#*shuffles through notebooks and documents*

[ssreeder]

yooooo. queer-ie: i love your work and would die for it (this is the queer part) and i just know there’s gotta be scenes that have been deleted. could you possibly tell us about some of those (this is the -ie part)? no pressure tho!! i’ll be hopelessly devoted to you either way.

eyyyyyy-o.

sorry Ive sat on this ask for a while but it tuurns I doooooo have like 4k of of outtakes from RIA & ITF lol.

so here are a few, i’m not sure if this is what you wanted from this ask lol im doing my best. (also none of these are edited or proof read and im sorry about mistakes and grammar and tense and all that other jaz because these were seriously like - ‘i don’t know if im going to trash this orrrrr…..’ then it never made it in & might not even be applicable to the current story.)

im such a good author I know so many details ummmm here is an insert from some point in RIA (I think this was going to be a POV from Hakoda and his men talking and I decided it was a waste of word count. sorry hakoda)

- - -

“I say we kill him.”

“Don’t you think that is a little… <i>extreme</i> Gilak?”

“Not as extreme as the <i>son</i> of the Fire Lord living and breathing in our camp!”

Hakoda felt the specific vein in his forehead thumping against his wrinkled skin that was trying its best to keep it contained. He could feel a headache coming forward the longer they discussed what to do about the situation that Sokka brought to his attention… and so far, they had not one tangible idea.

“Gilak, I have already told you, we can not kill him.”

“I know sir, your son is buddies with him, and we can’t upset Sokka.”

Hakoda shot the larger man a stern look, and he quickly retracted his words.

“I know why we can’t kill him. I just think it would be the simplest solution in this situation.”

Bato jumped to Hakoda’s defense, like he always did.

“This is not a simple situation, so it will not have a simple solution. I think we should speak to Morrak and see what he learned about the boy before we make any decisions. If we kill the Prince of the Fire Nation while he is severely injured and being non threatening we will look like the savages the rest of the world calls us. We have to handle this delicately, like Hakoda said, Sokka trusted us enough to tell us who he is when he could have easily lied. Which means we need to respect that trust and handle it delicately.”

Hakoda cleared his throat, earning the attention from both his men.

“So it is decided. I will talk to Morrak and once I get more information, I will meet back with you both and we can discuss our options at that point.”

“Yes sir.”

“Yes Chief.”

Hakoda was happy when they left his tent, freeing up the stifled air that seemed to stop moving the moment the conversation began. Hakoda felt an intense guilt building from betraying his son’s trust and sharing his friend's identity with the other men… Haoda knew it was the wisest decision for him to make as the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe, but it wasn’t helping him be the best dad to his son… Something he was still struggling with every passing moment.

Even now… Hakoda left his son alone in the healer’s tent with the boy he just recently discovered was the Prince of the Fire Nation… A boy bred into fire and violence. Sokka seemed to trust him, which gave Hakoda a tiny bit of hope that maybe there was something good in this boy… But that tiny feeling was smothered by the rest of the overwhelming amount of mistrust and worry he had when he looked at the golden eyed boy who glared at him from the moment he opened his eyes.

Hakoda rubbed his forehead, digging his thumb into his temple in an attempt to push back the stress vein. He needed to speak to Morrak, and after that… He would make a decision on what was the best next step he could make. He needed to protect his tribe and his son, that was his main concern right now… and right now… Sokka was tied to this fire bender in a way that made Hakoda nervous.

Turning towards the entrance of his tent, Hakoda decided not to overthink this situation a minute longer and go find Morrak so they could talk…

Each time Hakoda thought about all the things he didn’t know, or wasn’t understanding, he felt the weight of his decision growing heavier and heavier. If Hakoda didn’t figure out what to do soon, he was going to be crushed and then Sokka would be on his own…

Hakoda couldn’t fail his son again, he had to make the right decision

- -

Ok so this one is right before Zuko gave himself up in RIA. I don’t remember how the final scene went down but we all know how it ended :) <3

Psst… Dad.”

Hakoda frowned in his sleep, caught in the middle of a dream and the reality that awaited him on the other side.

“Dad… Wake up.”

Hakoda opened his eyes and saw Sokka staring down at him.

“Son? What are you doing in my tent in the middle of the night? Are you ok?”

Hakoda sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to see through the darkness he was startled when a tiny flame broke through the void and gave clarity to the room.

Zuko was standing behind Sokka who was kneeling next to Hakoda’s bed, and the Water Tribe man felt a mixture of conflicted feelings. He was instantly happy that Zuko had come back for Sokka, but the dred that followed swallowed any joy he had…. Zuko couldn’t be here. If Quon found him… They would all be in trouble.

“I’m fine… Zuko came back. He… We… Ummm… We are leaving.”

Hakoda thought he would be devastated the day his son told him he was leaving again, so sure that his world would bottom out and Hakoda would feel like he was falling into despair. But when he looked at Sokka, and he thought back to the talk they had about his feelings for the fire bender, Hakoda knew that there was nothing he could say to change his son’s decision.

Just like Hakoda had allowed Katara to leave, he had to do the same with Sokka. His children didn’t belong to him anymore, they were grown and they were bonded to people who they were loyal to… And Hakoda was proud of them. It was a monumental thing to find someone you loved, and staying loyal to them was what kept that relationship strong…. Even if Hakoda didn’t love the idea of Sokka choosing a fire bending boy, he wouldn’t stop him from being loyal to his love.

“I understand, son. Allow me to put on my pants and I will help you two escape.”

Zuko spoke up, “I don’t think that will be necessary. The uhh… The helping us… Not the uhh… The pants.”

Hakoda smirked and Sokka smacked his own forehead. No wonder the boy refrained from using words.

“I would like to make sure you two make it out ok. Is that a problem?”

Zuko seemed to dislike the idea, but Sokka gave him a pleading look that had a splash of assertiveness, which seemed to be their typical dynamic. Now that Hakoda was aware of the romantic nature between the boys it was easier to disfer their interactions.

Hakoda slipped on his pants and slid on his boots, making sure he secured his hunting knife inside. He couldn’t grab any other weapons just in case they were caught, Hakoda couldn’t risk looking like he was prepared for a fight. If they were caught, they would need to make sure that whatever words made up their excuse were good enough to fool whoever found them.

As long as it wasn’t Quon, they might have a chance

- -

RIP Shen, I never realized how fucking funny you and Zuko were until you died. I think this was when they were all sharing intel idk… but Zukos an asshole and I love it. (he and Sokka were sooooo hostile during the SWT arc)

“Nothing… Just…. Fucking drop it. How about Zuko and I switch seats and I will come over and help you with the Fire Nation cruiser information. Bato and Zuko can, I don’t know… Play their tile game or whatever.”

“Fine with me. I fucking love games.” Zuko mumbled as he stood up.

Shen watched with wide eyes, not saying a word, and Hakoda could honestly say he had no words to add to the tension either.

“Good!” Sokka stood up as well and made sure to bump his friend’s shoulder as they switched seats. The fire bender glanced back and Hakoda wondered if he was going to shove Sokka in the back but he didn’t reciprocate the hostile gesture and instead he flopped down next to Bato and crossed his arms with his brow narrowed deep into the center of his face.

Shen leaned back when Sokka came to sit down next to him, and Sokka glanced over at him and scoffed.

“Don’t be dramatic. Let’s just get this thing fucking over with so we can be done here.”

“Whatever you say.” Shen replied as Sokka aggressively organized the parchment and prepared to draw out Shen’s cruiser.

Hakoda watched as Sokka’s anger melted when Shen began to explain what it was like being a soldier stationed on Fire Nation cruiser. He told them about -

- -

TA DAAAAAA idk if this is what you wanted…. but here it is. I don’t have anything from the first book, and only a bit from ITF but I do have more RIA. I rambled a lot in the second book ha but yeah idk what else to say! Thanks for the ask.

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the mini series - 12

college prof!billie x student!reader

word count: 3.8k

warnings: older!billie x younger!reader, slowslowslow burn, eventual smut, college life, hella tension, quiet/shy reader

masterlist

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

the room was half-lit when she arrived.

sunlight filtered through the narrow upper windows, casting a pale wash across the floor. chairs scraped gently as a few students shuffled in early, filling the back rows first — as always.

but liora didn't sit in her usual spot.

not second row. not center.

today, she drifted to the fourth row, two seats from the wall.

a little distance.

a little less obvious.

she opened her notebook slowly, pretending to reread something. the ink on the page looked faint. old. like it had been written in another voice entirely.

her heart had been louder last week.

now it was quieter.

or maybe just further away.

the door opened at 10:01.

billie walked in, hair half-tied, headphones still draped around her neck. she wore a slate-gray sweater and black jeans, one sleeve pushed up, the other half covering her hand. there was a new mark on her wrist — a tiny smudge of ink, like she'd forgotten to cap her pen.

she looked tired.

or focused.

liora couldn't tell.

billie set her laptop on the desk, didn't look up right away.

but when she did —

their eyes met.

just once.

just long enough for liora to look down again.

billie cleared her throat.

"alright," she said, voice clipped but even. "everyone find a partner. this week we're doing lyric essays — more prose, less performance."

a shuffle of motion.

voices rising, chairs scraping.

laughter somewhere near the windows.

liora didn't move.

she just waited, pen in hand, until someone tapped her desk and said, "you need a partner?"

she looked up.

not billie.

not anyone she really knew.

just a classmate with a soft voice and warm eyes.

she nodded once. "sure."

behind the desk, billie opened a document on the projector.

never looked back at her.

not once.

and liora spent the next forty minutes pretending her own name didn't feel foreign when billie didn't say it.

"okay," billie said, tapping the edge of her laptop. "this week's exercise is close-reading through emotional tonality. i want layered tension. not plot. not action. just mood and heat."

she clicked, and a new slide appeared on the board.

lyric essay prompt what do you want to say — without ever saying it?

the room murmured quietly.

"you'll work in pairs," billie continued. "one of you writes. the other responds. your voices should blur. twist. contradict."

liora blinked at the screen.

her partner — lena — leaned in. "do you want to be the one who starts?"

liora hesitated. "sure."

from the front of the room, billie began calling names. matching people in groups of two.

"hayley and jordan. emily and kai. miriam and chloe..."

lena glanced at her phone.

liora didn't move.

then billie said, "liora and lena."

the name hit wrong.

too sharp.

too quick.

like she was reading a roll call — not remembering a person.

liora didn't look up.

but she felt it.

the hollow shape of her name without weight.

without intention.

lena nudged her gently. "that's us."

liora nodded.

billie kept reading.

her tone never shifted.

liora scribbled something in the margin of her page:

it doesn't sound the same when you say it like that.

she didn't know if she meant her name.

or the silence.

the library was packed.

midterms. study groups. soft chaos.

liora and lena stood in the entryway for a full minute, scanning for an open table. nothing.

"wanna try somewhere else?" lena asked, already halfway back toward the door.

they ended up at a café a block off campus. loud music. low ceilings. tin chairs that scraped like nails against tile.

they picked a corner booth. lena slid in first, dropped her bag, and ordered an oat milk latte with caramel and a shot of espresso like it was muscle memory.

liora got a hot tea she wouldn't drink.

"so," lena said, unzipping her laptop. "this whole lyric essay thing. how do you wanna play it?"

liora blinked. "play it?"

"like, what angle. relationship? heartbreak? unrequited something?"

liora gave a non-committal shrug.

lena leaned back. "you're the introvert type, huh?"

"is it that obvious?"

"yeah, but in a cool way. brooding but not annoying."

liora cracked a smile. "i'll try not to be too brooding."

"you can brood a little," lena said. "just not, like, full nick cave."

liora laughed — softly, reluctantly.

their drinks came. steam rose between them.

"you've done this kind of thing before?" lena asked.

"kind of. not like this."

"i have. once. with someone i was dating at the time."

liora's hand paused on her notebook. "yeah?"

"mhm. she was a TA. scandalous, right?"

liora didn't answer.

lena grinned. "we broke up mid-project. submitted two versions of the same essay. totally different interpretations."

"ouch."

"actually kind of cathartic."

liora stared down at the blank page in front of her. wrote:

what do you leave out when you're trying to sound fine?

"you good?" lena asked.

"yeah," liora said. "just thinking."

"about the prompt?"

liora nodded.

but what she was really thinking about was the click of billie's pen at the front of the room.

the shape of her name said flat.

the way her eyes didn't lift once.

"can i ask something?" lena said.

liora blinked. "sure."

"your piece last week — the performance one. was that real?"

liora looked up.

the café around them buzzed — espresso machine, indie playlist, people laughing too loud behind her.

"yeah," she said quietly.

"cool," lena said. "you write like it is."

but liora wasn't listening anymore.

she was wondering if billie was still in her office.

or if the light in music room four had been left on.

campus was cold by five.

sky already dimming, clouds hanging low like they were waiting to fall apart.

liora didn't go back to her dorm.

she didn't text lena.

she walked.

through the side path near the gym. past the sculpture garden where cigarette butts hid in the gravel. down the long sidewalk that looped behind the music building — the one no one really used unless they knew what door they were looking for.

her feet knew.

they moved without her asking.

the hallway inside buzzed with faint overhead lights. scuffed linoleum. smell of varnish and copper.

she passed practice room one. then two.

then stopped in front of four.

the door was closed.

but light spilled out underneath — warm and gold, same as always.

her chest tightened.

for a second, she let herself think it was billie.

for a second, she hoped.

she stepped closer. angled her head toward the narrow glass window in the door.

someone was inside.

but not billie.

not anyone she recognized.

just a student. headphones on, back turned. playing something soft on a keyboard. hoodie pulled up. lost in their own world.

it should've been fine.

but something about it — the wrong silhouette, the right room — made liora's stomach twist.

she reached out.

let her fingertips press lightly to the glass.

not knocking.

just contact.

just—

proof.

then pulled back.

turned.

walked the hallway in reverse, slower now.

one hand curled in her sleeve.

the other still buzzing with the cold of that single, silent moment of touch.

the vending machines were tucked in a hallway no one really used.

liora hadn't meant to be there.

she just didn't want to be anywhere else.

her feet dragged slightly, the way they always did when she wasn't ready to go home.

she turned the corner.

and stopped.

billie stood in front of the vending machine, one hand pressed to the glass like she was trying to will the snack to drop. her other hand held a five-dollar bill, already half-wrinkled from failed attempts.

her hair was down. loose. shadowed in the fluorescent glow.

she looked up at the sound of footsteps.

they both froze.

"hey," billie said.

not warm.

not cold.

just neutral.

"hey," liora echoed.

billie turned back to the machine, fed the bill again. this time it took.

the bag of trail mix dropped with a mechanical thunk.

liora's heart stuttered.

billie crouched, grabbed the snack, stood again.

they stood there.

no conversation.

just air.

billie tucked the snack into her coat pocket.

"how's the essay coming?" she asked, without looking up.

"fine."

a pause.

"your partner—she seems nice."

"she is."

another pause.

longer this time.

billie shifted her weight.

"i should—"

"i miss talking to you."

it came out fast.

too fast.

billie stilled.

not dramatically.

just—

like a thread had been pulled.

she didn't turn.

didn't answer right away.

just stood there, the shape of her back taut under her coat.

then:

a slow nod.

small. almost imperceptible.

but real.

then she walked past.

not fast.

not far.

just enough.

liora didn't turn around until the hallway was empty again.

and even then, it felt like something had been left behind — mid-sentence.

her dorm was quiet.

roommate gone for the weekend. lights dimmed to low amber. her desk lamp flickered once before staying steady.

liora sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop balanced against her knees.

she opened the recording.

week three lecture. lyrical interpretation and tonal inflection.

the one where billie had compared ellipses to emotional silence. where she'd said:

"sometimes the most honest thing a song can do is stop talking."

liora let the video play.

billie's voice filled the room.

same voice.

same tone.

same little half-laugh at her own bad joke about enjambment and cigarettes.

but it landed different now.

sharper.

tired around the edges.

like the same track run through a different filter.

liora listened.

watched the way billie's hands moved — tracing the desk edge, tapping a pen. all the quiet choreography of someone used to being looked at, but rarely seen.

she hit pause.

opened her notebook.

wrote one line:

maybe it's not about distance. maybe it's about defense.

stared at it.

then underlined the word defense twice.

her pen hovered.

but she didn't write anything else.

didn't press play again either.

she just sat there.

surrounded by echoes.

she skipped class.

woke up, sat on the edge of her bed, stared at the time — 9:47 — and made no move to get dressed.

by 10:04, she was outside, hoodie pulled low over her eyes, headphones in, hands shoved deep in her pockets.

no music.

just white noise.

low hum. a soft crackle. the sound of nothing, engineered.

campus curved around her in slow loops. lawn to walkway to loading dock. she walked behind the science building. past the maintenance shed. across the quad where no one sat this early.

everything was gray.

air thick with morning chill.

leaves underfoot made a dull, wet crunch.

her thoughts stayed loud.

she adjusted the volume, turned the static up.

didn't help.

her feet moved on instinct — same path she took when she wanted to disappear but didn't know how.

she passed the music building.

slowed.

but didn't stop.

kept walking, headphones loud now.

still just static.

just—

nothing.

but even that nothing had shape. rhythm. pressure.

like it was saying something beneath the noise.

a pulse, repeating:

call her. call her. call her.

she pulled her hoodie tighter.

didn't call.

but she did pull out her phone.

opened the last message.

stared at the little dot of her own unread reply.

typed one word.

then deleted it.

typed three more.

deleted again.

locked the screen.

kept walking.

her fingers stayed curled in her sleeve the rest of the way home.

⸻

the room was half-full when liora walked in.

she clutched her notebook close to her chest, scanning the rows on instinct—her usual spot still empty, second from the front, one chair off-center. safe. neutral.

but someone was already there.

not in her seat, but close. leaning casually over the desk, dark curls tucked behind one ear, bold eyeliner sharp as a sentence. her lips were painted plum-dark, like she didn't care what people thought—like she already knew they'd look.

nova.

liora had seen her once or twice before. she was in the class, sat in the back usually. always with music in her ears. never talked much.

today, she looked up and smiled—like they were old friends or something close.

"hey," nova said, shifting her bag to the floor beside her. "mind if i steal this seat?"

liora blinked. "uh—sure. go ahead."

"cool." nova dropped into the chair beside hers, legs crossed, one boot bouncing lazily. "you're liora, right? the one with the violin essay."

liora's throat tightened. "i—yeah. that was me."

nova grinned. "i loved that piece. it was messy as hell, but in the right way. like, it felt real. not like you were trying to impress anyone."

"i wasn't," liora said before she could stop herself.

nova's smile widened. "yeah. i could tell."

liora glanced down at her notebook, flipping it open just to have something to do with her hands.

and that's when billie walked in.

the room quieted a little—not dramatically, just enough. her steps were unhurried, her hair tucked under a beanie this time, rust-red plaid shirt rolled to her elbows, silver rings catching the overhead light.

she looked like she always did.

except she didn't.

she scanned the room once—like she was counting bodies.

then her gaze stopped.

not long.

barely a second.

but it landed on nova.

then flicked to liora.

expression unreadable.

and moved on.

liora didn't breathe.

not fully.

billie dropped her bag beside the desk, flipped open her laptop, and tapped at the keys like they hadn't looked at each other. like nothing was different.

but liora saw it.

the way her fingers slowed for half a beat.

the way her mouth pressed into something close to tight.

"alright," billie said, voice level. "new project drop today. i'll explain it once, and only once. so if you're not caffeinated, take notes."

a few students laughed.

liora didn't.

nova leaned in slightly, shoulder brushing hers.

"she always this hot and intimidating?"

liora's pen froze on the page.

nova smiled sideways.

liora didn't answer.

from the front, billie clicked to a slide.

didn't look up again.

but she heard.

she absolutely heard.

nova didn't move back to her usual seat.

next class, she dropped into the chair beside liora without asking, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, eyes rimmed in gold shimmer.

"morning," she said, voice soft but certain.

liora gave a small nod, tried not to seem surprised. "hey."

"got you something." nova slid a wrapped muffin across the desk like it was casual.

"what—why?"

nova shrugged. "you looked tired last time. figured you probably don't eat breakfast."

"i don't," liora admitted, then caught herself. "i mean—thanks."

nova grinned. "see? i'm already helping."

liora smiled, despite herself.

and from the front of the room, billie watched.

not openly.

not pointed.

but her posture was different. shoulders stiff under that dark green sweater, jaw set in a way it hadn't been last week.

when she started the lecture, her voice was calm.

precise.

too precise.

"lyric tension," she said, writing the words across the board in quick, sharp letters. "it's not about conflict. it's about restraint. what you're not saying. what you're barely holding back."

nova leaned over and whispered, "she always teach like it's a threat?"

liora smothered a laugh.

billie kept writing.

chalk cracked faintly against the board. her hand stuttered just slightly before continuing the sentence.

nova leaned closer.

"what do you think she's not saying?"

liora glanced at her.

then quickly away.

her heart thudded once. not because of nova.

because she could feel billie's eyes before she saw them.

twenty minutes later, they were doing in-class exercises—partnered again, at nova's insistence.

liora tapped her pencil, thinking. nova watched her.

"you do that a lot," nova said.

"do what?"

"press your lips together like you're swallowing whole paragraphs."

liora smiled faintly. "maybe i am."

nova reached over, touched her arm briefly. "dangerous. someone might still hear them."

liora didn't flinch.

but her breath caught.

and from across the room—

a snap.

quiet.

but clear.

billie's pen broke in her hand.

plastic cracked under pressure.

she didn't curse.

didn't react.

just stood, walked to her bag, and pulled out another.

liora watched her from the corner of her eye.

watched the way her fingers flexed like she was shaking something off.

like she was trying not to look back.

the air outside was colder than expected.

crisp enough to flush liora's cheeks as she stepped out of the building, notebook clutched to her chest again like armor.

nova fell in beside her before she reached the steps.

"you always walk this slow after class?" nova asked, adjusting the strap of her tote bag.

"guess so."

"you do a lot of things slow?"

liora gave her a look. "what are you trying to ask?"

nova grinned. "absolutely nothing appropriate."

liora laughed, surprised by the warmth of it.

they crossed the walkway toward the quad. wind tugged lightly at the ends of liora's braid.

behind them, on the second floor, one of the classroom windows was cracked open. the blinds drawn halfway.

billie stood behind it.

she didn't move.

just watched.

watched nova walk too close.

watched the swing of her hand, how it almost touched liora's coat sleeve.

she didn't see liora glance back.

but she did see her smile.

brief. small. like a reflex.

that was enough.

billie turned.

moved back from the window like it burned.

inside, her hands went straight to her desk—papers shuffled too fast, her coffee knocked over, lid catching the corner of a half-finished note she hadn't meant to leave out.

it read:

"don't let her catch you watching. you'll never stop."

downstairs, nova said, "so, coffee?"

liora blinked. "what?"

"you drink it, right?"

"sometimes."

"how do you feel about 'sometimes' being right now?"

liora hesitated.

and then:

"okay. sure."

but her voice wavered.

just slightly.

nova didn't notice.

but if billie had still been at the window—

she would've.

liora arrived seven minutes early.

she told herself she was just being punctual.

not nervous.

not hopeful.

the door to billie's office was already cracked.

she knocked anyway, fingers curled just enough to keep them from shaking.

"yeah," came billie's voice — low, even, but clipped.

liora stepped inside.

the room was warmer than usual. smelled faintly of eucalyptus and something herbal. the windows were cracked just slightly, letting in cold air that didn't reach far enough.

billie wasn't at her desk.

she was leaning against it. arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. sleeves pushed up to her elbows. no laptop today. no distraction. just her.

her eyes flicked up when liora entered.

they didn't soften.

"you're early."

"so are you."

"hm."

liora set her bag down in the corner chair. didn't sit.

neither did billie.

"what'd you need help with?" she asked.

"i'm still outlining," liora said. "the piece is... complicated."

"how so?"

"it keeps changing."

"what's it about now?"

liora hesitated. "wanting something you can't have."

a pause.

billie nodded once. like it was a passcode.

she pushed off the desk, walked slowly to the bookshelf, ran her fingers along the spines but didn't pull any out.

liora's eyes followed her.

billie didn't look over.

"nova seems nice," she said finally.

liora blinked. "what?"

"nova. the girl with the purple boots and the silver nose ring." her tone was razor-flat. "she's been... friendly."

"she's in the class."

"mhmm."

liora crossed her arms.

"is that a problem?" she asked, quiet.

billie turned, leaned back against the bookshelf now.

her expression was unreadable.

"no. just interesting."

"why?"

"because you don't want her."

liora's breath caught.

billie tilted her head. "do you?"

"what does it matter?"

billie stepped closer. not fast. not loud.

just—

closer.

"it matters," she said, voice low now. "because you don't look at her the way you look at me."

liora swallowed.

hard.

"how do i look at you?"

billie didn't answer.

just took one more step.

now they were close.

closer than office hours allowed.

close enough that liora could smell her shampoo. hear the sound of her breathing, shallow under control.

billie's eyes didn't move.

"say it," she said.

liora's voice came soft. "you say it first."

billie reached up.

brushed a strand of hair behind liora's ear — slow, deliberate.

her fingertips lingered a beat too long.

but just as liora leaned in—

a knock.

sharp. two taps.

they both froze.

billie stepped back first.

fast.

like the floor had shifted under her.

"come in," she called, already halfway to her desk.

liora stood there, stunned, heart ricocheting.

the door opened.

a TA poked their head in. "sorry, quick question about the syllabus—"

liora didn't hear the rest.

her ears were ringing.

she grabbed her bag.

slipped out while the door was still halfway open.

never looked back.

liora didn't walk far.

just around the side of the building, down the narrow brick corridor between the library and the lecture hall. it was always cold there, shadowed from sun. the wind funneled through it like breath through teeth.

she stopped.

leaned against the wall.

tried to slow her pulse with shallow, even inhales.

it didn't work.

the sound of billie's voice still echoed—low and sharp and close enough to scrape.

"because you don't look at her the way you look at me."

liora clenched her hands in the sleeves of her coat.

tried not to remember how close they'd been.

how natural it felt, the tilt of billie's face toward hers. the scent of her skin. the weight of her words—heavy, quiet, true.

it wasn't just attraction.

it wasn't just crush.

it was—

"dangerous," liora whispered to herself.

but she didn't move.

back in the office, billie sat behind her desk again, her hands unmoving on the keyboard. the TA had already left. the door was closed. silence pressed in.

she stared at the blank document on her screen.

didn't type.

didn't breathe right.

you say it first.

liora's voice had been soft, but there was steel in it. that steel unnerved her.

not because it was too much.

because it was exactly right.

she touched the edge of the desk.

her fingers tingled where they'd brushed liora's skin—barely, gently—like a question she hadn't earned the answer to.

almost.

she didn't let herself finish the sentence.

across campus, liora sat on the edge of a stone planter, pulling leaves apart one by one. her phone buzzed once.

a text from nova.

you okay? didn't see you after.

she stared at it.

typed nothing.

deleted everything.

set the phone down beside her and leaned her head back against the wall.

in the distance, wind carried the smell of rain.

not yet.

but close.

she closed her eyes and whispered, "almost," just once.

then didn't speak again for a long time.

her dorm room was dark when she got back.

she didn't turn on the light.

just dropped her bag on the floor, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed with her back to the window.

her phone buzzed again.

nova.

hey. dinner? or should i take a hint?

liora stared at the screen.

thumb hovering.

not because she didn't know what to say—but because she did.

and none of it would be fair.

instead, she opened a new note.

typed:

"i think you'd burn me alive, and i'd still lean in."

she stared at it for a long time.

then typed another line:

"and the worst part is, i'd call that warmth."

then deleted it.

but kept the first sentence.

just one line.

unread, unsent, unsaid.

it stayed on her screen as she sat in the dark, curled up with her knees pulled close.

outside, campus was starting to sleep.

but liora wasn't.

at 10:12, she pulled on a hoodie and walked.

nowhere in particular.

just down the path toward the lecture hall, then past it, to the back steps of the english building. the lights inside were mostly off.

except one.

third floor.

billie's office.

liora stopped at the edge of the quad, half-shadowed by a leafless tree.

watched the glow through the blinds.

could see her silhouette, faint. unmoving.

maybe writing.

maybe thinking.

maybe—

liora turned before she could imagine anything else.

walked back the long way.

never looked over her shoulder.

the quad was soft with fog.

not heavy, but enough to dull the edges of trees and buildings, enough to muffle footsteps. liora stood near the bench under the old elm, sipping from a paper cup, its heat barely reaching her fingers.

she'd been standing there for ten minutes. maybe fifteen.

just... breathing.

trying to forget the weight of unsaid things.

then nova appeared.

from nowhere, like she always did. bright scarf, high ponytail, confident walk.

"hey stranger."

liora looked up.

offered a tired smile. "morning."

nova stepped closer. not too close—but close enough. hands tucked into her coat, breath visible between sentences.

"wasn't sure you were still speaking to me," she said lightly.

liora blinked. "why wouldn't i be?"

nova shrugged. "you kinda vanished after class. and you didn't text back."

liora hesitated. "yeah. sorry. i just—had stuff."

nova studied her for a moment. "can i ask you something?"

"sure."

"are you avoiding me?"

liora met her eyes.

said nothing.

nova laughed, but it was soft. a little sad.

"damn. okay. points for honesty, i guess."

liora opened her mouth to explain, or apologize, or something—

but nova held up a hand.

"no, it's fine. you don't owe me anything. but..." she tilted her head, grin tugging at the edge of her mouth again, gentler this time. "are you free later? we could grab dinner. no pressure. i promise not to flirt if it makes you nervous."

liora hesitated.

half a second too long.

and that's when she heard the footsteps behind her.

steady.

measured.

and then—

billie's voice.

low.

intentional.

sharp enough to carve:

"you should tell her the truth."

liora froze.

nova turned slightly. "excuse me?"

billie didn't stop walking.

just passed them on the path like she was on her way to class, hands in the pockets of her dark coat, hair braided back, expression unreadable.

but her jaw?

tight.

nova glanced between them, her brows rising.

"was that your professor?"

liora's heart was in her throat.

"yeah."

"wow."

nova tilted her head. "she always like that?"

liora stared down at her shoes. "no."

nova watched her another second.

then offered a small, lopsided smile. "you've got stuff, rai. i get it."

liora swallowed.

nodded once.

nova turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, "but if you ever want a break from the complicated... i make great coffee."

liora stood there a long time after she left.

and the fog didn't lift.

not even a little.

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

tags; @bxllxebxtch @st0nerlesb0 @dousleepanymore @mxmsuki @billiescation @angellvk @bilswifee

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. XV

previous chapter- fourteen

masterlist

tags: @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @moonymoo1 @purple-1995 @littleblackcatinwonderland @fall-winter-heart97 @mandeepandee1997 @pedro-pascal-love @thelastemzy @reyndaisy @saintkittykat @theadharablack @thatkindofgurl @alexandra-001 @itsaslaminak @iv7867

gosh this one took forever. I was scared I got into a rut for inspiration but I think I'm just burnt out from life, not from writing. On a positive note, since this took so long and I had so much time to think about the story, I have gained A LOT of ideas for future chaps.

In the early hours of the morning, while Franny dressed Daenys in her protective riding gear, the Princess was given time to think over the choice at hand. Bring Cregan along to Rook's Rest for him to lead the royal siblings through the keep as protection, or leave him here to sit and await her return.

They had decided to delay the flight to Duskendale and Rook's rest another day due to Morningstar sleeping heavily in her nest. Rhaenyra had allowed it, secretly relieved to have her children safe within the castle walls another night. Daenys slept a few hours in a dreamless sleep, discomforted by the thought of Cregan being in his guest chambers halls away.

Part of her was rational, weighing pros and cons of the situations.

Another part of her, nagging at the back of her mind, thought herself to be swayed by her wants. Had she grown too dependent on the Northern Lord over the past weeks? Perhaps she was. Whether it was a good or a bad thing was still to be decided.

Daenys glanced longingly at the notebooks left neatly on her desk. She had not used them since before she departed for Winterfell. Perhaps the need to write and draw out every dream she had dwindled down like a neglected hearth. Or, perhaps it was the positive outside influence that kept her from such maddening behaviors. Those notebooks consumed her day and night. There hadn't been a day where she missed an entry, whether it lasted one word or one thousand. Black tendrils of flame or a simple budding rose.

She felt an almost urging call to continue them, to build off from where she had left. It might be good for her to document such things, like the accuracies of Lucerys' and Jaehaerys' deaths.

There was no time now, anyway.

Daenys thanked Franny as the young girl left the chambers, allowing Cregan to enter now that she was decent.

At her belt, which had been black steel molded into two intertwining dragons, Daenys fiddled with the gifted knife fretfully. Cregan's entrance had not shifted her thoughts away from the dilemma at hand, though his warmth filled the room like a breath of dragonflame. He curiously scanned the room, taking in all the personality it had collected through the years. His eyes caught the brown pelts lying on her bed, turning a curious and playful look to the Princess.

Blushing, Daenys didn't meet his eye, still turning the dagger in her nimble hands. "It got cold."

He huffed a laugh, "I'm sure it did. Weeks spent in tents in the snow, and you are felled by your own familar quarters."

She quickly changed topics, feeling embarrassed, though Cregan was more prideful than judging. "This is for you." She shealthed her own dagger again, admiring the cold black handle against the white of her armor. Shuffling through a drawer, Daenys found exactly what she was searching for. Revealing her grand find like a dragon showing off its glinting hoard of treasure, she presented a dragonglass dagger to Cregan. "To replace the one you gave away." The dragonglass had originally been a nameday present from Daemon years ago, something that she appreciated greatly but never found a use for in her peaceful days on dragonstone. It would carry a greater purpose in Cregan's hands, anyway. The tip of the handle was formed like a dragon's head, as was Daenys' dagger, a silver direwolf. Switching sigils, the two were marked by each other in all ways but physical.

Cregan took it from her hands tentatively, turning and admiring it in his hold. With the faintest prick to his fingertip, an angry red dot shot up. "Damn," he whispered, unexpecting the precise sharpness of the blade. Daenys stifled a giggle, turning to grab a cloth to clot up the small wound.

"Silly Stark." She murmured between them, smiling when he lifted his other hand to tilt her chin up.

"I suppose I need my smart Velayron to make sure I don't do silly things like that, hm?" He pondered, looking between her light eyes in wonder.

She met his grey eyes with a similarly affectionate gaze. Lifting the cloth from his finger, she placed a lingering kiss on where the wound was now no more than a darkened prick. "I should be inclined to agree. I have no clue how you have lived so long without my wise council." She said seriously, then broke into laughter as he took her by the waist and slightly lifted her off the floor to move her in front of the vanity.

Thoughtlessly, Cregan began to tie her hair up into tight braids that would stay out of her face for the duration of the flight and fight that would be expected at Rook's Rest. "I can not say, either, Princess." He said lightly, a small smile brightening his stern features.

Daenys took a moment to clear her mind, a few deep breaths while she was able to sit idly in her cushioned seat. "I want you to come with me." She spoke.

Cregan met her eyes through the reflection. "You're sure?" He asked hopefully.

Daenys nodded firmly, confirming her final decision. Glancing at her own reflection a final time, she felt tension stiffen her body. Her armor was a pristine white, not yet touched by blood or scratched by weapons. Fire would not burn her armor, for it was made from Morningstar's own shedded dragonscales. She would not burn, either, though the thought of keeping her clothes untouched if she did encounter flames was comforting. Sword wouldn't easily breach the scales, nor would arrows, though she still had to be careful to protect her face and hands.

Daenys began fitting the white gloves on to her hands, grimacing at the reminder of Lucerys. Though the gloves were a quality white leather, the backs of them were protected by small groups of more dragonscales. Though, these ones belonged to Arrax. His first big shed had come when the boy and dragon were both nine namedays of age, and Luke's first thought had been to create fine gifts for his family.

Jacaerys received a white leather dagger sheathe with scales lining it. The same sheathe he always keeps at his belt opposite of his sword.

Rhaenyra received a charming satin choker with scales studding along it, though she only wears it on Luke's nameday celebrations in fear of ruining it.

Daenys received the gloves, which she wears mostly when out riding with her family. The palms were well-worn but still upkept regularly by her. Luke always seemed to gleam with pride whenever she dorned her hands with them, so she made a point to do that often even though she hated to see the gift get so worn. She supposed that was the price of love. It wouldn't be fair to not use them out of fear.

Cregan took her hand to guide her out of the chair and to her feet, which were covered by firm and quite uncomfortable boots.

"This suits you well, Princess." He murmured softly, admiring his bethrothed in the warm light shining through her windows. "Like Queen Visenya reborn."

"Visenya was a battle-worn diplomat, I'm afraid there's a lot to live up to in terms of my ancestors." She sighed, though not ill-naturedly. She saw more of herself in Queen Rhaenys, the gentle ruler who was seen as generous and kind by the people and had a love for the arts and spent more time with her dragon than even her siblings did.

He smiled knowingly, eyes slightly crinkling at the sides. "I haven't seen these before, either." He mentioned, running a finger over the protruding scales of her gloves.

"A gift, from Lucerys, a long time ago." She told him, squeezing her hand and hearing that satisfying 'crrk' of leather crushing together. A habit she often did to stimulate her mind and keep it on the texture and sound of the gloves rather than her quickly-moving thoughts.

"A fine gift."

They exited the room once deeming themselves ready, both armed and prepared to leave the castle though their stay had been so short.

She sighed, looking to the doors that now covered only empty rooms. Four, in a perfect line with plentiful space between. It was not long ago that all six children's rooms had been lived in and filled with ruckus. Daenys held her chamber rooms at the end, enjoying her space as the eldest who got to choose the rooms first. Luke had opted to stay in the chambers right next to hers, with Jace conceding to his brother's whims and taking the next in line. Little Joff, Viserys, and Aegon were now gone, leaving even more silence and stillness in the castle. She could hardly bear to look at the rooms, for they reminded her so much of what had been lost.

"I wish you could have met my youngest brothers before their departure. You would like them." Daenys smiled sadly, thinking of how Joffrey would immediately ask to see Ice up close and how Aegon and Viserys would hide behind her skirts until Cregan knelt to their level, showing them he was a friend, not foe.

"They will return soon," he comforted, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "This is but a temporary change. I'll meet them after we reclaim the Iron Throne for your mother." He promised.

Stiffly, she nodded. It was hard to believe that it was only herself and Jacaerys left. Even if it was only temporary, who knows how long this war would last? In the history books, some wars went years without any signs of peace. Would her brothers be grown before they came back? Would they even remember her? Remember Luke?

Turning away from the scene, Daenys and Cregan made their way to the dragonpit. There, Jacaerys and Baela were whispering together in hushed voices. They both donned similar armor to Daenys', though in the colors of their dragons and Houses alike. They looked a fine pair, already matching as if they'd been wed for years. Upon spotting the Princess and Lord approaching, Baela cleared her throat.

"Lord Stark, it is a pleasure to formally meet you. I'm glad to hear of your bethrothal to my cousin. I'm sure a fruitful partnership will be upon us soon." She smiled diplomatically, as if she had practiced the words in her head before saying them. Daenys stifled a laugh as her eyes met Baela's warm, dark purple eyes, the knowing look shared between them always making her cave into girlish whims.

The Lady was a stark contrast to her own bethrothed beside her, who scowled and pouted like a boy left out of a game to attend his studies. "Lord Cregan." He stiffly bowed his head in greeted and said no more.

"Lady Baela, it pleases me to meet any kin of Princess Daenys. I wish you a safe journey to you and a swift victory at Duskendale." Cregan said smoothly, dipping his head in respect to the woman.

Daenys reached Baela, pulling her in for a hug and whispering, "see you soon, sister. We will both bring back good news." Baela nodded her confident agreement, saying her 'goodbyes' to Jace before mounting her striped dragon and beginning her short flight.

Jacaerys seemed to flounder in the absence of his bethrothed, now able to speak more freely without any scolding looks from Baela (she and Daemon shared a fierce stern face that always shut Jace up swiftly, much to Daenys' amusement). "I was not expecting him to come along." He said, looking directly at Cregan but speaking past him.

"Of course he's coming, brother. I need a skilled swordsman at my side." She said lightly, approaching the perch just past him to scritch at Vermax's chin, who had climbed slightly up to meet the one who had not visited for quite some time. The yellow eyes of the dragon seemed to follow Cregan closely, a dangerous mirror of his rider.

"Am I not a skilled swordsman?" He asked, turning to face her with a hand resting on his sword's pommel.

You're a swordsman.

She refrained herself from quipping so meanly in front of Cregan, knowing Jacaerys would be embarrassing and offended rather than play along with her teasings as he usually did. "Of course you are." She soothed. "But who knows how many men will be stationed in the keep? I want to ensure there are no slip-ups or chances for a sneak attack."

Reluctantly, he backed down. With a brief touch to her arm, Jacaerys bid Daenys a safe flight. "Do not land until it is clear." He advised, earning an annoyed glare from his sister.

"I fear that I am now the more experienced fighter here, Jace." She said, raising a light brow. He rolled his dark eyes, stepping off the platform and situating himself on Vermax's dark red saddle. With a shout, the green dragon was out of sight past the mouth of the cave.

Cregan took a gloved hand in his, squeezing twice in a supporting reminder. "Best we don't let him get too far ahead. Or else the whole keep might just be burned down."

"Vermax and Jace have quite the fiery temperments." Daenys stated. "Morningstar, are you awake?" She called into the darkness.

Hearing a clicking response from the dragoness, Daenys felt her shoulders relax from the tension they had carried all night. The white dragon appeared from the depths, showing her bright violet gaze set straight on the two as she swaggered towards them. Glancing to her shoulders, Daenys gingerly reached out to glide a hand near the wound. It looked significantly better now that a balm had been applied and the wound properly cleaned. Instead of the angry red that it had been, the claw marks were now a dark pink color that mostly showed irritation rather than blood. The wounds were not as deep as she originally feared. "My brave girl. Are you ready to fly again?"

Morningstar trilled as if to wholeheartedly agree. Her wings fluttered as she met Daenys' hand with her large muzzle, a purr escaping her throat. "Let us go, then." She told Cregan, whose storm-grey eyes had never quite left her.

Together, they mounted the dragoness and left the cave with a joyful roar from Morningstar.

It was not long before they caught up with Vermax, who trilled when he saw his kin flying next to him. It had been many weeks since their last joint flight. Jace smiled warmly at his older sister, and they both almost forgot that their destination was to fight a battle in the war for their family's throne.

They crossed the sea within minutes, Daenys forcing herself to have a clear mind as they approached the stone walls. The once-green fields were now brown and charred, still filled with the hundreds of dead men who lost their lives, either fighting or to Meleys' and Morningstar's dragonfire. It was all too easy to be in the air and kill men by the multitudes, too easy to take lives. It didn't even quite feel like murder due to the disconnection provided by the catalyst that Morningstar was. That didn't make the swelling guilt disappear, however.

Morningstar swopped down from the cloudline quickly, taking the command Daenys shouted to her and not allowing the men in the fields to escape indoors. Her grip on the saddle's handlebars was tight and blistering, but she could not waver now. The men who were dragging their dead fellow soldiers had now joined them, black and unrecognizable. The unmistakable smell of burning human flesh had filled her senses, making her dizzy and unfocused once again. Cregan's deep voice filled her ears, placing a hand over hers on the handle to gather her attention. "You must stay focused, Daenys." He said as gently as he could over the raging roars and flames of the two dragons. She nodded quickly, forcing the bile down her throat. There was no room for weakness now.

It was over as quickly as it started, with Vermax and Morningstar circling the keep before landing in front of it.

Directly under the shade of the keep's entrance was Sunfyre. Worn and tired, the dragon still managed a ferocious and warning roar to scare his kin away.

It was not effective, though Daenys felt a pang of sympathy for the abandoned dragon. He was left behind while Aegon and Aemond went back to King's Landing, as if he were a mere guard dog posted to a station. Daenys dismounted, earning a concerned shout from Jacaerys atop of Vermax.

She slowly approached The Golden, allowing her hands to rest low and away from her body, the white scales glimmering in the sunlight the same way his did. He rose his neck high, though his wings were lifting up and down from the floor as if it hurt to put too much weight on them. She grimaced, knowing that was her own fault. The dragons suffered, too, in the battles they had fought, and they didn't even know why. Dragons didn't care for a throne or crown, but solely for their riders and kin.

"Daenys!" Jace shouted again, jumping from Vermax's saddle and following Cregan who had immediately trailed after Daenys. Cregan had stopped yards away, standing tensely and with calculating eyes but not trying to stop her. He had seen what she had done previously, and trusted her judgement. She would not approach a hostile dragon mindlessly.

"My Prince," he stopped Jacaerys with a firm hand to his chest, earning a furious glare from the Velayron.

She took a few steps closer, holding a hand out for Sunfyre for sniff. If she lost it, so be it. If he tried to burn her, no harm would be done. Daenys held back a flinch as he did just what she hoped, pressed his sharp snout into her palm.

A sudden vision filled her mind, painful like a sharp and drilling migraine. Aegon, unburnt or harmed, dressed in his finest drapes and wearing Aegon the Conquerer's grey crown. He held a goblet high in the air, surrounded by many peasent and knighted men and servant girls. "To my brother, who has slain the whore of Dragonstone's bastard son!"

Cheers erupted from all corners of the large and echoing hall. Goblets raised and wine and ale alike spilled all over men and tables. Aegon chugged down his bittersweet wine, presenting an empty goblet for the hall to see and a young maid to refill. "To Aemond! The true Blood of the Dragon!"

Next to 'The King' sat the very brother in question. Aemond Targaryen did not hold any glasses of wine or even a grin atop his sharp features. He simply leaned back into his chair, stiff as a flagpole and face blank and unreadable.

Daenys was drawn out as quickly as she was drawn in. What was that? A vision in broad daylight had never happened before. Could she see the past as well as the future? She could not dwell on it now, but upon her return home, such matters could be explored in the privacy and safety of her room.

Glancing up briefly, Daenys' sharp gaze caught sight of a man ducking behind the castle's wall on the tower's roof. Though they had not made their entrance discreet, Daenys had still hoped to catch a few more by surprise than she did. There was no way of knowing just how many soldiers lay in the safety of the keep.

Sunfyre almost whined at the touch, yearning for attention in the past few days. Daenys knew that Aegon rarely visited the dragonpit even when Sunfyre was readily available, too deep in his whores and cups. The poor thing was so deeply loyal, but so lonely despite his devotion. "There's a good boy, Sunfyre." She spoke softly in the same voice she used for her youngest brothers. He hung his head, allowing his exhaustion to finally show in the face of trust. Glancing back at the two men behind her, she sucked in a harsh breath to prepare herself for what was inside. "Go along, to Morningstar." She whispered to the dragon, watching him painfully carry himself towards the others. He submissively lowered his neck to Morningstar as the larger dragon sniffed cautiously at him, and after some time of reunion she allowed Sunfyre to lie at her side, curling up and finally letting himself rest. He'd been guarding Rook's Rest for days. Daenys would not consider herself too far off in assuming that he'd been given no food or water. What fool would approach a fire-breathing dragon, anyway?

Cregan smiled proudly, nodding to Daenys and striding towards her to meet her while Jace gaped at the sight and glanced between the dragons and his sister. "You made Sunfyre listen to you?" He asked, approaching them too.

"He's not an enemy." She vaguely said. "But, we could use him."

"Use Sunfyre? He would take no other rider? And...I doubt he'd fly again." Cregan said awkwardly, gesturing towards the torn wings.

"If we keep him on Dragonstone, Aegon cannot say he has three grown dragons any longer." Daenys said, lifting her chin. "The realm would not know how incompacitated he is—but they will know that Sunfyre turned sides against his own bonded rider. If that's not a sign from the 'Gods', what is?"

Jacaerys hummed thoughtfully, though he seemed to agree. "And what of Tessarion, the Blue Queen? And Jaehaera and Jaehaerys must have dragons—had dragons." He whispered after.

"The children's dragons are no older than seven, brother." Daenys said. Though, she was unclear on where Jaehaerys' dragon would be now that the boy was dead. Perhaps in the dragonpits still, forced to wait for a new Targaryen to bond with. Morghul and Glaeson, two black dragons with strong Valyrion names.

"And as for Daeron—" Daenys started, rolling her eyes at Jacaerys' sour look. "The boy is only ten years of age. What does that say about the Greens if they force him to war? Though, I would not be surprised given their desperation for dragons. I do hope the young ones do not have to grow up living in a time of war." She sighed, thinking of her youngest brothers, Jaehaera, and even Daeron, whom she had only known as the smallest of babes before he left to ward in Old Town.

Jace was stunned to silence for a few moments before laughing brightly. "When did you get so cunning?" He asked, looking to Cregan as if the man could answer his rhetorical question for her.

"It is a good plan, Princess." Cregan nodded, ignoring Jacaerys' look. "How do you plan on getting him across the sea?"

"Boat." She shrugged, "I will arrange for one to be sent from Dragonstone as soon as we reclaim the castle."

The Stark nodded his agreement with her idea, unsheathing Ice from his shoulder as Jace followed his actions, wielding Sea Tamer in his hands. "At your command, Princess." Cregan said. Jacaerys opened his mouth to make a remark at his sister's previous words about her experience, but shut it as he decided against any smart words.

"Sister," he nodded.

Daenys, only wielding her direwolf dagger in hand, slowly crept open the massive wooden doors. No one had stayed to guard the very front of the halls, knowing that a dragon could still reach its ire in the shallow depths. Instead of creeping through the halls like invaders attempting their luck at a sneak attack, the trio of three barged into the castle, rearing to fight. This was their claim, and they would not let it go again.

Jacaerys and Cregan led the way in front of Daenys with their swords in front of them, brows set and eyes sharp. A split in the hall came quickly, to the annoyance of them all. "It will take forever to flush them all out." Jacaerys commented.

"I need to find Kalla and Kallus. They will be held at knifepoint first to make us surrender." Daenys said seriously, glancing down each hall and mapping doors in her mind. One must lead to the kitchens and dining hall, and the other must lead to important chamber rooms and studies. Which would the Green men hold their hostages in?

Cregan looked down at her, seeing the wheels turning in her mind. "Which hall, Daenys?"

She stilled her heart and breath, closing her eyes to focus. Even as she focused, she could not summon the same visions as before. Trying not to let frustration well up in her, Daenys instead chose the most instinctive choice. "I should think the dining hall. Hard to be cornered with so many exits."

They toed down the hallway towards the open archway to the dining hall. It was a spacious room, good for balls or feasts or celebrations of the Lord's choosing. Instead of a grand feast being presented to them, the Velayrons and Stark were instead faced with the young Lord and Lady Saunton held by the necks. Three Green soliders held them still, long swords awkwardly at their throats and ready to move.

The young Kalla was nothing like her Lord Father, who was executed the day Daenys fought over his castle. In her early 20's, with bright red hair and deep blue eyes, the Lady clearly trembled in the hold of the older soldier's arms but held a steely and defiant look in her eyes.

Her younger brother, no older than six or seven, could not hold back his whimpers of fear. With black hair like his father, Kallus was next in line to be Lord, though that would not happen for many years. Or, if he died today. The siblings looked scruffed up and dirtied by the events that held them trapped in their own home. Hair messy and face smeared with blood from the soldier's hands and dirt from the floor, eyes red and puffy from their loss, and worried lines of stress on their foreheads. Daenys did not know if they would recover emotionally from this—even after years of peace.

"Surrender now and put down your weapons!" A scrawny young soldier yelled at them. "Or we'll kill them."

"If a single hair on their heads is out of place, we have two dragons standing outside on the ready to sear you to ash." Jacaerys bit sharply, unyielding.

"Three." Daenys added, glancing around the room between Cregan and Jacaerys. There was a single door behind the soldiers, possibly leading to the kitchens. Another much larger door stood parallel to all of them, the barricaded exit to the courtyard of Rook's Rest's castle. The sunlight poured in warmly from the windows in the room, leaving the room in a golden glow. If she moved the wooden panels holding the door, perhaps Vermax could fit through the opening and finish the job for them. Though, it would put the bystanders at too much of a risk.

"Yes, I saw that." The older soldier who held Kalla sniffed harshly. "The Witch of Dragonstone has enchanted the King's own dragon. Dragons can't help you in here." He sneered.

"And what will you do when we are all surrendered?" Cregan spoke up. "Take us out of the castle to the capitol? The dragons can wait for years. This Keep's food supply can not."

The two soldiers shared knowing glances. They were not stupid. They knew they had little options in Rook's Rest now that they were surrounded by dragons indoors and outside.

The younger man shouted something that Daenys did not quite catch in her surprise. Following his command, a few more soldiers flooded into the room from the archway that they entered from. Daenys shared a glance with Cregan, cursing herself for not deciding to clear the halls before going for Kalla and Kallus. She had figured to grab the hostages and rush outside to draw them out with promise of mercy, but now that idea was drifting further from the forefront of her mind. She shuffled closer to her bethrothed, clutching the dagger tight by her side.

Four behind, two in front. The numbers were not too far against them, she supposed, considering Cregan and Jacaerys' experience and skill most likely outdid that of these greener hedge knights. Jace may not have real battle experience like Cregan did against wildlings, but he did gain his knowledge of fighting during his time as a squire for Ser Steffon Darklyn. Daenys was quite unsure of her own capabilities in a fight against swords, seeing as she had none of her own and never cared to learn the art.

This had to be all of them. Daenys hoped that thought ran through her companion's minds, too. The rest were dead and burned out in the black fields.

"Would the dragons be so willing to burn us if we had their riders in hand?" The elder scowled again. The younger straightened up, nodding proudly like he had won.

"Want to find out?" Daenys asked, looking him straight in the eye unflinching.

This seemed to give them pause, hesitant glances between the men. One spoke up from behind, clearly itching to fight. "Just kill the little bastards and get it over with. There's no use in keeping them alive, Oskar."

This seemed to have been a recurring argument amongst the stationed soldiers. "What did Cole say, remind me of it, Bennard?" The eldest asked, exasperated at the eager soldier's impaitience.

"What does it matter what that Dornishman said? The king is dead, and we have this castle all to ourselves!"

"The King is not dead, you treasonous fool!" The younger yelled back to him, shifting and loosening his hold on Kallus.

Noting the loose grip, Daenys glanced briefly towards the boy before taking a chance to look over her shoulder. None of the soldiers had prepared for this raid, apparently. All still in regular tunics and breeches, no armor was dorned at all.

"The Usurper is not dead." Daenys said, though she was still unsure of that herself. "But he did abandon your little troupe here, did he not? To gain no glory in battle or seize any land. Old and sick dogs protecting a worn and empty home." She shared an amused glance with Jacaerys for show.

"I'd imagine no one would bother to reclaim Rook's Rest a second time, given all the trouble it took to get it in the first place." Jace added. "Criston Cole wouldn't bother giving this place a second glance."

Oskar and the younger shared a look of grievance. They shared those thoughts before, too.

"They would not know if you died for this place or simply abandoned it." She concluded, gentler this time. "We will allow you to live the rest of your traitorous lives in peace, for the return of Lord Staunton's children. Or, you can share the fate of those men outside. I'm sure you heard what their end sounded like." A grim sentiment, but necessary.

Cregan eyed her from her side, though he did not speak. Wielding Ice at waist level, towering above all the men in the room, the Northerner almost made the Southern-blooded men seem dwarved. He was not here to negotiate, but carry out his Princess and Prince's command. Daenys proudly noted the glances they had all been warily giving Cregan since he walked into the hall.

Oskar, standing straight and boring dark eyes down at Daenys, spoke up first. "It would be treason." He said darkly.

"Treason to your pretender?" She snarked. "They are much too busy holing up in their Holdfast to chase after and execute every man who deserted their cause."

"I think we should take the chance while we've got it, Oskar." The younger whispered, not very quietly. His gaze grew worried as he shifted on his feet. "I want to go home. It's been moons. Me mum must be thinking I'm dead by now."

Daenys felt pity for the group. Especially the youngest, who had his whole life left to live. The elder, who might be around Daemon's age, must have a wife and children back at his home, wherever that might be.

With a sigh, Oskar nodded. Preparing to speak a truce, but was interrupted by a frustrated yell from behind. "I'm sick of this talk! The Witch will not cast any more spells on you soft lot!" A man from behind shouted, charging immediately for Daenys. She could only turn on her heel in time to catch his arm, bringing them both down to the floor in a tumble. Though she saw Cregan and Jace swiftly move to defend her, the other men that once flanked him moved in to attack them, too.

Wearing a distasteful yellow that could only be the house colors of the Baratheons, the older man grunted as he struggled to pin Daenys to the stone floor and grab the sword that fell from his grip at the same time. With her steel dagger in hand, she writhed to get the arm out from under his heavy form.

Gasping at the wind being taken from her chest at the sudden fall and weight, it was not an easy task. "Bastard witch..." he grunted out, finally grasping his sword by the sharp sides. Uncaring that it cut through the thin skin of his fingers, he pulled it closer and sat up, finally allowing her to breathe and clutch her dagger to her bossum. Both of them heaved with effort, but the wild look in his eyes frightened her to no end. The look reminded her of Seamus, who sought revenge through the wrong person. "You and your whore mother will never lead the realm, lest it be brought to ruin." He snarled out, spit wetting his thin lips. The sounds of steel clashing rung like bells around the room, impossible to keep track of as movement and shouts sounded from all sides.

As he raised the sword over his head, the yellow-dressed soldier was bumped to the ground, groaning at the impact. On his side, the companion soldier who brought him down in the first place lie died and unmoving, like he had been thrown. Daenys did not waste time to allow him to think, twisting to her front to sit on her knees as if in prayer. With a swift movement, Daenys jabbed the dagger downwards into the side of Bennard's neck. As she tore it out just as fast, hot blood shot out immediately in response to the wound, even while the man was gasping and grabbing at his neck, covering the empty slit. Blood pooled around him as he eventually gave in to the Stranger, life leaving his fury-filled eyes.

Daenys wildly sprung to her feet, taking ragged steps back from the two corpses. She tripped backward over a third, though was caught by the waist and forearm by Cregan. Panting, she clutched at his arms with bloody hands. "Cregan?" She asked, disbelieving the situation. Yes, she had entered Rook's Rest knowing she'd most likely have to kill a man, but physically doing it was a whole different feeling. Seamus burned on top of her for what felt like days, and hundreds were felled to her Dragon's blue fire weeks later. But she had never dug her steel into a breathing man's skin, never watched the light leave his eyes of the last breath leave his lungs.

"I'm here." He said steadily, showing no signs of panic or change like she did. Behind Cregan's broad shoulders, she could see Jacaerys push the final man from his sword's shaft by kicking him off of it. Turning to face the remaining two men, who had stayed with the fallen Lord's children, Daenys saw the hopelessness in both of their eyes. She righted herself quickly, nodding her thanks to Cregan before stepping over the other bodies. In front of the four remaining people, Daenys saw a comforted knowledge in both Kallus and Kalla, knowing that they were safe now as they were released from the holds.

Oskar and the younger held their hands up in surrender. "I did not wish for that to happen, Princess." He swore solemnly. "Please, spare us still. We swear to leave Rook's Rest and return home, we will never speak of this to anyone."

Daenys glanced at Jace, who had a hardened look in his eyes. He, too, had killed his first man by his own hands. Her younger brother, who she had wished to keep his innocence for as long as possible, was a boy no longer. She swallowed harshly. "Let this be a lesson of mercy from Queen Rhaenyra." Were her final words to the two, who gratefully bowed and scurried out from the room.

Free now, the two siblings released heavy sobs from deep in their chests and hugged each other tightly. Daenys smiled faintly at the sight, relieved to see both unharmed. Kalla looked up from her kneeling position, tearfully grinning. "Thank you, Princess." She said through her sobs. Kallus shook in her hold, the built-up tension from the past days finally showing itself. He could be a boy again, not a hostage doomed for death.

Daenys approached carefully, kneeling to each of their levels. "Are you two unharmed?" She asked, glancing over them.

Kalla took a moment to hold Kallus back at an arms' length while she inspected him. With a courageous sniffle, the boy nodded and mumbled something Daenys could not hear.

"We are fine." Kalla said, weakly smiling as she stood straight and brushed off her dirty skirts. "May we...freshen ourselves up? We have not been able to since our father was taken."

"Taken?" Daenys sniffed.

Kalla nodded discreetly towards Kallus, who busied himself in looking entranced by Daenys' dragonscale armor. Daenys made an 'o' shape with her mouth, forgetting the implication that the two had not personally seen the execution of their father. "Yes. Go on, we will wait for you." Daenys said. She was glad that at least they were not forced to witness the murder, but instead, Cole allowed the young boy to keep his innocence and believe his father was simply taken away.

Perhaps the one favor he did the realm.

Turning to Jace and Cregan, after the brother and sister left to their chamber rooms, she sighed. "Are you two okay?" She asked, quieter now. The room was filled with empty silence now that everyone else had either died or left. The bodies at their feet were still and growing cold, though would soon start to stink if they did not get removed. Daenys wanted no part in that process.

"Are you?" Cregan asked instead, stepping forward to hold her hand in his. His grey eyes held a slight apprehension from the way he had been unable to fully protect her—again. Daenys could not and would not fault him, for two men had attacked him. Behind, Jace shuffled uncomfortably. He had been deathly still, too, a pale look on his face.

"I'm fine, just got winded." She said shortly, nodding affirmingly. Looking to Jace, she asked again. "Do you want to step out?"

Nodding quickly and covering his mouth, Jacaerys quietly excused himself from the room to rush out the way that they had come. Daenys knew the feeling. Even now, it was hard not to spill her guts after the heavy guilt pressed on her conscience.

"I should go check on him." She offered, looking up through her lashes to Cregan, who had been staring at her the entire time. "If you can—"

"I will take care of them." He hummed, gesturing towards the door. "Go see if your brother is well."

"Thank you." She said gratefully, squeezing his hand before making her way after her brother.

Outside, barely having made it to the grass instead of the cobble, Jacaerys was hunched over and heaving. Daenys sympathized greatly, slowly rubbing her hand up and down his back in the same way their mother had often done for them. "Let it all out, Jace." She said.

"I'm not a child." He said, defensively as he stood to full height.

"I know that." She whispered, squinting against the sunlight. "But you just killed a man—no one is prepared for that."

"Lord Stark was." He scoffed, wiping at his mouth and groaning in disgust but not shoving away her comforting hand.

"Cregan has experienced battle more than we have. He fights against the Wildlings in the North—he's no stranger to death."

He groaned again, this time not so much in disgust as it was simply petulance. Daenys bit her cheek, keeping herself from smiling at the childish behavior. "He's just perfect at everything, isn't he?"

"He's three years your elder, Jace." She reminded him. "And had to be Warden of the entire North at only eight and ten. Of course he's more experienced."

"I am a Prince." Jacaerys said, defeated.

"You are." She responded, questioning his sudden statement.

"I should be like that—not throwing up my breakfast at the first sight of blood. What kind of Prince can't defend his people?" He asked, slumping down against the wall.

She sat with him. "You are young, Jace. No one expects you to be perfect right away. We've only just now been thrust into a war when there's been none since before our grandsire's time."

"They do expect it." He mumbled, looking to the three dragons in the field. "Mother has set our expectations quite high."

"She's not so perfect." Daenys said. Once, only a few weeks ago, she would have agreed. That Rhaenyra was a being of perfect grace and poise, not to be touched by the bad of the world. Now, she wasn't so inclined. Rhaenyra was her mother, and she loved her dearly, but she was still a liar. Daenys had once dreaded to leave Dragonstone, but these days, she felt more eager to move on to her martial home with Cregan and be free of the people who allowed her to feel insane. Being able to come and go as she pleased to visit seemed like a distant dream.

🗡

Jacaerys whipped his head to her, dark brows knitted together as he huffed a short laugh. "You always say that, Dae. That mother is near perfect." His words were confused, almost disbelieving.

Daenys pursed her lips, nodding. Should she tell him the truth? If she allowed him to believe Laenor was still dead, she was no better than the three of them. But the cluelessness brought him peace. He was able to mourn their father in a healthy way over time, in every way she could not. He did not blame himself like she did. "I don't think anyone is." She said finally. Now was not the correct time, anyway, when he was so lost in his conflicted mind too.

Laenor, Rhaenyra, Ser Harwin. Those who she idolized for years. She felt a deep betrayal when the two men who raised her left—a hole not able to be filled. Rhaenyra was not perfect, though her children all thought her to be. Their eyes were bright and hoping, and of course, their mother was the guiding beacon that brought the light. Adults don't share the same sentiments as their child selves did. It was inevitable to change. Daenys was at least grateful to be able to trust her mind again. Though, she was unsure if it was due to her own independent growth in the North or because of her mother sharing the truth.

She hoped it was because of herself. Just one thing, attributed to her.

Jacaerys eyed her a moment longer before giving in and nodding. Clearly, he could tell there was more to it but would not pry. Perhaps he suspected Daenys was resentful for Rhaenyra discreetly suggesting to offer herself for the Northmen. "Well..." He started, standing and offering her a hand.

"Let's check on the children." Daenys finished, standing too with his aid.

He snorted, leading the way inside. "The girl is older than you."

She narrowed her eyes playfully, shaking her head. "I am taller."

"Does that make me your elder?"

"Never."

They shared a warm and amused smile.

In the dining hall, the bodies were gone. The board covering the courtyard exit was removed, too, and the doors were wide open. The fresh air was pleasant to feel in the stuffy room. At the table, Cregan sat in front of an unmannered sibling duo. The two were working on their simple plates of food, scarfing it all down like rabid animals. She couldn't blame them, the poor things were likely starved.

They met eyes quickly, Cregan standing to guide her to a seat at the bench next to him. Jace rolled his eyes again at the effort, grossed out by the affection. He slumped down next to Daenys, folding his hands in front of them and sipping at a wine poured in front of him. The staff were floundering about, looking in good spirits. She guessed they were used as personal servents to the soldiers—none of the hedge knights having been used to such grand luxury. Daenys briefly thanked the young man pouring her wine, but gently refused an offer for bread or stew.

"Lady Kalla. Is the Maester still around?" She asked tentatively, politely sipping at her wine instead of staring at the young lady.

She nodded, swallowing a chunk of rabbit. "Yes, your highness. He is still here, only confined to his rooms."

"Still? Has he not been let out?" Jacaerys asked.

Kalla smiled girlishly, bashful at the handsome princes' attention on her. "No, he simply always stays in there. Bad knees." She giggled softly, to ease the slight tension.

They nodded in turn. "So there are still ravens in the tower then, yes?" She asked.

Kalla hesitated before slowly nodding. "There should be. I think the soldiers used them to communicate with the King."

Daenys raised a brow, nonverbally waiting for her to correct herself.

She blushed again, apologizing quickly. "My mistake, Princess. They said 'My King' so many times that the words have ingrained themselves. To the Pretender." She fixed. "If you wish, I could send a raven to wherever you wish."

"Thank you, Lady Kalla." She smiled. "I can do that myself. Though, you should get to Lord Staunton's solar and begin familiarizing yourself."

She straightened, looking confused. "Familiarize?"

"You are the head of House Staunton, now. You will be expected to host any Black forces on your land as well as our naval forces. I hope this is not too overwhelming, but there really is not other choice."

"But—Kallus is the heir." She said in a hushed tone.

Glancing at Kallus, the young boy now done with his food and swishing the sauce in the bowl back and forth with his fork, and tensely sighed. "He may be the heir when Lord Staunton was here, but it will be over a decade before he is ready for the role. You must lead, as Lady." She said firmly. "The Queen will make the change in leadership official."

Lady Kalla froze, uneasily fiddling with her sleeve. "I have not been prepared for this."

Neither was the Queen herself. The men of the realm never seem to prepare their daughters for the world, even when they are grown and alone.

"I know." Daenys said, reaching for her hand. "But you must. For your father. And him." She nodded towards Kallus, who curiously met her eyes. Kalla looked down at her brother before turning back to Daenys, firmly nodded.

"I will try, Princess." She spoke.

"That is all I ask." Daenys said, standing from her seat. "I will begin my letter to The Queen. Jace?" She asked, gesturing for him to follow.

He did, hot on her heels as they went down a winding hall to an old hallway that led to the raven tower. In it, the birds squaked endlessly at the intrusion. "What is it?" Jacaerys asked, leaning on the table that Daenys sat herself at.

"Will you join me on the boat back to Dragonstone?" She asked.

He tensed, folding his arms over each other. "I was hoping to fly out to the Twins, while mother allows me to be out. I will not have another chance under her guard."

"I know." Daenys said, scribbling away. "I think you should—the Twins are vital for Cregan's men to travel to the Riverlands."

Jacaerys nodded severely. "What if they ask for a dragon?" He pondered. "Lady Jeyne already has, no doubt other houses bending their knees to us will get greedy."

"We cannot spare the adults." Daenys said flatly. "The babes were a means to placate Jeyne's worries. The Freys are too far North to need such protection, I think."

"Not too far for Vhagar." Jace reminded her.

"She will not be willing to fly so far. She's old, and injured. Her balance will be horrible, only good for short and predictable flights. Tell them that." She nodded to herself, mumbling the words she wrote out slightly to focus.

"Right." He trailed, taking the words in. Leaning over her shoulder, he read the words aloud to affirm.

"Dear Queen Rhaenyra, Rook's Rest has been reclaimed. Lady Kalla and young Kallus are alive and well, and I have named Kalla Lady of House Staunton. Please send a spacious barge to to docks here, with a small crew of trusted men. Perhaps Lord Corlys could make the journey personally, and I believe that Eveningstar would be well-suited for the trip. She has not seen open waters since father last sailed out.

Sunfyre will be making the journey on this ship. Do not send any men who are easily panicked. The dragon is injured, but I believe keeping him on Dragonstone's fields is a good defense and show of our strength. Well wishes, Daenys Velayron."

He sat back, humming in thought. "You really think Sunfyre will take a boat back to Dragonstone?"

"It is a short trip." She shrugged. "If I can make him obey out there, I can convince him to get on a boat."

Jacaerys smiled nostalgically. "I don't understand how you did that. Even Vermax wouldn't heed your command, and he adores you."

Daenys looked out the window, past the sleek black head of a raven. "I couldn't say, brother. But I do know that it is my fault that he will never fly again, so it's my responsibility to take care of him now."

Jacaerys nodded. Looking out at the three dragons cuddled up together (though Vermax was on Morningstar's flank opposite of Sunfyre, eyeing the golden one mistrustfully), he held his hand heavily on his pommel. "I will leave now. With luck, I think I'll make it back home before you do."

"Not luck, Jace." She chuckled. "Mother will tear open a new one for you—and I won't be there to mediate."

He paled, groaning in realization. "I'll take the boat back with you, then."

"Too late." She stood, rolling up the scroll and sending it off with no wax stamped onto it. "You should go before those old Freys take their afternoon nap."

Jacaerys scoffed, kissing his sister's temple 'goodbye' before leaving the room with a swish of his half-cape.

Daenys looked out of the empty windowsil, watching Jace mount the emerald dragon before leaving as fast as he came. They had been lucky today, perhaps too lucky for her ease of mind. Something was surelt brewing on the horizon. Shaking the thought from her mind, she found Cregan at the bottom of the steps.

"Daenys." He greeted with a soft smile. "Lady Kalla and her brother have retreated to their rooms."

"Good." She rolled her shoulder slightly, wishing to get out of this dusty place and stretch her legs. "Would you join me?"

"Anywhere, Princess."

"I wish to hunt for Sunfyre. He's probably starved after all these days out here."

Cregan nodded, taking her hand into the crook of his arms. "Like old times, then."

She laughed, "that was hardly in the past. I expect it will become tradition for us in Winterfell."

His eyes lit up at the thought. "You wish to continue camping around the wilderness, even after your residence in Winterfell?"

"A dragon gets restless easily."

It was his turn to laugh lightly. "Indeed, she does."

The Jacegon onesided beef continues (like Aegon and Daenys)

Thinking of dragon parentage again-how Morningstar is Silverwing's egg for sure but unsure about the father and if there even is one for dragons. But continuing off that—Sunfyre. He is theoried to be either Dreamfyre's or Silverwing's egg, with Vermithor as a possible sire. I for one think his show face shape is kind of similar to Silverwing's show face shape.

Morningstar and Sunfyre from the same clutch? Though hatching in different years as some eggs do. They both have tremendous and unique bonds with their riders, and are around the same age.

aging Daeron down because i dont know his full lore and have no interest in adding him to the Dance at all. Technically he does have Tessarion still but she's about the size of Tyraxes.

wanted to name a sword and Sea Tamer just sounded badass so

Aemond sending children and their dragons off to war core. Those memes always send me, he'd do it too if he could

[m4iya]

Scrambling to the deadline

Kenma Kozume

Light from your laptop reflected all over your face, coating the corners of your dark room. The windows were sealed shut, though your curtains were wide open. You watched all the people having fun outside while you were stuck in here, working on an assessment. You felt like that one Squidward meme of him sadly looking outside the window of his room.

Cupping your hands in your face, you groaned. How on earth were you meant to get this done tonight? An essay that you finished half of, a reflection you hadn’t even started, a documentation of your progress… you gave up counting right there. Your fingers flickered across the mousepad, bringing you back to the task notification document. Eyes scanning the page, you began to understand why they had given the students 3 weeks to complete everything.

It was 8:00pm, the task was due at 12:00am. You never sleep this early, but you felt like you could barely keep your eyes open. Each sentence you typed, the imaginary word bank filled of phrases to increase your word count shrank.

‘In order to…’, ‘According to…’, …because of the fact that…’

Maybe someone could help you out a little. Someone who was probably free right now. Opening your phone, you made a quick call.

You could hear him grumbling alongside the shuffling of his feet even before he entered your dorm room. ‘why did I even call him..’ you wondered to yourself.

Suddenly, the door creaked open and soon after, was slowly shut as he walked in already complaining. “What do you want..” He muttered, his Nintendo switch in hand, and his backpack slouched over his back. It seemed like he was already glued to it before he walked in.

“Kenma… I’m gonna fail College”

“Me too”

“You’re supposed to tell me I won’t!”

Dropping the bag onto the floor, he slides off his slippers and lazily slumps over your bed, still focused on his game. You turn back to your laptop, your back beginning to hurt you from the way you were arched.

You continued working on whatever you could, background music and clicking in the background, providing a sort of ambience.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, you rubbed your eyes and sat up each time your head dipped into a short nap. This cycle continued for a few minutes before Kenma took notice.

“Here” His voice shook you awake, immediately turning your head to face him. He was offering you a can of energy drink. You had been in such a trance that you failed to even notice him slide off the bed and open the bag he was lugging around.

“Oh.. Thank you so much” Grabbing it from his hand, the cool exterior coated your fingertips. Taking a big sip, you felt the cool drink trail down the inside of your body, finally feeling somewhat rejuvenated.

Cracking open the can he bought for himself; he sat on the foot of your bed.

“So, what’s this about?” He asked, taking a gulp. You were surprised that he seemed to have turned off his game, but he even went the extra mile to ask about your work? You explained the task you had to complete, and briefly outlined the topic, watching as a disinterested scowl formed on his face. ‘Ah, there it is’, you thought to yourself.

He seemed surprised when you told him how much you had left, as though he was wondering why you were so stressed.

“That’s all?”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s all!?’”

Sliding off the foot of the bed, he stood at your side, crouching down so your desk was at eye level.

“Can I get a paper?”

“Sure..” You replied, ripping a piece of paper from your notebook as he picked up the pen which was holding your textbook open.

“What was it you said you had?” “This essay, a reflection, a documentation of my progress, and a reference list”.

“And what have you started?”

“Well, I’m about halfway through the essay. And I’ve been working on the documentation”

He wrote down a short list of what you had completed and what you needed to do.

“How long is your reflection supposed to be?” He muttered, tapping the pen on his head.

“100 words”

“And the reference list?”

“I’ll use a website to do it for me”

Falling back onto his butt, he sighed loudly. “Why are you stressing so much..? You’re practically finished..”

Once he said that, you began to actually consider the amount of work you had done, suddenly regaining some motivation to continue under the precedent that you might actually finish on time. Maybe you really were stressing too much.

Behind you, Kenma pulled his laptop out from his bag. “I’ll make the reference list for you” he offered.

“You don’t have to..” This was pretty out of character for him. You wondered why he was so eager to help out today.

“I have nothing else to do..” he muttered, hiding the fact that he had finished all his games and was currently too broke to buy anything new.

He opened up a text document, and began filling the reference list with websites he saw opened on your laptop.

The quiet warmth budding between the two of you filled the small room. You found yourself concentrating more than before, flying through paragraphs as all the words seemed to come to you in an instant. Suddenly, the sounds of others having fun outside became white noise to you; you were comfortable here, in the quiet atmosphere of your dorm room.

Resting your fingers for a brief moment, you slouched back in your chair, shutting your eyes and inhaling deeply, allowing the sound of Kenma’s typing away to fill your ears.

Sure, you were inside your small, cramped dorm room. Yes, it was a little suffocating and was starting to smell like energy drinks, and yeah, your neck was kinda hurting too. But you had him beside you, keeping you company. And he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

other works

[raineandsky]

#130

(part 1) (part 2)

The civilian’s house used to be the one place she could get away from work—relaxing, peaceful, safely removed from the pains of her job. It’s taken two weeks for her job to decide it wants to live here, actually, and has taken over her little safe haven and her mind.

She gets back from a day of journalistic interviews and writing articles, and makes just enough time for dinner before leaping head-first into the piles of paper she’s slowly accumulating around her house.

She’s one shopping trip away from investing in some red string—conspiracies and suspects connected in her mind, pieces of paper and theories lumped together. All of it begs the question, drags her back to the reason she’s doing this—

Where has the hero gone?

The civilian goes over her notes. They were last seen leaving the agency a month ago. The news stopped reporting on it after five days. The agency made one hell of a show of looking for them before it all seemingly went quiet. She’s seen the hero’s successor about town, and the reactions he’s garnered—distaste, anger. The agency made a move to replace the hero too fast, and everyone’s seen it. Everyone is suspicious.

She can’t let that get in the way of her little investigation, though. The agency has certainly been weird about it, but that feels too obvious. She can imagine the real perpetrator is rubbing their hands with glee knowing that everyone has their eyes elsewhere.

The villain association. An undeservedly professional name, considering the business villains like to conduct, but that’s besides the point. Villains—a villain, perhaps—would be the obvious choice. Maybe the hero got too close to something, acted too much like an irritating fly that needed to be swatted. Then again, villains love bragging, and having a hero in their possession would undoubtedly send them into a self-absorbed frenzy. They’ve been even quieter on this than the agency has.

The civilian flips through some of the papers in the pile closest to her. Half of these are documents she’s loaned from the library—she’s already maxed out her extension, and they’re due back next week. She doesn’t have them for long. She needs to figure this out soon.

She’s in the midst of poring over some of her paperwork with a highlighter—nothing from the library, she doesn’t need a vandalism fine on top of all this—when there’s a noise at her front door that she instantly recognises. Something, rather hurriedly, being shoved through her letterbox.

It’s too late to be getting post now. The civilian rushes for the door just in time to see the little envelope drop from the hole and onto her mat.

She snatches it up and rips it open without a thought, letting her eyes graze over the words of the letter inside. Then she looks a little more carefully. Then a third time, because there’s no way.

It’s been interesting to watch you play, Ma’am, but I suggest you keep yourself out of business that isn’t yours.

She tears the door open but she already knows she’s too late. Whoever left this for her is long gone.

She makes doubly sure to lock her door has she closes it behind her, her gaze back on the letter. If she can even call it that—it looks more like it was torn out of a notebook and scribbled on the way here.

A warning. She shuffles back into her kitchen, where the papers she was looking at are now toppled all over the floor. She carefully sets them back on the table, and after a moment of deliberation lays the letter on top of them.

Journalists like her don’t tend to take warnings.

After all, new evidence just fell into her lap.

(next part)

[dawneternal]

Part 2

⊹ A modern Gwynriel College AU

⊹ Summary: Nesta has been trying to throw Azriel and Gwyn together for a while now. When a group project comes along, Nesta snags Az for their group so the pair are finally forced to interact.

To make matters more complicated, Gwyn accidentally sends the wrong document to the group, replacing the writing assignment with a smutty chapter of fanfiction.

Things only bloom from there, forcing Gwyn to either let down her walls or lose a friendship that has become important to her.

Prepare for fluff, angst, classic college tropes, and some cheesiness

⊹ Notes: Sorry this one is pretty short. But don't worry, the next chapter is like triple the length.

⊹ Warnings: Gwyn has a panic attack

⊹ Word Count: 1k

⊹ AO3 Link

Gwyn woke to no new notifications on her phone. That unsettled her more than any teasing responses would have. She wanted to stay in bed and hide from the world until the pain of her mistake faded. And avoid any inevitable interactions that would come from it. But she willed herself to get up and change, braid her hair, and head to her favorite campus cafe for breakfast. 

They only served their giant cinnamon rolls on Friday mornings and there was not many things that could keep her from getting one. This was her Friday ritual - spending a couple hours with whatever book she was obsessed with and one of her worn notebooks, complete with a hot mocha latte and a cinnamon roll. 

As she settled into her booth, she let out a happy sigh, glad she went out after all. It was chilly, overcast, and rainy. Perfect for a cozy breakfast and an afternoon nap. The fireplace in the far corner crackled, soft music playing throughout the room.

All of this pleasantness was interrupted by a booming voice calling her name.

“Berdara!” Connor called from across the cafe, “What the fuck was that email? You'll never hear the end of this!”

He was laughing hard at his own cleverness, at this gift that would supply him with months of material. He turned back to his friends, most likely explaining the joke, as they turned toward her a moment later and howled with laughter. The cashier snapped something in their direction and the group of them shuffled out into the cold. 

Gwyn sat still, frozen. This was exactly what she didn't want. Connor would make good on his promise and she knew it. Boys like him were not easily deterred, only spurred on by protests. She had handed him an opportunity on a silver platter and there was no way he wouldn't take it. 

This was feeling too familiar. This was feeling very, very bad.

“Hey,” A softer voice met her ears. Gwyn turned and found herself looking up into kind hazel eyes. 

“You saw that?” She asked, a lump forming in her throat. She willed herself to keep it together, but her body did not seem to be listening. Her heart hammered, fingers numbing as reality drifted away.

“Yeah, I thought I would check on you,” Azriel said, smile fading as he watched her struggle to get enough air. In spite of herself and her pleading, Gwyn's face crumpled.

“Oh, no, hey hey hey,” Azriel swiveled, dumping his things on the table. He gently picked up one of her hands and guided her from the seat. Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her out the side door of the cafe. 

Gwyn could barely see through the blur of tears, but she found herself sitting beside Azriel on a bench in some shaded corner. The world seemed a little bit quieter, here, and she could finally take a deep enough breath. 

“Don't listen to him,” Azriel said, his voice low and soft, “He's an idiot.”

“I'm guessing you opened the document,” Gwyn said between sniffles, keeping her gaze on the grass. Though when a tanned hand entered her field of vision holding a tissue, she took it. 

“I will say you had me hooked with that subject line,” Gwyn could hear the laughter in his voice, “I was curious. But I figured it out pretty fast and stopped reading.”

Gwyn groaned and buried her head in her hands. At least he didn't bring up any details. Like how the character she had written about was tall and muscled with dark curly hair.

“Hey, it's okay,” He said, so kindly it made her chest ache. “We've all done stuff like that before.”

She looked up to give him an incredulous look, and for a moment Azriel's breath caught in his throat. He was not often the sole subject of her gaze but it left him speechless every time. Even if she was scolding him with her teal eyes, telling him she didn't believe him. He blinked a few times and tried to pull himself back together.

“Seriously,” His lips spread into a crooked grin, “Once Cassian sent a nude to his aunt.”

“Oh,” Gwyn smiled at her lap, “Okay, that's pretty bad.”

“What if I do something embarrassing to make you feel better? Then it'll be even between us.”

Gwyn tilted her head at him, studying his face for any teasing, any spark of something non genuine. But his face was open and honest. And far more alluring than she wanted to admit. Perhaps that's why she pushed away the thoughts of wondering why he would bother to do that for her. It didn't matter why. She wanted to take the opportunity anyway. 

“This is worth more than one embarrassing thing. A hundred, maybe.” She shook her head, biting back a smile and trying to look solemn. It almost startled her how easy he was to talk to. This was not a trait she encountered often.

“What about three?” He said, matching her solemnity, gaze burning into her.

“You actually mean it?” 

“Of course I do,” He grinned, and Gwyn noticed his dimples for the first time. Of course he had dimples.

She thought for a moment, wondering what thing she could propose first that might make him squirm. 

“For the first one, can I put eyeliner on you before class?” She squinted, waiting to see if he'd scoff and protest. His grin only spread. 

“Sure,” He chuckled. “You intend to take my offer, then?”

“We'll see how the first one goes.”

She looked away, needing a break from the intensity of his stare. She had definitely not suggested eyeliner just to see if it would make his golden eyes pop even more. Certainly not. 

Instead of looking back at him and risking a blush, she took in the little corner he had brought her to, behind the cafe. They sat side by side on a worn wooden bench, facing the lawn that stretched between the cafe and the library. No sidewalk passed through here, shielding the spot from foot traffic. Two trees intertwined above them, showering the pair in jewel-toned foliage with every breeze. 

“How'd you know about this spot?” Gwyn asked. 

“I know all the best spots on campus to have panic attacks,” Azriel said, smiling softly. 

“You showed up at a good time.”

“You have Friday morning cinnamon rolls to thank for that.”

[magnolia-pollen]

Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes. It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships that hampered others. Although the situation must have had even then the approximate tragic stature of Scott Fitzgerald's failure to become president of the Princeton Triangle Club, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nevertheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honour, and the love of a good man (preferably a cross between Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and one of the Murchisons in a proxy fight); lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proven competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed wonder of someone who has come across a vampire and found no garlands of garlic at hand.

Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect. Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The charms that work on others count for nothing in that devastatingly well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself: no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. With the desperate agility of a crooked faro dealer who spots Bat Masterson about to cut himself into the game, one shuffles flashily but in vain through one's marked cards—the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which had involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others—who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation—which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O'Hara, is something that people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable home movie that documents one's failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for each screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there's the hurt on X's face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commission and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously un- comfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

To protest that some fairly improbable people, some people who could not possibly respect themselves, seem to sleep easily enough is to miss the point entirely, as surely as those people miss it who think that self-respect has necessarily to do with not having safety pins in one's underwear. There is a common superstition that "self-respect" is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation. Although the careless, suicidal Julian English in Appointment in Samarra and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbable candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not. With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than in men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: "I hate careless people," she told Nick Carraway. "It takes two to make an accident."

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes. They know the price of things. If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties; nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named corespondent. If they choose to forego their work—say it is screenwriting—in favor of sitting around the Algonquin bar, they do not then wonder bitterly why the Hacketts, and not they, did Anne Frank.

In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of moral nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues. The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and with United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for re-election. Nonetheless, character—the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life—is the source from which self-respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about. They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts. It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt. In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-year-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: "Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke about it." Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, "fortunately for us," hostile. Indians were simply part of the donnée.

In one guise or another, Indians always are. Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price. People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me. They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one's head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones. To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket; to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before. It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are. In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To have that sense of one's intrinsic worth which, for better or for worse, constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out—since our self-image is untenable—their false notions of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course we will play Francesca to Paolo, Brett Ashley to Jake, Helen Keller to anyone's Annie Sullivan: no expectation is too misplaced, no rôle too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we can not but hold in contempt, we play rôles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the necessity of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self. In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one's sanity becomes an object of speculation among one's acquaintances. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

The soft shuffle of papers echoed in his office since the sun had risen and the morning light creeping between the blinds, casting narrow stripes across the floor. The flat was still, save for the quiet scratch of pen against paper.

John sat at his desk, his broad frame hunched forward in his office chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows of his flannel shirt. He glanced over toward the door for a brief second—half-listening, half-guarding—before turning his eyes back to the stack of printed thesis pages spread across his desk.

He had read reports that shaped wars. Debriefs soaked in blood and political consequences. But her thesis was different. This was her mind, her fight, her way of understanding the world, and he'd found the printed draft sitting near her laptop two nights ago, pages still warm from the printer. A quiet note clipped to the corner in her handwriting:

Don't laugh. It's not done yet.

He hadn't laughed nor smirked.

He had stayed up an hour longer that night reading through the first few pages—highlighting, scribbling in the margins while she was asleep. That was two nights ago. Not as a soldier. But as someone who cared. Now, with the morning ahead of him and his mug of black coffee near him, he was going back through it again. Word by word.

The paper's title was bold, printed in her usual serif font:

Cultural Diplomacy in Conflict Zones: Reconstructing Peace Beyond the Battlefield.

Her introduction was solid. Her argument was there—just buried under too many transitions. She used language like "perhaps" and "might" a bit too much—he circled those words and wrote in the margin:

Say it like you mean it. Write like you are sharing a knowledge to someone who does not know your passion.

Further down the page, he paused, reading a section aloud under his breath:

"Human rights diplomacy, when rooted in cultural respect, often prevents militarized engagement before it begins." He nodded once, impressed, before underlining the phrase and the arrow on top before adding:

Good line. Move this in the beginning.

John kept going.

He made marks where her citations needed tightening. Scribbled checkmarks next to paragraphs with strong structure. Drew a small star next to a sentence she probably didn't realize had emotional weight:

Peace isn't a document; it is an act of endurance.

His jaw tightened slightly. That hit him. She'd lived more truth in that one sentence than most diplomats did in their entire careers. 

When he leaned back for a moment, letting the pen rest between his fingers as he looked at the papers again, his thumb brushing over a corner where her highlighter had smudged a little.

He could see the late nights she'd spent working on it.

The empty teacups.

The notebooks and sticky notes with books he gave her for resource.

The way she'd look up to him before like she wasn't smart enough.

She had no clue how brilliant she was. No idea how much heart she poured into this.

How could someone who'd seen as much war as him care about changing the world? She believed she could try or do through words—if that's the case, then he'd damn well make sure those words were sharpened like a blade.

Flipping to the next page, eyes narrowing in concentration. There was still sentences to tighten. Arguments to strengthen. But she was close—closer than she realized.

And he wasn't going to proofread this. He wanted to make sure her voice mattered.

As he heard a soft knock came at the door, John looked up.

"Am I interrupting?" she inquired softly, peeking through the doorway while holding a tray.

He sat up straighter and shook his head, his voice lower, softer. "Come in, love."

Charlie stepped in fully, bare feet padding across the hardwood as she moved carefully toward the desk. Her long jumper hung off one shoulder, and her hair was up in a messy bun—still fresh from the morning.

"I brought breakfast," she said, setting the tray down on the side table. "Egg toast and tea, your favorite."

His gaze never left her, not when he took a sip from the new mug she placed near him. "You didn't have to, sweetheart."

"I want to."

She lingered, her eyes shifting to the desk and all the scattered pages. Her pages. Her eyes slowly widened. "Are you... actually reading it?"

"Every word," he said, his lips twitching into a subtle smile. He tapped his pen against one paragraph. "You're close, Charlie. It's damn good. Just needs a bit more evidence to support your argument, that would build your credibility high."

She bit her bottom lip, trying not to smile as her eyes darted over his scribbled notes. "You made comments?"

"'Course I did," he said, flipping to the next page and tapping it. "This line right here—Peace isn't a document... it is an act of endurance. You don't know how good that is?"

Her cheeks flushed with pride. She stepped around the desk, hesitated—then slid onto his lap.

"I love that you care about this," she said, tucking her into the crook of his neck, her voice muffled but warm.

John grinned while wrapping her waist with one arm, his other hand placing the pen on the desk as she nestled against his chest.

"I care about you," he corrected, turning to kiss her temple. "That paper's just a part of your passion."

She grinned against his collar. "Even with all the citations and boring footnotes?"

"Especially those," he added.

Charlie gently withdrew, tilting her head to give him a slow, grateful, tender kiss. He responded with a warmth that seemed to melt through his chest. His free hand moved up to gently cradle her jaw, but was interrupted when his phone buzzed on the desk nearby. He ended the kiss, glanced at the phone screen, and narrowed his eyes, raising an eyebrow in response.

"Cam," he muttered.

Charlie blinked. "Is she okay?"

John scoffed quietly through his nose as he read the message.

Cam: Gabby says we're doing food and drinks at her place. Casual. Three in the afternoon. Danny and Roach are coming. Don't ghost us and yes. Charlie is invited but u have to come Dad.

He shook his head, smirking. "Bloody hell."

"What?" Charlie asked, smiling.

"Cam wants us to come to Riley's house. Casual get-together. Food, drinks. Roach and Danny'll be there. You haven't met them. They're close to my daughter. I don't get to say no."

Charlie giggled softly. "So... are you going?"

John looked at her like she'd just asked whether bullets were dangerous.

"She said I have to."

Charlie giggled. "Guess we're going, then."

He shook his head and chuckled, leaning in to steal another kiss. "Only if you're coming."

She tapped his chest lightly. "I'll go. On one condition."

"What's that?"

"You put onto that perfume... or whatever you guys call it. I know that scent... remember you took me on dates and we stayed the night in a hotel?"

John narrowed his eyes. "You mean a cologne? Specific?"

"Yeah," she whispered with a mischievous grin. "I... like it. I mean, it's a mix of... how should I explain it?"

John studied her face, a knowing smile spreading across his own.

"I think I know the one you mean," he said, his voice low. He reached over and pulled open the top drawer of his desk, retrieving a small glass bottle. He held it up, the amber liquid glinting in the morning light. "This what you had in mind?"

Her eyes lit up as she took the bottle from him.

"Yes, this one," she said, twisting off the cap and inhaling the rich, woodsy scent. "Oooh strong and oh so good."

She tipped the bottle and dabbed a little of the cologne onto his neck, right below his ear. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the feel of her fingertips against his skin.

"There," Charlie said cheerfully, recapping the bottle and setting it aside. "Now you'll smell good all day."

His pulse quickened as she leaned in, brushing her nose against the spot where she'd applied the cologne.

"Mmm, it fits you," she said, nuzzling him there. "Strong, handsome, but oh so raw."

He slid his hand around to cradle the back of her head, guiding her lips to his for a slow, deep kiss. She sighed into it, melting against his chest.

After a long moment, John reluctantly broke the kiss, his voice low and gravelly. "As much as I'd love to stay here with you all morning, but we have to get ready soon."

Charlie pouted prettily. "Being responsible is highly overrated."

John chuckled. "Isn't that the truth, love?"

He gave her one more quick kiss before breaking apart and Charlie giggled softly, eyes warm as she pressed one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. Her fingers toyed lightly with the collar of his shirt, her head resting just beneath his jaw.

"Can I ask you something?"

John glanced down at her, sensing a shift in her tone. "Always."

"That night... two nights ago. When we were..." She trailed off, cheeks flushing pink as she looked up at him. "When you said you were close—and you told me to trust you. I thought you were... I panicked a little."

John almost frowned. "Panicked?"

"I thought you were going to... you know," she bit her lip, eyes flickering to his before falling again. "Finish me."

He remained silent. Then, with a soft, affectionate chuckle, he gently moved his hand to the nape of her neck, guiding her face to meet his gaze.

"You thought I'd knock you up?"

Her blush deepened. "Well, not exactly, I just..." She squirmed on his lap. "I didn't know what was going to happen, and it kind of hit me all at once."

He smiled. Not a teasing one—but softer.

"I wouldn't have done that without asking you first," he explained gently. "You were already overwhelmed, sweetheart. That was a lot for your first experience. But I meant what I said. I wanted you to trust me."

She nodded, eyes meeting his.

"I do."

"I know," he said, still smiling until he added, casually. "You know, I remember what you said before."

She tilted her head. "What?"

"Last month," he said, voice roughened slightly by memory. "I took you out on a Pizza date and we got into an argument, not a bad argument but more like making you understand my viewpoint about war over peace, but you refuse to believe it."

Charlie blinked and lifted her eyes, away from him as if she was trying to remember. It came back to her.

"Oh, yeah, that talk," she giggled again.

"Yeah, and after that, I took you home and I remembered you were quiet. Too quiet. And when you asked me if we're back to three questions and no more disclosure. You asked me what my desire was, and I didn't answer. Instead, I asked you."

She nodded slowly. "I remember."

In response, he grinned more.

"You said you wanted to do more than study politics. March into diplomacy, get married, have kids. Grow old with someone you fall in love with."

She nodded again, and smiled. "Yes."

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles before meeting her eyes—firm and sincere. "If that's what you still want, I'm in."

Charlie stared at him, wide-eyed.

"I've thought about it more than you'd think," John continued, his thumb tracing her jaw. "A home. A kid or four. Someone to come back to who makes it all worth to fight and get through the day. And now..." He leaned in, brushing a kiss to her nose. "That someone's you."

Her eyes welled slightly—not with sadness, but with something tender and full. Biting her lower lip, a shy smile playing on her lips as she watched him leaned in close and kissed her once more, this time more passionately.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 110✨

👉🏽 Return to Main Post (RTMP) 👈🏽

[dankusner]

VOGUE: Didion’s ’61 essay

On Self-Respect: Joan Didion’s 1961 Essay from the Pages of Vogue Joan DidionDecember 23, 2021

Joan Didion, author, journalist, and style icon, died today after a prolonged illness.

She was 87 years old.

Here, in its original layout, is Didion’s seminal essay “Self-respect: Its Source, Its Power,” which was first published in Vogue in 1961, and which was republished as “On Self-Respect” in the author’s 1968 collection, Slouching Towards Bethlehem.​

Didion wrote the essay as the magazine was going to press, to fill the space left after another writer did not produce a piece on the same subject.

She wrote it not to a word count or a line count, but to an exact character count.

Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself.

Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes.

It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa.

This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships that hampered others.

Although the situation must have had even then the approximate tragic stature of Scott Fitzgerald's failure to become president of the Princeton Triangle Club, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nevertheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it.

I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honour, and the love of a good man (preferably a cross between Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and one of the Murchisons in a proxy fight);

lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proven competence on the Stanford-Binet scale.

To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed wonder of someone who has come across a vampire and found no garlands of garlic at hand.

Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect.

Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception.

The charms that work on others count for nothing in that devastatingly well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself: no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions.

With the desperate agility of a crooked faro dealer who spots Bat Masterson about to cut himself into the game, one shuffles flashily but in vain through one's marked cards—the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which had involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed.

The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others—who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation—which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O'Hara, is something that people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable home movie that documents one's failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for each screening.

There’s the glass you broke in anger, there's the hurt on X's face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one.

To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commission and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice or carelessness.

However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves.

Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

To protest that some fairly improbable people, some people who could not possibly respect themselves, seem to sleep easily enough is to miss the point entirely, as surely as those people miss it who think that self-respect has necessarily to do with not having safety pins in one's underwear.

There is a common superstition that "self-respect" is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general.

It does not at all.

It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation.

Although the careless, suicidal Julian English in Appointment in Samarra and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbable candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not.

With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than in men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: "I hate careless people," she told Nick Carraway. "It takes two to make an accident."

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes.

They know the price of things.

If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties;

nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named corespondent.

If they choose to forego their work—say it is screenwriting—in favor of sitting around the Algonquin bar, they do not then wonder bitterly why the Hacketts, and not they, did Anne Frank.

In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of moral nerve;

they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues.

The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and with United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for re-election.

Nonetheless, character—the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life—is the source from which self-respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about.

They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts.

It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt.

In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-year-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: "Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke about it."

Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, "fortunately for us," hostile.

Indians were simply part of the donnée.

In one guise or another, Indians always are.

Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price.

People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me.

They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth.

It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag.

As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one's head in a Food Fair bag.

There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones.

To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket;

to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before.

It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are.

In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To have that sense of one's intrinsic worth which, for better or for worse, constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent.

To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference.

If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses.

On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out—since our self-image is untenable—their false notions of us.

We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give.

Of course we will play Francesca to Paolo,

Brett Ashley to Jake, Helen Keller to anyone's Annie Sullivan: no expectation is too misplaced, no rôle too ludicrous.

At the mercy of those we can not but hold in contempt, we play rôles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the necessity of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self.

In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game.

Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one's sanity becomes an object of speculation among one's acquaintances.

To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect.

Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw:

one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

[avocodedigital]

Rediscovering Tradition - The Old-Fashioned Approach

Join the newsletter: https://avocode.digital/newsletter/ In today's fast-paced digital world, where automation and technology dominate almost every aspect of our lives, there is a growing movement embracing a return to traditional methods. This shift focuses on valuing simplicity, authenticity, and the tactile experiences that come with analog tools and practices. In this exploration of the old-fashioned approach, we’ll unravel the reasons behind this trend and how it resonates in our contemporary work environments.

The Charm of Tradition in a Digital Age

The modern workplace is often characterized by sleek computers, instant messaging, and cloud storage. However, there is an undeniable allure to the old-fashioned methods. **Why is that?** Let's delve deeper into the reasons why so many are turning back the clock.

A Desire for Tangibility

There’s something intrinsically satisfying about physical interaction with workplace tools:

**Paper and Ink:** The act of writing with a pen — especially a fountain pen — can make note-taking a more thoughtful and deliberate process. It creates a sense of permanence that typing into a digital device often lacks.

**Physical Files:** Sorting through paper files, rather than shuffling virtual folders, can make information feel more manageable and meaningful.

**Typewriters:** The click-clack of typewriter keys is not just noise; it’s the sound of progress, encouraging thoughtfulness in the writing process.

The Appeal of Simplicity and Focus

One of the main drawbacks of digital tools is the potential for distraction. Notifications, emails, and chats compete for our attention, reducing our ability to focus on tasks at hand.

**Reduced Interruptions:** Analog tools don’t have notifications. A rotary phone won’t ping unexpectedly. This absence can foster a more focused work environment.

**Single-tasking:** Traditional methods often require focusing on a single task. This can improve concentration and productivity, as multitasking has been shown to reduce efficiency.

Benefits of the Old-Fashioned Work Ethic

While adopting traditional methods may seem like swimming against the tide, many have found significant gains in doing so.

Fostering Creativity

Analog tools often enhance creative processes.

**Doodle and Design:** Jotting down ideas or sketching in a notebook without digital constraints encourages out-of-the-box thinking and creative brainstorming.

**The Elegance of Error:** Mistakes made on paper are opportunities for creativity that digital auto-correct can stifle. Cross-outs and margin notes can inspire new ideas.

Enhancing Memory and Comprehension

The act of writing or handling physical documents can create stronger memory connections than typing.

**Active Engagement:** Writing by hand or organizing papers involves more cognitive engagement, which can lead to better information retention.

**Chronology and Context:** Physical documents often contain cues, like coffee stains or handwritten notes, that provide contextual memory and help recall details.

Creating Personal Connections

In a world where communication is largely virtual, people crave personal connections.

**Human Interaction:** Face-to-face meetings and voice calls can nurture relationships in ways that virtual communication cannot, enhancing bonds and trust.

**Personal Touch:** Handwritten notes or physical memos carry a personal touch that emails often lack, demonstrating thoughtfulness and care.

Implementing a Traditional Approach in Modern Workplaces

Making room for old-fashioned practices in today’s workplaces doesn’t mean abandoning technology altogether; rather, it’s about integrating practices that foster balance and efficiency.

Balancing Act

Adopt a hybrid approach that combines the best of both worlds.

**Analog Breaks:** Encourage stepping away from screens periodically to engage in offline activities like writing or reading physical material.

**Dedicated Spaces:** Designate areas for digital and analog work. A space set aside for paper-based tasks can mentally separate digital distractions.

Nurturing Office Culture

Foster a company culture that appreciates and respects traditional practices.

**Artifacts of Tradition:** Incorporate items like typewriters or rotary phones in the office for their aesthetic and nostalgic values. They can serve as conversation starters and inspire a slower pace.

**Workshops and Events:** Host workshops that teach traditional skills, like calligraphy or letter-writing. These can enhance employee creativity and camaraderie.

The Future of Work: A Blend of Old and New

As we move forward in this ever-advancing digital age, the allure of tradition remains strong. The key to success lies in finding a harmonious blend of old-fashioned methods and modern technology. This approach can help us harness the benefits of both, leading to a more fulfilling, connected, and productive work life. Returning to tradition isn’t about rejecting progress; it’s about enriching our work and personal lives by embracing simplicity and authenticity. By doing so, we not only preserve the charms of the past but enhance our ability to focus, connect, and create in our rapidly changing world. Whether you're picking up a pen or using a typewriter, remember that sometimes, the old ways are the best ways. Want more? Join the newsletter: https://avocode.digital/newsletter/

[darthmaclunkey]

🦷🔪🍄 for the ask prompt!

ahh yay thank you for asking!!

🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on ok, writing-related life hacks I've tried to make everyday practice this year: - writing every single day (I track it in my habit planner along with my silly little duolinguo lessons and daily step counts). I read stephen king's 'on writing' recently and he recommends doing 2000 words a day, so I'm trying to build up to that, but at the moment I'm mostly just doing whatever writing I can - even if it's just bashing stuff into the notes app on my phone before I fall asleep. - when I first write something I just vomit it all out into a pages document, then when I want to polish it up, I open a new document on the other side of the screen and start copying it over, typing word by word - this means I can correct and shuffle around as I go, I've found it really helps with flow and pacing. - this is going to make me sound like a huge nerd, but I've also started carrying around a vocab book. it's a lil pocket sized notebook where, if I come across a word I like/hadn't heard before, I can note down the definition. then when I'm looking for inspiration I can have a flip through my notes.

🔪 ⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project? not necessarily a weird topic, per se, but the other month I was looking up synonyms but kept mixing up my words and typing 'symptom' into duckduckgo instead. so my search history for a solid week was like 'happy symptom', 'tired symptom' - and I wouldn't clock the typo each time until I wondered why all the results were from the nhs or webmd 🫠

🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings I have a lot of reylo headcanons, but the one I keep going back to is the idea that rey can be just as socially isolated as kylo is, and how their shared but different experiences of loneliness and awkwardness drive their relationship (I like my bittersweet slow burns) I also had a silly headcanon for one of my own fics: it was a very angsty, pining, enemies-to-lovers-to-enemies story told exclusively from rey's pov, and there was a scene where kylo shows up through the force bond with a bad injury, which she tries to patch up, but he won't tell her anything about it. which was the whole point of the scene - it was really just a way of conveying a breakdown in their relationship. but I thought that I really needed to know myself how he got that injury even if it wasn't disclosed in the fic. so I came up with an elaborately comic & slapstick backstory where general hux got so bored in a first order meeting that he went feral and stabbed kylo, because we've all been in work meetings like that, I think. unfortunately I was so amused by this idea that it impacted my writing of the actual scene.

thank you!! ❤️

[crypticauthourwrites]

Cryptic Journal 19 July 2023

Word Count total (for current projects): Approx 24k~

Word Count since last week: about... 2k~I think...

Word count breakdown:

random fandom thing - 1209

Bloodborne chapter three - unsure

Tears of the Kingdom - nothing

My thoughts and concerns at the moment as I work through stuff:

Did not get a huge amount of time to write.  Though I did get a new Rocketbook while at the store.  Can’t find it online? Local big box store apparently.  Standard letter size which I’m used to and lined!  So far so good

here’s Docs trying to interpret the hand writing I scanned to email.  So does need correcting, but so far feels faster then base typing.  Where I look from the screen to my notebook then back to my screen and if I lose my place on the notebook I have to scan through my... unique scrawl (the system is never going to get my letters ‘p’ or ‘g’).  Quick highlight then clicking “remove style” gets:

and already that’s better formatted.  I think I’m most annoyed by when it skips lines.  That so far is what takes the longest for post scan clean up.  I want to set up a timer to really put the methods to the test with harder data.  For now I’m glad on what I do have. 

Trying very hard to finish a fandom thing before next week.  It was supposed to be just a one day sprint, but it spiraling out of control and not to the point and it’s for someone else so the anxiety of “has to be better then my usual standards” crept up.  Also noticed how I’m beginning with set up lore and character motivation stuff - when the brought was just leaping into the premise.  Taking note of that because common writing advice is “why start with the three years ago then jump to when things start when you could just jump to when things start?” and I don’t want to fall into that pitfall.

As seen above I made some choices about the Bloody Crow.  I want that they love Eileen.  That when she meets them again, her former student immediately gives a tight hug.  The document above is now updated for appropriate Shakespeare quotes for the meetup about love.

That is something to note.

Up until now I’ve been content on quoting The Bard, but I’m curious if I couldn’t emulate with his iambic pentameter.  Like Abigail Thorn did for her play “The Prince”.  Torn because it is a cool challenge to merely have a character quote since we have no canon data for their identity, but also am I just doing fridge magnet poetry?  Regurgitating others’ work in shuffled form so I might pass it off as mine own? 

For not a lot of time to sit down and get stuff done, my brain balanced by thinking of writing constantly.  Particularly NaNoWriMo.  My attempt (once again) to get a novel done.  I want ideas to start forming on what I want to focus on so they can start formulating in the back of my mind.   Personal belief that my best stuff comes about like a biosphere I add water to every now and then, but otherwise develops moss and such on its own.

Thought about reworking WHN, but in a solarpunk setting where myths and legends are real.  Another was a long standing day dream of characters meeting a god who is in charge of making sure their story happens the same way every time?  Read “A Psalm for the Wild-Built (a monk and robot story)” and so that’s my current inspiration to capture “a vibe”

My plan going forward:

Get that flippin’ fandom thing done.  My gosh it’s not even something I’m passionate about.  I’m just the world’s slowest writing (according to me). 

Get back to chipping at Tears of the Kingdom.

Start making major headway into Bloodborne.  If I am doing three chapters online this year then I want to be done prior to October to give my beta reader both a change to look it over for developmental editing as well as structural.  Polish is a rare time granted.

Maybe start pitching ideas around.  Better yet I should write out what I do have in my head for November then follow through with what, potentially, could be the best choice.  A combination of my interest, outside feedback, considered marketability, source material to draw on, is it similar to what I’ve done previously or completely a new challenge, so on and so on.

Here’s to another week 👍

[ms-demeanor]

Due to some stuff brought up in recent posts I believe it is time to once again extol the virtues of Ms-Demeanor's Patented Where Did I Put That Fucking Paper Organizational Binder.

Hello! I am a disorganized adult! This is the system by which I manage my important shit like pink slips for my car and medical records and tax information.

You're going to need:

A 3-Ring Binder

Transparent Sheet Protectors

Notebook dividers (optional but VERY useful)

A backpack (optional)

So the way this system works is you put the sheet protectors into the binder. You can either use the dividers to divide the binder into sections or you can label some of the sheet protectors to make different sections but what you are generally going to do is make sections of the binder labeled things like "taxes" or "vet" or "doctor" and put a few sheet protectors in each section.

Then all of your papers with important information get crammed in that folder. You don't organize them, you don't sort them by date, you don't alphabetize. You put things vaguely relating to taxes into the sheet protectors in the taxes section. You put things relating to cars in the cars section. You don't even attempt to make this readable - you're not using sheet protectors so that you can read each page and keep it legible, you're using sheet protectors because it's a cheap plastic bag that will sit nicely in a binder.

You CAN put stuff into the individual sheet protectors when you get it, but let's be realistic you probably WON'T do that, so just tuck individual papers into the front of the binder until you get to a critical mass of paperwork then take an hour to sit down and sort into categories and put it in the binder once every six months to three years (depending on how frequently you get paperwork). Sometimes these sections will outgrow their original allotted space - since my spouse had a transplant surgery the medical section has had to become its own folder - and that's okay. If you end up with multiple folders just keep them together (this is why the backpack is an option, and one I strongly recommend).

Because yeah, if my organization system relies on opening up a drawer and putting something where it belongs as soon as I get the paper, I will simply not be organized. It's not going to happen. But I can handle a messy stack of paper that sits in one place and grows until it is time to shove it into a binder. I can't organize things for thirty seconds a day every day but I can organize things for an hour once every year or so (maybe two hours every five years when I sort out stuff I don't need like copies of warranties for parts on a car I don't own anymore).

When my mom died she had about fifty pounds of paper files in her office that were neatly organized in a system that didn't make any sense to my dad, my sister, and I. I ended up sorting through those files for twenty hours, tossing out copies of paid invoices from ten years ago and student handbooks from my junior high school. I reduced one filing cabinet, two desk file drawers, and a foot-high stack to a six inch binder that I gave to my dad. My mom died five years ago; two months ago my dad asked me about a medical document and I was able to tell him to go look for it in the medical section of the binder. It was there, because ALL IMPORTANT SHIT GOES IN THE BINDER.

Where is my birth certificate? In the binder. Where is my tax return from 2017? In the binder. Where is the record of my dog's last rabies shot? In the binder. Where are the records for my life insurance? In the binder.

A lot of what people consider "being organized" breaks down to whether or not you can find the specific things that you're looking for. Does my binder look nice? Is it aesthetic? Does it have color-coded tabs and papers all laid out neatly? Absolutely fucking not. But if you ask me where to find a paper I know that I can do so within about five minutes of shuffling through the pile of letter-folded sheets that I pulled out of the appropriate section of the binder.

I've discussed the Where Did I Put that Fucking Paper Binder before, but now it is time to expand that concept to the Backpack of Important Shit.

You likely have Important Shit that does not fit in a binder. Some of my Important Shit that does not fit in a binder is stuff like jewelry and the spare key for my car. Other stuff - the reason I decided to bring this up at all - includes my backup hard drive and packaging (including product key codes) for pretty much all of the software that I own. This is also where I store printed out copies of the recovery codes for most of the online accounts that I have.

There's a lot of weird fiddly shit that we have to have that we might not access all that often. This is the kind of stuff that might end up in junk drawers or under sinks or in disused laptop bags or kicking around under a bunch of papers in a desk drawer.

It doesn't matter so much when that weird fiddly shit is a set of hex keys or a utility knife or a protractor or a copy of a student handbook but it DOES matter when it's something that you might need to put your hands on in a hurry. If your computer crashes, you're not going to want to track down the software in the back of a filing cabinet and the backup drive from somewhere in the bowels of your desk. If you lock your keys in your car you are not going to want to figure out if your spare is in a junk drawer or the old purse where you keep semi-important stuff or the tin on your desk that has buttons and pins and headphone covers. Just put it in the Backpack of Important Shit and when you need it you know where to look.

So anyway, if you are a person who is a minor disaster who has trouble finding important things when you need them please don't think that you have to get your life together and have a nice organized filing cabinet or clear plastic bins full of documents or a neatly divided storage closet where everything from board games to backup drives has its own neatly labeled place. Just assign ONE LOCATION for important shit and start putting the important shit there. It doesn't matter if you have a filing cabinet where you keep old copies of homework and printouts of online orders and family history records - you do not need to keep everything that is file-able in one place and depending on what level of catastrophe you are it might be detrimental to you if you try to do that. It doesn't matter if you have a jewelry box where you keep your collection of gauges and wrist cuffs; if you are going to stress out about where grandma's ring is when you're digging through your collection of cheap earrings and silver pendants then *do not keep grandma's ring or any other Important, Vital, Cannot Be Lost jewelry in with your day-to-day wear*.

I live someplace that has fires. My binder got upgraded to my Backpack of Important Shit when the fires were getting uncomfortably close to the house I was living in and I wanted to have one bag to grab if we had to get out fast. Once I did that, I never took the binder out of the backpack and the backpack has now made three moves with me and has meant that I've had my birth certificate handy when I needed it in the middle of a move between two states, I was able to provide a history of my cholesterol panel going back six years to a visiting nurse, and I was able to give the exact names and contact info of my spouse's previous surgeon to the hospital when I had unexpectedly moved to a new state with three bags and my work computer at the beginning of the pandemic.

Get yourself a backpack of important shit and a folder of where the fuck did i put that paper. It is so much easier to search a backpack for important shit than to go through an entire house and it is so much easier to flip through a binder than it is to dig through a filing cabinet.

Anyway good luck and happy adulting.

[songmingisthighs]

Ignominy

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

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ch. xxx - working from home

hybrid!san × human!reader

buy me coffee ?

warning : mdni, explicit sex, piv, unrpotected sex, creampie

everyone wants to belong, it's basic human need to connect with people around them. what happens when you're responsible for someone who belongs to two worlds but at the same time belongs to neither ? worst part is, what happens when it's your ex ?

The elevator let out a 'ding' sound and soon door opened and San casually stepped out as he browse through his mail. It was the firat time you stepped into his condo- well, it was the first time you stepped into a housing unit that is directly connected to a private elevator- and you were amazed. The foyer itself was amazing and the guest slippers felt like clouds on your feet.

Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city and the fact that the place was two stories high, a modern chandelier that looked so intricate it must be obnoxiously expensive, and tasteful artworks decorating the walls. Those were only some of the things you could point out because your eyes immediately zeroed in on the owner of the condo, tossing his mail carelessly on the kitchen island before pushing what seemed like a marble wall only to unveil what you would later discover is one of his fridges to pour himself a glass of cold water. The kitchen counter was of course white marble with black and gold patterns and bar stools on the other side, facing the fridges.

Noticing you were still standing near the entrance of his condo, San raised an eyebrow at you curiously, "Aren't you gonna come in?" He asked.

Embarrassedly, you shuffled off your shoes, set them aside and joined him where he was situated, standing across him on the kitchen counter, near the stools. It was bad enough that you were in your boss's place where he look so damn cute and comfortable, he HAD to catch you ogling at the freaking furniture. "So," you coughed out, throat suddenly very dry, "I got all the things you asked for," you said as you lift his laptop bag and another bag with several brown files filled with different documents and his work notebook. "Where do you want me to put it?" As you asked, you couldn't help but let your eyes wander around, wondering where he would usually work on when he's working from home. San took a sip of his water before nodding to the vacant spot on the counter near you, "Just put them there," he casually pointed out.

You began carefully placing each items out on the cold surface, mimicking how they would be situated on his office as San was quite particular in his placement. Meanwhile, San was looking at you with his sharp eyes, analyzing every move you made whilst thinking of your outing with his friends just the night before.

"Did you have fun?" the sound of his voice resonated, surprising you to the point that you almost let his note book fell to the floor. San surprised himself too by asking you that question, he wanted to not sound like he was paying attention to you. Not that much anyways, but just enough to think that he was being nonchalant. But he said it and the worst thing he could do was pretending as if he didn't just ask what he had asked. So he feigned a confident posture; wide shoulders back with his chin up and hands in his pocket, he casually walked to the side so he was parallel with you, "Did you have fun last night with my friends?" he asked again, this time sounding even more sure and clear.

Confused, you didn't know why he would care as to how you were feeling especially around his friends. But since he asked anyways, you didn't think it would be harmful to actually answer. "It was... Good..." you shrugged, eyes dropping to the bag in your hands as you continued taking his things out and placing them in front of you. "Define good," he demanded to you, genuinely wanting to know but his voice made him seem... cold. You looked up briefly at him, thinking of a more professional way to say "I had a blast shit talking you with your buddies and drinking our stress away from having to deal with your demanding ass" without risking your job. "It was... Eventful, we shared stories," embarrassing ones of you, "Shared out mutual understandings," how we think your mood swings higher and quicker than Jekyll and Hyde and that might have been due to the fact that he's your ex and he's being pissy because he's butthurt, "And even bonded over our interests," forgetting that we're working with a jackass using alcohol.

San nodded in understanding, but he kept going with his questions, "Were any of them about me?" all of them, "Some, maybe," you shrugged, plastering a fake smile in hopes he'd drop the topic. But of course, he didn't. "Well you sure seemed to bond well with them considering the photos you guys took and the jokes you all shared," he stated. You mistook his words as him not liking you being so close to his friends so you sighed and crossed your arms, "Look, if you didn't want me to hang out with your friends, who are coincidentally my coworkers, you should just say so instead of asking me questions like this, okay? And besides, I thought you were going with us too last night. Wooyoung said that Yeosang tried asking you to come but you shot him down rather harshly," you huffed as you folded the bag after the contents were all laid out on the table. San's eyebrows furrowed as he didn't know why you'd be all huffy and annoyed, but his eyebrows relaxed when he noticed what you said to him. "You wanted me to come with you?" he asked, the corner of his lips curling into a knowing smirk. Your body froze and your hand floated mid-air, realizing the connotation of the words you used. Shit, how do you cover your tracks?

Your silence conveyed thousands of words to him and despite understanding that it was a slip, it meant that it was what you felt deep down.

As you scrambled to finish up your task, San sneakily moved to trap you between his kitchen counter and his body. "You wanted me to be there with you last night?" he teased, voice appearing next to your ear that made your spine shoot up. "I thought you had fun with my friend, though. I saw the tweet Mingi made about your tits," his hands crept up your body from the sides of your hips up to your waist and then it found its home on the base of your neck and on your left thigh, dangerously close to where you have begun leaking. "If only he knew how supple and pretty your tits are," he said as he pressed his body onto yours, making you gasp as you felt the familiar twitch of his cock in his pants against your ass. "But nothing could compare to your sweet cunt," he said as he suddenly cups your mound over your pants, putting pressure on your clit over the fabric that made your muscles tense and legs snap shut, effectively trapping San's hand between them. "It was a good thing I wasn't there last night because I would've fucked you in front of them to show who you belong to," he stated, finger moving deftly against your clit.

Hearing his words, your head cleared up for a moment and you spat out the first thing that popped into your head, "But I'm not yours, I'm your ex." San raised an eyebrow at that, surprised that you talked back to him after being so obedient. He turned your body around and pressed onto you so hard that you had no choice but to lift yourself on your tippy toes and rest your ass on the countertop and San pushed himself to situate you further in. His hands trapped your body and his face got so close to yours, "But even that still has a possessive connotation," he smirked, pecking your lips once, "you're MY ex," another peck, "MY former lover," another peck, "MY first," another peck followed by him tugging your bottom lip from between his teeth, "and now you're MY assistant who's supposed to listen to my every word and fulfil my needs." And with that, his lips melded with yours in a steamy kiss.

You hated how right he was. No matter how much you wanted to deny it, even as his ex you were still somewhat his. No matter what you'll be, you'll always be his. But you couldn't complain when he was taking you so roughly like this, it even made the situation slightly better.

San had slowly taken your pants and panties off, pulling them and throwing them away somewhere you couldn't care much as he trailed kisses down the side of your neck. Your hands move to unbutton three of your buttons, successfully revealing your bra-clad tits to him. San pulled away slightly to admire the pretty lace decorating your chest, the pretty colour and pattern made you seem way softer to him. "Look at you being so obedient for me," he grinned, fingers caressing your slit gently, giving you the littlest stimulation that brought you a lot of pleasure, "And so, so wet," he stated, lifting his hand from between your legs to show you the arousal he gathered from your pussy. Your eyes widened when you saw him licking all of it slowly, making a show with his tongue and him shoving his digits into his mouth, obnoxiously sucking to the point that his fingers were covered with his spit. When San shoved his fingers in you, he made a demand, "Play with your tits." Your head was hazy with pleasure but his words still affected you, forcing you to be obedient and followed his orders.

The hand between your legs only increase its pressure and movement once you pull your bra down to expose your tits, deciding that taking off your shirt would be too much of a hassle. "If only Mingi could see you, he wouldn't know what to do with a slut like you," San chuckled, plunging his fingers harshly into your hole once while your fingers tweaked both of your nipples, successfully eliciting a moan from your lips. "You really wanna know what Mingi would do to me? He's a phone call away and he always answers me," you pointed out challengingly. San didn't like the sound of that, he didn't like the image of you being with one of his friends. With a growl, San pushed your body so your back was flushed against the cold surface and he climbed on top of you, not even caring that there was a chance that his laptop would fall off let alone the documents and his notebook that you had placed so carefully. San has your chin in one hand as his other was supporting his body while his bare cock (that he had somehow let out of his pants) was flush against your bare cunt. "You talk a lot for an ex that kept coming back for my dick," he chuckled darkly, grinding forward powerfully so that his tip bumped your clit harshly, "You're all talk but we both know the only person who can fuck you right is me," he said as he suddenly pushed himself in you in one swift thrust. It was a good thing that you were on your back and trapped by San or else you would've definitely been sent reeling over and possibly fall. "You're such a slut for my cock," San's hips bucked at the feeling of his cock being enveloped in your warmth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip from how good it felt, "I love it."

San began thrusting inside you without letting you adjust to his size first like before. You were surprised at how pleasurable the burn from his cock moving at a fast pace was, the drag of his cock against your walls sending your eyes backwards into your socket. The familiarity of the feeling of him being inside you was what you were addicted to. No matter how harsh he was, you could only find pleasure in his treatment because for some reason you felt safe, you felt like you were taken care of. It was an odd feeling to have whilst you were fucking your ex, but damn if it wasn't thrilling.

Each thrust of San's hips was precise and powerful. Some were just enough to have you sliding slightly from the surface and some made your back arch. San took this as an opportunity to have your tits in his mouth. The hand that was on your chin dropped to grip your right boob as his mouth enveloped the left. It was as if he was trying to prove something, his movements were possessive and erratic. Your jaw slackened at the feeling of San's teeth grazing against your pebbled nipples followed by a harsh suck. The overwhelming stimulation on your chest caused your pussy to clench on San's dick, pausing the movement of his hips momentarily as his cock twitched inside you. San moaned into your breast from the feeling of your cunt hugging him so tight. His body was right on yours and you could feel the vibration of his voice on your lower tummy, you swore it made you feel tingly inside and maybe even slightly ticklish.

"San," you moaned out, hips bucking into his and legs locking behind him, just under his ass to make him continue his abuse of your pussy, "Please make me cum," you begged. San let go of your slobbered flesh from his mouth, the air on the wet surface causing goosebumps to rise, he looked at you and pressed his lips on the corner of your mouth, dragging them slowly as he spoke into the skin, "Say it, say only I can make you cum." His voice was low, nothing but above a whisper but it was loud and clear in your ear. You even had to admit that he sounded slightly emotional, like as if he wanted to convey something.

The lack of answer from you made San reach down to smack your ass, forcing a yelp out of you from the sudden impact. He pulled away, eyes staring menacingly down at you. In this close distance, you could see his beautiful eyes, the little flecks of darker and lighter shade brown decorating them which made him look more intense. But even his intensity couldn't cover the emotion that was seemingly locked inside him, not even the beauty of his eyes could distract you from feeling that San had something to say. But you know he couldn't say it then. So rather than saying what you wanted to say, you say what he wanted to hear.

"You're the only one who can make me cum, San. I need your cock," you said through ragged breath.

The moment the last word left your lips, San connected both of your lips again in a searing kiss as his hips restarted their abuse on yours. His lips were doing an amazing job of covering your voice. Not that it mattered anyways since San has the whole floor to himself and if anyone even heard you, no one would say anything or complain to him.

Had it not been for the fact that San was on top of you, you were sure that would be a writhing mess. His cock felt too good inside you, each movement managed to hit your g-spot just right that it brought you to your climax quicker than you expected. Your thighs clamped on his tiny, slim waist and your hips stuttered as you came hard on his cock. San detached his mouth from yours so he could hear you moan loudly in pleasure, chest rising with the arch of your back as your body tensed. But San didn't stop his own movements when you came, he too was determined to follow suit. The overstimulation San was giving as he chased his own high made you whimper and grip his shirt tightly.

Under him, you were a mess and San loved it. He loved the idea of making such a big mess out of you and he seek his pleasure from it. From the overstimulation San was giving you, your second climax came barreling down, making you even more of a mess especially when your arousal spurted out of you and wet both your thighs and San's hips. The warmth of your juices was what pushed San over the edge, cumming with his face buried in your neck to muffle his scream of pleasure but also so he could be surrounded by the smell of you whilst his head was swimming in post-climax.

San lifted his body off of you, pulling his cock out before sitting back to enjoy the view of your sweat-slicked body and flushed skin as you tried to catch your breath. Your tits were still hanging out of your bra and the buttons of your shirt held onto dear life from being scuffled and pulled, almost to the point of being mangled. But even in such a messy state, San couldn't help but saw how absolutely ethereal you looked. The beauty was truly beyond compare and knowing that he got you to that state made his chest swell with pleasure.

"Name one other person who could turn you into this much of a mess I dare you," San smugly said with a smirk on his face.

As much as you would've liked to knock him off a peg or two, you know you couldn't. And that's both well-deserved on his part and annoying.

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[witch-hazels-musings]

a place for the weary 

Convincing the boys to take a break and rest their head on your lap, because they all work so hard and need a comfortable place to just ... be  - plus … some of them just need love and affection (please) 

Includes: Albedo, Diluc, Scaramouche, Kaeya 

Warning -> SFW

Character X GN reader 

Albedo 

He’s busy, always busy - whether he’s working on some research in the labs or out in the field, he’s hardly ever taking a moment to stop. What he finds most relaxing is drawing, painting the scenery in front of him until he gets it all perfect, and while you love to watch how his face twists, his eyes scrunch together as he examines the lines on the page, you also wish he would take a moment to do nothing 

If you suggest the activity to him, he may wonder what could be the purpose of it; he might ask you a lot of questions as he leans down to rest his head on your lap 

“Albedo,” you call out to him as you watch him shuffle through the crates examining the bottles and other items sprawled in the container. He tilts his head to look at you, his fingers wrapped around the neck of a glass contained filled with some sort of liquid. “You’ve been working for so long, come take a rest.” You pat your leg and invite him to join you on the soft blanket you’d laid out some time ago. 

“I’m trying to make sure we have …” 

“I know,” you chuckle, “and it’ll be there for you after you take a quick break.” 

He straightened himself out, his torso stretching and overcorrecting slightly as he elongated out his muscles. The bottle slipped further into his palm as he moved his hand up and down, bouncing it slightly as he contemplated your suggestion. You knew it wasn’t like him to take breaks like this, still, you hoped he would at least this time.

“If it makes you feel more productive, bring your notebook so you can draw.” That seemed much more enticing, you smiled to yourself as you watched him retrieve his journal before falling in place at your side. 

You were always persistent in getting him to take a moment, a small second to stop moving or relax his eyes which only seemed to be tired when he rested against you 

After the first few times, he had tried a couple of different iterations until he found the best position to be the one he was participating in right now. Legs bent so he could prop his drawing notebook or journal onto them; his legs acting as a makeshift easel so he could sketch or paint what was in the background 

He may be inclined to share his thoughts with you, perhaps dominating the conversation as he ponders on rhetorical questions and thoughts that fill his mind, but you don’t care because your hands are busy in his hair anyway 

After finding a comfortable place for his head, the back of his hair pushed itself up as he slid along the edge of your thigh. You shifted so he could have enough space and while he began to work, you could continue reading through your book. These moments you cherished, these simple, peaceful moments that allowed you to be close to him while giving him all the freedom he’d ever shown you. 

Every once in a while you glanced down to his notebook and became transfixed by the way his pencil moved across the page. How each line transitioned from nonsense into a masterful capture of the world stretched out in front of him. It was incredible how his eyes were able to see so much and his hands moved to copy it all down. He didn’t seem to mind the corners of the page fluttering in the wind or how leaves would fall haphazardly around him, resting quietly on his chest or in his hair. 

Your hands instinctively went to retrieve them, your thumb sliding across the bumpy surface and fingers pushing against his soft blonde hair. Letting the leaf meander on its way to the ground, you returned your fingers to his head. The tips ran over his forehead, trailing until they came to rest on his outer ear and carefully you tucked some strands of his hair behind it. You heard him sigh and noticed the quick movements of the pen slow to a near stop, a sign for you to continue. 

Carefully, you returned your bookmark to the page before resting it onto the blanket. Your hands found their way back to his hair and they began to work their way to his scalp. Your nails sliding along, underneath, below, and over each strand as if you were inspecting it all. The soft texture of it, and the reaction of its owner, made the experience all the better. 

After a while, Albedo seemed to pull himself away from the trance you had put him under. A line here, a curve there, his pencil began to move again and the once empty spaces of the paper grew into a beautiful work of art. You too returned to the book you were reading but left one hand against his hair, your fingers moving every once in a while. 

The two of you shared in a moment, uninterrupted, and through the connection, the both of you felt more energized than before. 

Diluc

Relax? What is relax -> Diluc doesn’t know how, when, or what he would even do to relax so getting him to take a break, to have a moment would be a battle to say the least

You’re much more likely to find success if he’s tired, like super tired, tired to the point you see him shaking his head or rubbing his eyes with his fingers - here he is less likely to deny you - here you have more push in your persuasion 

You walked into the study knowing full well what you would find when you pushed open the door. There he was, just as you had imagined him, with his head peering down at documents, his fist balled and pressing against his forehead, his other hand gripping a pen and moving across the papers. 

The light from the midday sun slipped through the window and surrounded him in a beautiful glow; an ethereal being with hair the color of juiciest apples and skin paler than the cups of china stocked in the kitchen below. If Diluc would allow it, you’d have stolen several photos of him while he worked, but he wasn’t fond of pictures. 

You walked up to the desk and noticed that he had barely eaten the lunch the maids had prepared for him, a few bites taken but nothing substantial. He continued his work even as you approached the front desk, moments like these reminded you how much he trusted you. To allow someone to invade his space like this was an unbelievable sign of faith from the ever distrustful Diluc Ragnvindr. 

“Diluc, are you finished with this?” You asked, resting your hand on the edge of the desk and the other grazing the edge of the plate. 

“Mm?” He looked up at you, his eyes fuzzy and tired, you glanced with your eyes toward the plate and he followed their gaze. “Oh, yes. I’m finished.” You gave him a weak smile as your fingers closed around the cold ceramic. His head dropped back to the paperwork and you shook your own. Moving to place the plate on the tray next to the entrance of the study, you quickly returned to him but this time moving to his side. 

“How’s it coming?” You asked him, your hand drifting toward his shoulder and you grinned as his torso shifted to press deeper into your touch. 

“More and more orders are coming in. Seasonal changes always bring business, but it’s difficult to keep the orders together.” 

“Hmm, well I know you’ll get it done, you always figure it out.” You slid your hand along his back and noticed how he stopped the movements of his pen. “Why don’t you take a break?” 

“I’m far too busy for that.” He voiced, pulling himself back and away from you.

You reached for his hand, your fingers sliding over his bare skin. He disliked wearing gloves while he worked like this. “Indulge me?” 

You’ve instructed him to remove his jacket, the heavy fabric would distract from the relaxation you explained would come - he’s a bit hesitant about it, but you’ve asked so nicely how can he possibly say no to you 

He will lay on his back and look away from you in an effort to hide his embarrassment or weakness - as the master of the winery, the owner of this business, the pride of so many resting on his shoulders he always told himself that he has to hold it all together, until the day he realized you were the only thing holding him together

He melts, purely and simply, the ever stoic Diluc finds peace with you 

His head provides a nice pressure on your legs, his shoulders press against your thigh as you help him get comfortable here. He’s so tall that his feet fall off the daybed, but he doesn’t say anything or really move after. One of his arms rests at his sides while the other lay across his stomach, and you can’t help but smile at the tense way his fingers wrap themselves into a comforting fist. 

“I won’t hold you here for long, just try and relax.” You express knowing full well he will have a hard time doing just that. You’ve made sure his hair isn’t tucked underneath him and you admire the way it contrasts with your dark pants. With deft fingers, you undo the ribbon that keeps his hair in place, and as soon as it’s released you begin to fan the strands over your legs. 

Carefully, you run your hands over his hair, pressing lightly as you start at the crown of his head and work your way over the red pool on your lap. Out of the corner of your eyes, you noticed his fist beginning to relax, the way his long fingers extended across his stomach told you that he was finally committing to your request. From there, you decided to work your way through his hair, your fingers sifting and moving through the mess of wildfire on top of his head. 

Each time you moved to a new, untouched spot he relaxed more. His legs bending slightly, his hands opening up, his expression softening and soon, he began to turn toward you. His head moved, forehead now pressed against your hip, his body shifted just slightly to be closer to you. 

You began to softly hum, the sound of your voice adding to the calming atmosphere of the quiet study and, in a matter of minutes, you could see the steady rise and fall of Diluc’s chest, the inhale and exhale of air as it slipped past his lips and the irregular twitch of his fingers as he slipped off to sleep. 

A maid entered the room shortly after and when she saw the two of you in the back of the study and noticed the smile slightly hidden under your index finger as you indicated to her of the sleeping man on your lap, she bowed and exited the room. 

Scara

Grumpy - the embodiment of grumpy and absolute worst at taking any suggestion, ever. So when you bring this idea up to him, he’s super against it. He doesn’t want to appear, look, seem soft in any way - ‘what is this silly little thing you are asking me to do?’

He’d push the idea away every time you bring it up -- that is until the day your legs look so tantalizing they are practically calling his name. Perhaps it's the way your hands rest in your lap as they hold onto a book, or the light as it hits your legs, or just the sound of your voice as you offer him a place to rest again and again - he finally succumbs 

You’ve been sitting in Scara’s living room for some time now. You learned early on to let him do his own thing and not get in his way, he had made that very clear. Still, you were happy he let you invade his space, that he let you be someone that he tolerated more than most. It definitely ignited your pride to have someone of his stature interested in you. 

Though, the only issue with him was the fact that he was always on the move. He never seemed to be stationary for long, and often would be gone for days or weeks at a time, sometimes with a warning. So, you learned to keep yourself busy and take in every moment you could with him. 

He had been in and out most of the day so you found yourself preoccupied with your things. Reading, working, relaxing, whatever followed the requirements of the day; you just went with the flow. Today held those sentiments very strongly as you got comfortable on the couch, one leg resting underneath you and the other bouncing on the ball of your foot. You had been engrossed in your book for so long, the characters' adventures gripping you and pulling you through every hill and valley they traveled. You were so absorbed in the words that you didn’t notice Scara calling your name, or how he stood in front of you with his hands on his hips. 

Fingers entered your vision and a loud snap sound directly in front of you. You looked up startled and when you saw his face you finally welcomed him. 

“Hey, I didn’t notice you were home.” You show him a kind smile and receive nothing in return. 

“I was calling you.” 

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“What have you been doing all day? Lazing about what it looks like.” He crossed his arms and looked around the room before returning his attention to you. 

“I’m taking a break, you’re welcome to join me.” You added, patting your lap. 

“I’ve already told you I would never do something so childish.” 

You chuckle, slipping your fingers in between the pages of your book. “I know, figured I’d give it another shot. Are you heading back out?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” He replied; conversations were often like this with him, short and to the point and almost always without any real answer. So you returned your attention to your book, the pages calling your name as your eyes scanned down the page before landing back on the sentence from which you had been pulled from. 

You were drawn back into the scene only to be ripped out of it once again. The book in your hand was pushed to the side, your elbow knocking into the arm of the chair and your head snapping to the source of the disturbance. Scara’s face suddenly came into view as his head rested against your lap, his eyes staring at the ceiling and cheeks speckled with the color silk flowers.

He has this response to things that can throw others off so quickly. He’s violent and angry, but he shows these small signs of humanity in his actions, simple, small things every once in a while it reminds you of a small child who isn’t sure what he really wants 

The more he participates in this activity, the more likely he will invade your lap whenever the urge comes over him. He’ll push whatever is in your lap away, if he’s feeling really nice he’ll pick it up and place it elsewhere, otherwise you learn to never hold anything breakable here - he won’t look at you either, his eyes will look away, always, and he expects you to know what he wants, don’t make him beg for anything 

You never once expected him to follow through with your request, not in a million years. So when he settles against your legs, his face right next to your stomach and eyes looking upward at you, you're unsure how to respond. 

“Well, I’m here.” He says, crossing his arms and legs as he waits expectantly for your attention. You’re so taken-aback that you can’t help but burst into laughter. Covering your face with your hand, the sound of your voice spills into the room and makes the harbinger shift against you. “I knew this was stupid …” He huffs and you have to use so much more strength than you anticipated to pull him back. 

“I’m sorry. I just … I never expected … please, don’t go.” You look at him with hopeful eyes and with a sigh he returns his head to your legs. While one of your hands rests against the top of his head, the other works to save your place in your book before resting it on the end table. You don’t even notice that your fingers have started to play with the short locks of his hair until you look back at his face and see his eyes closed. 

You stall, but only long enough for him to slightly open his eyes and look at you, his expression of ‘did I tell you to stop’ speaking volumes. So, you start to work your fingers through his hair, the dark purple strands slip easily through your fingers as you shift them around. Spreading your hands out and pressing the tips of your fingers against his scalp and, as your bravery grows, you move your fingers toward his jaw and along the edge of his hairline. His short hair gives you a great view of his face, and you wonder if this is the first time you’ve ever really had the opportunity to look at him. He’s incredibly handsome, one reason he was able to capture you so easily, and the longer you played with his hair, the further the corner of his mouth moved into a faint smile. You would do almost anything for that smile. 

A soft chuckle sounds from your throat and the calmness of your actions is gone in an instant. His eyes are open and he’s slipped from your lap, his feet connecting to the floor and the warmth of his body dissipating from your legs. You protest, but he’s already halfway across the room and is clearly trying to keep you from looking at his face. 

Kaeya

He is all about this activity - honestly, he’s all about any type of touch you want to offer him and while he has a lot on his plate, he will take these moments to be with you. He doesn’t care either where or around who, he may be partaking in this delectable experience - his mind is filled with you and, when you hold him, touch him, love him, he can think of nothing else 

You hadn’t seen him all day, which wasn’t uncommon when there were new recruits or the knights were preparing for a subjection out in the wilderness, Kaeya was typically busier during these times. So, when there were days he wouldn’t be able to get away, and you knew he would continue to work until everything was done, you would find your way to him and offer him a short reprieve from the duties of his work. 

He was standing in the hallway consumed in a conversation with one of the knights. His usually peppy demeanor seemed faded, his shoulders drooped a bit further, his gestures more muted as spoke with the other party, and overall, he didn’t seem as energetic as he normally was. 

The closer you got, the more attention you drew, and soon Kaeya turned to look at what was drawing the eyes of his speaking partner. 

“Y/N. What a pleasant surprise.” He perked up when he saw you, the light in his blue eyes flashing, a smile stretching across his face. 

“Hey! I wanted to stop by since I had a moment. Are you free?” You asked him, crossing your hands behind your back and giving the other knight a quick head nod who returned your hello in a similar manner. 

“Of course, I will spare all my time for you.” He closed the distance between the two of you, an arm draping around your shoulder and pulling you close. 

“Captain, we’ve been asked to …” 

“Yes, yes. I’ll get right on it.” He affirmed to the knight before turning all his attention to you and ushering you down the hallway toward his office. 

“Are you sure you are free? If you need me to come ba …” 

“Nonsense, how could I pass up this opportunity. Do not worry your pretty little head.” He laughed, his smile wide and eyes closed. 

“Okay, I won’t keep you long then.” 

“Oh, but I was hoping you’d save me from this boring day.” He laughed and squeezed you closer to his side, even though you could tell he was more tired than usual he was still able to give you so much of his energy.

Kaeya will turn his head toward you, he’ll wrap his hand around your waist because even here he cannot get close enough 

Here, he can breathe you in and be the center of your attention - which is his most favorite thing

What he prefers, what he loves most, is when you touch his face, stroke his cheeks with the back of your fingers or your hands as they slide over him, the way you run your fingers along his brow, his jaw, and across his neck - these actions will give him the chills and it may be the only time you truly see him react in such a way 

When you get settled onto the couch in his office you call him to you. He eagerly takes the space next to you as if it was always meant for him. 

“Lay down, you look exhausted.” You explain, extending your arm around him and waving him to rest in your lap. 

“Hah, are you trying to take advantage of me?” He asks, moving closer to you rather than doing what you asked. 

“If taking advantage of you looks like letting you take a break, then yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing here.” Your laughter fills his ears and he remembers just how much he missed the sound. 

“How can I possibly say no to you?” 

“I know, I’m pretty convincing. Now, come here.” You pull on the sleeve of his arm and he quickly follows your guidance. His head settles onto your thighs, his face as close to your stomach as he can get, and his hands resting against his chest. 

You help him drape his hair over your leg and start working your way through his bangs, sliding your fingers along his forehead. His playful smile slips into a relaxed expression as he takes in the feeling of your touch on his skin. The way you trace your fingers down his cheek, over his nose, across his lips, his jawline, he is beyond happy here. 

“Do you know when you might be able to take a real break?” You ask, running your fingers through the blue strands of his hair, admiring the way it looks as you move them to places they don’t normally rest. 

“It seems there are many days ahead of us. These new recruits are …” He lifted his hands into a shrug before dropping them back onto his chest, “Well, progressing at their own pace we’ll say.” 

“So it’ll be a while.” 

“Perhaps. Don’t fret though, I’ll always make time for you to refill my reserves.” 

“I’ll take on that request.” You look down at him and catch his eyes staring back, he moves his hand to rest against your arm and gives it a tight squeeze before turning his face toward you. His eye closes and even as the conversation dies down, as his breathing becomes slower, and his hand slips down the side of your arm you know he won’t fall asleep. He never falls asleep when you are with him like this, no matter how tired he is he refuses to miss a single moment. 

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

A Moment's Surprise--Chapter 3

Whether it's called an accident or the fates of the universe, you and Calum find yourselves taking on the next level of your relationship: parenthood.

Reader (Gender Neutral) X Calum. Multi-chapter Series.

Series Note: Across this series, pregnancy is discussed thoroughly. While I have made this series specifically a reader insert and have done my best to avoid coding for cis women, I am taking this moment to acknowledge that this content may not be suitable for every reader. I want to acknowledge even if I've been careful some things (like uteri) are still mentioned and if that causes you discomfort please DO NOT read this. You may keep scrolling (as there is a read more) / skip this as necessary.

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Epilogue

Chapter 3

“Okay, so,” Joy starts, glancing up from the rim of her glasses.  It took two months for Joy to get things straightened out enough to come out for the remainder of your pregnancy. And you’re glad for it as now more bouts of morning sickness and fatigue riddled your days. “We’ve got the baby registry together, correct?”

You nod. “Yes. Just heard back from Calum yesterday about the things he wants to add. We had to go with the second rocking chair. Calum--well, we won’t get into that,” you laugh, running a hand over your slight bump. At eighteen weeks, you weren’t showing too much, but you knew. 

Joy laughs at your comment. “He’s just nervous.” 

Calum wanted everything baby related with the highest safety ratings. You wanted things that would help promote motor skills and other development milestones. It was a struggle sometimes not only just to disagree but to also have hefty time zone differences. When difficult conversations had to be had, Calum’s day was ending as yours was just beginning and yours was ending just as his was ending. Text wasn’t the platform for these conversations either. There were a lot of early morning calls. 

Joy took special care not to intervene in those conversations nor to take sides. Her go-to line was, “All I need is a happy grandbaby.” And currently, though Joy is letting you know that Calum’s particular current quirk is because of fear, it’s not a malicious rebuttal to you. Because you know if Calum were to get huffy about your desires, Joy would simply state you just want to raise an independent and confident child. The street with Joy goes two ways. 

“I know he is,” you return. “So am I.”

“Being nervous is natural. Nothing wrong with it. But if the registry is super set, then we should be a bit more at when do you want the baby shower? I think I have Calum’s tour schedule here somewhere.” She shuffles through the pages you printed down for you. You’ve easily pulled up the schedule from the saved document on your desktop but you wait for her to find it in her pile. Though Joy was quite comfortable with technology, she still prefered her paper files. 

Once Joy finds it, you skim over your screen.“Biggest chunk of time off is between the North American leg and the Australia dates.”

“There’s a show in September right?” Joy asks. 

“Yeah, I have a date for later that month.” Joy hums writing something down in her notebook off to the side. You tack on, “Looks like there’s time too in July and August.”

“You want the baby shower a little closer to the due date. Let’s look into September or October.”

You nod. “Didn’t know that.”

Joy laughs. “Neither did I before Mali. But I think you two should talk more about that. I just want to put it on your radar.”

“I’m going to run the poor man ragged,” you tease. 

“The only way to make sure he’s okay is to ask him. Besides, he did put you in this position. I love him, but let’s be honest.”

You snort at Joy’s tease. “I’m going to let that one stay between us,” you state. 

“Fair enough. But truly having a baby is no easy feat and it is tiring from start until finish in all sorts of new ways as they get older. But you two will always have me.” 

You know Joy is right. Things would obviously be slightly easier if Calum wasn’t touring. But in the end, this is the timing that’s been handed to the both of you. In the end, this is the decision that you two agreed on. 

From her spot at the dining room table, Joy spots the time. She pushes up from the kitchen table. “What do you want for lunch, dear? There’s leftovers, but I can cook too if there’s anything in particular?”

“Can you make those breaded chicken tenderloins again?” you ask, turning in the chair a little. 

Joy grins. “Of course. Salad too?”

“Fine, Mom,” you laugh. Joy wags one finger up over her shoulder at you, like she’s agreeing with your teasing job. Your phone buzzes and you turn back to glance at it. 

How’s today? It’s a text from Calum. 

You free?

The response to your text is a call lighting up your phone. You answer the request for a FaceTime call and a moment later you can see Calum’s face filling the screen. “Hey, babe,” he says with a smile. “Hi, Mum!”

“Hey,” the two of you echo back at him. Joy laughs just a little as you ask, “What time is it for you?”

Calum glances off to the side for a moment as the cacophony of shouts interrupts through the line. He moves to somewhere slightly quieter, the slight shake of his phone alerts you to the movement. “Show just ended an hour ago or so, we’re closing in around midnight I’d reckon. How are you?”

“Good, today’s been a nice day. Chickadee hasn’t raised too much hell.”

“Glad to hear it. I did some more research on the floor beds and I will say I do like the idea of it. Just take it slow with me. I don’t want my Pumpkin growing up too fast,” Calum states. 

“Once I’m done growing them, I’ll give them the memo,” you tease. 

Calum’s tuft of laughter is soft. “I had a bummer thought which is why I called instead of just texting.”

It’s bad. Whatever it is, it is bad for Calum to even mention it to you. “Uh oh, what’s the bummer thought?”

“I’m realizing how close your due date is to the Oceania tour dates.”

“Cal, it’s just an estimate.”

“I know,” he returns. “But still. The thought that I could make the choice to continue shows and you’d go into labor without me there--it scares me. I don’t want to miss that.”

The fates really were up to the gods, but you understand the fear. With the timing of everything, you were looking at the first week of November as your due date. However, as your doctor mentioned, due dates weren’t perfect. It was briefly considered given Calum’s touring schedule if the two of you should go more for elective C-section. The risks and the fact that any more pregnancies later in life would also have to be delivered by a C-sections halted the conversations early in their tracks. 

“We’ll keep hoping things line up,” you offer. 

“There still is time, yeah,” Calum nods. 

“Do you want a distraction or just to sort of vent?” you ask. While you want to help Calum, you know sometimes it’s just about the emotional release more than anything else. 

Calum shakes his head. “Distraction. There’s time to pout later.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Love, I’m the one that got you pregnant so you don’t have to apologize.”

“I was an enthusiastic and willing partner too in this so…,” you point out, foregoing the urge to tell Calum that Joy made the exact same joke earlier. Calum laughs in return. “But that’s not the actual distraction. Baby shower is.”

“Isn’t this like…way too early?”

“You’re the one that’s touring, mister. We have to work around your schedule.”

“Okay, okay, you’re right. You’re trying to plan in advance for the date?”

You nod. “Yes. Momma Joy has informed me that closer to the due date is better. You have the show in late September. But we could do it before or in October. I think my concern is that you actually have time on your breaks to relax.”

“We’ve got a little one to prepare for. Not too many breaks will be just relaxing with me being gone on tour.”

It’s a fact you had grown intimately familiar with as more doctor’s visits lined up and more things seemed to pile up for the house. “My uncle’s visiting when the Mexico leg starts up to help with the heavy lifting for Joy and I, so there’s that thankfully.”

Calum hums at the news. “That’s a relief, truly. I was worried. There’s that shelf to be taken down and the bed.”

“Trust me Joy wouldn’t let me think of trying to take those down. I think quite literally if the thought crossed my mind, she’d give me the look.” You attempt to recreate the quite stern glance Joy no doubt perfected over the years. Calum laughs, the skin around his eyes crinkling at the action. “Not trying to witness that more than necessary.”

“It’s not a fun look to receive. You know it’s not because she’s angry, just disappointed and it’s ten times worse. But I’m 90% sure that the September gig is on a Saturday. But let’s aim for a date range of one week before and one week after?”

You nod, taking one of the pens residing on the table and making a note. “Sounds good.”

“Monday for you, what will basically be Tuesday for me, is your next appointment correct?”

“Yes.”

Calum hums to signal him hearing you. “I need a bump update soon.”

You pop your head up. The slight drop is his voice being all too familiar to your ears. Without alerting Joy, you scramble to find your headphones. All you do is signal to Calum to give you a moment and then you scurry as quickly as you to the backyard. When the house turns to sunlight and Calum spots the white resting inside your ears, he exhales. “Do you know how hard it is? You’re so…god,” he sighs. 

“You did say I’d be hot pregnant. I just wasn’t expecting this.”

 You watch as his head drops into the wall behind him. He grazes his teeth over his bottom lip as if the thought is still lingering in his mind. 

“Fuck,” he hums and then takes just a second to shake his head, an action to clear away some of the thoughts. “It’s like, yes, absolutely would love to make love to you--no question. But also, I want to hold your bump you know? Just talk to the little one, be there to force you to sit down and take it easy.”

“There’s a break in a week,” you offer it gently, but even Calum catches the slight hitch to your voice. 

“I need it. I need you,” he whispers. “And like, I don’t mean it solely like that, sexually. I mean it is just as plain as it sounds. I think I’m driving the guys and the rest of the crew insane.”

“Soon, love. There are some perks to pregnancy.” You seal the sentiment with a wink. 

“Oh, don’t do that to me. You’re stirring an already boiling pot.”

With a playful shrug, you grin. “Maybe I’m looking to boil it over.”

“I know a spot for that,” he returns with a laugh. His name is called from somewhere off to the side and Calum catches more of it than you. He exhales deeply. “Getting rounded up. So--I’ll double check the September show, we’ll look for venues for the baby shower, and you’re sending me a bump picture as soon as you can.”

“Yes, yes, and, definitely.”

“Love you and let Pumpkin know I love them too. And Mum.”

You nod. “I will let all parties know.”

___________________________

You and Joy sit at the dining room table but both of you are clearly more attuned to the front door than anything else. Joy asked Calum early in the week if he wanted her to pick him up but the thing that worried Calum was that if fans spotted Joy then they’d have questions about why she was in the States. If those questions started he’s sure that it wouldn’t be super long until they started questioning where you’d gone or what was going on with you. Though you weren’t active much at all on social media in terms of actually posting things, anything you did post would be subject to close scrutiny. Neither you or Calum truly wanted to announce the pregnancy as it alone was already a lot to work with given the tour at this particular moment. It was subject to change, but right now it felt too new and too fragile to be announced to the public. 

So you and Joy stayed home, letting the car that the band always had pick him up and drop him off at home. But the two of you are waiting and waiting. Your leg bounces as you break apart the same piece of cookie into smaller and smaller pieces. You flick your gaze over to the door. Duke is also posed on the couch, head positioned in the direction of the door as if he knows exactly what everyone else is waiting for. A smile crosses your face and then you look back down at the plate. 

When you look up again, Joy is smiling over at you. You know she knows. “Joy, don’t look at me,” you laugh, covering your face. 

“I’m glad he has you,” she says instead. “And though, I was hoping I’d get to see you two going down the aisle before this and I won’t let him get away with that so easily, I’m really really glad he has you.”

It did seem, sometimes when you thought about it, that things were happening too in ways that you hadn’t anticipated. “Life has a funny way of working things out.”

She nods. “That it does.” Her phone chimes and she pushes up just a little to check in. “Oh Mali, the earth is still spinning,” she chuckles mostly to herself. To you, she asks, “Have you thought about baby names?”

“Shit!” you exclaim. How’d you forget to look at names? Why wasn’t that the first thing on your mind? 

Joy grins. “Hey, no. There’s time. You’ve got many things on your mind. That’s why I’m here. Give me some of those things, dear. I’m not going to be spending a year out here for nothing.”

“A year?” you ask. You thought she was just saying until Calum’s tour finished. 

“Yeah. You thought I’d just up and leave to the other side of the world without spending a few months with my grandbaby. Oh, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Joy--that’s your whole left you’ve put on pause. What do you mean?”

She shakes her head, a brighter smile lighting up her face. “Sweetheart, my whole life is right there.” She points to your abdomen. The gesture turns grander to the house around you. “Right here. I only dreamed of my children getting opportunities like this. We lived paycheck to paycheck and there were plenty of nights where I stayed up trying to crunch numbers. My kids have surpassed everything I could conceive of for them. I get to grow older, watch them grow up. Spoil grandbabies. That sounds a lot like life to me.”

“When you put it like that, yeah it does,” you nod. You take a quick second to wipe your cheeks. “Joy, I know I say it like five thousand times a day, but I appreciate you being here. Like a lot. When I found out I was pregnant, I felt like I was underwater and I’d forgotten how to breathe. I still feel like that sometimes. But I need it. I know I asked for it--the help. But it’s like you expect a certain level of help but I don’t know. It just means a lot. I’m babbling and I don’t know what else to say but thank you.”

“You’re beyond welcome, hon. Now, please actually eat the cookie before I do. I’ve already had three. No more.”

You pop a piece into your mouth even with a watery smile. “Yes ma’am.” 

Duke pops, front paws resting on the couch arm rest and lets out a bark. He goes like he’s going to leap from the couch, but you’re quick to pop up from the seat. “What is it?” you ask. You know Duke can’t answer, but still the question falls easily for your lips. 

Not too soon after the question falls, there’s the distinct click of the door unlocking. You continue to the couch to help Duke down. The door opens up and Calum with backpack and suitcase in hand stands on the other side of the door. His smile is brilliant after landing his gaze on you. You reach out to pull the suitcase further inside. “I got it,” he laughs, but you don’t stop realizing that you don’t quite have the breath to talk gazing up at Calum. Duke is steadily barking at his feet and Calum is quick to pick up the small dog. “Hey, I’m back, buddy. Missed me?”

“Aye, the man of the hour,” Joy comments, before briefly kissing Calum on his cheek. 

“Hi, Mum,” he returns, giving her a quick hug. You catch Joy’s voice but can’t hear the exact words she passes along to Calum. He flicks his gaze over to you and a small blush takes over his cheeks. “Mum, please.”

“I only speak the truth,” she returns and takes Duke from Calum. “We’ll give you two some privacy. But I mean it, son.”

“I know you do,” Calum sighs, slipping the backpack from his shoulders. 

The moment Calum turns back to face you, you slide yourself up to his chest, arms encasing his waist. You burrow your head into his sternum. His shirt holds the smell of the airport’s lingering scent and beneath it is the faint hint of nicotine. The heaviest edge that dances in your nose is his own natural musk. It’s all just Calum in your arms. 

“Hey,” he whispers, arms wrapping around your shoulders. 

Calum’s left before. It happens. You’ve always known how to handle the distances that his job sometimes takes him. It could be the constant flux of hormones, or the fatigue that seemed to be settling in deeply at every turn for you. But the embrace you share with Calum sends a wave of emotion through you. The tears sting at first, for just a moment and then the wave breaks the dam. You shake into his chest. 

“It’s okay, baby,” Calum states. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m just glad you’re back. And I’m horny. And I’m hungry,” you answer.

Calum’s chuckle shakes through his chest and yours. “We can tackle all of those, I promise.” He takes half a step back. Tears are slipping down your cheeks but you’re smiling and it gives him a prompt to smile too. His thumbs swipe gently at your cheeks. “I know you’re going to holler at me about taking an actual break, but this weekend, just the two of us are going to take a little drive up the coast okay.”

“The weekend’s like your whole break?” It’s not really, but the weekend would be a third of this break. 

“And I’d always want to spend it with you.” Calum’s palms are warm against your cheek, long fingers almost wrapping around to the back of your head as he cradles your face. 

“This weekend, up the coast?” 

Calum nods. “I promise it’s nothing crazy. Just a little getaway.” Your silence lingers, eyes darting across his face. The tears have slowed. “It’ll take care of one of those issues you listed off earlier.” 

Your laughter falls easily when Calum sends a wink your way. “Will there be time for baby names?”

“Absolutely,” Calum agrees. “I’ve already been thinking of some ideas.”

“I’m so behind on that front.”

“No, you’re doing other things. Like trying to redo the guest room, putting together the registry, thinking about the baby shower. You’ve still got your job too. There’s only so many hours in the day, love.”

You tuck yourself back into Calum’s chest and nod at his statement. You miss his scent. It left the sheets after the third wash. There’s still some shirts and occasionally you dress his pillow in one but it’s not the same. Nothing is better than Calum right here in front of you. His lips are gently against the top of your head. There’s no rush as the two of you remain in the embrace. 

Calum takes it upon himself to fix you and Joy dinner. As he cooks, he takes small breaks to rest a hand on your growing stomach. It’s a reminder--the physical reminder that all the long calls and mornings spent browsing too many parents and baby websites is actually for something. Over the sizzle of the pans and through the laughter of you and Joy, Calum’s sure he’s floating. He’s sure none of it is real and yet, when you walk behind him, your hands brush over his lower back, he’s reminded that it is all real.

Tagging: @carma-fanficaddict @one-sweet-gubler