hope to find one that works with my look. I’m a man of fashion, after all.”

“You could always make one,” Syran cackles, playfully hitting his arm. “And you didn’t know what to wear until I told you!”

He laughs back, teasing. “Hey, doesn’t mean I can’t dress at all!”

Syran’s smile only gets wider. It stays like that even after they’ve parted ways.

🂱

Syran doesn’t know how she got roped into this.

It all started with Asra and Nadia inviting her out for a few drinks– sure, it’s a Friday night, what’s a cocktail going to do?

So she got ready, wore one of her favourite outfits just as an incentive to feel more like going out, and met Asra at their usual place.

Except, when she arrived at the Raven, Asra and Nadia weren’t the only ones sitting at the table. A familiar head filled with auburn hair was sitting next to them, too.

Syran joined them, all smiles and greetings, and then dived immediately for the bar– anything to escape Asra’s knowing smile, Nadia’s attentive eyes, and Ilya’s annoyingly pretty face.

The bar isn’t too crowded, but thankfully still enough for her to blend with the people around her. She leans at the counter, waiting for a familiar face to greet her. Tonight Joon is working, which makes her smile. Since she and Asra have been coming here, he’s quickly become friends with them. She orders and idly chats with Joon as he makes her drink.

“Getting the usual?” A deep voice startles her.

Oh, she really can’t escape this shit.

She looks up at Ilya, who’s smirking at her. She does feel more relaxed around him now, but there are still moments like this, where he sneaks up on her and all of her blood rushes to her cheeks. To add insult to injury, Syran’s eyes can’t help but trail to Ilya’s outfit. He’s wearing a sleek black turtleneck that fits him like a glove. She doesn’t know if she hates this more or the shirts with the unbuttoned tops.

She turns back towards the bar, “Yep. Oaxaca old-fashioned all the way, baby.”

She taps her fingers on the wood and leans a little forward to look behind the counter, where Joon is just about to hand her the glass.

She grabs it with a smile, carefully taking the first sip. “Ah– you’re the best, Joon. Thank you.”

“Anytime, dear,” Joon winks at her. She loves him, honestly, and not only because he’s nice and handsome. He genuinely makes her laugh and has helped her more than a few times when unpleasant patrons have bothered her.

“Well, good, because I’ll definitely be back for another one,” she smirks and winks back.

Joon laughs, then turns to Ilya, “what can I get you?”

When Syran looks up at Ilya as she takes another sip from her glass, she notices the weird expression on his face. He’s almost frowning at Joon, but she brushes it down to his bushy eyebrows. He can unintentionally look like he’s glaring at people, when the light is right.

Then, he turns to Syran with a sly smile, “You know, I’ve never had an Oaxaca old-fashioned.”

She swallows, then puts the glass down, “You should! The ones Joon makes are god-tier.” Syran suggests excitedly.

Ilya seems to ponder on it for a second, “Mhh– but what if I don’t like it?”

Ilya’s never struck Syran for the indecisive type. But then again, maybe he just really wants to get a good drink right now. He seems to come to a realisation, just then.

“Ah– what if I tried yours?” He asks, genuine, but with a weird glint in his eyes. Syran did not expect the question, it leaves her a little dumbfounded.

“S–sure, why not–” She hands him the glass, and he grabs it, eagerly.

“Thank you,” Ilya proceeds to take a small sip from the glass, and Syran can’t help but notice that’s almost where she drank from, his lips dangerously close to the subtle stain of her lipstick.

Syran throws a glance at Joon, who’s patiently waiting for them. He shoots her a questioning look, raising an eyebrow. She just kinda shrugs.

Ilya puts the glass back on the counter, “That’s actually really really good.” He looks at it like he’s surprised.

“Told ya’,” Syran smirks.

When they get back to their table, equal drinks in their hands, Nadia and Asra are animatedly engaged in conversation. They kinda stop when Syran and Ilya arrive, turning to them with coy smiles.

Asra notices the drink in Ilya’s hand and then gasps, “Wow, she convinced you? She’s been trying to get me to drink that since forever.”

Syran rolls her eyes, “I gave up, you clearly only like extremely sweet shit–”

“And happily so,” Asra mocks her, then turns to Ilya again. “You actually like it?”

Ilya nods as if he doesn’t see what the fuss is all about, “Yeah, it’s really good.”

“It’s not as bad as you make it to be, Asra,” Nadia chimes in.

Ilya shrugs, then takes another sip. Syran can’t help but smile proudly at Asra, like she’s won an ongoing battle between the two of them.

“Well, it’s good to see you both have clearly similar tastes,” Asra says, before carefully drinking from the straw in his tall glass, filled with a bright pink cocktail. Both Ilya and Syran widen their eyes.

“Ah– guess so,” Ilya chuckles.

“Yeah,” Syran mutters, glaring at Asra. “Anyway, you guys noticed how they changed the backlight of the sign behind the bar? I actually like it better now,” Syran starts, trying to sway the conversation.

Maybe it’s not as graceful as she’d like, but it works. They all start talking about the bar and its decor, how they’ve always loved this place; time passes by and soon they’re all a little flushed and tipsy, except Nadia, who’s the designated driver for the night.

Then, at one point, Asra’s eyes trail behind Syran, and they widen in shock.

“Oh shit,” He says, crouching down as if to hide behind his drink. Nadia puts a hand on Asra’s back, concerned.

“What?” Both Syran and Ilya turn towards where Asra looked, trying to figure out what happened.

“Don’t look, you idiots!” Asra whispers, angry. “Valerius is here! Shit!”

Syran then realises, “Oh, fuck, really? I thought he didn’t come here anymore!”

“Yeah, well, he’s by the counter. Shit, fuck!”

“Who’s– uh– who’s Valerius?” Ilya asks, clearly confused.

“Asra’s awful ex,” Nadia explains, “he was an asshole and we all hate him, viciously.” She’s got fire in her eyes, and Syran knows she is mirroring it herself.

“He fucking– he cheated on me and then said it was my fault. It was– it was fucking awful.” Asra looks like he’s about to cry. Syran wants to reach for him and hug him. She knows Asra’s wound is still fresh and knows how hard it was for him to move on from the hurt.

Ilya sneers, “That’s disgusting.”

“Damn right,” Nadia adds, glaring towards where Valerius is.

“Hey, it’s okay, we can leave if you want,” Syran reaches out for Asra’s hand, trying to reassure him.

He shakes his head, sneaking another glance, “Then he will have won. Again.”

“No, he will not,” Nadia declares, “If he says anything we’ll beat the shit out of him. Fuck, even Joon will be on our side on this.”

“Nadia’s right,” Ilya adds, “Plus, I’ve dabbled in bar brawling before.”

It makes the table laugh, if a little, but it lightens the mood. It doesn’t last long, though.

“Shit– is that? Is that Lucio? Are you fucking kidding me?” Asra says, now even angrier than before.

“Oh, hell no–” Nadia goes to get up, but Asra holds her down.

“Nadi no, I just– I don’t want to see them.”

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Nadia asks. Asra nods, gingerly.

“That’s cool, Asra, we can go–” Syran starts.

“Not all at once, though–” He says, resolute. “I don’t want to draw attention.”

There’s a joke Syran could make there about how Asra doesn’t exactly blend in the crowd, with his flashy fashion and white hair, but she knows that wouldn’t make him laugh right now– clearly, all he wants to do is disappear.

“How about this,” Nadia says, turning towards Syran and Ilya, hand still on Asra’s back, “I’ll take him home and you guys enjoy the rest of your drinks. You’ve barely started these glasses, while we’re almost done. You call me when you’re finished and I’ll come back to pick you up, okay?”

“Nadi, you don’t have to–” Ilya starts, but she waves a hand to interrupt him.

“It’s no problem, really,” she smiles kindly, “You guys just enjoy the night, yeah?”

Syran looks at Asra, now clearly on the verge of tears. Whether they’re from hurt or anger, she can’t tell. Probably a mix of both. But he knows what she’s about to say nonetheless.

“Don’t worry, S,– I’ll be okay, yeah? I asked you to come out, it’s just fair that you enjoy your time. Seriously.”

Syran nods, resigned, knowing how stubborn Asra can get. “Okay but–”

“I’ll call you later, promise.”

“Promise,” Syran retaliates. A concerned frown doesn’t leave her face, even as Asra and Nadia carefully slip out the table, then towards the end of the counter, well hidden from Valerius’ attention. Syran spots Nadia talking to Joon, probably asking him to let them out through the back.

And just like that, Syran is left at the table alone with Ilya, both of them in awkward silence, staring at their drinks. Finally, Ilya speaks.

“I’ve never– I’ve never seen Asra like that.”

Syran looks at him, notices the worry in his features as he twirls the glass in his hands.

“Yeah, he tries to hide his feelings, when he can, the idiot,” she smiles bitterly; stars know how many times she’s tried to tell Asra that bottling it all up doesn’t help anyone.

“I can understand that,” Ilya looks up at her. “I hate to pry but– who’s–”

“Lucio? The guy Valerius cheated with. Also, Nadia’s ex of like–” She tries to do mental math. “Four? Years ago?”

“Yikes,” Ilya just says, taking a big sip of his drink.

“Yep– it’s– a lot.” Syran sighs, “We thought he was going to be out of our life after Nadia broke up with his ass, but– guess not.”

She inhales, exhausted only at the thought of all that happened in the past. Things were definitely messier than now. She takes another swig of her drink.

“Well–” Ilya smiles, putting his glass down, “what if we did something about that?”

The glint in his eyes is mischievous, and Syran raises an eyebrow from behind her drink.

“What do you have in mind?”

🂱

Pranks have never been something Syran thought about. Never felt the need to fill someone’s shoes with toothpaste, or hide a fake spider in the bathroom, or whatever it is that the kids do these days. She always felt bad for those people in prank videos that get visibly hurt.

But this– she didn’t mind this one bit.

She and Ilya are running out of the bar, lungs filled with laughter, as Lucio and Valerius’ screams fade behind them. They run long enough until their legs give up, and even then, they find it in themselves to keep laughing.

“Jesus– their face– priceless!” Syran heaves out.

“I told you–” Ilya adds, big smile not leaving his face, eyes all crinkled up and blush on his cheeks. “Cranberry juice always works–”

They haven’t done anything that spectacular, really, but Syran will realise this later, when the adrenaline has rushed out of her. Right now, spilling juice on those two idiots’ white clothes and making Lucio trip on his ass was enough to make her night.

“Didn’t expect you to punch Valerius, though,” Ilya grins at her, as if impressed.

Yeah, and that too.

“Me neither– I don’t condone violence, but–” Syran finally feels her breath coming back to her, “–but, god, he deserved it.”

“Sure did–” Ilya laughs with her, adjusting his coat.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, all smiles and excitement, rush of electricity that Syran hadn’t felt in a while. Not like this.

“Well–” Ilya starts, “Maybe we should– uh. Go?”

“Yeah– I could call an uber?” Syran suggests.

“Actually, I was more thinking, like– I can walk you home, maybe?” He seems almost scared to ask for a second, but then his features relax. “Honestly, I feel bad calling Nadia now and it might be good to shake the alcohol off.” He looks up at the clear sky. “It’s a nice night, anyway.”

He’s right. It’s hard to see stars from the city, but the moon is bright and beautiful.

Syran doesn’t quite know what to say, though she agrees with not bothering Nadia. She is probably busy taking care of Asra right now, and that reassures her a lot. But Syran’s house is a good thirty minutes walk away, not to mention that Ilya would have to walk back through the city for more than that.

“I– I don’t know. It’s a long way for you– and it’s late–”

“Syran, I assure you that I’ll be fine, I like walking.” He chuckles, “If anything, I know you will punch whoever gets in our way.”

Syran laughs, although a little flustered under Ilya’s endeared stare. “Yeah, I’m basically a pro wrestler now.”

They end up chatting along the way, although the cold winter wind catches up on them, but they don’t mind that much. They’re too distracted by their conversation to think about that.

Getting to know each other like this, casually, with no pressure, without inhibitions, has become natural to them. They get to talk about things that they never addressed, make jokes that seem so dumb and niche they are surprised when the other laughs.

Ilya was the last one to join their group of friends, so she can imagine he felt a little distant from everyone else at first. But it’s been over a year now, and the group feels really solid, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together with harmony.

Still, Syran always felt like her and Ilya never really got to talk much like this, just the two of them. And maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way Ilya makes her feel at ease, but she doesn’t feel as skittish around him anymore.

Sure, her heart still jumps when he laughs, and any little brush of their arms makes her breath hitch, but– but– there’s not much of an excuse for that, other than she’s clearly got feelings for him.

It is a crush. A heavy one at that.

But she can live with it, she can just enjoy their friendship and not act on them.

They are close to her building when they are laughing at a story Syran is telling, of one time where she and Asra got lost in a park and thought a ghost was haunting them.

“I swear, Asra tried to act all brave, but–” in the middle of the phrase, a strong fit of pain hits the side of her head. She had managed to ignore the creeping migraine until then, but suddenly, it feels like her brain is about to explode. She holds a hand to where the pain is, eyes shut and slightly crouching forward.

“Syran? You okay?” Ilya reaches a hand to her shoulder, tone immediately shifting to heavy concern.

“Yeah– just– I get migraines– sometimes,” she mutters through the pain.

“That’s not good,” Ilya says. “We’re almost to your place, you think you can make it?”

“Ye–yeah– sorry–”

“Why are you apologising? Had I known, I–”

“Don’t want you to worry,” she utters, finally feeling like she can open her eyes a little, “I’m used to it.”

It does nothing to ease Ilya’s concern though. If anything, he seems to worry more, reaching to fully encase Syran in his arm, supporting her as they walk.

“Really, I’ll be okay,” she says.

“Yeah, I’ll believe that when you’re home and feeling better,” He scoffs, his hand rubbing up and down Syran’s arm. “Don’t forget I’m basically a doctor.”

It makes Syran laugh a little, “Right, Doctor Devorak, ready to help.”

“Is that a mocking tone I’m sensing, Miss Elkas?”

“No–” Syran says, teasing, although through the pain, “I wouldn’t dare.”

Ilya laughs, then seems to hold her tighter. “Almost there.”

They finally reach her building, and she gingerly gets out her keys to open the door.

“Thank you,” she turns to say goodbye to him, “Get home safe.”

But he just stares at her. “Didn’t I say I’ll stop worrying until you’re home?”

Syran chuckles, “But I am–”

“Yeah, I meant home home. I’ll take you up–” then he widens his eyes, catching himself. “That’s if– if you’re okay with that, of course.”

Syran thinks about it for a second, but the pain is too strong to argue right now. She just nods and mutters a okay, and goes to let Ilya through before her.

Sometimes things just don’t go as planned, though.

As she’s about to follow behind him, something hits her shoulder, and hard. She turns just in time to see someone running past her, then she loses her balance and hits the floor.

The last thing Syran sees before passing out is Ilya’s hands reaching for her.

#an writes #fic writing #julianxapprentice #julianxsyran #julian devorak #portia devorak #ilya devorak #pasha devorak #nadia satrinava #lucio morgasson #asra alnazar #muriel #the arcana fic #the arcana #part 3

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imaginedmelody · 3 years

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you are so kind and wonderful and a brilliant writer. your community fics are so good and i reread them all the time. you put so much heart into your writing and it makes reading it just a really comfy, lovely, safe experience. i love all the cozy things that you reblog and i'm very glad to know you, even if it's just online. i'm sending lots of good and positive and happy thoughts your way.

I’m...at a loss for words, honestly. <3

I don’t know who you are, anon, but a few of my friends know that I’ve been going through something of a rough time lately. My anxiety has been kicking in to the degree that it’s making me feel physically ill; I honestly don’t know how I’m making it through workdays feeling this rough. It’s making me feel very uncomfortable, especially since the anxiety is so generalized and not coming from a specific source that I can just avoid, and is so internalized that I don’t realize I’m stressed until I literally feel like I’m going to be sick. So I’ve been grasping for anything I can find as a distraction to redirect myself, in hopes of overpowering the unpleasant feelings enough to feel better.

Knowing that I am able to create something that feels good and safe for other people, and that my writing and presence means something to you, is really a beautiful thing. Thank you for telling me. I appreciate having friends and followers like you who reach out and bring this kind of positivity into my life, especially when I’m struggling. <3

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alottanothing · 4 years

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Left to Ruin Chapter Seven

Summary: Nouke and her family struggle with life in exile. When her mother show’s signs of falling ill, Nouke tries to find away to save her.

Previous Chapters

Word Count: 4087

Warnings: None

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe, @r-ahh-mi, @theultraviolencefan, @hah0106, @rami-malek-trash, @diasimar, @sherlollydramoine, @flipper-kisses, @ivy-miranda-2390, @txmel, @sunkissedmikky, @concentratedsassandcandy, @babyalienfairy, @edteche2 (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: Alrighty, so timeline wise, by the end of this one we are caught up to where Ahk was the last we saw him in chapter 5 (about a week or two after he’s sent all of his potential brides away)–hopefully that’s not confusing. And as always thank you for your comments, likes and reblogs of last chapter! Also, a couple of you have messaged me about the moodboards and you have no idea how happy those messages made me. I’m so glad you’re enjoying the story, and the totally self-indulgent moodboards. I welcome messages like that! 🥰 You guys rock! Once again as a disclaimer, I am not an ancient Egyptian expert and google only knows so much. So yeah, I took so historical liberties while writing this to make my life easier, but tried to keep it as “authentic” as possible

Years spent among the common people—hours spent cultivating land—was no better, nor was it worse than Nouke thought it would be. There was no extravagance; every day was the same as the last, and the labor was the hardest she ever recalled doing. Each night her body ached, her skin grew rough with callouses and darker from the unyielding sun. And despite it, Nouke felt there was a sense of dignity to all that her family did on their farm. Every effort made was to better themselves versus a lifetime of work to better someone else. Mornings were early and the work was hard, but it could have been worse.

She still had her mother and her father—her life—despite the toil they all had suffered. All things considered, everything lost or gained; it was her family that mattered the most to her, and she still had them.

Nouke thrived on that routine and for five years life was truly blissful.

The workday was drawing to a close, Nouke could tell by the dull ache beginning to settle in her feet and back. It had been abnormally hot, and her skin was sticky from hours of sweat creating a protective film over her flesh. She wanted nothing more than to wash up for the evening and rest.

She and the two stable boys were finishing up with the livestock in the lower part of their dwelling when a cry came from out in the field. Immediately, Nouke dropped her sack of feed and ran to investigate, finding her father doubled over and clutching his abdomen in pain. Nouke gasped and ran to his side.

“Father!” Concern rapidly contorted her face as she knelt beside him, cradling his head as he writhed, the shock forcing her into a momentary state of paralysis. “What’s wrong?”

The strain on his face was evidence enough for her to know he was in pain. She watched helplessly as Ramentukah opened his mouth to speak, only for strangled grunts to form in place of his words.

Worry settled deeper, and suddenly her own aches were forgotten. Nouke called for the farmhands to help her father up the stairs and inside. They were quick and strong, easily positioning themselves to support her father's weight.

“Thank you,” her father choked out, doing his best to walk with them.

Nouke helped guide them as best she could, scaling the staircase backward skillfully, shouting for her mother.

“I’m fine, Nouke,” Ramentukah assured her with a weak smile.

She could still see the pain in his features, and it made her own concern even more apparent.

“What happened?” her mother spoke, her expression a mirrored image of her daughters concern.

“He fell over. He’s in pain mother,” Nouke told her.

Maketatan rushed to help guide her husband into the room where the three of them slept on separate mats, gently laying Ramentukah on his. She never strayed from his side, lulling him and brushing the rough strands of hair from his face with one hand as she held his in her other.

Nouke dismissed the boys back to their chores and thanked them for helping. She lingered in the doorway for a moment, feeling somewhat helpless as she watched her mother fuss over her father. She could feel the onslaught of tears beginning to brew behind her eyes, but she held them back, taking a moment to steady her composure.

“We need to get him to a healer,” she said softly, stepping into the room.

Maketaten nodded, but frowned, “We don’t have money for a healer.”

“What about the money we’ve put away?”

“Not enough.”

Nouke’s frown fell deeper as she searched her mind for a way to help her father.

“Some of the crop will be ready for the market come the week's end,” she stated. “Perhaps that will bring in enough to add to what’s been putting away?”

On a good day, they made a significant sum at the market—which alone could help buy her father the care he obviously required. But that was only if they could sell every bushel for the price they asked. Most people liked to barter lower.

After a moment of thought, her mother nodded.

“It could be enough,” she said, still sounding unsure.

Maketaten’s focus fell from her daughter to her husband as she dabbed at the droplets of sweat dotting his forehead with a piece of clean linen. Even through his pain, Ramentukah held his wife in his gaze, as though she were the only person in the world—a creature of astounding beauty. And her mother looked at him much the same.

Nouke watched them quietly, the love and admiration radiating from them filling the small space with warmth as well as a sadness that made her heart heavy.

“Hold on, my love,” Maketaten murmured, kissing the back of her husband’s hand. “You mustn’t leave me yet. I will not let the gods take you.”

A soft, strained chuckle rasped past Ramentukah’s lips as he smiled up at his wife, bringing her hand closer so he could lay a kiss to it.

“I could never, truly, leave you,” he rasped.

Tears welled in Nouke's eyes, overcome with the radiance of their love, suddenly feeling as though she was imposing. She left her parents in search of distraction, letting them have that moment to themselves. Her feet carried her back outside and down into the stable, though she could hardly recall the journey. There was so much to be done still, yet the knots in her stomach kept her mind from focusing on much else. Mechanically, she picked up the sack of feed she’d abandoned and willed herself not to think about whatever malady had stricken her father.

Three days—She reminded herself as she worked. Three days of heavy routine, a trip to the market and back. Three days and she could get her father the help he needed. Just three.

It was the longest three days of Nouke’s life; every moment spent hanging by a thread. Never had she worked so hard towards a goal that never came to pass.

At dawn on the third day, before she’d woken to ready the cart to take to market, Nouke was pulled from her sleep by the sounds of her mothers crying. An emptiness fought to consume her when she heard those sobs; she knew what they meant. Her father passed in his sleep, holding his wife’s hand.

Nouke laid frozen with grief, shedding silent tears until bottling up the raging emotion to be expressed later. She needed to be strong; her mother’s grief would be worse than her own. Maketaten's love for her husband had the potential to destroy her upon his death—Nouke couldn’t let that happen. Such a notion made Nouke wonder if loving someone so deeply was worth the inevitable heartache—would she ever know? She hoped so. Her mother and father were so happy together.

Maketaten refused to let go of her husband's hand for hours despite all of her daughter's gentle coaxing. Her mother’s devastation was even worse than she would have imagined.

“Okay…” Nouke conceded easily, kissing her mother on the temple before she stood.

A sharp pang of woe stabbed into her as she took in the picture of her mother and father. The sight made her heart break even more, and she wasn’t sure if it was due to the loss her mother was feeling or her own. Nevertheless, tears started to breach the cold façade she’d built to guard her mother as she realized the money they’d saved would now be needed to cover a modest burial, and Nouke would have to see to it all. Her mother was not strong enough with grief crippling her to organize such formalities.

On the day Ramentukah was laid to rest, Nouke was certain she had never seen someone more inconsolable then her mother. The priest did little more than utter one or two blessings; her father’s coffin was a simple wooden box that she herself painted with blessings to see him into the afterlife. The farmhands dug the plot themselves, and they helped to lay her father in the ground where his body would remain for the rest of time.

It was simple and somber, and not nearly enough for a great man like her father. However, Nouke also knew that Ramentukah would be happy to rest on the farm he had built for them—with his family forever until they joined him in death. And that notion was enough.

In a matter of days, the routine Nouke had come to master significantly shifted. With their money all but spent, they had to dismiss the farmhands in their employ, unable to provide for them as well as herself and her mother. Nouke could only devote so much time to the land to make a truly lucrative harvest; her mother needed her care. And while her mother did her best to assist in the field with chores, it was simply too much for her to keep up with.

Maketaten’s spirit was amiss, and Nouke could not bring herself to lay blame upon her. She had to be strong for her mother. Not once in those initial months following her father’s death did Nouke ever let on how much her bottled-up stress and grief was ripping away at her from the inside—screaming to be set free. Nouke knew if she let her mother see her break, Maketaten would slip back into the void she was trying desperately to climb out of. She refused to be the reason her mother suffered any more pain.

Her only release came when the sky was as black as the emptiness her father’s death had left, and after her mother was sleeping. Nightfall was when Nouke could sneak away to the rooftop of their home and nestle herself among the makeshift bedding, clutching cushions to her chest as she let her emotions spill until her eyes were bloodshot and every last nerve in her body was frayed.

It took years before life started to resemble a fraction of what they’d once had. Time, Nouke feared, would never truly heal the pain her mother endured, but as the seasons passed, Maketaten’s grief let go of more of her.

The farm survived too, be it out of Nouke’s own stubbornness to not let it fail after the work her father had put into it, or simply the fear of what would become of she and her mother if they lost anymore. It was a strenuous undertaking for only the two of them, but Nouke knew there were few choices.

“Maybe it’s time I marry…” Nouke thought aloud as she and her mother were finishing up their work in the stable.

Her own face twisted, the taste of her words sour. The notion was not a sudden revelation; it was something Nouke had sacrificed many nights of sleep to mull over. Marriage offered stability as well as another hand to help: more crops meant more income. It seemed such an easy and logical solution to their struggles, but it remained the most daunting.

There’d been a few men who’d taken a fancy to her and come calling. Both were farmers—able men who would take easily to the work the farm required. But they lacked something that Nouke could never place each time she was with them; they had no spark, and she doubted she could live happily with someone like that.

Maketaten cast her daughter a look of disbelief, mouth popping open, as though she wanted to rebuttal but couldn’t find the words.

Nouke ignored her mother’s shock and continued her reasoning, unsure if it was for her mother’s benefit or her own.

“We could use another hand, mother. And we can’t afford to pay anyone.”

A series of emotions drifted onto her mother’s face, each one turning her lips into a deeper, more shameful frown.

“I am sorry I am not more help, Nouke.”

“That’s not what—” Nouke sighed, immediately regretting having brought up the topic. “It’s not that you haven’t been a help—you have. We need stability. We are barely getting by.”

Maketaten sighed too, her expression one of sorrow.

“It was never your father and I’s wish to marry you off for the prospect of stability—stability is built, not bought.” Her expression softened, and Nouke could almost see her mother slipping into a fond memory before she spoke again.

“I, unlike so many others, was promised to no one. I met your father, and we fell in love. Only with love can one truly prosper.”

Nouke felt a tug on her heartstrings seeing the wistful expression take hold of her mother. It was so close to an air of happiness that she didn’t dare interrupt it. Instead, she watched the memories drifting in her mother’s eyes: memories of her husband, the love and light of her life.

She wanted that for herself, as greedy as perhaps it was. The devotion and adoration she’d witnessed all her life was something she craved to hold. However, the gods had a habit of destroying every dream she’d ever wanted for herself.

“Mother…” Nouke choked out softly, suddenly overwhelmed with a sadness she was unsure of.

There were tears shimmering in her mother’s eyes when she met them, tears, and resoluteness that Nouke had not seen in a long time.

“No, Nouke,” she said adamantly. “I will not see you live even more miserably. This world has already taken so much from you…”

Her mother’s words stilled her, and she knew then there would be no sense in arguing. Nouke responded with a sad smile; her words lost amidst the mess of thoughts in her head.

A silence fell between them as they tended to the rest of their chores. Nouke did her best to push her focus on her work, wanting it to consume her, afraid her thoughts would stray to the piles of things she’d fought for years to forget.

Night was falling when their work was done and Nouke followed her mother up the stairs, her mother’s steps growing more labored near the top until she began to fall. Nouke quickly braced and caught her, helping her mother stabilize on the stone railing.

“Are you alright?” Nouke asked, concern evident in her tone.

Maketaten chuckled lightly.

“Just a little dizzy from a day in the heat,” she reassured her daughter.

Nouke led her mother to a stool in the common area of their home, skeptical about her mother’s reasoning. An irritating twinge of panic began twisting familiar knots into her stomach as her mind filled with images of her father collapsed in the field.

“Does this happen…often?” Nouke asked, unable to mask the crack in her voice.

Her mother shrugged, “Only recently.”

Nouke’s panic settled deeper, knot's tightening.

“I’m not young anymore. I assure you; I am fine.” Maketaten’s voice was calm and exuded assurance, but Nouke didn’t miss the faint glimmer of fear in her eyes.

That restrained fear was enough to tie a knot in Nouke’s throat she tried to swallow before it drew tears to her eyes. She could gauge her own expression from the one her mother held, knowing that her own fear was rapidly taking shape on her features.

“Maybe…” Nouke said as softly as she could. “You should see a healer.”

Maketaten reached to caress her daughter's face, smiling gently.

“My sweet girl. You are full of worry…” she spoke, tracing the lines on her daughter's face, looking sad. “I will be fine.”

Nouke cupped her hand over her mother’s and held it to her face, relishing in the warmth her touch offered.

“I cannot lose you, mother.”

Maketaten placed a lingering kiss to Nouke’s forehead.

“I’m tired. It’s time I rest. Goodnight.” Her mother said, without more to say about her supposed sickness.

“Goodnight.”

Nouke watched her go, allowing her fear to settle in a room by herself. Her father was taken too suddenly for them to remedy whatever it was that ailed him. She would not let the same fate befall her mother. She didn’t know if she had the strength to lose everyone she loved.

During the week that followed, Nouke’s concern took root in her stomach a little deeper as every day slipped by balefully to remind her that time was working against her. And while her mother didn’t seem to be in any pain, the knots in her stomach wound tighter with the sense something was not right. Meals went uneaten and the labor it took her to do the simplest of the chores was evidence of her failing health.

Every passing moment felt more critical than the last, dread an ever-present cloud in her thoughts bringing with it the fear of waking to find her mother had passed in the night. The notion ate away at her night after night, keeping her from sleep before, finally, Nouke couldn’t waste another minute—she had to try something.

It was late afternoon when Nouke ventured into the market while her mother rested. The familiar thrum instilled her with a much-needed boost to keep her head focused on her task. She knew of two people who could help her if they were feeling kind: one took patients and both sold vials of curatives. The jingling of coins in the bag tied at her hip, and the sack of fresh harvestables slung over her shoulder, reminded her that she had little to offer for services—a few coins and the best bushels from their farm.

In her heart, she knew that wouldn’t be enough, but she kept walking with her chin up.

The market was busy for the lateness of the hour, the glow of lamps and torches lighting the shadowy streets. Nouke maneuvered through the hordes of people with practiced agility, making her way to the first stall, going over what she was to say silently in her head.

He was a younger man, older than herself, dressed fashionably in robes of finer linen indicating that he was skilled in his profession. The man was carefully packing up his stall, ready to turn in for the night when Nouke approached.

“May I ask you a few questions?” Her heart was beating in her throat.

The healer turned and glanced at her with a raised brow and a smug curl on his lips.

“You may,” he said, his beady eyes looking her up and down several times, before deciding that she was worth his time.

“My mother is sick—though she won’t admit it. Would you be willing to—”

The man held up his hand to silence her, looking disinterested.

“Payment,” he demanded holding out his hand.

Nouke swallowed and glanced at the small coin purse on her hip, and the sack of goods she’d brought. Before she even worked the satchel of harvestables from her shoulder, the man scoffed with a mirthless chortle.

“No,” he told her.

“Please?” Nouke reached for the purse of coins, spilling them into her palm. “This is all I have.”

“All you have is not enough,” he scoffed, turning to pack up the rest of his market stall.

Any other day, Nouke would have acted on his slight, letting him know the gods would not take kindly to his cruel heart, but she was exhausted from her ceaseless worry. Instead, she sighed a wrothful puff, accompanying it with a scowl she hoped conveyed the level of insult she felt.

The next man was much older and adorned like most of the other merchants: as common as she. When he welcomed her into his stall with a kind smile, Nouke found herself smiling back in relief.

“What can I help you with?” he asked in a warm voice that was a stark contrast to the last man she had spoken to.

“My mother is sick,”

“What signs of malady does she show?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

“Um, weakness, no appetite, fatigue—I don’t know of any pain.” Nouke swallowed, throwing another mournful look at the payment she had to offer. “I don’t have much in return for your services, but it’s all I have. Will you help me?”

The man looked at her with a sad, apologetic smile.

“I am no healer, child.” He confessed. “I sell ointments for skin, burned from long hours in the sun, honey’s that help heal cuts. I know not what ails your mother. I sincerely wish I could help you, but I cannot provide the remedies you seek.”

Nouke’s entire body wilted under the weight of defeat.

“Thank you,” she murmured, offering the man her coin purse as payment for his time. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

“No, no,” he declined waving his hands. “Save it to help your mother.”

Nouke gave the man a warm smile and thanked him again.

The walk back to her farm seemed longer somehow, made that way by the weight of defeat she carried with her. Maketaten was sleeping when Nouke returned, venturing into their shared room to be sure she had not suffered the same fate as her husband. A tiny wave of relief washed over her when she heard her mother's soft snores, and the sound coaxed the ghost of a smile to tint her features.

Nouke didn’t even try to go to sleep that night; the grace of deep, dreamless slumber was elusive. When she did find sleep her mind was plagued with memories that soured into nightmares. Most nights, though, she spent staring at the ceiling. The day had brought only more worry, which left her mind too preoccupied for the wish of restfulness. Nouke instead took refuge on the roof.

Tears brimmed her eyes the moment she nestled herself in her makeshift nest, feeling the full weight of fate upon her. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest, hugging them, feeling as though she was going to burst if she didn’t keep herself wound tight. For the first time in a long time, Nouke let herself drown in the sea of emotions she’d kept at bay longer than she wanted to admit. She cried until her head ached and throbbed with every beat of her breaking heart; until her tears ran dry leaving only soft whimpers. She knew sulking would get her nowhere but releasing all that pent-up turmoil cleared her head, and Nouke felt a sense of calm letting go of so much.

As the tears dried on her cheeks, the pulsing slowed enough to let her mind focus on a new plan to find a solution for her mother’s ailment. It would be months before most of the crops could be harvested to make any substantial profit, and as much as it pained her to think, Nouke knew her mother could not spare that kind of time.

She sighed, trying to fight off another wave of defeat from pulling her back under the water, the heel of her hands rubbing her swollen eyes. When her vision adjusted, her focus settled on the distant horizon, and a glint caught her eye: the pharaoh’s palace was shinning like a beacon in the distance.

“Ahk…” she whispered breathlessly, feeling her heart flutter at the sound of his name falling easily from her tongue.

All at once, her mind flooded with the memories she’d locked away to keep from missing him. His kindness filled every trace of those memories, feeding her waves of foolish hope. Ahk would have healers and priests waiting to serve him, but he was pharaoh. The title loomed like a dark cloud to cast a shadow over the sweet prince she remembered. Power had a funny way of spoiling kindness. If his crown had not tainted him, he would help her—she knew he would.

Even getting inside the palace wouldn’t be difficult if the garden wall still held the passageway she’d found in her youth. All that was stopping her was Kahmunrah’s warning. If he or his guard recognized her, that would be the end. The thought should have frightened her more than it did, but the threat of her own death didn’t seem so daunting if it meant she could save her mother.

As long as she could avoid Kahmunrah and find Ahk, there was hope something good could come from such a foolish decision.

Next Chapter-> Chapter Eight: The Boy From the Palace

#Ahkmenrah #Ahkmenrah x Original Character #Ahkmenrah Fanfiction #NATM #NATM Fanfiction #Left to Ruin #Rami Malek Character #Rami Malek Character Fanfiction #Rami Malek Fanfiction #Rami Malek

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psycho-slytherin · 4 years

Text

Strangers ch. 40

You’re confronted during your workday, and meet up with the guys for dinner. Later, you and Yoongi wrestle with what you’ve learned.

Pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Actress!Reader

Word count: 3k

Genre: fluff, angst

|mlist|

<–– Prev Next ––>

You rub anxiously at Starry Night, letting the dull roar of the subway distract you from a whirlwind of thoughts.

You haven’t slept since leaving the interview with Detective Kang yesterday. How will you muster up the cool head of your character, Ji-Woo, while knowing what you know? As you exit the subway station near the film studio, the brisk spring breeze that hits your back causes you to flinch– you hear her laughing, the sasaeng that pushed you in, and you feel the freezing water envelop you, you’re drowning, dying–

No. C’mon, y/n. No, you’re not. You tap your foot on the ground, as though to prove to yourself that you’re standing on solid, dry land.

If this gets any worse, you wonder, staring around at all the people unaffected by the cold, how will I ever leave the house?

You should really start focusing on your writing degree– authors don’t have to leave their warm nooks.

You should start focusing on any degree, if you’re being honest. You’re turning into the slacker you promised you’d never become; when’s the last time you’ve even thought about school?

Doesn’t matter. Just do well with acting, and you won’t need school ever again.

You arrive onset, and Yoongi is nowhere to be found. On top of that, you see your costar Jeongyeon strut over to you. Great.

“Y/n, darling~” She coos brightly, though her eyes sparkle with something less than kindness. “No Yoongi today? I thought you spent all your time together.”

This fucking fake relationship. You grit your teeth, giving into the anger that lately seems to warm you. “It’s eight in the morning, darling. I don’t know what you think of me, or Yoongi, but given that we live separately– in completely opposite directions, in fact– we’re not going to show up every damned day together!”

“Ooh, someone’s feeling testy, huh?” Jeongyeon replies, not missing a beat. “Did you have a fight with him? Trouble in paradise already?”

Your blood begins to boil as you stalk towards her. “You little–”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Before you can reach out to strangle your coworker, you feel long fingers lacing with your own, and someone pressed up against your side.

“What were you guys talking about?” Yoongi asks, his tone jovial. Meanwhile, you’re far too distracted by the fact that he’s holding your hand. You can feel the fury leave you, replaced by Yoongi’s warmth.

“Just how cute you two are!” Jeongyeon is quick to reply. “Y/n is so lucky to be dating a celebrity like you, Suga.”

Yoongi then does something so surprising that you don’t manage to react: he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I think I’m the lucky one. I’ll see you two onset, okay?”

Affection for your friend blooms in your chest; his timing couldn’t have been better.

“Mhm!” Jeongyeon waves as Yoongi pads to wardrobe. As soon as he’s out of earshot, her smile falls. “Lucky bitch.”

“I’d say jealousy isn��t a good look on you,” you fire back, “but it sure is prettier than your personality.”

“Y/n! Jeongyeon!” Your director, Avery, yells from across the busy film set. “Why aren’t you in costume? Go!”

You and Jeongyeon jump. “Yes, ma’am!”

Soon enough, you’re hand-in-hand with Yoongi, gliding through the choreography you’d been taught. It’s a big scene for the main characters, so you and the rest of the cast need to simply… fade into the background. Your gown swishes and swirls around you, matching perfectly with Yoongi’s noble formalwear.

The music is soft, and the movements so much the same, that you find your thoughts drifting.

“I’m sorry that Jeongyeon is bothering you,” Yoongi says eventually. “That might be my fault.”

“What do you mean?”

“I kind of know her. We met at an awards show last year… Namjoon said she might have a crush on me,” he says sheepishly. “Hopefully that little charade put her off.”

“Right.” Charade. All a charade.

You’re treated to another few minutes of quiet as the cameras train on the main characters.

“What’s on your mind?” Yoongi murmurs, his back to the camera.

“Lisa,” you admit. “I’m really worried.”

“You never did call me after your meeting with that detective. How did it go?”

“Er…” you swore to confidentiality. Are you allowed to tell him? But Yoongi has kept you a secret for the better part of a year, you know you can trust him. Besides, you promised– no more lies. “I’ll tell you after work, okay?”

“Sure. If you’re feeling up to it, we can actually have a group dinner with the guys.”

You smile. “Perfect.”

A full workday later, you sigh with exhaustion. That commercial you filmed with Wonho should be coming out soon– your paycheck for those two days of work are what you’d earn after three weeks as a barista. And Moon Over The Sea is paying you even more. Who needs school?

Lisa… Once you arrive home, you text her phone, just as you’ve been doing in the day since leaving the meeting with Detective Kang. She’s missing… but she’s not. You saw her… but maybe you didn’t. She’s okay… unless she isn’t? Again, the message goes undelivered.

You decide to try something else, instead calling up one of Lisa’s housemates.

“Hello?”

“Seulgi, it’s y/n.”

“Y/n! Hey, how are you? How’s your leg?”

That’s right, she hasn’t seen you since you dragged yourself, half-dead, to her door.

“Much better, thanks,” you reply as you sit on your bed, stretching out your left leg to see the jagged scar running down the length of your calf. It could easily have been your head that collided with the rough rock. “I was wondering if you’ve heard from Lisa?”

“You know, I was going to ask you the same question,” Seulgi replies casually, and you feel your heart sink. “I haven’t seen her in weeks– it’s not much of an issue since she’s set up automatic rent payments, but like, she never told us she was going off somewhere, you know?”

You bite your lip. “I know. Can you let me know if you hear from her?”

“Sure thing. I wouldn’t worry, y/n, she’s probably at her parents’ house or something.”

“Yeah, p-probably.” You nearly choke on the lie. She’s missing, you want to scream. She’s missing, and there’s so much I need to know.

“–Which I thought was weird,” Seulgi is saying.

You tune back in. “What was that?”

“Just that she left her laptop here. Maybe she got a new one? I don’t know how I’d survive without my computer, you know?”

“Huh… yeah.” Maybe her laptop could give you clues to Lisa’s disappearance. “Seulgi, do you mind if I swing by to pick up Lisa’s computer? Might as well bring it to her folks.”

“Good idea. See you soon.”

You check your watch. You have a couple hours before your dinner with BTS. Might as well get that done. Besides, with Lisa gone, you’re at a loss for how to organize new jobs– you know you should start looking for another manager, but to do so is to admit defeat on Lisa’s behalf.

Soon enough, you’re at Lisa’s doorstep, the doorstep on which you found yourself after your trek from the river those short weeks ago.

Seulgi welcomes you in: “Hey! Irene and Wendy are out, but Yeri’s got a friend over, so it might be a little loud.”

“It’s fine– I just need the computer.” You know which door is Lisa’s, and you quickly let yourself into her room. It’s just like you remember from the last time you were over: BTS posters plaster the wall, and your heart aches to see Yoongi’s face staring at you. You think a Jimin poster has been replaced with that of Jungkook, but otherwise…

Where are you? You spot her laptop on her desk and flip it open. It’s still charged, but– dammit. Password-protected. Short on time, you grab it, slipping it into your bag. Detective Kang told you not to worry, to let the police do their jobs, but you’re not trying to solve a crime; you just want your friend back.

You can examine its contents later, once you’re at the guys’ apartment. You have just enough time to head back and change, and before long you find yourself in the elevator up. With your new status as Suga’s ‘girlfriend’, your days of sneaking in through the back door are over. As long as you leave before it gets too late, and the security guards do their job in keeping the sasaengs back, you’re golden.

“I brought snacks~” you sing as the elevator slides open. You felt embarrassed when you first became friends with them– what could you bring to make millionaires happy? But these guys are such dorks, they love everything you arrive with. This time? Salty crackers and pretzels for after-dinner snacking.

“Y/n-ie’s here!” You’re suddenly surrounded by Namjoon, Seokjin, Hoseok, Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook. Yoongi is in the kitchen pouring himself some wine.

“Hey, guys.” You feel yourself tearing up. After the stress of the last few days, you’re grateful for your friends.

“Aww, don’t cry! We ordered takeout!” Jungkook says, bouncing on his heels.

Seokjin sighs. “That’s a pretty good reason to cry, dummy.”

“Takeout sounds awesome,” you laugh, shrugging out of your coat. You’re still wearing three layers, and their apartment is warm; you’re safe from the cold for now.

“Jeez, aren’t you boiling?” Hoseok asks, plucking at your plush sweater.

You flinch before regaining your sass. “You’re just jealous that I’m hotter than you, Hobi.”

“If she wants to stay warm, let her.” Yoongi says, approaching. “We can eat in the living room, it’s warm there. Should we watch a movie?”

The guys whoop in agreement.

“Let’s watch Midsommar,” Taehyung suggests as the eight of you settle in the living room. You race Yoongi to steal his favorite armchair, but he manages to snag it just before you.

“How about Once Upon A Time in Hollywood?” Namjoon asks. “I think it’s been subtitled already.”

“I heard really good things about 1917,” Jungkook adds. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Yoongi shrinking more and more into himself– that’s right, you remember with a start, he hates scary movies. And all three suggestions, in some way or another, are certainly scary. Cults, war, and murder? Yeah, no.

You catch his eye. What do you want to watch? You mouth silently. In lieu of a response, Yoongi smiles and shakes his head, sending you a clear don’t-worry-about-it signal.

And yet… half an hour into Midsommar, Yoongi stands up, looking pale. “I’m gonna… go get something.”

When he doesn’t come back after fifteen minutes you make your own excuses to the guys before going to knock on his door. “Yoongi?”

The door creaks open, and Yoongi lets you in. “Caught me, didn’t you?”

“Eh, I’d rather hang out with you than watch a movie anyways,” you reply, flopping onto Seokjin’s bed.

“Well, while we’re here…” Yoongi says casually, “Want to tell me what went on with Lisa?”

You gulp, at last letting yourself dwell on the events of yesterday. “She’s been missing for three weeks. Or maybe two weeks. Or maybe two days? She hasn’t shown up to classes, hasn’t slept at her apartment, and hasn’t contacted anyone.” Except me. “She bought a plane ticket to America but never boarded the flight. And her credit card…” you take a deep breath. If nothing else, this is something you need to share with Yoongi.

“Yoongs, Lisa’s credit card was found at our lamppost.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it was…” it’s suddenly difficult to draw breath. “Yoongi, they found it right next to the lamppost.”

Yoongi’s brows knit together as he clearly tries to process your words. “But… you worked at the cafe down the street. She could have been visiting you, or just going for coffee. Right?”

You nod. “That would make sense, but the last charge on her card was after I’d already quit at the cafe. And…” you look down. “There’s something else.”

Yoongi stares at you, and you fidget with Starry Night, stumbling over your words. “Her- that is, she… She…”

Silently, Yoongi rises and walks over to the light switch, flicking it off and plunging the both of you into darkness.

“Y-Yoongs…?” You call quietly, and you feel a warm hand resting on your own.

“Is this better?” He asks, his voice echoing in the dark.

“I- yeah.” You relax a bit, knowing no one’s eyes are on you, you’re safe. “Lisa’s phone, it had been switched off for weeks, but on Friday it was turned back on…”

Detective Kang slides the laptop over to you. “We were able to pinpoint its location to somewhere on this block. We don’t have traffic cameras near these buildings, so we can’t confirm, but do you know of any reason she might be in this area?”

Your heart stutters at the familiar street view. “I was working there.” You grab the laptop and lean closer to the screen, as though you might see inside the buildings. “That’s… where I was filming the commercial. She dropped me off there!” Your hands begin trembling, making it difficult to point. “Detective, I was inside that building when she texted me. Right… right there.”

“And you say you used to work down the street from where we found her credit card?” Detective Kang clarifies.

“Yes. Detective, do you think she could be in danger–?”

“We can’t draw any conclusions. But do you think there’s anyone else who saw Lisa on the day she dropped you off?”

“I don’t know. She stayed in her car.”

“Okay. Ms. L/n, You can’t tell anyone about this case, alright? We’re not sure of what’s going on, but we in the Missing Persons unit have a handle on it. And if Ms. Manoban contacts you again, please let me know right away. Record it, if you can– it’s possible she was threatened or otherwise forced to see you on Friday.”

You feel tears begin to well in your eyes. Lisa, threatened? “I understand.”

“Oh, y/n.” You feel Yoongi’s arms wrap around you as he sits beside you on Jin’s bed. “She’ll be okay. I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

“What I need…” you whisper. “I need you.”

Yoongi’s arms tighten around you. “Y/n?”

You straighten up. “You. You’re good with computers, right?”

Your friend lets go of you, clearing his throat. “I– kind of, why?”

“I have Lisa’s computer. She left it at her apartment. It’s password-protected…” you falter. As her best friend, you should know Lisa’s passwords. She knows all of yours, but she’s always been careful with her passwords, and you’ve never asked. Why did you never ask? “I was hoping you might be able to help.”

“Aish, I’m not a magician, y/n.” You hear Yoongi getting up to turn the lights back on and you blink weakly as the sudden brightness blind you. “But I’ll do my best, okay?”

“You’re amazing,” you say gratefully, pulling the computer from your bag.

“Ya know,” Yoongi says as he opens the laptop, “I’m pretty sure you’re the programmer of the two of us.”

“Huh?”

“You’re a whiz at HTML.”

You giggle. “Yoongi, I learned HTML for Tumblr. For you.”

“What, really?” Yoongi laughs in disbelief. “Damn, first you’ve got me as your ringtone, then you go and learn programming for me too?”

You shove him playfully. “Help me with the computer, dork.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s try the obvious stuff first.” With your help, Yoongi tries Lisa’s name, birthday, student ID number, first pet’s name, and a bunch of others. Eventually, and with Midsommar still playing down the hall, you sit back and groan.

“Some hacker you are.”

“I never said I was a hacker, y/n, I’m just good at guessing passwords.” Yoongi rubs his temples, brushing his messy black hair from his eyes. So pretty.

“How about her bias?” He says eventually. “She likes Jimin, right?”

“Ah- yeah! Try his name!”

You spend another ten minutes on every variety of Jimin’s name and birthday that you can think of. None are successful, and you begin to despair. You know you should have just taken it straight to Detective Kang, but you just want to be useful for once. Your mind drifts back to Lisa’s bedroom. She’d replaced a Jimin poster with Jungkook… wait. Jungkook! You reach over and snatch the computer from Yoongi’s grasp, quickly typing in Jungkook, jungkookie, jeonjk, jeonjeongguk, and again, everything else under the sun. Eventually, out of sheer desperation, you type in jk010997– his birthday. You hold your breath as the computer finally unlocks, revealing its desktop.

There’s a photo open on Lisa’s desktop. When you see it, and register it, a wave of pure terror washes over you, so powerful that you fall off the bed with a thud and scramble across the room. “That’s… that’s…”

“Y/n! What is it, what’s wrong?” Yoongi says, alarm ringing in his tone. “Are you okay?”

“It’s her,” you mumble, more to yourself than anything else. Your breaths have turned shallow, and you can feel an episode coming on. Cold. Cold. You’re so cold.

“Her? That’s not Lisa, y/n, what’s going on?”

You point with a shaky finger at the computer screen, upon which a photo of a smiling redhead is displayed. “It’s her. She tried to kill me.”

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feathersandphantoms · 4 years

Text

I started writing this before I’d seen that people were tagging Walter x Lance as Walance, but didn’t want to change my idea so I just went with it anyway. Also, I didn’t mean for this to be over 1.8k, woops. So most of it is under the cut.

Operation: Launch the Ship

Walter’s stomach grumbles hungrily as he approaches the break room. He’s thankful it is already noon, because he is super hungry after working all morning on his latest project. He’s about to walk into the break room, when he hears his name spoken from inside. It catches his attention and he stops walking, standing just outside the open doorway. He knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but no one should be foolish enough to gossip in a shared office space if their conversation was not meant to be overheard. So, he listens in.

He can barely hear Eyes and Ears arguing over the whir of the microwave.

“It should be Walster! It makes more sense because Lance usually goes by Sterling.” Ears argues.

“But you can’t just combine first and last names! That’s like against the rules!” Eyes says defiantly.

“There are no rules!”

“Well, there should be! Then you’d see, it should be Wance. It concisely combines their two first names. It’s perfect.”

“That’s terrible! It sounds like a child talking. I say it should be Walster.”

“Come on, you know Wance is a better ship name. You’re just too stubborn to admit it!”

Walter cringes. Neither Walster or Wance are ideal. And, he realizes with a sigh, if they’re talking ship names for him and Lance, they’ve probably been gossiping about their relationship, too.

Walter and Lance have been dating for three months. While they haven’t kept it a secret, they have tried to keep their personal lives as separate from their work at the agency as possible. They’re professionals and don’t want their relationship to interfere with the important work they’ve been doing in their newly founded branch of the agency.

Walter waits for a break in Eyes and Ears’ conversation before wandering into the break room nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just overheard their heated discussion. He grabs his lunch bag from the fridge and decides it’d be better to eat at his desk, where he can wallow about the lamentable options available for his ship names in private.

After Walter rushes through his lunch, he tries to focus on his work to take his mind off the office gossip. He is currently developing a Version 2.0 of his multi-pen. His first multi-pen tool has been a hit with field agents, as it is so easy to hide the gadget in plain sight. The new model will come with advanced safety features and four new functions. It’s nearly finished, with just a few more adjustments needed to the Bubble Blaster setting before he sends it to the prototype lab for testing.

But even his excitement over the improved multi-pen isn’t enough of a distraction from the terrible ship names that Ears and Eyes had debated. By the end of the day, he feels a heavy grey cloud of disappointment hanging over him that even a dose of Kitty Glitter can’t cut through. Hoping that a low key night in with Lance will improve his mood, he rushes to pack his pens and notebooks into his bag before heading home.

Coming home does not improve his mood. He still is in a strop about the ship names as he empties the dishwasher and prepares dinner. He’s unusually quiet as they eat.

“Is everything alright, Walt?” Lance

“Yeah. Just some stuff at work bothering me.” Walter brushes off his concern. It’s just a silly nickname, why does he even care? Lance probably wouldn’t care.

“Alright. But, you know, I’m here if you want to talk. Or if you need me to blow someone up.” Walter flinches and Lance quickly tacks on, “With non-violent glitter bombs, of course.”

Luckily, Lance seems to drop the subject, turning the conversation to the flight training he did with Lovey and Marcy. Lance describes how Marcy ended up in the trash can while practicing a loop-di-loop maneuver and it has Walter in stitches, bad mood nearly forgotten.

After dinner, they settle in, such a quiet night together watching tv and talking about their days. He curls into Lance’s side, resting his head on Lance’s broad shoulder and is ready to forget about all the stresses from his workday. Until Lance finds a rerun of a Star Trek episode, which brings back all the same worries about the state of their ship name. As the episode plays on, his disdain for the proposed ship names his coworkers had created returns. He sighs deeply as Kirk and Spock interact. Spirk is a great ship name, short and catchy and not infantile. Not like Wance or Walster.

“Okay, what’s up.” Lance turns, jostling Walter from his position, forcing Walter to sit up and look at him.

“Nothing.” He deflects.

“Don’t “nothing” me. You’ve been weird since I got home. Did I do something?”

“No, of course not. You didn’t do anything. I just overheard something at the office. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine if it upsets you. Who do I need to fight?” He puffs his chest up protectively.

“No one, calm down.” Walter pats his chest, then smooths a crease in his shirt down as he adds, “It’s not even a big deal.”

“If it’s not a big deal, then you can tell me.” Lance pesters.

“It’s just that I overheard Eyes and Ears talking about our ship name. I don’t know why I’m upset. It’s so embarrassing.” Walter covers his face with his hands.

“Ship name? Are you building a ship in the lab?” Lance gets overly excited.

“No not a ship- ship. Like a relationship.”

Lance looks so confused, like he’d never heard that term before. “Oh, you’ve never heard of shipping!” Walter laughs at the realization. His boyfriend’s ineptitude for understanding pop culture is enough humor to raise his spirits a bit. Of all the things his smart, strong spy boyfriend can do, from catching the bad guy to turning into a literal bird, he’s still completely clueless when it comes to pop culture.

“Why are you laughing?” Lance pouts. He never likes to be the butt of jokes that he doesn’t understand.

Walter just laughs harder. It reminds him of the night he had to explain to Lance how memes worked. But eventually, he catches his breath and explains, “Shipping is when someone thinks two or more people should be in a relationship.”

Lance’s brows furrow. “We /are/ in a relationship.”

“Let me finish. A ship name is usually a combination of the people’s names, like a shorthand way to reference them. Like Star Trek,” Walter points at the television. “Lots of people think Spock and Kirk are in a relationship, so they call them Spirk.”

“Spirk,” Lance repeats skeptically.

“Yeah. So, like, I overheard Eyes and Ears arguing about it today and I realized that we don’t have a good ship name.”

Lance has a blank look on his face, like something isn’t quite making sense. Walter knew he wouldn’t understand why it upset Walter. “Never mind. I told you it was silly.”

“No, no. It’s not silly if it’s important to you. I’m just trying to figure it out. So, it’s like a code name?”

“Kinda?”

“Well, what’d they come up with? It can’t be that bad.”

“Walster and Wance.”

Lance grimaces. “Oh, those are bad.”

“Yep.”

“Why don’t you just make up one that you like?” Lance asks.

“I can’t just make up our own ship name!” Walter throws up his hands in frustration. “There’s like rules against that! It’s a name bestowed upon the couple.”

“Oh.” Lance falls silent. The characters on the tv screen fill the silence between them. Walter doesn’t know what’s happening on screen and doesn’t even attempt to focus on the episode, mind still stuck on his own personal travesty. If only he could hint at it, or get someone else to use a better ship name.

That’s it! Walter sits upright, eyes widening as the perfect solution comes to mind. “We could do it!”

“Do what?” Lance asks.

“Create our own ship name.”

“But you just said you couldn’t.”

“But, what if they didn’t know we’d picked our own? We are spies, we should be able to infiltrate the gossip network at the office and implant a better ship name without anyone finding out.”

Lance is still skeptical, his eyebrows raising as he tries to catch up to Walter’s thoughts.

“Come on, it’s a win-win. We can pick a name we like, and no one will know it was you that did it.”

“Do you even have a name picked out?”

“Well, I was thinking Beckling. You know, like Beckett and Sterling. It’s short and catchy. And cute!”

Lance rolls his eyes subtly. He can’t say that he loves that choice, but he is endeared by his boyfriend’s enthusiasm. And though he may not understand ships, he can tell this nickname means something to Walter. After weighing a few pros and cons, he comes to a decision.

“I guess.” Lance reluctantly acquiesces.

“Alright!” Walter pumps his fist in the air excitedly. “Operation: Launch the Ship is on! But, we’ll have to work fast before one of those awful names sticks.”

Walter quickly withdraws a notebook and an ink multi-pen from his work bag, eager to plan a fun mini-mission with Lance. It’ll be sorta like when they first met, just the two of them working together. “Let’s begin!” He clicks on the purple ink button with gusto!

The purple button, however, does not activate his favorite purple ballpoint. Instead it launches a stream of bubbles from the tip of the multi-pen. Walter watches in horror as the activated Bubble Blaster quickly fills the living room with a sea of foam. He must have accidentally brought home the unfinished multi-pen 2.0 instead of his favorite multi-pen. Unfortunately, as he was still tinkering with the design, there was no way to shut off the Bubble Blaster until the multi-pen ran out of ammo.

Finally, the multi-pen finally fizzles out and the last sudsy drops spill out of the end. Walter’s cheeks flame red, embarrassed to have accidentally brought another of his unfinished inventions into Lance’s house. It’d been two weeks since the last incident, and Walter had promised to be more careful. He is afraid of how Lance will react to this latest mishap.

“Walter… are the bubbles part of the operation?” Lance asks, tone unreadable.

“No…” Walter turns back to Lance, hoping that he isn’t too angry. Instead of anger, he is surprised to find the most adoring look on Lance’s face. “But they could be, if I can fix the multi-pen 2.0 in time.”

“I hope so. I think the bubbles could come in handy.” Lance says. Then he leans in and wipes a bit of foam from Walter’s cheek with his thumb.

There’s never a dull moment with Beckling. And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

#spies in disguise #walance #beckling #walter x lance #walter beckett #lance sterling

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