#;; not just ink on paper but what sleeps beneath the words {musings}

[wywardprince]

tag masterpost

general ;; gallery ;; promo post ;; self promo ;; starters and prompts

sebastian ;; beneath bowed head and hands {ooc} ;; fly straight and fly true {meme} ;; let me see even while my eyes are closed {aesthetic} ;; none of us are free {about} ;; not just ink on paper but what sleeps beneath the words {musings} ;; star-eyed and blossom-mouthed {romance} ;; to have but little yet treasure it well {gifts} ;; the halls of my dreams are red {history}

verses v;; and here i have known you all these years v;; i fear i am just slowing you down v;; i will drink and bed and walk away laughing v;; i will fight and pray for forgiveness later v;; the heir of starkhaven will not fall

companions c;; flow'ring heart and bright eyes {roland | eritvita} c;; shouldering the duty {elissa cousland | daughterofhighever}

relationships

[quillsareswords]

For the Valentine’s Day blurb I could imagine Damian showing you his art book along with the drawings of you he did over time while saying how much he loves you how grateful he is not those words exactly but just Valentine’s Day Damian talk you know

Kick off the the celebration y'all, happy wallowing season ✌️

MASTER LIST in BIO

It's sitting on your bed when you get home from a class. At first glance, you don't realize what it is. Some skinny black square sitting atop a bed that definitely wasn't made when you left.

You set your bag down and step closer. That's when you recognize the elegant golden embossed D.W. on the corner. He's stuck a red bow on the opposite corner, beside a white envelope. You're glad to see he's still putting that calligraphy course to good use, the way your name is scrawled so beautifully that you almost don't recognize it.

You pick up the card first. He didn't stick it shut, so the card slides out easily.

It's rough white parchment. The front boasts a gorgeous top-down bouquet of roses, all different colors, all outlined in black ink that acts as a barrier the watercolor paints don't respect. On the back, a gentle pink camellia.

It's hand painted.

You open it carefully. In true Damian Wayne fashion, he's spared no expense when it comes to paint. There are little vines of flowers crawling around the corners and slithering between the clusters. The words on either page are perfectly spaced and centered.

On the left page, "To my shining moon and glittering star; my only love and favorite muse; let this remind you how beautiful you really are."

On the right page, "You know I'm not a poet as I am an artist, but I'd try anything for you. This isn't all I'd like to give you today, but it is the gift I'm most proud of. I truly hope this will dismiss all those foolish ideas your mind crafts about yourself. I can't always be there to remind you in person, but this should be a decent placeholder. I love you terribly, my dear. [Signed,] Your Mr. Darcy, Damian."

You haven't even opened your gift yet and you're already close to tears. You set the card on your bedside table, propping it open so it stands up beneath your lamp.

And then you settle down against your headboard and pick up the sketchbook. It feels familiar in your hand—as it should. You weigh it passively in one hand, swimming through memories of summer evenings spent in the gardens, rainy spring mornings in front of his open balcony door, fall afternoons spent in the corner of a cafe, winter nights spent fireside. The number of times you've picked it up to hand it to him; the hours spent curled into his side, drifting in and out of sleep to the sound of graphite against paper.

The first page is Batcow's portrait. The second is a quick outline of a scene from the city park. On the adjacent page, a robin in the same style.

You spend the next two hours flipping through it. At first, it's just animals and landscapes, a few harsh scene sprinkled in—because who would Damian be with the shady darks to break up all the beauty. Somewhere after the more troubled images (zombies and battlefields and zombie battlefields and one you think might be the stronghold he was raised in being razed to the ground), his focus seems to shift. There are whole pages dedicated to practicing different human forms at different angles, and the farther you get, the more familiar they start to seem.

And then it really changes. The first one is rough; unerased guide lines, too-sharp angles. There's something about your face that's just off, but it is unmistakably you. The next is of the same stronghold, but this time it's cast in the flow of a messy watercolor sunset.

You watch his skill develop across the pages. And you watch yourself evolve along with it. You see the way you wore your hair in eighth grade, the phase of experimentation with makeup, the earrings you wore for three months solid, that ratty hoodie that's rotting in your closet. You watch your smiles get brighter while his painting improves, your confidence grows with his expertise. The closer you get, the more abstract his work becomes; the more emotion he pours into it.

There's one toward the end that nearly knocks the breath out of you. It's done from the perspective of his reading chair. His room is sketched out carefully, from the paintings on his walls to the clothes scattered lazily around the floor, it's all painstakingly captured in pencil and pen. He's used the colored pencils you'd given him for his birthday the week before to engrave the moment perfectly. The early rays of the morning sun are just spilling into the room, painting everything in gentle light.

You can hardly image yourself as the subject of such a piece, but there you are, settled among the blankets and pillows spread out on his bed like an angle laying in a cloud. You look– gorgeous. If this is how he sees you, it's no wonder you get to pick stars out in his eyes every morning.

You really hate him now. Jesus, he's the absolute worst.

He's surprised you with this– this home-run, heart-wrenching, emotionally-ruining, year-making gift on Valentine's Day. And he's alluded to have more to give you. And what did you get him? A booklet of handmade coupons for hugs and kisses, and a batch of your grandmother's brownies that he would not shut up about after Christmas. That bastard.

Guess you're gonna have to call the other grandma. This seems like a job for Grammy's famous cheesy veggie casserole.

[poesparakeet-fics]

Read it here or on AO3!

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, Beauregard Lionett & Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Caleb Widogast Characters: Caleb Widogast, Essek Thelyss, Beauregard Lionett, Jester Lavorre, Caduceus Clay Additional Tags: Shadogast - Freeform, dunamancy, Empire Siblings - Freeform, Prank Wars, Tickling, rib tickling Summary:

What happens to a ticklish wizard when he manages to piss off too many of the people who love him? Allies are made and lessons are learned.

FIC

“Caleb Widogast!” Caleb jumped as he walked into the kitchen of the Xorhaus, unsure of what he could have possibly done to upset anyone this early in the morning. He was even more surprised when he saw who. “Essek?” Caleb stammered, taken aback. The drow was perched on a large kitchen chair with a cup of Caduceus’ tea in his hands and a pinched look on his face. “Schatze, I’m sorry, were we to meet? I hope you weren’t waiting long, I--” “No.” Essek corrected him sharply. “I am here to have tea with Mr. Clay at his request, to discuss the situation in Savalierwood. But he just told me that he healed some pretty distinct injuries for you, yesterday?” Caleb felt a guilty cringe fold his stomach in half. He sighed, looking at Caduceus. “So that just came up, ja?” “Yeah,” Caduceus responded, “thought it might be why you slept in.” “Ja, I had a bit of a fall--” “A fall? From where?” Essek’s gaze was intense. Caleb dropped his eyes to the floor. “Oh just, you know, clumsy--” “Really? You clumsily practiced dunamantic phasing on your own and fell through the floor?” “I think it was three floors, actually…” Caduceus mused quietly. The cringe came to the surface and showed, unbidden on Caleb’s face. “Essek, I--” “I have never limited you. It was the one thing I asked.” “I know, I--” “Caleb.” He froze when Essek cut him off, meeting the elf’s gaze once more. Essek stared him down hard before continuing. “I had… better masters than you had, when I was a young wizard. Infinitely gentler, certainly. But they would have whipped me for practicing phasing magic by myself. Truly. You could have cut yourself in half, dismembered yourself, crushed yourself, suffocated in a wall--” Essek seemed to cut himself off with a wave of his hand. “The point… the point is it would cause me a great heartbreak if irresponsible use of the magic I taught you led to your demise. Please promise me again, and keep it this time.” Caleb ducked his head, feeling like a rightfully scolded school child. “I will, ja. I am sorry.” Essek gave him a look that said he didn't entirely believe him. “I do trust you. I do not trust your curiosity. It’s only a virtue if it doesn’t get you killed.” Caleb laughed softly, nodding as he sat down at the table with them and accepted a teacup from the still-silent Caduceus. He winked at Essek. “I think I could say the same to you, but fair enough. If I do it again, I’ll let you whip me.” Essek smiled back, but the doubt didn’t leave his expression. ... “CALEB!” Beau’s voice thundered from upstairs, and Caduceus almost dropped the knife he was using to prepare vegetables for dinner. He spun around to see the wizard in question with his hands in his component pouch, running as fast as he could through the kitchen and out the back door. Beau’s quick steps followed, but by the time she was in the kitchen they could both hear the familiar woosh of a misty step from outside. She stopped stock-still in the kitchen, hands clenched into fists, looking… different than Caduceus had ever seen her. What was it? “Uh… hey. Did you get some new clothes.?” Beau turned to him silently, eyes burning holes in his head. It was pretty scary, actually. “Oh! Uh… is that what this is about?” Beau’s clothes were bright magenta where they had once been her usual cobalt blue. She was still staring at Caduceus with her fists clenched. Veth and Fjord were creeping wearily into the kitchen behind her. “I think it looks nice--!” Veth offered, only to choke off in a scared squeak when Beau rounded to face her. Beau reached out to yank Fjord’s hat off his head and put it on. “Hey!’ Fjord protested, before clamping one hand over his mouth to hide a smile. “Oh. I see.” As it perched on Beau’s head, the hat instantly turned the same bright magenta of her robes. When she handed it back it returned to its usual color. The whole room was biting lips to keep an amused smile off their face, lest they become the new target for her fury. Beau took a deep breath before bellowing again. “CALEB!” She spoke into the air, her voice loud enough to hear throughout the house. “I KNOW THAT SPELL DOESN’T GO FAR. I KNOW YOU’RE HERE, AND I AM GOING TO FUCKING GET YOU, DO YOU HEAR ME? I AM GOING TO DO DOPE MONK SHIT TO YOUR NERVOUS SYSTEM, TIE YOU UP AND FEED YOU TO A ROOM FULL OF TIEFLINGS. You will FUCKING SUFFER! THINK OF A NEW NAME, CAUSE CALEB WIDOGAST IS A FUCKING DEAD MAN! ” At the end of her tirade Beau took a deep breath and started to walk upstairs again, but not before spinning around and jabbing a finger at everyone in the kitchen. “ANYONE caught harboring the wizard will share his fucking fate!” … "...CALEB WIDOGAST IS A FUCKING DEAD MAN! ” Caleb was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his hiding place in Fjord’s empty bedroom when Beau finished her threats, but by the time she was climbing the stairs again he had disappeared with a crackling pop. When the disorienting suck of the teleport spell faded he was standing on a clay path in a dimly-lit garden next to a trio of small towers made of iridescent grey brick. An arcane weather-vane creaked in the darkness. He started toward the door. “Caleb?” A head of pale curls popped up over the top of a bush of dark purple flowers, a frown of concern on the face beneath. “Essek, hello. Ah… may I spend the night?” Essek walked toward him as he pulled floral gardening gloves off of his hands, eyes narrowed wearily. “Of course, I am always happy to have you...” He reached Caleb and placed a distracted kiss on his cheek. “... did something happen at home?” “Yes.” Caleb answered, only to stutter as Essek’s worry grew, “Oh, ah, nothing bad. Well, nothing very bad. I just need to avoid Beauregard for a bit.” Essek’s worry immediately evaporated to be replaced with amused annoyance. “I see. What did you do this time?” They both started to stroll through the garden toward Essek’s back door. “Oh, just some illusion work. It will go away by morning. She deserves it, after stealing my spellbook while I was sleeping.” “Mhmm.” Essek hummed, linking his arm with Caleb’s. “But wasn’t her stealing your spellbook revenge for…” “The magic spiders, ja, but I had to do that! She--” “--the disappearing ink, yes, I remember. Are you sensing a pattern here, chathtiu?” Caleb sniffed and turned his nose up. “I have no idea what you mean.” Essek’s smile turned indulgent as he pulled Caleb into his home. “I’m sure you don’t. Beauregard does have a way of pushing your buttons, hm?” “She is the expert.” “I should ask her for advice, one of these days.” Caleb only laughed, pulling the smaller man into his arms. “You have your own way of pushing my buttons, don’t you schatz?” Essek smiled back. “You’re right, of course. I do.” ... Caleb stalked through the library of the Xorhause, circling it room by room. While his books were sitting on the desk he’d been working at the night before, their holsters were missing. He shifted the papers on his desk, panic rising in his chest. Where were they? “Caleb?” Jester was standing in the doorway, his holsters dangling from one finger. Caleb let out a sigh of relief. “Jester! Danke! Where were they?” “Sorry, I think Sprinkle must have stolen them.” Caleb shook his head, the tension in his chest easing. “That’s alright. I’m just glad they are found.” He reached out for them, stopping short when another figure entered the room. It was Beau, her clothes now back to their normal deep blue. Their eyes met for a moment, but the monk just breezed past as though she didn’t even notice Caleb was there. It had been a week since the incident with her clothes with no revenge or further threats, and Caleb was starting to wonder if he’d finally won the war. He shrugged his holsters on as the two women sat down on the sofa. He missed Jester’s giggle until it was too late. “Hey Caleb?” Beau asked. “Uh, ja?” Caleb cringed a little, turning around. Beau’s look was positively predatory. “Fuck you.” Caleb was about to respond when the sensation of fingers digging into his ribs flushed all the air out of him in one squeal. He spun around clumsily, hands flapping, but nobody was near him. He craned his neck to look down, his arms helplessly hugging his own ribcage while his knees buckled. That’s when he realized where the sensation was coming from. “Wh-what? No, I-- ah! Please!” His fingers fumbled with the buckle of his holsters to try and escape the traitorous leather trap, but the buckle was trapped under a magical seal of iridescent purple wax with the image of a skeleton key pressed into its surface. “Fuck!” Beaureguard was grinning like a gnoll. “What’s that buddy? Fuck you?” “Aah!” Caleb’s whole body convulsed and hit the carpet as the tickling escalated, even more invisible fingers reaching out from the leather to stroke delicate bones under pale skin and plain cloth. “No no! Please!” “Can I try?” Jester asked, giggling. “Nein!” “Sure, go for it.” “Fuck yooooou Caleb!” Caleb couldn’t answer her with words, he could only wail wordlessly. He writhed on the ground, trying desperately to resist the currently useless instinct to lock his arms at his sides so he could try and pull the holsters off over his head, but it was no use. All he could do was paw uselessly at the leather before Beureguard hissed the trigger word again and all he could see was stars. “Uh… everything alright in here?” Fjord’s voice came from the direction of the door. Caleb couldn’t see him over the sofa. “Fjord!” Caleb screeched. “Plea-hee-se! Evil!” It was all he could get out before his voice cracked and his laughter turned silent, his head thrown back against the carpet. “Huh?” Beau answered in an exaggeratedly casual tone. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just getting a little payback for my pink phase. Stole his holsters and Essek cursed ‘em.” A wave of betrayal strong enough to overpower his ticklishness gave Caleb just enough breath to shout “WHAT?!” before the laughter overtook him again, tears building in his eyes. “I helped with the ruse!” Jester piped up. “Uh-huh.” Fjord nodded, “can he breathe?” “Hmm? Oh, I guess we can check. Good boy, Caleb.” The sensation stopped all at once, and Caleb rolled flat on his back to gulp in air. “See? He’s fine.” Caleb sat up, hands held out in supplication even as he struggled to catch his breath. “Beau, please, I’m s-” “Fuck you and your apology.” Any strength Caleb had recovered melted away as he squealed and flopped back down on the carpet, limbs curling uselessly against his body. The tickling fingers coming from the inner panels of his holsters might as well have been sucking his very life-force out. Fjord lets out a sigh. “If you’re going to torture him for a prank, you at least have to let him apologise. Good boy?” Caleb didn’t get up this time, too scared to trigger someone’s wrath or sense of mischief. He was still giggling, partially from phantom sensation and partially from the panicky tension of knowing that any of them could trigger the curse at any moment. “I’m sorry! Bitte!” There was a beat of silence before Beau turned to Fjord again. “There, I let him apologise. Can we go back to the torture now?” “Wait!” Caleb squeaked, rising unsteadily to his knees. “Please Beau, we can talk about this--” “Oh, you wanna talk now? Cause when it happened you were happy to teleport away to your fucking boyfriend’s. So… you know,” she finished with a grin, “fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU.” “Nein!” Was all Caleb could manage before his laughter stole his voice away, only to crack and go silent once more a moment later. Tears leaked from his eyes to roll into the fluffy carpet beneath him as he crumpled. “Oh, he’s so cute when he cries, I love it!” Jester clapped her hands while she watched from the sofa. “This is the best curse ever.” Fjord made an agreeable sound. “I wonder if Essek could make something more remote? Then we could tickle him wherever we are. That would be fun.” Caleb couldn’t respond to the idea with anything more than pained wail through his hysterics. The others pretended not to notice. “Yeah, I do worry that he goes without when we’re gone.” Jester cooed. “Pfft. Yeah, I don’t think Essek is letting that happen.” Beau snorted. Caleb started to beat at the floor with one hand, hiccups punctuating his laughter. “Aw, alright. Good boy.” The sensation stopped again, but Caleb couldn’t stop his laughter. “Please, pleaheese, *hic* bitte--” “Focus on catching your breath.” Fjord suggested, “It’ll do you more good than begging will.” Caleb let out an exhausted little sob before obeying, his lungs working overtime to suck in air. He wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to make the hiccups go away with little success. When his breathing finally evened out Fjord gave him a reassuring smile. “See, that’s better.” Fjord soothed. Beau’s grin got wider. “Hey, Caleb?” “No!” “Fffffffffff…” “Mercy!” “...uuuuck you!” “Aaii!” Caleb let out a little yelp at the sound of the words, then… nothing. He’d clenched his eyes shut in anticipation, and when he slowly opened them Beau was glaring at him. “Hey! How come it didn’t work?” Caleb let out a huge sigh of relief. The curse must have expended all of its energy. “Is it done?” Jester questioned. Caleb was wondering the same thing. He tried to examine the buckle of his holsters as subtly as possible. The seal was still there, which meant whatever the curse was, it was not over. He needed to get out of earshot as quickly as he could. “I thought it was supposed to last longer than that. Can you message Essek?” “Sure!” Caleb started to cast for misty step as subtly as he could, hoping he was close enough to his lab to lock himself inside. “Hi Essek, it’s Jester! So, your awesome curse thingy is SO great, but like, but it ran out of tickles? Do you know why?” Whoosh. Caleb hit the stone floor of his lab with an oof, dragging himself to his feet and transmuting the door of the lab into stone for good measure. As he groaned he saw that the room looked quite different compared to how he had left it the night before. The large chalkboard he used for calculations had been moved into the centre of the room. In one corner someone had drawn a symbol-- a skeleton key, like the one on the seal trapping him in his holsters. Next to it someone had written in familiar, looping script: I will not practice phasing unsupervised. X100 Caleb whipped out the enchanted little book he and Essek used to send messages between them, only to find a new one waiting for him. You have 30 minutes. Caleb was glad nobody was there to watch him gape like a fish between the chalkboard and the book. Essek couldn’t be serious. He frowned and grabbed up a quill. You are a traitorous snake! There was only a single silent moment before the page shimmered and revealed another message under Caleb’s. Noted. Now you only have 25 minutes. Caleb took a moment to say every curse word in every language he knew. Then he stood up, snatched the chalk and started writing.

[tales-unique]

FAULTS OF THE HEART  II

Chapter 2

That night is, quite possibly, the worst night of your life, so far. No matter how you try to position yourself you manage to aggravate your wound, rendering any progress towards sleep null and void in a matter of seconds. You hiss in frustration, sitting up after what feels like hours of fighting, deciding that there was no sense in trying while you were so wound up.

You decide instead to sate your curiosity about the place you have been brought to, starting with the room you’re in. It’s bathed in iridescent moonlight, the fire having long since burnt out, which gives it an almost ethereal glow. In its prime it must have been such a beautiful place to read and study but now it sits abandoned, a sad echo of former glory. All the books, though dusty and stained with age, look to be in good condition and, despite your fatigue, you untangle yourself from your makeshift bed to peruse them. As you edge towards them the wood creaks beneath your feet and you freeze, listening for any signs of life other than yourself in the building. When you hear nothing you release the breath you had been holding, gazing in awe at all the different books before you. Some of the names you couldn’t even understand, their beautiful cursive calligraphy written in a language that was foreign to you. Perhaps the man of the house was an avid collector of interesting books? You gently trace your finger over the spines, ignoring the burn of protest in your shoulder as you move away towards an old desk that sits under the bare window. The wood is chipped and covered in a layer of dust just like the rest of the room, the items scattered about its surface also buried. Your hand disturbs a stack of papers, the paper parched from years of exposure to the sun, to see if there’s anything you can gleam from them, but the ink is so faded that you barely make out the words. You frown at the inkwell that sits near a stack of books, some of which look like writing journals, the quill stuck inside the dried up ink. The feathering had mostly vanished, decomposed until barely any were left to cling to the brittle spine. This was someone's private space once, but not any longer. All at once the feeling that you were an invader hits you like a tidal wave and, with one last somber look, you back away from the desk to look at the door. For all you knew the man could have locked you inside, to curb any possible excursions without him knowing. The thought sent a spark of fear shooting through your system and with a brisk pace you came face to face with the door. It’s old, just as the rest of the room is, and the ornate handle is a deep brass colour under the layer of dust and grime. You hesitate, your hand hovering over the handle, sucking in a deep breath to try and calm yourself. Quickly, you tell yourself, before your fear petrifies you. The grip you have on the door handle is so tight you barely register how your knuckles are turning white, or how your shoulder aches in protest at the awkward angle you're bending at, as you peek out into the dark hallway. After a cautious once over you tentatively step out, careful to tiptoe your way down the hallway so you wouldn’t alert anyone to your presence. But it was already too late for that. The man, the lone inhabitant of the abandoned place, was already awake and wandering himself when you decided to leave your room. He had been angsty knowing there was someone, a human no less, in his castle, and so, like you, sleep evaded him. Your movements were easy to trace, the vampiric blood that flowed through his veins heightening his senses to an alarming degree. Hidden in the looming shadows he follows you, all while you are unaware, to see just what it is you’re doing wandering around at such an hour. At the end of the hallway you find a grand staircase and a hazy memory clouds your mind. You remember being swept up these stairs in the arms of your nameless rescuer, the receding image of the almost comically tall doors receding as your vision grew darker, your consciousness slipping in and out. There was even a trail of drying blood leading up to where you had been left, noticed only now that you were actively looking at the floor beneath your feet. You grimace, making sure to descend on the other side of the stairs. Once at the bottom you come to stand in front of those large doors, ever imposing, and a sense of apprehension settles like a lead weight in the pit of your stomach. Although you had no idea where you were the danger of leaving while still injured with no means to protect yourself loomed threateningly, and that alone made you hesitant. Swallowing your fear you gingerly tread towards the doors, careful in opening them lest you further injure yourself. Whatever you had been expecting, or not , when you stepped out into the night, you could have said with certainty that it wouldn’t have been impaled corpses . You freeze, your blood like ice. Corpses. Impaled. On spikes . Any and all doubts you had about the dangers outside being greater than the ones inside were now none-existent. The man who lived here, the one who had saved your life , was the same man who had done this to these people. A rational person with a sane mind wouldn’t willingly do this to someone, right? No, which meant you had to leave, and quickly, or you could be next. But, oh God , how would you get past them? You barely had time to register that they were more mummified than fresh, having been there for a while, since you were back-peddling as quickly as your legs could take you. Until your back hits something solid and more alive than the doors. You let out a scream, partially from shock and from the pain sent rocketing through your arm, twisting sharply on your heel to see the doors cast open wide and none other than the man standing there, blocking your path. “You’re up late,” he speaks with a casualness that unnerves you more than anything, his gaze solemn. Your chest heaves as you stare at him with wide eyes, panic surging through your veins. Inside you're a mess of emotions that will not be tamed. Utter chaos and turmoil. When you don't respond he lets out a defeated sigh, a weary sound that betrays how worn down he has become. "If you wanted to leave you could have just said so," he muses, frowning when you recoil away from him when he moves to pass you. He stops to look at the corpses that frame the entrance but there's no feeling there. Not anymore. His hate and anger and pain has faded into nothingness, a void he had hoped he would never fall into. You watch him like a hawk the entire time, body tense. At any point he could turn on you and you had to be ready . But the moment doesn't come. There's just him, standing illuminated in the moonlight, broken. "Where would I even go, if I could leave?" The words are quiet but you can't stand the stifling silence any longer. "You could go anywhere," he answers easily, resolute. You scoff, brushing your fingertips over your bandaged wound. It stings and you wince with a hiss. "And do what? I have no money, my arm is useless right now. I'd be dead in a day or two. And that's if I don't get found by the Baron's men first." It's true that the Baron was still a threat to you, even more so now that his hunting party had been cut down, so blood would be demanded. Just not yours if you could help it. "Who are you, anyway?" You ask, changing the subject. There's so much you want to ignore at that moment so you focus on him. There's a moment of silence before he finally responds and his voice has an edge to it that you can’t quite place. You get the feeling that he’d much rather remain nameless to you, but out of politeness he must give in. How quaint. "Your people call me Alucard," he replies, turning to look at you expectantly. You quickly stumble out your name, suddenly feeling like a caged animal under the starkness of his golden gaze. They almost glow in the light, giving him a predatory air. "Well," you clear your throat, quickly stepping past the, ahem, decorations , to stand next to him at the top of the stone steps, "thank you, Alucard. I'd have died if you hadn't helped me." It's the truth; you owe him your life, and he knows it. "You are welcome," he responds slowly, awkwardly, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes before they turn heavenward. "A beautiful night, isn't it?" He's trying to ease the tension and even though it doesn't help much you appreciate the sentiment. "Yes, it's nice," you answer softly. Looking at him as he is in that moment you find that he doesn’t seem so intimidating as you had first thought and you feel ashamed for having judged him so harshly so quickly. Not that it doesn’t diminish what you have learnt from your little excursion outside the castle. After all, there were dead bodies on his front step. Maybe there was more to this than first met the eye, maybe not, but you were determined to discover the truth.

[pedros-mustache-main]

like the movies

summary: he’s the writer; you’re the muse. there’s a cup of coffee somewhere in there, too.

word count: 3.3k+

warnings: fluff & pining—so, a change of pace from my usual angst. :) also: a serious lack of dialogue because i am feeling verbose. 

a/n: this is entirely @joemazzmatazz‘s fault. it was her idea (albeit given to me actual ages ago), but she said “do it” and who am i to say no? anywho, i’m relatively uncertain about how this turned out, but have it regardless!

your latte is hot, almost too hot. it burns your tongue on the first sip.

but you welcome the heat and the momentary burst of pain. the weather swirling outside borders on atrocious: freezing rain mixed with snow flurries, bloated, gray clouds, and a thin layer of ice on all surfaces. though the tip of your tongue stings upon that first sip, the heat that rushes to your chest pushes away the dreary weather you’d slogged through to get to the coffee shop.

you’re a regular here. not a regular regular, but regular enough that the interchangeable baristas recognize you and you recognize them. you exchange tight-lipped smiles and nods of greeting when you approach the counter, but nothing more than simple pleasantries. you don’t know their names, and they never ask for yours, but they remember your order: frosted blueberry latte with extra foam. it’s gotten to the point where you can simply walk up to the counter, money in hand, and the barista can repeat your order before you open your mouth.

it’s the little things, you suppose. in this little corner of the world, you feel seen.

today, you have your laptop open, latte pushed to the side, and a cherry and almond scone on a bright blue plate. you resist the urge to pull your foot up on the chair and rest your chin on your knee. though you’re here more often than you’re at home, this isn’t your living room. you settle for sliding your ankle beneath your opposite thigh.

being a paralegal is decidedly unglamorous. sure, it sounds highfalutin to the person sitting beside you on the airplane, but damn, if it isn’t stressful. you feel like a glorified secretary most of the time. pushing papers and getting signatures and making tens of phone calls to people and places that are not interested in speaking to a lawyer isn’t really what you signed up for. at least, it’s not what you ultimately want. it pays the bills for now, though; a partnership… that’ll come later.

you’re lucky enough that you can work remotely, hence your sturdy corner of the café. from where you sit, you watch customers enter and exit the shop. each time the door opens and the little bell tinkles above, a blast of cold air rushes into the cramped space. you enjoy watching the reaction of newcomer­—the way they stamp their snow-covered shoes on the wood floor and shiver, turn to their companions with a smile, hurry to the counter to order something sweet and warm. in those moments, you grow wistful, your heart lurching with loneliness. it’s been a long time since you’ve had anyone to meet for an afternoon coffee date, friend or otherwise. your job doesn’t afford much downtime, and what downtime you do have is devoted to menial life responsibilities. 

your phone buzzes, and you glance down. a text from your boss. time to refocus.

you work for a while longer, nibbling on your scone, sipping from your latte. the emails pile up, and your phone buzzes incessantly. a headache forms at the base of your skull as you struggle to keep up with the constant flurry of communication.

after receiving a terse email from your boss’s legal partner in relation to something that is no fault of your own, you shut your laptop. a five-minute break; you deserve that much. rubbing a hand down your weary face, you grab your purse, slide out from behind the table, and head for the restroom. in the poorly lit bathroom, you splash some cool water on your cheeks and sigh at your reflection in the mirror. you look tired, feel it too. the dark bags under your eyes bely how little sleep you’ve gotten in the last week, and your shoulders droop under the weight of the world. maybe by christmas…

who are you kidding? christmas is just as busy as any other time of the year. people don’t stop needing lawyers just ‘cause it’s the holidays.

when you return to your makeshift workspace, you immediately frown. you freeze several paces from the corner of the table and glance over your shoulder, tightening your grip on the strap of your purse.

someone had been at the table in the five minutes it took to freshen up.

nothing is gone, thank god. (in retrospect, you probably shouldn’t have left your laptop and phone sitting in plain sight. call it naivety, but you like to think the best of people. however, your line of work consistently reminds you that the bad in people often outweighs the good.) your laptop, though, has been nudged to the side, the movement causing the charging cord to fall out. several drops of dark liquid—spilled latte—dampen the corner of your yellow legal pad.

what truly catches you eye is the square piece of paper resting on your laptop’s keyboard like a discarded feather.

you look over your shoulder again, but the shop is largely empty save for the baristas and an older couple in the far corner. the weather is certainly a deterrent from lingering. perhaps someone had come in while you were in the bathroom and left you a note. had your car been hit? you hope not. you don’t have the extra funds for vehicular maintenance right now and even less time to fix whatever damage had been done.

leaning forward, you lift the piece of paper, and your chest tightens.

it’s a drawing—a drawing of you. blue ink scattered across the page in swirling lines forms the hazy outline of your profile. your chin rests in your hand, and the artist made certain note to emphasize your eyelashes, which are not that long in actuality. at the bottom of the page, a message in curling script: when you are old ­— yeats

your mouth runs dry, your palms moist with nerves. returning to your chair, you quickly type the words into the search bar of your browser. you remember enough from high-school english to know yeats is a poet, but when the poem loads and you read the words, you feel like you might fall over.

your neck snaps up, cracks at the sudden movement. someone had been here in the café long enough to watch you, to sketch you, and to think of the yeats poem in relation to you.

how decidedly… romantic. like something out of a chick-flick.

despite the warmth in your chest, you shut your laptop, fold the sketch, and shove it in your coat pocket, willing yourself to forget the random happenstance. things like that—serendipitous moments of romance—only happen in the movies. they certainly don’t happen to you.

whomever had left the note, well—at least they’d brightened your day. your mother would call it a gift from the heavens, an angel smiling down on you.

shaking your head, you gather your things and hurry out into the cold, wintery weather. you refuse to allow yourself to go home and daydream. you could use the note as a bookmark, sure, but there was no use in dreaming about the artist. no use whatsoever when you would likely never cross paths again.

except you do go home and daydream. why you ever thought you could keep yourself from mulling over a moment rife with potential is ridiculous.

all throughout the evening—as you make your stir-fry dinner, as you draw your bath, as you change the sheets on your bed, and fold the laundry—you consider the possibilities:

you’d been at the café for a handful of hours, but how much had you truly paid attention to the patrons coming and going? barely, if you’re honest with yourself. you had noticed the older couple when they came in; you’d wondered how they’d managed to get from the parking lot to the warmth of the coffee shop without slipping on the icy sidewalks. you’d noticed, too, a man who looked a lot like how you imagine paul bunyan: massive height, plaid shirt stuffed in worn jeans, impressive beard. no one else of note sticks out in your mind hours later.

what had you been doing all afternoon? hopefully you hadn’t done anything embarrassing. god, sometimes you have this habit of resting your fingers over your mouth in such a way that it pushes up your nose to resemble a pig’s snout. had you done that? sometimes you fiddle with your hair too much and bounce your knees and hum to yourself. you want to sink below the suds of your bathwater when you recall your propensity for talking to yourself.

your thoughts turn fanciful when you finally slip beneath your covers.

maybe the artist is like tom hanks in “you’ve got mail.” only instead of emails, you could exchange notes in a coffee shop and forgo the business rivalry part.

maybe the artist is like tom hanks in “sleepless in seattle”: soft and sweet and really good with kids.

maybe you just have a thing for tom hanks.

you turn your head with a girlish grin, tucking your lower lip between your teeth.

you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t daydream, but how could you not? yeats’s poem filters through your mind like the moon filtering through your curtains: how many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you and loved the sorrows of your changing face.

with a muffled squeal, you allow yourself a moment to thrash in delight—like a schoolgirl with a crush and a note checked yes i like you tucked beneath her pillow. the idea that someone somewhere notices you, of all people, is simply too much to bear. you feel like your heart will explode and sunbeams will burst from beneath your skin. you feel warm and happy and drunk on possibility.

you settle, then, and sigh, smoothing your hands over the rumpled comforter. you’re a professional, though. a paralegal, for god’s sake. you’ll go back to the café. maybe not tomorrow, but you’ll go back. just maybe—maybe, maybe, maybe—you’ll run into your artist again.

you return to the coffee shop in two days, lugging your over-stuffed bag with you, earbuds snug in your ears. when you cross the threshold, you can’t help the way your eyes immediately scan the customers who have parked themselves in the various sitting areas. you’re looking for your artist, obviously, but you have nothing to go on other than the note tucked away in your jewelry box at home. a few words, a carefully drawn profile—that’s not enough to determine who had created the note from a simple glance.

begrudgingly, you remind yourself once again that life isn’t a movie. there’s no tom hanks waiting for you on the other end of the note. it’s silly to dwell on it any longer, really. you’ll get too wrapped up, too attached, and that wouldn’t bode well for the upcoming holidays.

the table you usually occupy is already taken by a man in a red sweater. his head is bent over his laptop, glasses slipping down his strong nose. you try not to take it to heart; the table was never explicitly yours. with a soft grunt of effort, you drop your belongings in an orange armchair across the room before meandering to the counter. julie (at least, you think that’s her name?) smiles when you approach, and she rings up your order, asking about the weather and plans for the holidays.

once your coffee is in hand, you return to your new seat and relax in the accommodating plush armchair. maybe the man in the red sweater had done you a favor after all. you glance up to look at him. if he stays as long as you often do, his ass will ache by the time he leaves. the wood chairs offer zilch in the way of comfort.

you quickly lose yourself in work, but the idea that your artist could be in the same room as you never truly leaves your mind. you find yourself glancing about the room from time to time, studying those who come and go, wondering if perhaps they were the one who saw something worthwhile in you. no one catches you eye; everyone is too busy with their own affairs, and you don’t blame them.

by the end of the afternoon, you find your latte completely and utterly forgotten. it’s cold when you take a tentative sip, and you sigh. maybe not five dollars wasted, but five dollars you had meant for a hot drink, especially considering the cold weather. rising from your seat, you take the latte to the counter and ask the barista to pour your drink in a to-go cup with some ice. might as well make the best of it, and you don’t like things to go to waste.

when you return to your chair, you nearly drop the plastic cup.

another note.

“holy shit,” you breathe. instinctively, your palm tightens around your cup, and the plastic gives a small crack. you wince and double-check to make sure no leaks have sprung before picking up the folded piece of paper on your messenger bag.

your fingers tremble as you flip open the folded note.

the same blue ink, same hurried penmanship. no drawing this time; only words.

she sat, much as i did, working fervently. i couldn’t help but watch, and maybe that made me a creep, but i’d been called worse. she sat with an heir of regality, her chin held firm, eyes dancing about the room like she owned the place. not haughty or self-possessed. just sure of herself. what did that make me then? alone in my corner? i didn’t like to dwell too long, so i—

the words stop in time with the seize of your heart.

you can’t seem to look away, to look around the room again in search of your artist, your writer. your heart pounds in your chest, flush rising on your cheeks. eyes—you feel eyes on you whether they are present or not. you feel dizzy. never have you felt so… seen, so noticed. not even in past relationships have your boyfriends took such care to notice the minute details of your being.

the strange urge to vomit rises in your throat. you aren’t afraid; you aren’t creeped out.

you’re just… overwhelmed.

so, you tuck the note in your pocket and leave, careful to keep your gaze on the floor as you exit. just in case your writer is still there, still watching.

you’re nothing special, nothing like the paragraph they penned. they should get that through their thick skull before they find themselves disappointed.

you don’t return to the coffee shop until after the holidays.

it’s not that hard to stay away. the hustle and bustle of work combined with the hustle and bustle of family gatherings keeps you from finding the time for an afternoon of solace anywhere, let alone the café.

you must admit that you think of your author often, try as you might to forget them.

by now, you have the cadence of the yeats poem memorized and the prose of the paragraph tattooed on the front of your mind. each time you pass a couple in a warm embrace, you wonder what became of your writer. you wonder if they think of you as much as you think of them; if they ruminate over the possibility of a life that cannot be.

if this were a movie, you would run into your author by random happenstance. you’d bump into them at the market, spill your legumes on the floor, touch hands in your haste to right the mistake, and—boom—as you look up, it would all fall into place.

if this were a movie, you would see them in the library or the post office or the deli or—

—or the coffee shop.

you sigh as you enter the café, wishing for your author to be there, knowing they won’t be. it is enough that you’ve experienced two mysterious love notes; things like that don’t come in threes.

that’s only in the movies.

the café still has its holiday decorations up. twinkle lights hang draped across the ceiling, and music filters over the sparsely filled tables and chairs. in the post-holiday haze, you didn’t expect the café to be crowded. in all truth, the sight of few patrons eases your mind.

less of a chance to run into your author. less of a chance to reveal yourself as the decidedly uninteresting person you are.

you set your belongings down at a side table, and as you reach for your wallet, a presence hovers over your shoulder. frowning slightly, you straighten, prepared to ask the person to kindly give you some space. when you do turn, your heart leaps to your throat, and the wallet in your hand clatters to the table.

it’s your author. you just know it.

there’s something vaguely familiar about the man, about his strong nose and groomed facial hair and crystal eyes. he’s tall, warm looking, like a hot drink on a cold day or a crackling fire. his eyes scan your face as though he is worried, as though he’s uncertain of what he should do now that you’ve actually faced him.

you speak before your thoughts catch up with your heart. “you wrote those notes, didn’t you?”

he nods, and the movement—so gentle, so reminiscent of a small boy on the verge of a scolding—makes you love him all the more. “yeah.” he sighs, lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “yeah, sorry about that. i wanted to apologize. wasn’t sure i’d get the chance, if you’d come back again.”

you shake your head. “no, don’t apologize. please don’t apologize.”

it’s his turn to frown, and he looks up from the table. you lose your breath momentarily. god, his eyes are blue. “when you left last time i thought… well, i thought i’d scared you off.” with a rueful chuckle, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “would serve me right, too.”

“why do you say that?”

“i mean, notes on your laptop when you aren’t looking? intently watching you? kinda stalkerish, huh?”

you can’t help but smile—smile at him, at the nervous twitch of his mouth, at the way he avoids your gaze. “i guess.” on a daring move, you reach out and touch his elbow. when you touch him, he feels like home. “but i don’t want you to apologize. i like the notes. i haven’t thought about anything else since you gave me the first one.”

“really?” there’s a hopeful tone in his voice; it sets your heart on fire.

“yeah.”

“i’m writing a book—a novel, really. i saw you so often that any time i got stuck, i just wrote about you instead.”

you could kiss him then and there. instead, you tell him your name, and he grins.

“i’m gwilym.”

“tell me, gwilym.” you pull out your chair and motion to the café counter. “how would you feel if i bought you a coffee? i want to hear more about that novel.”

“i’d—i’d like that.”

he follows you to the counter, his hand brushing the small of your back.

the barista—matt, you think—looks up from the register and laughs. “holy shit, i won!” he looks over his shoulder. “hey, julie! you owe me a fifty.”

you glance at gwilym, but he’s already looking at you. you smile.

matt continues. “we had a pool to see how long it would take for you two to get together. you were always looking at each other but never at the same time. you knew that, right?” still laughing, he rings up your orders without be asked. “coffee is on us today, guys.”

as you wait for your latte to be steamed and gwilym’s chia to be poured, you tuck your lip between your teeth to stem your widening grin. gwilym is strong by your side, the perfect height for you to rest your head on his shoulder. you look up at him, at the noble planes of his face, and your chest squeezes. when he looks at you again, your chest squeezes even tighter.

maybe life is like a movie after all.

[whatsmyline-pb]

Behind the Lines

Part 3 of Summer Peaky Bingo. This one’s a multi-chapter series.

Summary: Tommy and Alfie during WWI.

Chapter 1 Prompt: Fingertips smudged in ink.

Tags: Tommy/Alfie, angst, WWI AU, trauma, longing, implied violence, implied smut

Tommy spends a lot of time contemplating the hands of men during the war. He finds they tell him all he needs to know; how long a man has fought, how often they’ve spilled blood, the last time they’ve emerged from the trenches and into the real world. Windows into the souls of soldiers, someone more poetic might put it.

He finds it a welcome distraction when the walls around him seem too near. The tapping of Freddie’s fingers against his knee, the wringing of Danny’s around the grip of a shovel. His men’s hands are hard and callused, painted with clay and mud that renders one hand indiscernible from the next.

The Calvary men always have hands reminiscent of newly fallen snow; white and pristine, untarnished by the grit of the world around them. It’s only the reins they grip that give them any mar, rubbing roughly over their palms, forming calluses they bear with infuriating, misplaced pride. Tommy hates those hands and the men they belong to, wants to pull them from their steads and bury them deep into the bloodied earth.

His own hands are caked in thick layers of mud and blood, seeping deep into his hardened pores. In the rare moments there’s water to spare, he scrubs it over himself violently, attempting to wash clean, succeeding only in drawing his own blood to mix with that already stained there. If he’s to survive this war, these stains will never fade, he is sure.

It's Alfie’s hands, of course, that Tommy first notes when he meets him. They’re pressed firmly over a dingy map of the battlefield, large and splayed wide when Tommy enters to give his first briefing. He talks of their progress, of the yards, dug in depth and length, and discretely tracks Alfie’s fingers as they translate his words into scribbles on the map.

Alfie’s hands are like his own, stained brown and red from the drudges of war; somewhat surprising for a captain. They are different, too, the tips of his fingers dyed black from the ink he writes with. Around the dugout are emptied bottles of ink and countless sheets of paper, indiscernible in the flickering light of the lantern. Tommy imagines the thoughts that fill them, written musings that perfectly echo the ramblings of the man before him.

Soon after, it’s Alfie’s hands alone that fill Tommy’s mind. Deep in the tunnels when his men have faded into restless sleep, Tommy stays awake and ponders those hands. How many throats have they clenched around, mercilessly squeezing until the pulse beneath them quivers to a still? How many heads, helmets knocked aside, have they smashed into the mud, over and over? Do they shake like his own, after a kill?

When the war is all too much and he can bear to think of it no more, Tommy’s mind wanders towards more pleasant thoughts. What would Alfie’s hands feel like, wrapped rough and secure around his cock, urging him to completion? Would they pull him in close and press his head firmly into his neck, afterward? Draw gentle circles over his back until the stagnant air of the tunnels is but a distant nightmare?

In the darkest of all these dark hours, Tommy stares down at his arms, imagining the trail Alfie’s ink-stained fingers would imprint upon them, marking them as his own.

That Alfie is a man with few boundaries does not help this fixation. He shuffles about his dingy dugout throughout each briefing, carelessly nudging Tommy aside when he’s in his way, grabbing his waist to maneuver him backward, seizing his arm in excitement when he reports promising news from the tunnels. The touches linger long afterward, and when Tommy’s digging deep into the pits of hell it’s only the light their remembrance provides that keeps him sane.

—

It’s been a particularly harrowing stint underground when things change. Tommy emerges from the tunnels bathed in blood, his knife having found the jugular of one of the Germans that’d broken through the walls, spurting endless red over him until all life had faded from his eyes.

Upon emergence, Tommy wastes no time making his way through the trenches and into the dugout, where he knows he’ll find Alfie. When he stumbles exhausted over the threshold, Alfie catches him deftly in his arms.

“Christ, Tommy,” he says, alarm blowing his eyes wide. They’d dispensed with the wartime formalities long ago, and Tommy breaths out in return, with no intent, “Fuck, Alfie.”

Tommy straightens quickly, though, ignoring the warmth rushing through him at Alfie’s steadying hands. “Broke through the line,” he says and resists sinking to the ground beneath him.

Alfie swears and runs a solemn hand over his beard, leaving a smudge of ink painted onto his cheek just above.

It must be the trauma that makes Tommy do it; the horror-struck yells of Arthur and John as the blurred forms of their enemy burst through muddied walls, that purges him of all sense.

He reaches forward with no will of his own, brushing his thumb over the smudge, and stills his hand just there, cupping Alfie’s face.

Before he can register his action, snatch his hand away in shame, Alfie covers it with his own. It’s warm and rough and steady, just as Tommy has imagined. And then Alfie’s leaning forward and his mouth is on Tommy’s, hot and demanding, the blood still dripping from Tommy’s face pooling between their lips.

And Tommy is tumbling downwards, deep into a boundless hole, but instead of clay and stagnation, it’s lined with light and air. He grips Alfie to him in a fever, drinks him in as if it’s his last, and only breaks free when the ground beneath them quakes with the thunderous explosion of mortar.

After this, when Tommy’s back in the tunnels and the world seems too far away, he looks down at his arms, lit dimly by his lantern, and it’s only that the smudged tracks of ink are real and not just some figment of his imagination, that he’s able to breathe.

[dapandapod]

Hollow part 2

After months and months here is part 2 of Hollow finally. I have decided to make a part 3 of this, since this part ran away from me a little.

You can find it here on Ao3!

Part 1         Part 3   Part 4 Ao3

~~*~~

It’s early morning. Julian can’t explain it to himself, but he wants to be there when the witcher leaves. He can’t stand the thought of the man just disappearing.

The night before was so odd, the resigned hurt written over the witcher's features as they sat across each other in the filthy tavern. Like he was holding back, like there rumbling forces above a dam moments before it breaks. And there is that feeling when he looks at him, at his white hair, scars and yellow eyes. That feeling where he feels like he is missing something important, a small scratching on the inside of his ribs insisting he keeps an eye on him.

So Julian stands by the stable waiting for the witcher. One would expect him to come from the inn, but to his surprise Geralt comes from the streets. His gait is slow, exhausted. His hair is mussed and filled with leaves and moss and when he gets closer Julian can see his knuckles are scraped raw and his eyes are red and swollen. Haunted.

Geralt's eyes do not leave the cobblestones beneath his feet until he is just a few steps from Julian. There he stops mid motion, eyes latching on to Julian and he looks so… sad. Deflated, as if the air in his lungs left and refused to return. His nostril flares and Julian can see it happening, how a lid is put on whatever is simmering in there.

“Jask-... Julian.” Geralt greets. For some reason, the name sounds flat on his lips. Wrong.

“Good morning master witcher.” Julian responds with an incline of his head. “I wanted to see you off. I have always found goodbyes hard.”

The witcher gives a weak smile not reaching his eyes.

“They are.” He says and ducks into the stables. Julian follows close behind him and the smell of straw, fur and that distinct scent of horse hits him. It is comforting, but also just a little confusing. Julian rarely spends time around horses.

Together they take care of the witchers mare. Julian likes her eyes and he smiles when he buffs his arm.

“Sorry, I got no treats, honey.” He is not sure why, but it hits him hard, how could he forget to bring a treat for her? She seems to be such a sweet thing.

“Did you get a contract last night?” he asks the witcher, who just grunts. It seems to be his prefered way of communicating, spicing it up from time to time with a little “fuck”. During their two weeks together Julian almost has it figured out, and he interprets this as a solid maybe.

Jaskier rubs absently at his side, he has a scar he almost remembers getting and the new skin is still tight and stiff and a little itchy.

They reach the outer walls surrounding the city and walk under the gate. Awkwardly they stand by the side of the busy road, trying to figure out what to say. Why is this so hard?

”Do me a favor Jask- Julian. Let a magic wielder look at you. Mage or witch or something. To make sure the spell didn't do anything else.” Geralt says quietly.

Julian had almost forgotten about the spell. Honestly he finds it hard to care about, there is so much going on in his head right now. Confusion, mostly, and for some reason a lot of sadness and a little fear.

Julian is not sure he likes the witcher leaving.

It doesn’t sit right with him, but who is he to ask him to stay? They are not friends, they don’t know each other?

“Julian?” The witcher asks, and there it is again. That off-ness when the witcher says his name. Julian looks up at him, ripped out of his reveries. Right, there was a question.

“Uhm, yeah, sure. I’ll look into it.” He says, trying to keep that thought from slipping away. It seems to fight him, wriggling out of his fleeting grasp, slippery between his mind's fingers.

They watch a carriage pass, dust rushing up in its wake, particles dancing in the early morning light. Neither of them make any indication to move.

“I guess this is goodbye.” Julian finally says.

The witchers fist tightens around the reins in his hands. He is still staring after the carriage and Julian is staring at him.

“Or maybe…” Julian thinks out loud, a nervous flutter of excitement sparking into existence in his chest. “I could join you? Travel with you for a while? See the world?”

“No.” The reply is short, definite. The fluttering crumbles, sinks, lands heavy and weighs him down.

The witcher's horse steps a little, impatient to get moving. On instinct Julian puts a hand on her neck to calm her, her fur warm beneath his fingers. He is not sure who is comforting who, but this mare has a calming impact on him. And because he is looking at her, Julian misses the pained expression of the witcher.

“You are not safe with me.” Geralt says, and really, Julian understands. He was not very comfortable during their travels, the ground was hard and cold even through a bedroll.

“Please Jas-Julian. Find a magic wielder. Be safe.”

With that, the witcher mounts his horse, gives him a brief nod, and turns their backs to him. And Julian just stands there, letting the noise of the waking city behind him wash over his curiously empty mind. He stands there as long as he can see them, and then he stands there a little while longer.

The halls of the Oxenfurt University are big and echoing. Perfect acoustics for singing, if that was something you liked, Julian mused as he walked through them. He walks through the corridors and halls on his way to the room assigned to him.

It’s the same one he always had, but it doesn’t give him the sense of comfort he expected. His sleeping pallet is soft, his writing desk neat and tidy, ready for a day's work. So why does he feel so restless?

He moves about in the room, not really doing anything. The witcher gets further and further away for every minute and Julian just can’t get it out of his mind.

A soft knock on the door pulls him back to reality. He moves to open it, and for some reason he really, really wishes for it to be him. Geralt, right? The witcher, Geralt, will be on the other side of the door, asking him to join him on the road.

It’s not the Witcher.

It is one of the professors, Julian is sure his name is O-something.

“Good morning Professor Pankratz.” O-something smiles at him. He is an elderly man with fine clothing and a few extra pounds around the middle and a moustache. “I came to wake you for the morning meal, but I see you are already up and about.”

Jaskier stands with his hand still on the handle, squeezing it a little. Of course it would not be him. There is no reason he would want Julian with him on the road.

It is with some reluctance that Julian follows O-something to the dining hall. He laughs and smiles and eats with the other professors and scholars and students. They all seem to be surprised to see him, talking about some muse Julian had found on the road.

Huh.

Is that why he feels so empty? Because his muse is gone? They all ask him of stories from the road, of his muse, and he would be glad to answer if he felt like he knew how.

The feeling of unease washes over him, and the spoonful of porridge he just placed in his mouth just refuses to go down. The others don’t notice his silence, his turmoil, and as soon as he can get that horrid piece of food down he excuses himself.

Pure muscle memory brings him back to his chambers, so deep in thought he barely registers his surroundings. When safe behind his door again Julian stops in the middle of the room and just stares into nothing.

If he did find a muse, as he dreamed of his entire life, why would he possibly let them go? Did they die? Get tired of him and left? That did happen more than once, a small lonely voice in the back of his mind reminds him. Absently he drags a hand over the side of his stomach, over the scar he almost remembers.

His eyes fall on a case next to his bed. It looks like it might contain an instrument of some kind. Did someone leave it in this room for storage?

Placing it on his bed, he drags his fingers over the fine grains of wood. It feels oddly familiar under his fingers, and something makes him open it to look inside.

The case holds a beautiful lute in perfect condition. He can tell someone cared deeply for it, there is barely a scratch on it. And under the lute Julian finds notes bound together by a string. He picks them up and flips through the pages. Precious paper and ink and so many words collected.

With a start he recognizes his own handwriting, his own way to express himself, but the words are unknown.

They are lovesongs. Poems, thoughts, feelings unadulterated and raw and overflowing. It’s spilling over, the ink rippling waves of ebb and flow, raging storms against the cliffs that seems to be Julian.

He was in love with someone.

Julian has no recollection of writing this. None at all. Was this from a drunken stupor? He did have a stormy relationship with his countess, and he did drink a lot during that time. He sits down on the bed and leans back against the wall, getting comfortable.

There are no dates. Here and there you can see the shade of the ink change. He kept notes long enough for the ink to run out at least three times. Either he was drunk for longer than he remembers, or there is something wrong here.

When next Julian looks up, his neck is aching and his back is stiff. If the new shadows in the room is anything to go by, he’s been at it far longer than he thought. And he is none the wiser.

Carefully he puts the case under the bed for safekeeping, the notes he puts on his desk. The writing is really good, and he grumbles over how he could possibly have forgotten about it as he leaves the room to reacquaintance himself with his life in Oxenfurt.

[joonsdiary]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝒕𝒂𝒆𝒉𝒚𝒖𝒏𝒈

a regency au that absolutely nobody asked for. (please pray for my countless untouched wips that will never see the light of day.) rated e for extreme fluff with a slight hint of humour, because what else is new around here. blame this kim taehyung for the existence of this drabble. 1,870 words. enjoy!

     “Another correspondence,” your sister whispered in the dead of night, candlelight gently flickering against the bronze of her skin. You laid still against the silk of your sleeping clothes, underneath the warmth of your cotton quilts, unsurprised by her quiet outburst into your shared room. Her eyes met yours and at that moment you wished nothing more than to be buried six feet well below the ground, sleeping amongst the worms and maggots and ants alike—

“Would you like me to read it for you this time?”

—and be rid of this world once and for all. What joy that would bring you. It’s quite the dramatic disposition, as your mother would often point about yourself, but an understandable one, nevertheless. Because it had the faintest of truth in it: You’d rather die than face the embarrassment of possible rejection.

The floorboards creaked as she moved to place the chamberstick on the bedside before making room for herself beside you, tucking her legs neatly beneath her. You have an inkling as to who he might be, but your heart assured you that it wasn’t the person you’ve been desperately waiting for—the one whose disapproval would possibly shred your heart pieces. In hindsight, you should have known better than to place your trust in a man. No matter how handsome they might present themselves, they’re all the same.

“Is it Sir Jeon again?”

Jeon Jungkook was an esteemed young bachelor, no less. The grandson of a wealthy colonel, who owns a large estate in the next town over. But his reputation precedes him as a ladies’ man through and through, having asked the hands of several women in marriage, only to break the arrangement before nightfall. He’s been the same tireless charade for the past summer months, and you happen to be the unfortunate target that has caught his unwarranted attention.

Yes, he might bear more money that you will be able to comprehend, but you refused to allow yourself to be the next name stricken in his long list of women.

“What if it is?” she gave you a playful grin and a soft push on the shoulder. “Will you finally say yes?”

“I’m not vapid, sister. My answer hasn’t changed in the twenty-four hours since he last sent his letter.”

“Rumour has it that he hasn’t pursued anyone for this long.”

“So that’s what this is then, a challenge to him,” you rose from your position, pulling the covers tight against your body. “Then he’ll tire of this charade before the parchment’s ink runs dry.”

“Will you not at least entertain his company?”

“Was the dance he persuasively requested from me at the ball not enough amusement for him?” you said, exasperated.

“You have to admit, he can be quite the dancer,” she marvelled, eyes mooning in obvious adoration.

“He stepped on my foot twice,” you said wryly.

“To which he apologized for, both in person and in the last three letters he sent.”

“You can read the letter if you so desire,” the softness of the bed welcomed you back into its warmth as you made space for her. “I’m tired and I wish to sleep.”

“Tired from what, playing the pianoforte all day?” she mocked, sighing when you don’t reply with your usual banter. You rolled to your side, facing away from her, unsure if she heard your quip: What else am I to do with my time? It’s not like I can take the horse and ride it to where he is.

The sound of paper rustling echoed against the silence of the room as the bed moved, and you could only picture her holding the letter against what little luminance the candle provided. She didn’t say anything for a while and you concluded that the contents remained the same as Sir Jeon’s previous ones: The tactless You are the lucky maiden bestowed the chance to meet me once more along with your beauty outshines even the moon herself. He’s not quite Shakespeare, but reading what he wrote allowed you an insight into the inner workings of his mind and how he managed to rope in so many women in such a short period of time. Flowery words carefully crafted by The Hedonist himself; only a fool would cave in to such whims and a fool you were not.

She suddenly gasped, and you turned just in time to see her hand as it slowly went and covered her lips in apparent astonishment.

“What is it? Has he asked me to wed him?” you mused, half in jest. Her eyes moved back and forth, scanning each and every letter meticulously. “Well?”

“I feel as though I’m being intrusive by reading something that’s not meant for me,” she turned to the next page and glanced it over quickly before pushing the papers into your hands.

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” you sighed and slid up the headboard. The expression she wore made you somewhat fearful—just what nonsense had Jeon Jungkook written this time around?

You prepared yourself for the worst as you took a deep breath.

           Dearest Flower—

The introduction already had you rolling your eyes to the ends of the earth. You continued, nonetheless, but not before noting the difference in handwriting.

          I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am aware that I promised to write to you immediately after our encounter, which is still engraved deeply in my mind, never to be forgotten. That evening, you held countless stars in your eyes that twinkled at every quiet giggle — I am still stunned that I was able to pull a burst of enchanting laughter from your lips, as I am told by my confidants that humour is not my forte. Were you being too generous, perhaps, inflating a weak man’s ego like you had done mine? I can only imagine that you permit no one else to see the beauty hidden beneath your smile but me, selfish as that may sound. 

“Did he really pen this, Sir Jeon?” you wondered audibly. Your sister begged for you to read the rest aloud, and you relented. “There isn’t a dreamless night that goes by where I do not see your face the moment I lay and close my eyes. You’ve bewitched me, Dearest Flower.”

You paused to glance at your sister, who merely motioned for you to continue reading the letter. She wore an almost-teasing grin as the apples of her cheek rose to meet the corner of her eyes.

“You must know that I am writing this against the unspoken will that binds me in the hands of my cousin. I know you are aware, as most people in the town are presumably, that he has been charmed by your unwavering wit, as have I. When he made it known to me — his longing for you — I knew I had to step back and hand him the reins. For how could I possibly compete with him?”

Your heart galloped against your chest at the sudden realization, and with bleary eyes, you read the next words with a different perspective than you had previously.

“Therefore I want you to know that I write this without the knowledge of your affection; only with the cautious optimism that you do not share the same feelings as he has for you. I am once again reduced to nothing else but greed with soaring hopes that you have cast away the letters he has written you. If by chance I am mistaken and have disillusioned myself with such thoughts, I shall suffer in endless affliction with the knowledge that I should have reached out sooner and without fear.”

With heat slowly rising to your cheeks, you turned the page over to the next and continued.

“If there is still but a tiny amount of chance for me, then I can only assume you’ll read this letter in its entirety. But please know that I will assume no ill will if you choose not to entertain my company. I have been fortunate enough to receive your hand in what will be your final dance that evening, so the least I could wish for is a lasting impression.”

Gone was your wistful feeling of dreaded rejection, replaced by pure, unadulterated bliss. You cleared your throat, and with bated breath, you proceeded.

“However, if your desire is the same as mine, then I would like for us to meet with no one else’s company but yours and mine. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire you, and there is not a single waking moment where I do not yearn to get another glimpse of your captivating eyes. Perhaps much longer than fate allowed us to the last time.

“I will be waiting in the garden by the old church just before the day breaks. If your heart truly doesn’t belong to Jungkook, or anybody else by then, come indulge in my endeavour. For I bear no intention other than to shamelessly claim your heart as mine for keeps.

“With love and devotion, Kim Taehyung.”

Your sister squealed in delight, much to your chagrin, possibly waking the entire household. Your horrors were confirmed when you heard the padded footsteps of your mother along the hallway, prompting you to shove the letter underneath your pillow. By the time you placed your hand in her mouth at an attempt to silence her, she’d already knocked at your door before it promptly opened.

Hair dishevelled and unkempt, she asked, clearly displeased, “What in god’s name are you both up to this late at night, disturbing everyone’s sleep?”

“We thought we—uh—saw a rat. She just got a little spooked, is all.”

Your mother narrowed her eyes at you, then your sister, who nodded belatedly in agreement.

“From countless years of witnessing your shenanigans, do you think I’m easily fooled?”

The tension in your mother’s brow eased as she chuckled, shaking her head. You released your sister from your clutches as your mother approached. She bent over to dispel the lights from the room, and you welcomed darkness as you blinked it into familiarity.

“Stop wasting candlesticks and turn in for bed now.”

You willingly followed her instructions and quickly felt underneath the pillow for the presence of two parchments. Renewed with a sense of promise tomorrow will bring, you closed your eyes as the door clicked shut.

At the faded echoes of your mother’s foot carrying her away to your room, your sister whispered, “Will you meet with him?”

For once, your heart and mind are in synchrony, humming the tune of an acquainted melody.

A short pause before a confident, “Yes,” escaped your lips.

You vowed not to be persuaded by the fragrant sentiments a gentleman presents because all too often they stay like that: Mere words, unaccompanied by actions. But from the moment he plucked you out of the sea of women that vied for his attention, you knew you’d willingly sway in any direction he guided you — as long as it’s within his arms.

If a fool was what became of you from this correspondence alone, then you’ll wilfully submit to becoming town’s jester.

[caeruleis]

@shiningstages​ asked:

☀ for one muse to surprise the other with a home-cooked meal ( for lancelot from vane~ )

Softer Prompts || Accepting (feel free to turn into threads)!

                                                          ★ ☆ ✮ ✯ ― ☽ ― ★ ☆ ✮ ✯

     He’s hunched over the cluttered desk in his room aboard the Grandcypher, elbow balanced awkwardly on a stack of books with his palm pressed against his forehead - strands of dark hair tumbling over his knuckles as his watery eyes scan the page beneath his other hand. A quill is held loosely between his fingers, and a mostly empty jar of ink is nestled between a few notebooks to his right. There’s barely enough space in front of him for the paper he’s currently reading. Not when there are stacks of loose pages and half-open notebooks and worn quills and who knows what else all shoved haphazardly onto his workspace because, at some point within the past fourteen hours he had needed them. But, by now, his attempt to keep everything organized had spiraled into utter chaos - as it always does, and now even he doesn’t know what or where everything he’s done is. And he’s stopped trying to remember or keep track of it all because, really, all that matters is seeing that what need to be done gets done. Which, really, is part of the root of the problem to begin with. Despite his determination to ensure everything is done correctly, and on time, there are often errors in his writing or he ends up submitting letters late because of his lack of organization. Not to mention his awful habit of forgetting to take care of himself, and pushing himself until he simply drops. It’s part of the reason his room always looks as if a tornado had personally torn off the door, and yanked everything from his shelves and drawers and bed. And he always claims he’ll clean it up when he has the chance, but he never does get the chance. Proof in how last week’s clothes are still strewn about the floor alongside books he had borrowed, finished, and had yet to return - along with numerous other items that would take a lifetime to list off.  

      And, speaking of not taking care of himself, he hasn’t actually moved from this spot in hours, save to pace around aimlessly in his room in an attempt to get his brain in working order again. The sun had both set and risen in the span he’s been mulling over his work for the kingdom, and his stomach, by now, had contorted into a painful mass of knots because he hasn’t eaten in more than a day. But he was so focused on what he was doing that he failed to take any notice to how it grumbled every so often as if trying to reason with him, or how his normally silky hair had become a bit oily from lack of being washed or how he was tired enough that the words on the page before him kept blurring in and out of view. His lips dry, yet still pursed as his pen scribbles along the thick parchment. His typically neat handwriting a mess of ugly lines and twisted curves that slowly begin to start looking less and less like words and more like a cry for help from his sorely abused body that he was ignoring entirely. In fact, he was ignoring basically everything around him - enough so that he didn’t even hear the door open, or the sound of Vane’s footsteps as he entered the room. He didn’t even register the other man was standing beside him until a plate was set on the paper he had been working on, and he has to blink sleepy tears from his eyes just to register the meal placed himself is actually real and not a figment of his imagination - his nose twitching slightly as the pleasant smell that wafts from it tickles his skin. 

      Only then does his hand drop from his forehead, and he releases the quill from his fingers to glance beside him and see the other. “Vane,” he coughs, surprise in his voice that’s hoarse from well, lack of sleep, water, and other basic human needs. Realizing how awful he sounds, he pats his chest in an attempt to clear up his lungs a bit before a smile manages to push onto his tired features. One that is quickly shattered by a yawn that rips from his throat as reality begins to settle back in around him. “You really didn’t have to - ” he begins before his stomach promptly cuts him with a loud rumble that, no doubt, could have been heard from the hallway outside of his room. And, now, even he can’t deny the fact that he’s utterly starving and in desperate need of meal, a bath, sleep, and some away from work. “Well, even if you didn’t need to, I’m happy you did anyway.” A somewhat sheepish smile crinkles his features as he looks away from the other, and back to the plate. Vane’s cooking is never anything short of incredible, and he can tell just how much effort had gone into making it just by looking at it. It makes him feel guilty for making Vane worry enough about him to prompt him to deliver him a freshly made meal. “You have my thanks. I’d be lost without you.” 

       Another groan tears from his stomach, and he quickly gives in, taking up the fork that had been brought alongside the food to start eating before his own body decides to embarrass him further. Savoring every bite that he shovels into mouth, no matter how quickly, before he’s finally polished off about half of the plate and has put his stomach’s graveling to rest long enough that he feels it’s safe to speak again. “This is amazing. As always, Vane, nothing can beat your cooking.” He’s sincere when he compliments the other, and proof comes in how he quickly goes back to eating - not saying another word until he’s finished it. Perhaps a bit too quickly, but he really had been starving. “I think I’m done for today, so after I finish this, would you want to go into town with me?” He should seriously sleep first, but the food has managed to revive him just enough to make him think such a thing is a good idea. But then he inhales to catch one last whiff of the meal that had been brought, and smells his own ink-stained and sweat-slicked skin, and his nose wiggles as a chuckle falls from his lips. “On second thought, how about we but that date on hold until after I take a bath?”                       

[bearfeathers]

ineffable husbands + “That was unexpected.” i love the way you write them!!

Thank you so much!! And thank you for the prompts; I'm having a lot of fun with them. :3

[PROMPT ME!] | [AO3]

As it turns out, not actually doing much to avert the apocalypse can really take it out of you.

Well, that isn't an entirely accurate statement, Crowley muses as he and Aziraphale ride the bus back to his London home. The two of them had done quite a bit;i just that the things they'd done hadn't had very much to do with the world not ending. That had mostly been Adam's doing.

But driving his flaming Bentley—may she rest in peace—to Tadfield through sheer will and then taking himself, Aziraphale and Adam out of time for a little chat had been... draining. He slouches in his seat, arms folded over his chest and legs splayed out as far as the seats' limited foot room will allow. Willing the bus to detour to London is about as much as he has left in him, he knows, and the thought of collapsing in his bed as soon as possible remains a promising reward.

The demon glances to the angel sitting beside him. Aziraphale's hands are folded in his lap, his legs crossed at the ankle and tucked beneath his seat. Presently his head is bowed and his eyes closed as though in prayer, but as the bus is jostled by a pothole, he quickly looks up, alarmed, before realizing nothing is amiss and settling back once more. His eyes remain open but stare ahead of him with that lack of focus that denotes a certain level of exhaustion.

He'd hardly had an easy time of things either. Being discorporated, projecting himself to Crowley in the pub, possessing Madame Tracey—which he had apologized profusely for—and being quite suddenly shoved into a new vessel... Not any more a walk in the park than Crowley himself has had.

But it's over. For now. At least until Heaven and Hell sort their paperwork and do the numbers and figure out just how the two of them should be made to answer for this. However, as the bus comes to a stop outside his flat, thoughts of sleep push all of that to the back of his mind to be examined later.

"Thank you for this," Aziraphale sighs as Crowley lets them in.

"Shut up," Crowley snorts.

"It needed to be said," Aziraphale argues.

"No, it needn't," Crowley declares with some annoyance, leading the angel through his living room and towards the bedroom. "Not with me."

"...not anymore, you mean," Aziraphale says, stifling a yawn.

Never.

Aziraphale never needed to thank him for anything.

He's always spun it as being to avoid trouble with management, but really, he'd never wanted Aziraphale thanking him for his own reasons. Because Crowley never did anything for the angel with the expectation of being thanked. He did it because...

"Right," Crowley agrees. He motions into the bedroom. "You take the bed."

Aziraphale stops short, standing opposite him outside the bedroom door. "And where will you be sleeping?"

"The oven," Crowley answers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The sofa, obviously."

Aziraphale frowns as he looks first to the bed and then Crowley. "I'm not taking your bed.

"Don't argue with me, angel," Crowley sighs. "Just take the sodding bed."

"I'm not arguing with you," Aziraphale says with a touch of annoyance. "I was merely going to suggest that since you seem to have purchased the largest bed known to mankind, there's no reason why you should sleep on the sofa."

Crowley knows he's staring. He knows, but it doesn't stop him from doing so. "...you want to share the bed."

The bald statement brings a hint of a flush to the angel's face. He shifts from foot to foot, tugging at his fingers in an anxious tic that Crowley is long familiar with. He'd seemed confident suggesting it just a moment ago and Crowley wonders if there was something in the way he'd just spoken that had done something to change that.

"Well... I just thought it seemed a bit ridiculous not to," Aziraphale says, his gaze cutting away from Crowley's eyes. "Of course, I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable, so please don't—"

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," Crowley says, a little too quickly. He kicks himself for that. If he sounds too eager, Aziraphale might be the one scared away. "I just thought you might like some privacy or something. Trying to be a proper host and all that."

Aziraphale's eyes return to him, looking at him in a way that leaves the demon feeling naked. As though he isn't even wearing his sunglasses and the angel is staring him straight in the eye. His body language remains anxious—shy, even—but Aziraphale's eyes are as steady as his words.

"Then come to bed with me."

If Crowley didn't know any better, he could swear his counterpart knew exactly what he was saying. But of course, he doesn't truly mean it that way. Still, this is all a bit more forward than Crowley had been expecting.

"The bed is large enough that we likely won't even come close to touching one another," Aziraphale proceeds to say, not impeded by Crowley's lack of response. "At this point we've shared so many things that a bed doesn't seem all that out of the question. And if I'm being frank, well, my dear, I would prefer to have you close by just now."

Stay with me.

Crowley can damn near hear the words.

"Yeah," he says, his mouth dry. "Alright."

Aziraphale appears to relax considerably, shoulders losing their tension and his hands coming to rest at his sides. There's a hint of a smile on his face as Crowley ushers him in and the demon can't help but feel a bit strange. This is all... just strange. It's been a strange week. This is just the odd little cherry on top, he supposes.

There isn't even so much as a warning from Aziraphale before the angel lazily waves a hand, divesting them both of their clothing and conjuring up matching sets of tartan pajamas in their place. Crowley holds his arms out and looks down to inspect himself before pinning the angel with a stare.

"Really?" he says flatly.

Aziraphale shrugs tiredly. "I was trying to do you a favor but go ahead and waste your energy changing it, if you like."

"I'm not going to, I just think you did it on purpose," Crowley clarifies, pulling back the duvet.

Although Aziraphale doesn't answer him, the smile he's struggling to hide says more than enough. They both slip beneath the duvet on opposite sides of the bed, taking a few moments to make themselves comfortable. It seems to take Aziraphale just a tad longer than Crowley but then he was never really one for sleep in the first place. Necessity, though, sometimes wins out.

"...do we say goodnight?" Aziraphale asks.

"I suppose since you've decided to bring it up we have to."

"Well I don't know; you're the one with all the sleep experience."

"Fine, fine. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

And that should be the end of it. Crowley should be sleeping in seconds flat. But instead, he's lying in bed, eyes closed, listening to the sound of the angel beside him breathing. He's not sure how many minutes pass before he hears Aziraphale's breaths grow deep and even, their slow cadence telling Crowley that the one they're coming from is deep asleep.

He can't help but look. This is something unprecedented for them and something Aziraphale had been the one to suggest, at that. It's nearly the closest they've ever been. He's never seen the angel sleep; he's seen him weary, he's seen him hurt, he's seen him any number of things, but never sleeping. Not once in these six thousand years.

It's disgustingly clichéd to say Aziraphale looks angelic, but, well... he does. It's so easy for Crowley to stare at the blonde curls against the dark of his pillowcase, catching slivers of moonlight through the blinds that make them glow. It's so easy to stare at his lashes fanned out against rounded cheeks and an expression more relaxed that Crowley can nearly ever recall. 

It's so difficult to only stare.

But that's all he's ever done. Stared and waited and hoped. Wondered. And he supposes he'll just have to wonder still.

***

When Crowley wakes, he knows immediately that he's not where he was last night. Well... Rather, he's in his bed, but it appears he's migrated in the night. He feels his heart leap into his throat when he realizes he's very neatly tucked beneath Aziraphale's chin, his arms around the angel and their legs tangled together. What's worse is the feeling of Aziraphale's arms around him, soft breaths tickling the top of his head.

He can't move.

Aziraphale is still asleep. Moving would surely wake him. Which means he's just going to have to lie here until the angel does wake. Well, there are certainly worse things in the world, he decides. He'll just stay still until Aziraphale wakes, then pretend to be fast asleep to avoid any embarrassment for either of them. Perfect plan.

Aziraphale smells different. That's one of the first things he notices. Although, it's not different so much as it is new. Maybe new isn't exactly the best word for it, but... The typically muted scent of ozone is much sharper and Crowley finds himself missing the smell of paper and ink that usually accompanies the angel, mingled with the smell of something sweet. 

He has to remind himself that this body technically is new. It's almost as though Aziraphale hasn't had time to properly settle in it yet and so it lacks some of its... familiarity. 

But that's fine. It's fine when Crowley realizes with a start that he doesn't remember the last time he'd been held like this. Even if it just happens to have occurred by mistake while they were sleeping, Aziraphale's hold on him is warm and secure, as though he's conscious of what he's doing.

"If you don't mind... could we discuss this later? I don't quite feel like waking up yet."

The sleepy mumble startles him to full wakefulness... but he doesn't pull away. Nor does Aziraphale push him. They simply continue to be, just as they are.

"That was unexpected," Crowley declares.

"When I woke, I wasn't sure what to make of it either, but it felt... fine," Aziraphale murmurs. "Do you...?"

"Yeah," Crowley agrees, swallowing thickly. "Me, too."

There's a quiet hum into his hair, chased by a soft sigh, and Crowley feels himself going boneless as fingers gently run across his scalp. And then a thought hits him.

"You've been awake this whole time, haven't you, you bastard?" Crowley grumbles into the angel's pajama top.

"Shh."

They will definitely be discussing this later and they will most definitely be discussing just how long Aziraphale planned to let him act the fool. But talk is for later. For now, this is will do just fine.

[wyrm-wolf]

Could you listen to I'm not supposed to love you anymore by Bryan White and write a sterek fic on that with a happy ending?

First of all how dare you, second of all HOW DARE YOU!! This hurt a lot! Third off all, this took me a while because my muse suddenly said ‘Let’s add a plot twist!!” Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Angst, Feral Behavior

~~

Derek has only cried a few times in his entire life. Enough that he can count it all on one had. When his family was burned alive, Boyd was killed, getting married to Stiles and then getting his heart torn apart by Stiles.

Looking down at the photos taken on their wedding day, Derek feels like he’s on the verge of crying. He tosses them back into the shoebox and shoves that under his bed. Having the box under his bed isn’t the wisest choice. It feels like every time he walks into the room the box is haunting him; reminding him of the days when he was happy when things were better, when Stiles hadn’t… A tear slips down his cheek, and Derek rubs at his so furiously that his cheek starts going raw from the harsh rubbing. Standing up he leaves the room so he doesn’t get the urge to open up the box and pull out the shirt Derek stole. 

It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

Keeping a shirt that Stiles use to wear all the time around the house, the human wore it so much his scent is practically ingrained in the piece of fabric. He should just throw it away. Maybe burn it. But the moment his fingers touch it he’s rendered useless, his wolf whines and howls for Stiles to come back. It makes him go insane with want and yearning. The feeling of being slowly buried alive. But Stiles isn’t coming back, he’s moved on with his life while Derek’s stuck in time. Like a dinosaur who walked right into a pt of tar and is slowly dying of starvation until they finally just drown in the pit. Stiles may have moved on, but Derek was stuck. He couldn’t move on. He was stuck still loving Stiles because they were-

They were-

He can’t even say the word without breaking down.

Sipping the now cold tea he left in the kitchen, Derek gets lost gazing out the window. After the divorce, Derek made himself vanish from everyone’s lives. He couldn’t go to pack meetings without thinking of Stiles, couldn’t talk to Scott or the Sheriff to help out with the most recent monster of the week without thinking of Stiles, infant he couldn’t be anywhere near or around Beacon Hills without thinking of Stiles. The pain was too much for him to handle. So he chucked his phone off a bridge, moved to some remote location in the woods and wolf his car. He just wanted to be alone after all that happened, living seemed too much for him so now he was here in his cabin. Stuck. Crystalized forever.

He’s not supposed to love Stiles anymore. 

Stiles made his peace after they divorced, after he broke Derek’s heart. No. That’s to light of a way to put it. Too gentle, makes it sound like what they had was a high school romance, but that’s not what it was at all. At least not too Derek. Stiles didn’t break his heart, he demolish-annihilated his heart. There was nothing to pick up once Stiles had slaughtered him, and he woke up to an aching gap in his chest. When Derek thought too hard about the ache he thought about the last conversation he had with stiles before vanishing.

They had been sitting in the house they had bought together, signing the divorce papers. Derek struggling to even finish writing his name as his hands trembled with hot white anger. When he finished with the last paper, Derek had thrown the pen across the room watching the thing shatter against the wall, ink splattering against the tan wall.

“Dude! We still have to sell this thing, don’t damage it.” Stiles snapped at him.

“We? There is no ‘we’ anymore Stiles. I don’t care about the damage. It’s yours. Everything’s yours. Just take it all with you, or throw it away, it’s not like it matters to you anymore.”

Sighing, Stiles reached out to place a hand on Derek’s shoulder, only for the werewolf to recoil from he touch. If Stiles had touched him he wouldn’t have fought anymore, he would have folded in half and break down right in front of the human. Stiles made him weak. He made him human. But apparently Stiles didn’t seem to care about any of that, now did he?

 “You were the only person I could trust, Stiles.” Derek growled half heartedly, the anger burned inside him but the pain wasn’t easy to ignore. The wolf inside of him felt like it was tearing his insides apart, leaving him wide open. He left after that, slamming the door hard enough he could hear the wood shake beneath his fury. 

Sighing, Derek set the tea down and looked over to the couch where it was stacked with chains to hold him.

It was the full moon tonight and Derek didn’t know if he could hold the wolf back anymore. Last full moon he almost lost himself too the animal, but now as the moon begins to rise he thinks, ‘Would it really be so bad?’

He’d be ok with loosing himself. Stiles would have been dissappointed in him for giving up, but Stiles isn’t here anymore. Stiles doesn’t care anymore. This time when the moon rises, Derek lets the animal loose. He goes feral, claws and teeth shredding his last bit of humanity as he cries to the moon. Being a wolf is freeing; the ache is still there but he doesn’t think about it as much, can’t think of it was much when all the wolf want’s to do is run and hunt. So he let’s himself get lost, he forgets his life as a human, he forgets his name.

But most importantly he forgets Stiles.

~~

3 Weeks Later

The Wolf smells something strange in his territory. It growls and snaps at the air when it’s nose picks up the scent too close to his den. The wolf does not remember much. It thinks it had a name, or perhaps lived somewhere else. But the wolf knows that if he tries to remember that bad-pain-ache-hurt-no comes back and the wolf does not enjoy the unfamiliar ache in its chest. It growls and tracks the scent hoping to scare off whatever is rummaging in his den. When the wolf gets a few feet from its den it growls sharper when it smells another wolf, ‘bad smell’ the wolf thinks to itself. Not good.

The rummaging stops and then a two legged creature comes running out of the wolfs den. He has seen these weird things before, the two legs are tall but easy to scare once they see him, so he snarls and snaps. But the two leg does not run. Instead it shouts and makes strange noises the wolf does not understand. A noise catches his attention and he snaps his head to the side to bare teeth at the other wolf, strange-wolf-who-walks-on-two-legs seems confused by his warming and tries to flash red eyes. They seem familiar to the wolf, but the strange-Alpha-two-leg doesn’t deter his hackles from rising, he has no pack-at least not one he remembers.

Loud-two-leg takes a step closer which get Alpha-two-leg to make a noise that sounds like a warning. But Loud-two-leg is either braver than it looks or stupider. The wolf gets ready to pounce and maul the two leg when he catches wind of the scent.

It makes his body freeze up because he knows that scene. The wolf sleeps on a soft bedding made from that scent. That scent brings along bad-ache-pain and makes him feel weak and upset, but this same smell makes him feel things too hard to comprehend as a wolf.

“Derek? Derek are you in there? Give me a sign, please, anything?” Loud-two-leg says to him, the wolf understands simple words and the sound it makes brings back that ache.

The wolf whines when Loud-two-leg gets closer, he can’t fight back, all his instincts scream at him to lick two-legs face or bury himself against that scent. So he does neither and watches as the Loud-two-leg gets closer and closer, a strangely flawed hand reaches out and when he thinks he’s about to be attacked the wolf is frozen when the hands are gentle to touch. 

Hands.

Yes. That’s what they’re called.

Loud-two-leg continues to gently pet and caress the wolf until his hackles have lowered and he’s found himself pressing closer into that touch. When Alpha-two-leg tries to step closer he snaps and snarls, pushing Loud-two-leg behind him so he can protect that good-ache-smell. Loud-two-leg squawks and makes another sound that sounds like a wolf pup yipping. Maybe Alpha-two-leg and Loud-two-leg are packmates, but the wolf does not care, Loud-two-leg is his! 

Alpha-two-leg walks away after exchanging strange sounds with Loud-two-leg and all the wolf can think is, ‘Good riddance.’ He waits for a time until he’s sure the other wolf is gone before whipping around to push Loud-two-leg down on the ground and roll their scents together. Loud-two-leg huffs and says something but again the wolf does not understand the strange noises Loud-two-leg is making but he feels comforted by them and presses his muzzle against the two legs throat to comfort it. The two leg sighs, a hand reaching up to scratch at the wolf’s fur while continuing to make the noises. The wolf ignores the sounds enough that they become a buzzing sound to him, like when he listens to the woods at night and only hears the chirping crickets, the owls hooting and some of the nocturnal animals moving about.

“Derek.”

The wolf startles at the noise-no, the name. The wolf knows it was something other long ago, once it even understood the noises Loud-two-leg are making right now, but that one word strikes a chord. It makes him…remember…That aching feeling comes back and the wolf-Derek-wolf-Derek-it hurts! He snarls and jumps off Loud-two-leg-smell-good as he feels his skin begin to crawl, bones creaking and his teeth grinding in pain. When his body is done shifting and changing the wolf-Derek; his name is Derek and he…

Derek growls, blue eyes flashing at Stiles who is still sitting on the ground with his mouth open like a fish out of water, “What are you doing here. Haven’t you hurt me enough. I was just fine-“

“Fine? Holy shit, Derek, the little cabin you ‘lived’ in is in ruins. I had to track you by your car-which you sold three towns over, and then Scott heard something about a wolf living out here. He followed your scent to this shit hole, and when we find you your feral! Derek you didn’t even know who I was-how long-how long have you been out here likes this?”

“Does it matter?”

Stiles glares, “Of course it do-“

“Does it?” He snaps, claws extending and fangs begging to drop. Derek knows he would never harm Stiles, but he can’t stand being around him for long or else he becomes human again. “You wanted the divorce re-“

“Derek! That wasn’t me!”

What?

“What?”

Scrubbing at his face, Stiles breathes out through his nose before explaining, “A shaman kidnapped me when I was coming home work and kind of Harry Pottered us by making something that was like polyjuice, and was living as me for months. And then Peter came by after hearing we divorced to kill me, which ended up being how the pack found out it wasn’t me when he found the man changing from me to himself. He was trying to destroy our pack, and almost did until Peter came.” Stiles huffs, “I’m actually-and don’t tell him this, or I’ll ban sex forever-but I’m actually really grateful he came to kill other me when he thought we divorced.”

“How long?” He grits his teeth, “How long has he been you, did you-“

“Derek, if I really wanted a divorce would I have spent the last week spending every second of the day looking for you? Would I have dropped everything all together the moment I heard what the shaman did to you-to us? Just to come here and find you-”

Without waiting for Stiles to continue Derek leaps at the man, teeth clacking as they kiss, Stiles making a noise that goes from startled to pleasure when Derek swipes his tongue against the inside of his mouth. They lay like that for a while just kissing and touch, Derek’s primal need to rub his scent all over Stiles until those other strange scents aren’t driving him crazy, or Stiles just running his fingers through Derek’s too long beard and commenting how the werewolf could be the next Tarzan. They’re interrupted when Scott comes back and chokes as he sees Derek shoving his tongue down Stiles throat, “Seriously guys? Can we go now?”

“Fine. Fine.” Stiles mentions off handedly, before pointing a finger at Derek, “When we get back home we’re having so much sex. I mean all the sex.”

“Ok, Stiles.” Derek grins, stopping as he follows them back to the car to run back to the house and pull out the shoebox that he kept. He sighed in relief when he found all the contents still inside and intact. When Stiles raised a questioning eyebrow at him, Derek opened the box to show him the wedding ring and photos he kept.

“God, you massive sap. I love you so much.” Stiles tells him, tears in his eyes.

[darlingrutherford]

34

@liveinthehills​ thank you so much for the prompt!!

I usually write in past tense and decided to do present tense for this one. Hopefully it still reads well!

34. Diary Journal, from the One Word Writing Prompts list

Ink glides from a quill across the rough paper, a firm yet subtle dot placed to tie up the story of yet another day. Cullen turns the page, pausing as he realizes he has reached the end of yet another journal. He sits back, waiting for the ink to dry as he listens to the rain falling outside the window of his office in the dark night. He runs a finger gently over the corner of a meticulously scrawled word, closing the journal when he’s satisfied and sure the words won’t smudge. 

There’s a small chest in the corner of his office, just to the right of the bookcase, seemingly unnoticeable amongst the piles of scrolls and books that cover it. As Cullen carefully removes the pile - making note in his mind to tidy up the corner the morning - his eyes dart back and forth at the contents in the chest: more journals, all filled on every page, each one telling the story of a different period of his life. To anyone else it would have been impossible to tell which journal was from which year, each a dark brown in color with no discernable markings on the cover. To Cullen, it was plain as day: there was the one with the slightly water-bound edges from the Inquisition’s journey to Skyhold, when he had been grateful for the many pages left in the journal when they had found themselves in the middle of nowhere for so long; at the bottom, two that hadn’t been opened in nearly ten years, filled with dark memories written by a heavy, sometimes shaking hand in the hopes that the demons in his mind would stick to the pages before the lyrium lulled them away; the one in nearly pristine condition, barely touched from his years in Kirkwall when he had, for a short time, convinced himself - with the encouragement of Meredith - to forgo whatever good the writing would do for his mind in order to focus on his duties and the Order. The one in his hand, newly filled, stands out from the rest: warm reddish-brown leather in his hand, with delicately drawn flowers on the cover page beneath - the journal Sarya, his Inquisitor, his love, had given him after she had happened upon him writing one day. Although the same size as the others, the weight felt different in his hand than the rest. It was light - airy, even, not weighed down by as many dark memories as the last. He felt his heart swell every time he pulled it from the drawer in his desk. The water-born corners of the last journal detailed when everything had truly begun to change for him: when the demons had returned in full force in his mind; more shaking hands creating uneven scrawls as he forced himself to write even amongst his withdrawals, desperate to not forget; details of the demise of the Conclave, the true forming of the Inquisition; light hearted musings of a kiss - the kiss - shared under the stars at the gates of Haven in the snow. Maker, he would never forget how he could not stop smiling while writing about that night, of how he had never thought it possible that she would give her heart to him so freely - and how he had reminded himself on the same page to savor it, for she may change her mind in the morning. 

Cullen places the newly filled journal at the top of the pile, closing the lid of the chest before moving back to his desk. He silently wishes he had realized how close to the end he had been of that journal, not having been quite finished relaying his thoughts on what had transpired at the Winter Palace - he is quite sure he would need at least two more pages to fully express the feeling of waking up with her in his arms after passing out on a bed with her - fully clothed, he would underline - after an exhausting night. He opens a drawer at his desk, aware of the new journal awaiting him inside which had been gifted to him a few nights prior: another warm reddish-brown, but this time with vines and herbs etched onto the cover by a hand quite clearly not adept in the art of leather-working. Cullen carefully turns the cover for the first time, regarding the first page already adorned by a script much different than his own:

 The Journal of Cullen S. Rutherford, my Commander, my loving friend, the man who has stolen my heart. May the pages be filled with hope, sleep-filled nights, and fewer Orlesians.

Love, your Sarya.

His heart skips a beat at the words, eyes focused on the simple ‘love’ and ‘your’ that makes his head soar. A grin grows on his face to rival that of the night he wrote about their first kiss. Eager as ever, Cullen turns the page, dipping his quill in the small well of ink, forgetting the hour as he begins to write:

Maker, where to begin?

[smuttbunnie]

Softer Days

Member: V

Genre: Smut / Angst

Series: The Moon Child

Theme: Halloween

Part: 7 / {pt.1} {pt.2} {pt.3} {pt.4} {pt.5} {pt.6}

You lifted you hand, and softly tapped your knuckles against the door to the king’s study.

“You may enter,” came the curt reply from inside and you carefully pushed the door open.

From the second you walked into the room, you knew you would quickly grow to love it. It was smaller than the other rooms - most of the space occupied by bookcases. There was a large bear-skin rug on the floor and in the corner a wine-red, velvet chair was lovingly asking you sit. The air smelt musty; like old books, and weathered paper, and warm afternoons, and ink and quiet.

It was the first room that seemed like Taehyung’s presence had graced it - that his footprints were here, that he had touched the room and left a mark of some sort or another behind.

It felt lived in.

“I almost didn’t hear you knock,” Taehyung remarked, seated at a desk with various papers and parchments strewn across it. He didn’t look up from his work and you took the opportunity to examine him;

Downy red strands of his hair teased the nape of his neck and his eyebrows were slightly furrowed in concentration. You had caught yourself staring at the almost fairytale-like hair many times before, admiring the apple colored locks far more than you cared to admit. Your hands itched and your legs felt unsteady, but despite all the nerves, there was a sort of simmering in the pit of your stomach.

He finally put the quill down and turned to face you in his chair. You quickly glanced away, shame awkwardly balancing over your head like a crooked umbrella. Why was it that he always seemed to catch you staring at him? This was starting to become a rather rude habit of yours…

There was a bandage around his wrist.

“This is my personal study… It’s where I do most of my paperwork when I’m not required to do it in front of an audience,” he explained. “I realized cooping you up in one room wasn’t solving anything… It was no better than putting you in a cage,” he guiltily admitted, fidgeting with the edge of the bandage.

“D-Does it hurt?” you quietly asked. He looked at you a bit lost for a few seconds, before noticing your gaze fixated on his wrist. Giving you a slightly bemused but reassuring smile, the king opened and closed his wounded hand;

“I’m fine, see? My hand works just as it always has.”

You didn’t seem convinced, worryingly eyeing his fingers. You still couldn’t believe your master would do something like that for you and you couldn’t help but feel responsible for his injury. Taehyung laughed stiffly, rubbing the back of his neck; “I feel like we’ve gotten the order of things all mixed up…”

He stood up from his chair, offering his unharmed hand: “Pleased to make your acquaintance - I’m the crown prince, prince Taehyung the third of the Seung-Jae Kingdom.” Bewildered, you looked at his offered hand unsure of what to say. The king had this way of always catching you off guard; just when you thought you had the slightest grasp on him, he slipped through your fingers again like water – reaching and snatching desperately at him and only ever catching drops from the surface.

His proud expression faltered, a sheepish blush crawling onto his cheeks.

“C-Come on, if you don’t introduce yourself back, I look sort of stupid, don’t I?” he mused, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sudden shy face he was making. You gingerly took his offered hand with both of yours – giving it a weak shake:

“I’m-I’m Just Y/N, pleased to, uhm, pleased to meet you!”

A goofy smile stretched across his face and you felt your chest tighten at the way his expression could brighten at such a way – wondering why he would deprive others of seeing such a wonderfully shining smile. He laughed, eagerly shaking your hand and almost making you fall over with the amount of force he did so.

“Welcome to my study ‘Just Y/N’. Let’s try to get along okay?” he grinned.

You blushed, cringing at the poor choice of words you made, but nodding your head none the less. If anything, that’s what you wanted most: to get along with the prince. It wasn’t a grand wish, it was simply that you couldn’t help but be drawn to him and decided that instead of running away you would try your best to learn what type of person Kim Taehyung was.

“If you’d like to read something, there’s plenty of books to choose from,” he said gesturing towards the bookcases. An unwelcome tightness filled your throat and you had to swallow before you could speak again.

“Thank…Thank you very much for the offer,” you smiled but it felt empty and tiring to do so. There was already so much to be ashamed of, that adding yet another mishap to the plate sitting in front of Taehyung would simply be too much. Maybe it was foolish of you, but if you could – you wanted to hide this one secret of yours just a bit longer from him.

You just… didn’t want him to be disappointed in you anymore.

Taehyung lied back in his chair with a relieved sigh, his work finally at an end. Another incident at the borders required him to write up new regulations again – a tiresome prosses that had to be repeated a seemingly indefinite amount of times before Jin would be satisfied.

Glancing over his shoulder, warmth glowed in the pit of his belly; He remembered the first day he introduced you to his study. You were so nervous that you didn’t even dare take a seat – it was only after he had convinced you it would be more troublesome if you didn’t sit down, that you had gingerly chosen the corner of the lavish couch.

But you were never comfortable; always sitting on the edge, back straight, hands neatly folded on your lap. It frustrated him how conscious you were of yourself. He wondered if you had ever breathed properly, ever once just inhaled and exhaled without timing the process – had you ever once released this breath you had holding your whole life.

You sat curled up in the velvet, red chair; loose strands of snowy hair tucked behind your ears. The dark blue cotton dress spilled over your knees, your feet tucked beneath it like a makeshift blanket. Modest. Humble. Insecure. Words echoed in his head when he looked at you. Precious. He quickly dismissed the last one, caught off guard by the sudden intrusive thought.

Reaching for the spare blanket het kept under his desk, he quietly stood up – making sure not to wake you. Just as he pulled the soft covers over your small frame, your eyes flickered open. For a few seconds you blurrily looked up at him, still half asleep. When your brain finally registered where you were you hastily tried to sit upright but steady hands stopped you; Taehyung’s hushed voice in your ears:

“No, no, please stay where you are, don’t get up. I was just afraid you’d get cold,” he softly explained.

You wanted to persist, but a tiredness had tightly wrapped itself around your body and somehow you just couldn’t keep your eyes open. Snuggling back into the warmth of the blanket, the prince felt a sudden and incredible fondness for you – the unexplainable urge to protect you from any pain or misfortune that might come your way.

As he turned to leave, you grabbed onto the edge of his coat.

“Master, will you stay with me for a while?”

Your voice was so soft and wanting, that Taehyung simply didn’t posses the means to say no. Sitting down in the floor in front of you, a pleased smile graced your lips as you closed your eyes again. How beautiful you looked when you were so peaceful, he thought.

“Taehyung…”

“Yes?” he quietly answered, his hands subconsciously reaching for you, but hesitating at the last second. What if when he touched you, you shivered? You retracted? If you rejected his touch, what then? Rather, was he even allowed to touch you after everything? No… if he thought about it, even so much as coming near you was already asking for too much.

“…I have something to tell you,” you mumbled through the sleep tugging at you to fall back into its embrace.

His fingers clung to the far edge of the blanket, as if he could convey his thoughts through it to you. “You can tell me,” he reassured.

There was a long pause and he wondered if maybe you had fallen asleep. Then, softly and with words drawn out by slumber came a quiet confession he didn’t expect;

“I…I can’t read.”

Taehyung didn’t know what to say, the words just sat limply in his mouth – useless. He struggled to make sense of what you said, his brain unwilling to accept the startling fact. No…that, that doesn’t… that would mean that-… What the hell. You can’t read?

You…You can’t read.

Things clicked into place like missing puzzle pieces; why you never picked up a book, why you avoided questions that required you to read or describe something you had supposedly read, why you always stared at the papers on his desk with such a perplexed look. Why you had looked at the bookshelves so longingly…

Sighing heavily, he cursed under his breath. What kind of life did you have to grow up in? Did your parents just decide that it was an unnecessary skill? What were they teaching you instead? Or was it just that since you were a child you’ve been locked up in god-knows-where, deprived of anything and everything that could have brought you joy.

Looking up at you, you had fallen asleep again. Taehyung raised his hand, trailing his fingers over the soft fabric of the blanket.

“Y/N…. I think I’ve been quite the fool” he whispered onto your unhearing ears. Laughing somberly, he closed his eyes – replaying the events of the first day in his head. “I thought you were just another plaything some country had sent me… god I was so wrong.” He grimaced when he remembered the way he had kicked you. He wasn’t himself that day: the moment your scent had filled the corridors he hadn’t been himself.

Well that was only half true. He hadn’t been himself in years.

“You know, I considered just sending you back… forgetting about you.” Carefully moving his hand closer to yours, he marveled at how much smaller they were – how tiny and fragile you seemed to be. How those small hands hid the strength you had. “But you really do make it hard to just forget about you,” he chuckled; wondering when the last time was he had just sat on the floor like this.

“I think you’re terribly strong, you know that? Enduring all the suffering you were forced to go through… I think you’re much stronger than me…”

Slowly linking his pinky finger with yours, he softly pleaded; “But you don’t have to be strong anymore… you can rely me. It’s okay to rely on me…”

He wouldn’t touch you anymore than this. This was enough for him. Taehyung stayed like that for a long time, just thinking and waiting as the night passed by. And you dreamed. Dreamed for the first time in years without any nightmares. You dreamed of softer days, of books, and tea, and comfy dresses, and warm blankets. You dreamt of candlelight making pictures on the walls and words climbing off of pages to dance with you.  The bearskin rug stood up and started to waltz and you laughed and laughed and laughed. It was a silly dream…

And then suddenly a grinning face popped up from underneath the bear’s head. You wondered what Taehyung was doing in your dream. He was saying something to you, but you couldn’t hear him – you were too busy laughing at how ridiculous he looked with the rug draped over him.

When you woke up the next morning, you had forgotten all about the peculiar dream. But Taehyung’s head was asleep on your lap and your fingers were, tenderly intertwined, with his. Sitting there you felt the strangest thing happen. Something twisted uncomfortably in your belly. There was this feeling you just couldn’t quite place.

And your cheeks were inexplicably warm.

~To be continued

[previous chapter]

[thegildedgun]

Eponym (Prompt 8)

Fifteen years ago...

They hung in the air, not unlike dust motes stirred up from throwing pillows into just the right arrangement. They were tasteless and silent, and Uahk knew of them as he tapped a wrapped charcoal pencil across his lip, heedless of how the smeared paint stuck to its blunt end. His ‘table’ grunted and shifted his shoulders, setting off a chain reaction: legs adjusting, arms looping over legs, a tail sweeping out wide and fluttering against bare skin. The Miqo’te barely moved throughout save to steady his book when it was jostled, and again when he made an addition to his notes.

What did the academy say? 

The Hyur seemed unbothered with the particulars of their arrangement, regardless of the fact that it reduced the top of his raven head to furniture. He was content to lie as some lazy hound, twice as indulgent. Uahk was rather certain he could write across his face instead and the man wouldn’t mind. The thought brought a quirk to his lip, and he lifted his materials briefly, only to bring the dulling point of charcoal down on sun-weathered skin, just above his brow. Just a small dash, but that got the man’s attention, sending his eyelashes fluttering. Uahk stared into the storm, daring him to interrupt as he took the dash, smoothed it into an arch, and fit a sun into its bowl-like shape. 

What about the phrontistery? 

“Did you run out of paper?” the Hyur lifted a hand, but it only hung in the air -like dust motes, like tasteless words gone unspoken-  not daring to meet Uahk’s skin, or the mark on his own brow, or even the lengths of silken hair that pooled around them, shimmered when he shook his head.  “I could probably fit the entire third-stage of Ksundana Avalgnek’s thesis on synthesization on your forehead, though.” To this the aforementioned brow wrinkled, brows tightening as the Hyur chuckled. “Not the first or second, though?” “The first is literally three sentences and a diagram of the aetherial wheel. Hardly worth the space.” Uahk clicked his tongue, drawing more laughter out of the man.

You said the entry tests seemed simple. That’s good, right?

He finally drew a bit of protest when he thunked the book’s spine back down on the man’s head, a muffled ‘hey!’ beneath the fraying cover. His arm had dropped though, back to lace over his chest as it had been. Content as a lazy hound, twice as indulgent; he was uncaring of the mess of parchment, cushions, and hairpins he lay in. “I gave you the Lady’s mark,” Uahk mused, finishing out the formula he’d been working on before setting the whole thing aside. His pile of study materials seemed to grow every time the man visited, but then, that was their arrangement. His corner of the sleeping quarters -though rarely used- never boasted a chest of silks or jewelry box. There were no gifts that glittered in the light. Only books, writing utensils, innumerable bottles of ink and pens.  “The Lady? You mean Azeyma.” Uahk didn’t answer, just curled inward, pressing his lips to the charcoal symbol. A bit of golden paint stuck from the gesture, promising to flake off later along with everything else.

...So, you want to become an alchemist, huh?

[rcotten-blog1]

nightmare :   my  muse  coming  to  your  muses  aid  when  they  awake  from  a  nightmare. ( for lil ossy ? )

                                    𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖  𝕠𝕟𝕖  𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕  𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕤 .

ⁿⁱᵍʰᵗᵐᵃʳᵉ :   ᵐʸ  ᵐᵘˢᵉ  ᶜᵒᵐⁱⁿᵍ  ᵗᵒ  ʸᵒᵘʳ  ᵐᵘˢᵉˢ  ᵃⁱᵈ  ʷʰᵉⁿ  ᵗʰᵉʸ  ᵃʷᵃᵏᵉ  ᶠʳᵒᵐ  ᵃ  ⁿⁱᵍʰᵗᵐᵃʳᵉ.

                      he had never been GREAT at sleeping. ( what was the point if he was never gone live past forty ? ) as a young man now; the burden of Glen lay fresh beneath his skin as he sat at his desk, scribbling across crumpled paper with a defined feather & ink. he enjoys making stories & creating concepts in his mind. although he had never truly been bothered if such creations would be recognised publicly - it was something to leave behind for his successor. WHO knows ? perhaps these ridiculous tales of knighthood would truly be spoken of in years to come. the thought brought a giggle from his lips. 

                      as he pulls away from his desk to stand, he notes the sound of footsteps echoing along the floorboards outside his room. ( it was not uncommon for someone else to be awake at this hour - Baskervilles were simply drawn to the dark. nocturnal, as it were. ) Levi pays it no mind to start with & hurriedly searches for extra papers to fill. by the time he has returned to his desk, the footsteps have ceased - yet their echo was uncomfortably close to his quarters.  

                     he grins, PUSHING up from his musings to approach the large oak door – keeping those out & he inside. ( he does not turn the handle at first. instead, he LISTENS. only reaching out the moment he can hear the sniffles & sobs of a little, newly-made Baskerville. ) Levi openly sighs as he pulls the door to find Oswald rubbing his big, damp eyes. his whole face was red & puffy - kinda laughable ? kinda cute ? Levi’s too busy kneeling down to decide. 

                     “ hey, now … what’s with the waterfalls, huh ? “ his elbows prop upon the support of his knees. he stares at the boy, wrinkling his nose as Oswald struggles to find his words & EXPLAIN himself. ( a nightmare had been guessed long before it was confirmed. Levi can feel the curdle of guilt swell within the pit of his stomach as he stands, leading the kid inside & away from the dark. “ i can’t really say they’ll go away, because that AIN’T true. plus, i know you’re super smart, Ossy ! so there’s no point in lying to you, but i guess you can stay here until your sister wakes up. “

                     the words are a jumble & were probably not the idealistic type of speech most guardians would offer. especially to a crying kid. ( but Levi had never been in this kind of situation before – frankly, he thought he was handling it well ! ) once the door was closed, Levi hikes Oswald up into his arms; cradling him as he moved across the room & drops him onto the double-layered bed. it’s soft. Oswald should appreciate it.                     

                    “ i never sleep anyways. you can have the whole thing to yourself, m’kay ? “ he reaches out to ruffle the kid’s hair. the tears have stopped. ( i must be doing SOMETHING right. ) “ just shout if the nightmares come back. i’ll get rid of ‘em — “ he pauses, SHOCKED as Oswald actually HUGS him. 

                    it was an affection Levi had not received in … well, ever. ( his movements are stiff as he returns the hug, cupping the boy’s shoulder. ) Levi’s eyes lid, he stares at the back of his own hand, noticing the minor patch of skin peeling away beneath the cuff of his shirt. ( he’ll need bandages for that soon. )

                     “ ... get some sleep. ‘kay ? “

[marybeatriceofmodena]

Magnum Opus

@reylomonsters My contribution for Day 1 of Reylo Monster Week! I might continue this, later on, since this was a lot of fun to write. Long story short, this is the American Horror Story: Coven & Dark Shadows mashup literally no one asked for, because I hate myself. Tell me what you think! 

Read on AO3 here. 

*

It was like the beginning of a terrible old horror film: the rain falling hard, but since there wasn’t enough of a budget for convincing enough lightening, they’d have to do without that. Rey’s umbrella was barely enough to keep her from getting wet, but it was still something. Whatever manuscripts or books she’d find in her quest were too precious for her to spoil them with rainwater.

The wind was however merciless, and Rey’s all-black raincoat, dress and boots weren’t enough to protect her against the weather while she held onto her hat. The only thing that seemed to hold on was her backpack, and she could hear Beebee-Ate meowing in distress. Thankfully for her familiar, the long-abandoned manor’s silhouette finally drew itself on the horizon, and Rey sighed in relief.

“We’re almost there, Beebee-Ate, don’t worry,” said Rey as to encourage him, although the sole response he gave her was the cat equivalent of an exasperated groan. Rey hurried, not wanting to have him wait any longer.

The old manor had been abandoned for two centuries now – ever since the Skywalker clan had faced a blight so terrible no witch or warlock dared to speak of it back in its time: nowadays, it was a forgotten legend, almost a story you’d tell children to scare them into obedience. There were whispers of forbidden blood magic, lurid details about human sacrifices, with blood too copious and scarlet in every single tale, and silhouettes of the undead creeping behind your back, sending a chill down your spine.

Rey was afraid as she pushed the door to the old Skywalker manor, but bravery, she mused, was all about doing the brave thing and hoping bravery would follow. Closing her umbrella and leaving it near the door, she quickly put her backpack on the ground, unzipping it to let Beebee-Ate spring out of it and proceed to groom himself right away. Rey, on the other hand, had no time for such trivial matters: she needed to be back by dawn, before the coven would notice her absence.

She lit up a flashlight she had brought with her and, with Beebee-Ate in toll, she made her way through the manor. The floor creaked beneath her steps, and the cobwebs and dust made the whole setting truly look like a haunted house. What Rey needed to look for was anything that appeared to hide some secrets: Luke Skywalker would have never left his findings in a place where anyone could steal them forever.

As she walked into the long-abandoned study, with quills, ink and a few sheets of paper still on the desk, the sight of the many shelves full of dusty books made Rey sigh at the sight of the work awaiting her: for all she knew, perhaps clues for her quest were lying somewhere in them. It probably meant she’d have to come many more nights in the creepy old manor: the pain was worth it, but she could only hope no one would notice her nocturnal escapades: it was the last thing she needed right now, among all her troubles.

As she walked towards the back of the study, Beebee-Ate head towards the carpet between the desk and the shelves, meowing with eagerness.

It didn’t take much for Rey to understand what her familiar was trying to tell her: kneeling, she swiftly removed the carpet from its spot on the floor, a large cloud of dust going up at the same time and making her cough. But it was worth it: a trap door was encased in the wooden floor.

It was too good of a discovery for Rey to leave it there unexplored. When she pulled it up, it seemed so much lighter than she expected it to be. Grabbing her flashlight and gathering what little courage she still had in her, she made her way down into the deeps of the manor.

The stone walls and arcs surrounding her reminded Rey of an old, abandoned church, imprisoning prayers and pleas uttered long ago, but which hadn’t reached the ears of their Maker yet as they were trapped underground. Sensing her nervousness, Beebee-Ate strutted ahead of her, as if he was ready to face whatever demon would be awaiting them at the end of the corridor.

There was, thankfully, no monster awaiting them: the corridor led to what appeared to be a crypt, with what seemed to be a large, rectangular wooden chest in the middle. Coming closer, Beebee-Ate hissed and headed back towards the end of the crypt, frightened, urging Rey to follow him. In another situation, Rey would have probably trusted her familiar’s always reliable instincts, but this time… this time was different.

A soft melody, never heard and yet so familiar, played gently in her mind. It was an old lullaby she remembered singing to herself, back in those days where she was alone, to make up for the oppressing silence: Mirrorbright, she remembered with a smile, and, as if she couldn’t control her legs anymore, she slowly made her way towards the large chest…

… which appeared to be, in fact, shaped like a coffin rather than rectangular.

In a trance, Rey didn’t hear Beebee-Ate mewling behind her, begging her to come back. Putting her flashlight on the ground, she pushed the lid open, and she gasped in surprise as she saw what – or rather who was inside.

It was a young man, but in his peaceful slumber, he almost looked like a boy.  

He was dressed all in black save for his white tie, in a similar fashion as the men from the period dramas Rose and Paige loved so much. He wouldn’t have been considered handsome by many, but there was something, something about his large nose, angular face and lips perused in a childish pout. His eyelashes were long, and for a split second, Rey wondered how his eyes looked like when they were open, how his voice sounded when he spoke…

The lullaby somehow became louder, and more seductive, and in a near trance, Rey found herself lowering her head towards the young man’s and, unable to control herself, she kissed him, oblivious to how ice cold his lips felt against hers.

The cold contact brought her back to her senses. She quickly got up, taking a few steps back, her cheeks red and her ears burning in embarrassment, trying to make sense of what had just happened despite the daze. As she looked down at the young man again, she noticed his eyes had opened, and he was staring right at her.

Fuck, Rey thought, but this wasn’t the last of her troubles that night.

His half-opened mouth as he stared at her, still aghast, let her see two white canines way too long for the average human: it didn’t take long for Rey and her quick reflexes to associate the fangs with the ice cold lips she had kissed earlier, the near trance she had been before, to remember those myths she had heard about in the coven.

Vampire, Rey whispered to herself, and she knew it was a matter of seconds before the monster would lunge towards her, draining her of her blood, and either kill her or enslave her. Neither alternative was appealing, and Rey needed to get out of the crypt – now.

Without thinking for even a second, a fireball materialized in Rey’s hand, which she threw at her opponent. The vampire deflected it just in time, letting out a muffled cry. Rey, meanwhile, had already started running out of the crypt, and back upstairs, a panicked Beebee-Ate in toll.

They rushed out of the study, heading for the entrance. Rey could only hope the vampire had been frightened enough by the fire not to not bother following his almost prey.

As she came in front of the doors in the main hall, they closed in front of her, and despite pushing them as hard as she could, her efforts were useless: she was imprisoned.

She turned around in a panic, seeing the vampire only a few feet away from her, his gaze neither threatening nor reveling in her fright. There was—curiosity. And perhaps a hint of amusement, but nothing menacing about it.

There was no time, however, for her to figure out if it was genuine or just a facade. With a feral scream as an attempt to appear a tad more intimidating, Rey threw yet another fireball at him. This time, he didn’t escape it – rather, with a wave of his hand, the ball of fire became ice, crashing on the ground into a million pieces.

So the vampire was probably a warlock before being turned. Things were just getting better and better.

“For an intruder, you certainly act like you’re the mistress of this house,” he said, his voice deep, almost warm. But Beebee-Ate’s aggressive hissing stopped Rey from being distracted.

“I’ll fight my way out if it’s necessary,” she replied, defiant.

“I have no doubt you would, but I’m not particularly keen on the idea of you burning the manor down with those fireballs of yours,” the vampire dryly said. “But I suppose I have a right to ask why a young lady such as yourself would come here alone at night.”

“None of your business,” Rey hissed.

“All right, then,” he replied, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll ask the questions. If you persist to remain silent, I will get the answers from you regardless. And while it seems like you want me to suffer your trespassing, I do wish to spare you the pain of me intruding in your memories.”

Rey crossed her arms, scowling at the vampire. “Fine. But you let me go after I answer your stupid questions, Dracula. Deal?”

“You have my word as a gentleman,” agreed the vampire, curtsying. “First, who’s Dracula?”

For a moment, Rey started at him in disbelief. How long had that guy been sleeping? Judging by his clothes, he probably last walked around in the 19th century. Perhaps he had been in that coffin even before Bram Stoker was born.

It was a miracle he wasn’t so bloodthirsty after sleeping for so long… unless he was toying with her.

No. No, don’t panic. This is not the right time to panic. You need to figure out a way to get out. Don’t do anything stupid.

“Cultural reference,” Rey finally replied, praying whatever gods out there for strength. “It’d be too long to explain.”

“Fair enough. What year are we?”

“2018… I mean, how long have you been in there if you don’t even know who Dracula is?”

The vampire didn’t reply: instead, he stared at nothing, his lower lip slightly trembling as if he was holding back tears. He gulped, clenching his fists.

“I’ve been asleep since 1821,” he muttered. “And during all this time… who knows what happened?”

So many questions pressed themselves in Rey’s mind: the matter of how his place of rest was the old Skywalker manor, and, on a broader scale, what was his life before being frozen in time? Those were all mysteries that would have to remain unsolved – that is, if she wanted to get out of the manor alive.

“What happened to the people who lived here?” he asked. “Do you know?”

Rey hesitated. “Nothing much. There have been so many stories over the years… Luke Skywalker disappeared all of a sudden. No one knows what happened to him. All I know is that something... bad happened. I don't know what it was.”

“He had a family, didn’t he?” he insisted. “A sister? His sister had a family as well.”

“Yes. I—I know Leia Organa was Supreme for a time. But—no one dares to talk about her. I know she and her husband died, and their child, too—but I don’t know how. The circumstances didn’t seem too pleasant at least.”

“You don’t know how? What do you mean, you don’t know how?” For a moment, his eyes were flaming, and his fangs became a tad too visible to Rey’s liking. He made a visible yet difficult attempt to calm down.

“And you?” he asked. “What’s your name?”

“Rey.”

“Rey. Rey who? Of what clan?”

“None of your business.”

“It becomes my business when you enter my manor like a thief,” he growled. “I suppose you came here because of Luke Skywalker’s quest, am I wrong?”

Rey didn’t reply, biting her lips and staring at the ground.

“Of course you did. You’re not the first trespasser to come here, you know. I’ve had thieves come here over the years, waking me up. I could never get a word out of them because I was too thirsty to care. That was my curse. Waking up with an insatiable bloodlust every time a trespasser came by and going immediately back to sleep after feeding. Only someone with magic could save me. And you came. But why?”

He started pacing around her, but Rey forced herself to not look at him, afraid of letting him see any weakness of hers. Beebee-Ate hissed again, but Rey shushed him softly. Now was not the time to attack - at least, not yet. “So what was Luke Skywalker’s quest all about? ‘I don’t know’ won’t do, by the way.”

“The One Ring.”

“Oh please. I have no idea what this One Ring is, and I know the correct answer. Playing smart won’t help you.”

Rey sighed in frustration. “Fine. The Philosopher’s Stone. He was trying to figure out the secrets to immortal life.”

“Ah. Finally reasonable. And why the Philosopher’s Stone? How can one be so foolish to still search for it, unless—”

Rey’s head shot up, her gaze pleading. She didn’t need to hear the word, especially not from him.

“—unless you have to prove yourself,” he continued, nonetheless. “Unless you’re clanless.”

She had heard that word so many times, sometimes mocking, sometimes pitiful, sometimes disdainful. This time, somehow, it was the worst of them all. Not because of anger, nor shame: but she felt… naked, as if she was left without any kind of protection against the rest of the world.

A slight cough brought her back to reality: looking up, the vampire was handing one of those old-fashioned handkerchiefs everyone had a long time ago. She huffed in embarrassment, shaking her head, straightening up in a poor attempt to toughen up.

“I’m not crying,” she muttered, her throat tightening anyway despite herself.

He rolled his eyes. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

Rey sighed, crossing her arms. “So what are you going to do now? Do I become lunch, or do I become a scantily-dressed bloodsucker?”

He stared at her for a moment, probably holding back a biting reply – biting as in “snarky”, of course. Or perhaps not. As Rey was getting tense again, he sighed.

“I’m not especially keen on your familiar attacking me,” he replied.

“You’re scared of Beebee-Ate?” asked Rey, mocking.

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If you think I’d ever come to hurt your familiar, you’re wrong. I know what it is to lose your own.”

“So you were a warlock before?”

“No questions,” he snapped, tense enough to have Rey not want to insist. “But I do owe you a favor. You broke the curse.”

“So you’ll let me go?”

“Better,” he replied, with what almost looked like a smile, something a bit rusty due to how seldom it was used. “I know you’ll trespass here again. And since I can’t stand trespassers, I suggest you be my guest instead.”

Rey narrowed her eyes. “I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said bluntly, taking Rey by surprise. “But your research will be a lot easier if I help you.”

“How?”

“I know which books will be useful for you. I also know where Skywalker’s writings are, and I know how to translate them. He used a mix of Ancient Greek, Hebrew and Latin that can be quite hard to decipher. Unless you know all three languages thoroughly, of course.”

His help was almost too good to be true – Rey almost wanted to ask him how “thorough” the research would be if he selected whatever information she’d come across. Translating Luke Skywalker’s journals, if they really were the way he described, would be an impossible task for her. Rey had learned Latin, like every witch or warlock, but the other languages were all mysteries for her. And of course, she couldn’t allow anyone else to know what she was up to.

The vampire really was her best chance, whether she liked it or not. And in any case, if she noticed over time he was hiding knowledge from her, she’d investigate by herself, all the while hoping he wouldn’t find out.

There was another matter, though.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “And how do you know all this?”

His features darkened. “Those are two questions I will not answer. And it’ll be my sole condition. Do we have a deal?”

Rey held back a sigh of frustration. There was something up, perhaps even more intriguing than Luke Skywalker and his mysterious quest for the Philosopher’s Stone. But all those secrets would unveil to her in due time, no matter what obstacles would come.

“Deal. But I’d like to know your name.”

He had another of his almost smiles. “Kylo Ren,” he said with a bow, and Rey had to refrain from giggling. It probably wasn’t the only old-fashioned quirk he had…

From that moment, against all logic, it seemed to Rey all of this might just work. Or perhaps it was just her curiosity boiling within, whispering to her that there was more to Kylo Ren and the manor, and that if he remained obstinate in his silence… she’d find out soon enough.