#As the saying goes now the tea is scalding hot

[queenie-the-court-jester]

𝐥; 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬: masterlist

𝐭𝐰: none, just reader being fruity. Not proofread, sorry for any bad grammar

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: all characters, including the reader, are 18+. Mdni since this series will include grave topics and nsfw content. Reader is depicted as fem and goes by she/her pronouns

You woke up after a crazy dream of taking a shower and some dude kidnapping you as soon as you stepped out of the bathroom, groggily you sat up as you could faintly hear birds chirping outside the little window next to the bed you were on

wait. A window? Your eyes shot open at the realization, this wasn't your bed. There was no way you would ever be able to afford all the fancy stuff in it. You practically jumped out of the bed, you were wearing only a very fine silk nightgown and bonnet. You walked over to the door, about to open it when it opened itself

A pair of black eyes stared at you, and you stared right back. The elderly man held a tea set in his hands, suddenly breaking the silence

"I see you are awake.. that is good news, im sure you're wondering where you are right now hm? Come nowy dear, let's sit down and talk over this subject over tea"

You hesitantly followed him to the cornet of the room, sitting across from him on the little tea table. He seemed frail and weak, the thought about rocking his shit so you could escape crossed your mind, but you couldn't do that to an old man. It was against your morality

"so.. who are you? Where am I?"

"I am cosmo soleris, the headmaster of this school. You are in my school, one of my students found you unconscious in the woods and brought you here, tell me, do you remember anything?"

"no just.. some guy kidnapped me after I finished showering I think..?"

"I'm terribly sorry this has happened to you.. unfortunately it seems you aren't from our world, so it may take a while for us to find a way for you to return home"

"...what."

He explained to you of different worlds and realm travelling of which you understood nothing of, only that a hole must have opened to their world in the middle of your kidnapping and you must've fell through

"rest assured my dear, we will do everything we can to find this hole and send you back home. In the meantime, you are welcome to stay here until he figure everything out. Oh! Where are my manners.. what is your name?"

"y/n.. y/n l/n.."

"welcome y/n"

he smiled warmly at you, setting down his teacup. Guess you had to stay for a while.. fuck, you already missed your bed

Cosmo offered for you to study at the school meanwhile, he looked for a way to send you back home. At first you thought it would be nice, you were supposed to enter your senior year anyway, and free tuition is always a welcome benefit to dropping into some random ass world. Until your new schedule was dropped off, Cosmo's annoying ass pet bird swooped into your bedroom through a window on the roof. Honking and cawing until you got up.

You shot dirty looks at the bird, rolling your eyes as you grumbled and muttered. Trudging to the tiny bathroom to get ready. After you got out, the bird sat on your bed. Staring at you with it's beady eyes

"what are you even..a chicken? Duck? Cockroach?"

It only cawed at you before hopping onto the floor, walking to the door and waiting for you to open it. You sighed and walked over, making your way down the hall with the bird as your guide

"what did Cosmo call you again? Phee-phee?"

It chirped as if saying "yes"

"Well phee-phee.. guess we're stuck together for a while"

You were so distracted Talking to the ugly ass bird you didn't notice the girl right Infront of you. It was too late since you bumped into her and somehow fell onto her tits

"oh my god shit are you okay-"

"ow.. that hurt.."

You looked up, only to come face to face with the hottest girl you've ever seen. No, literally. She was so hot, scalding actually. You winced as you quickly got off her, helping her get back up

"so you're the new transfer student.. I am Chloe javius Skylar. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

She did a polite short bow, blonde curls bouncing a bit

"..hey chloe, do you like girls"

"huh."

[mindhowyougo]

and now, for some reason, a coda to... zenana?

The first police on the scene are uniform. They take possession of Thursday's gun and politely suggest he and Morse wait a safe distance from the body of the young woman: somewhere still in plain view but where they were unlikely to interfere with the scene. Thursday thought Morse might protest leaving Violetta, but he goes along without argument, following the direction of the uniform's pointing hand like someone drifting through a dream. He nearly walks into a headstone. He does not react even to Thursday pulling him clear.

Thursday's hand feels emptier after: missing the familiar weight of the gun, perhaps, or the warmth of Morse's elbow, or maybe just purpose.

Next on the scene is a middle-aged inspector in a well-cut coat that can't hide the crooked slouch beneath it. He steps off the police motorboat just moored along the canal, takes a brief glance at Ludo's body newly fetched from the water, and then makes a considerably longer tour of Violetta's beneath the arcade. When he gets to them, he implies with sticky English he might be able to make the gun disappear; Thursday replies in tart Italian he rather expected the gun back. Even rusty, the words are sharp, and the deputy inspector jerks as if pricked.

“As you like,” he sighs, more irritated than embarrassed. In short order they are hauled off and handcuffed.

Morse never says a word.

–

There are many kinds of long nights. Time stretches itself out and sleep doesn't come. Life offers no shortage of reasons for the long dark: fear, boredom. Either way you find yourself waiting for dawn, for an excuse to move and pretend again.

But the nights he always finds hardest to bear are the ones that come after – after whatever it is you would have called the real action. The danger has passed but your guard's not fully down; the world has revealed itself to be other than what it was, and you don't know what will come next. But nothing comes next. Nothing becomes that's it? And before you know it, whatever-it-is becomes just another thing you've survived.

He looks at Morse staring down at his lap as they wait in the police station, and he thinks he sees it all in the hard carve of his mouth, the unnatural stillness of his eyes. He could turn to marble right now and be no less alive.

(Survivor of His Own Mistakes the plaque might read, and one day tourists would come from all over and snap clueless photos; small children would climb over his lap and on his back, tuck their chin over the crown of his head; no one would guess his age or that his hair could look almost reddish in certain light, that his eyes had ever held more heart than some of the flesh and blood around them.)

Thursday speaks to a young man who has the look of a constable about him. Five minutes later a hot mug is delivered into his hands. He takes a cautious sniff and mentally shrugs, for it isn't like there is anything else on hand. Sometimes all one needs is something warm.

“Morse,” he says, and he stands close in front of the man so his feet are in his sightline. He waits for him to look up. Tells himself he'll wait at least thirty seconds before laying a hand on his shoulder. (And a lifetime before tipping his chin like his fingers itch to do.)

He is at only nine seconds when Morse stirrs and glances up.

“Drink this,” he instructs, and shoves the mug into his hands.

Morse passes the mug between his hands, searching for a safe way to hold the scalding ceramic. “What is it?” he asks doubtfully, blinking down into the middling brown contents. Just as well he isn't looking at him and cannot see the relief the sound of his voice brings.

“Best not to question it,” he says; Thursday had asked for tea. “Down the hatch, now.”

Wonder of wonders, Morse obeys: tips his head back and take a healthy belt. When he lowers the mug, his face is set in a faint grimace. Likely unable to muster the sincerity for speech, he merely nods his thanks to Thursday.

Thursday finally sits next to him, and his knees ache faintly from his long vigil.

“How long do you think they'll keep us?” Morse asks quietly. He pinches the mug between his knees and tips his wrist to check his watch.

Two bodies and two foreigners; by all rights, they might never leave. Thursday will have to take his pension from this bench.

“Shouldn't be too long,” he says firmly. “They're contacting Thames Valley to check our identities, and I've called the British consulate here in Venice to keep them apprised of the situation. At the very least, I think they'll feel comfortable releasing us on our recognizance, once they got our statement.”

“That's rather optimistic of you,” says Morse, dubious.

“Well, one of us has to look on the bright side.” And if he was a wincing man, he would've done then. He is spared having to see Morse's reaction by the reappearance of the inspector from the canal, and he stands quickly to draw his attention. Like he might shield Morse from the rest of the world with his body.

–

Their continental counterparts wish to talk to them separately. They want the whole story.

It's nothing he wouldn't demand himself, if he was in their position, but he is in possession of a few important facts. Or maybe just the one – Morse, and how unlikely some of his leaps of logic might seem. Add in the language barrier and he is distinctly leery of letting the other man out of his sight. He's heard things about Italian lockups; the same thing they say about English ones, probably, but with a different syllable stressed on the sneer.

“I should be there,” he tells the chief inspector, a peaceable man who'd introduced himself as Ripamonti. “I'm his superior officer. And I'll need to translate for him.”

Chief Inspector Ripamonti is amused. “Your concern does you credit, Inspector, though I confess it also causes me some confusion – you were the one who shot Mr Talenti, were you not? Yes?” He makes a doubtful sound. “It was your gun, and you have admitted all this already?”

He realizes then that a large part of him still thinks of the situation as being Morse's fault. The law can be bloodyminded sometimes, but thankfully less so than people. It's one of his favorite things about it.

“Morse had nothing to do with it,” he confirmed.

Ripamonti smiles and claps. “Then your Morse shall manage just fine. The interview can be conducted in English. And as this is not a military tribunal, there will be no need for your presence.” His tone is not unkind, and he pauses, thoughtfully looking Thursday up and down, dark eyes lingering over his grey hair, the lines of his face. “You were here during the war, maybe?”

Given the other man's age, there was no way to guess a safe answer. So Thursday sticks with the truth.

“Ah, well,” says Ripamonti, and that's all he says.

[wellthebardsdead]

And now, what my dragonborns smell like, just because~

———

Marigold: Honey, chamomile, lotus & orange blossom. He smells like a warm sleepy cup of floral tea and can be just as sweet or scalding depending on how much he likes you~ fittingly to his name he likes the more floral scents and finds them relaxing, though he doesn’t mind earthier scents too like fresh pine. Kaidan likes it from a distance but up close he normally has a sneezing fit, he quickly gets used to it.

———

Henwen: tundra cotton, blue mountain flower and very powdery fine soap, something akin to English fern or talc powder. He loves the comfy smelling scents but lavender is too overpowering for him, it kicks up terrible hay fever. He’s just a soft boi and wants to smell soft too. Kaidan loves it too but it rocks him to sleep too easily laying beside him when he wants to stay up reading to him.

———

Naria: sea salt, sage & jasmin. As a maormer he’s incapable of actually sweating or producing any unpleasant smells so he has no real need for perfumes or fragrance but he enjoys using them regardless. He prefers earthy and milder smells but keeps the scent of the sea with him no matter how far in land he goes. A hug from him will probably leave you feeling very sleepy like you’ve spent a long day at the beach, it certainly does for Kaidan & Cary.

———

Flynt: Lemon grass and sandalwood. He was a soldier for a long time and got pretty used to the smell of gross sweaty armour, then following his loss of eye sight and ability to speak he was left homeless and begging on the streets and dealt with all the unpleasant smells there. So when Taliesin enters his life and spends hours helping him pick out soaps and fragrances he found himself drawn to the sweet and woodsy. He thinks it matches Taliesins honey and vanilla milk scent nicely.

———

Bass: sandalwood, burning hot metal & rosemary. He’s an old dwemer used to working with his hands, so long as he’s clean at the start and end of the day and he doesn’t stink during he’s content. He’s frequently welding or building something and has that pleasant electric scent lingering around him, but also keeps a sandalwood stick burning and a sprig of Rosemary in his scarf to remind him of his wife.

———

Evalien: sweet musk or cotton candy. She’s from our world and likes the familiarity the scents have. And they’re overpowering enough she doesn’t have to smell the rest of team dragonborn when they’re 3 days between inns and the nearest bath. No she will not sleep with Kaidan unless he has one.

———

Sylas: Mint & lemon grass. at first he was content smelling like moss, mildew and the lingering stench of death from living in abandoned crypts and staining his white hair black with soot or charcoal so he could keep a low profile. Then he met Taliesin. And while the grumpy elf resisted his makeover he had to admit he loved the clean, sweet and fresh scents his new lifestyle allowed him… plus Taliesin won’t let him touch him if he hasn’t freshened up.

———

Shamat: Sweet musk & sandalwood. He likes the sweet and warm mix the scent brings him, it feels oddly very familiar to him but he can never place it, at least until he’s kidnapped by nerevar. The first thing he does when he buys his first house burn them as incense. It makes him feel like he’s home. Kaidan does think it’s a little overpowering but he loves seeing how happy it makes him so he copes.

———

Aurorwren: orange blossom & nirnroot. He’s a fan of the sweet citrus scents but also the fresh grassy fragrances the nirnroot oil leaves on his feathers. But given he doesn’t produce an odour he prefers to go without sometimes. Kaidan often says he smells like a chicken to tease him when he does.

———

Poppy: Pure opium. He’ll give you fair warning that he’s going to release a cloud of gas from the pressure locks on his automated parts so you can get out of the way. His blood was replaced with the extract. How’s he still alive? Simple he’s not. Remove the dynamo core and he drops dead. Why opium? Because when he was first rebuilt he kept screaming in pain despite the fact he shouldn’t feel anything. He’s a walking bio hazard but despite that the group always manage to find themselves within range of a valve release knockout at least once.

[musingsofaperpetualdaydreamer]

The Tortured Poets Department: The Anthology first listen 🎧🪻✨

More than 15 years later wow it still feels so magical to listen to a brand new album. The joy, the excitement, the nervousness. I mark chapters of my life with her albums, they always seem to arrive with perfect timing. Is it fate or delusion? Probably the later, obviously she has no idea who I am. Idk it feels nice to delude myself now and again that we’re all journeying through this time together in some connectedness (is that a word?). It feels sort of nostalgic in some ways, from being just a child to now an adult, it’s like Sesame Street that grows up with you. Not a great analogy but what I mean to say is it holds a special place to me.

This album, this anthology feels much like we’ve been handed her diary, filled with sticky notes bound together, it’s so raw but so expertly crafted, messy feelings but the penmanship is exquisite. From her debut album, it’s always been poetry. She transports you to her world. What a journey, what a joy, what a gift.

I like to capture my first thoughts of each song in my silly chicken scratching written notes. Most of it makes no sense. It feels like a nice silly tradition and it’s fun to look back on. So here goes:

Fortnight

- It’s giving moody 1989??? Excuse me miss?!!! Ohhh she knows. Preach bye time to cry

The tortured poets department

- Ooooh we’re in an 80s dreamscape. Yes yes yes. Who’s gonna love you but me? A fluffy dreamland Patty smith? Insert wait I understood the reference meme. Ooooh it’s lovely. I am sad

My boy only breaks his favourite toys

- excuse me?? I’m shattered byyyyyeee. I’ll tell you that he runs because he loves me?? You should’ve see him when he first saw me? Once I fix me he’s gonna miss me??? Ladies and gents welcome to afternoon tea on the menu SCALDING hot queen’s special. Maybe I’m a crumpled up paper on the floor. Maybe I am no more.

Down Bad

- well damn she’s said the quiet parts out loud again. Oh smokes time to dissapear into this galaxy smoky cloud of night. One of us. One of us. One of us.

So long London

- literally standing by the river in the rain. May as well cry my damn eyes out . Darn it blondie. Poetic destruction. Crying my eyes out by the water like I’m in made in Chelsea. Darn.

But daddy I love him

- a folklore ode? Little house on the prairie Princess revolution. Serve it up serve it up I’m ready to be stuffed like a winter pig. A grown up love story. It’s ridiculous and maybe wise eyes know too well it’s chockablock of red flags but darn I’m a cheesin’ this is so cute.

Fresh out the slammer

- oh it’s like August but dark. August dark afternoon blistering hot and the storm is about to come.

Florida!!! Ft Florence and the machine

-ExXUSE MEEEEEEEeE?????!?!!?teee heee heee heeee. Your home’s really only a town you’re a guest in??? Sorry can’t speak my jaw has shattered. Pls pls. Palm tree pls.

Guilty as sin?

- A false God dreamy haze confessional? With sprinkle of Gold Rush??? I am a melted.

Who’s afraid of little old me?

- The who’s who of who’s that is poised for the attack? But my bare hands paved their path, you don’t get to tell me what’s sad? - I AM CHOKED. Silenced mute. Ohhhh miss blondie is on BUSINESS. TELL THEM SWEETIE. Oh my heart 💔

I can fix him (No really I can).

- Oooh moody blues preaching with generous dash of delusion? Ah yes my routine favourite beverage. I am drinking this up like air. Drunk on false hope? One of us. One of us. One of us.

Loml

- You Holy Ghost you told me I’m the love of your life. Oh no I’m crying again. Back to crumpled paper rocking back and forth on the floor in a ball it is. It’s so pretty yet, shattering. Devastating. I wish I could unrecall how we almost had it all. Dancing phantoms on the terrace, are they second hand embarrassed that I can’t get out of bed ‘cause something counterfit is dead? Yep that’ll do it.

I can do it with a broken heart?

- Oh damn. Honey nooooo. Oh myyyy. Oh I’m in this picture and I don’t like it. It’s so artfully done, so upbeat and Poppy yet so hauntingly sad. Yes that’s the point but it’s sooo well done. Oh sweetie. I can’t stop laughing it’s not funny, it’s just you too pumpkin. I wanna hug her and tell her it’ll be fine. Ok ok.

The smallest man who ever lived

- Oh I’m speechless. And I don’t even want you back, I just want to know, if rusting my sparkling summer was the goal. The bridge? Excuse me while I sink to the bottom of the darkest ocean.

The alchemy

- Oooh it’s so cute and dreamy. I’m beaming you can hear her smile when she sings.

Clara bow

- Oooh it’s the lucky one grown up. The bridge is a masterpiece. It’s hell on earth to be heavenly, thems the breaks it don’t come gently. She knows she’s a star, The never ending cyclical wheel of stardom, even the shiniest, ends with a new star born in its shadow.

The black dog

- Oh No no no I Am 1 billion percent destroyed. Byeeeee

Imgonnagetyouback

- Oooh blondie is on the prowl and what can I do but bop like the well stuffed clown I am. Insert meme of cat bopping their head.

The albatross

- Banjo? Haunting country cautionary tale? - scathing review of one’s reputation, worst traits but underneath it all is just vulnerability. Caged for ‘monstrosity’ but being so vulnerable and just wanting to be freed loved. The ‘monster’ trying to protect the one they love from the things that will come for them too? Do they even realise it? Do they care? Wow it’s poetically beautiful.

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus

- Oh it’s sad. If you wanna break my cold cold heart, just say I loved you the way that you were? Oh myyy. Replaying old moments, looking for clues wondering if it can all have a new ending? Wow.

How did it end?

- Wow the invasiveness of empathy of the innate curiosity of wanting to know, so you can something comforting, learn from it but you forget how it can be the worst part, having to offer up a ‘post mortem’ to all when you’ve barely even processed its ended yourself. The cyclical nature of it happening every time like it’s just a formal process we’ve come to accept even though it haunts us all. Ironically as we listen to this. Wow so beautifully done.

So high school

- I wanna find you in a crowd just to hide from you, and in a blink of a crinkling eye, I’m sinking, our fingers entertwined. Awww the sort of bubblegum silly feels you roll your eyes but you have the biggest smile on your face. It’s soo cute. You know how to call, I know Aristotle.

I hate it here

- Oooooh tell me something awful like you’re a poet trapped inside the body of a finance guy. One of us. One of us.

ThanK you aIMee

- Oh my goodness it’s grown up mean but she made it out. It’s so sad but I’m beaming. I say that’s my baby and I’m proud. Andrea? Oh thank you next. Not the kid. I’m cackling.

I look in people’s windows

- Oh it’s haunted death by a thousand cuts glimmering of desperate false hope. It’s lovely.

The prophecy

- Oh. Damn yep that’ll do it. Right in the ticker. Damn. It feels very much like am I doomed to always be the one before the one? Wow. Just yeah.

Cassandra

- I don’t know why but this makes think of safe and sound. Like the woman that was there when everything burned around them. She’s telling her side. Everyone’s there to watch you burn, screaming your guilt but silent when they’re wrong? If that ain’t the truth miss. Oh wow. Shes beautifully captured such a dark chapter.

Peter

- Oh wow it’s beautiful. It’s like post cardigan and she’s all grown up. 'Cause love's never lost when perspective is earned. But the woman who sits by the window has turned out the light. Oh wow it’s wow.

The Bolter

- Oh we must stop meeting like this but it always ends with a town car speeding. Wowowow. It feels like the time she fell through the ice, then came out alive. Oh my a BEAUTY.

Robin

- Oh it’s so pretty. It’s like never grow up, safe and sound and seven swirled together. Wow. It’s like she’s talking to her child but then also herself in the past and present, like from an older perspective? Ohhh it’s beautiful. Why does this make me think of coraline’s real mother watching her sleep? I wanna cry.

The manuscript

- Wow god it’s beautiful. Another time travel song. You keep revisiting past in your mind and you gain perspective and then you realise you aren’t that version of you that lived it anymore. You can feel it still, not as deeply perhaps but you’re disconnected from thinking the way you did at that time or after. Is sobering and haunting. The healing. Wow wow wow.

@taylorswift thank you my love 💕

[astudyintheburningofhearts]

Camelot's knights, much like Camelot's servants and cooks and laundry maids, were notorious gossips. It was a poorly kept secret. One would simply have to walk up to any working member of the castle and ask for the latest news and they would be provided with either the most accurate happenings of the king's court or the most outlandish theories and stories that often circulated around the whole kingdom.

And so, Wilfred, one of the bakers from the lower town, asked a similar question to Heath, one of the lower tiered kitchen-working servants in the castle.

"So, Heath. How goes the job?" Wilfred implored, his eyes glimmering with an impish look Heath was far too accustomed to by now.

Heath, however, was no stranger to some harmless goading, choosing to beat around the bush like his dear friend had done, "Oh, it's good. You must've heard of Magadalene, keeps everyone on their toes, she does," he grinned, winking cheekily.

Wilfred rolled his eyes, taking an annoyed slurp of his still-piping-hot tea; Heath eyeing the movement of the cup settling back on the table, absently wondering how the man never managed to scald his tongue.

Heath continued to stare at Wilfred's cup, lost in his own head, when Wilfred loudly cleared his throat, giving Heath a meaningful look when he finally managed to catch his eyes once more.

Seeing that Heath was not going to budge unless properly prompted, Wilfred sighed in resignation, "Really going to make me say it out loud, aren't you?" He asked, lips pulling into a thin line to complete his signature deadpan look.

Heath merely grinned at him, slowly bringing his own tea cup to take a sip of his much-sweeter-than-Wilfred's tea.

With another eyeroll alongside another sigh, Wilfred capitulated, raising his hands in surrender as he leaned back in his chair, "Alright, alright. Tell me about the latest from the castle."

Heath's smile spread so wide Wilfred nearly squinted from how bright it was. "Well... Merlin's been going around making everybody flower crowns. I heard that he's even planning to make some for the rest of us, you know, the one's who don't work in the castle."

Wilfred's eyes widened, "Really? I've heard he's very good at making them, I'd love to gift one to my sister!"

Heath nodded, "I think she'd love that. I'm not sure when Merlin will actually get around to making the rest of them, though. Both Gaius and the King have kept him busy."

That made Wilfred pause for a minute. Merlin was the King's manservant, he was the court physician's apprentice – though everybody knew that he was well on his way to taking over Gaius' job within the next few years – so why on Earth was he sitting around making flower crowns for the plebians of the lower town?

"Wait, even though that explains why everybody has been going around wearing those ornate flower crowns recently, what I still don't get is why he's making them? Is there some upcoming festival I've forgotten about?" Wilfred asked again, his brow furrowed in confusion.

That made Heath's smile grow from dim to rivalling the brightness of the sun once more, "Oh! Well, the story goes that Merlin made one for the King, but he rejected it."

When Heath paused to take another sip of his tea, Wilfred leaned forward in his seat, clasping the edge of the small, round table in anticipation; "And?" He prompted impatiently, "Then what?"

"Well, apparently the King turned it down because he was too embarrassed he secretly –" he used his hands to do air quotes for emphasis –"liked it," Heath grinned, taking another sip of his steaming tea, Wilfred seemingly having forgotten his own cup.

He paused, staring down at the table as understanding dawned on him, "So... Merlin is making everyone else flower crowns to... make the King jealous?"

Heath nodded, giggling, "Yes. Took you long enough to get it."

Wilfred rolled his eyes yet again, leaning over the table to flick his friend's forehead, "Oh, shut up." Which only resulted in Heath rubbing his forehead while he laughed harder.

The two drank their tea in companionable silence after that, both pondering the situation in one another's company.

It was only when they were washing up and putting their cups away that another revelation came to Wilfred. He paused in the wiping of his cup, turning to Heath with his eyebrows practically raised to his forehead, "Why don't we make one for Merlin?"

Heath paused too, then, his hands on the counter in front of him. He turned to Wilfred with a similar expression painted across his features, "Yes," he whispered before shouting a, "Yes! You're brilliant!," his shouts accompanied by excited jumping.

WIlfred turned back to wiping his cup and then Heath's as the other man continued to excitedly patter around the small space, smiling to himself as he plotted out which flowers they should use.

Once Heath had calmed down some, the two agreed to meet in the afternoon during lunch time in order to collect flowers and make the crown.

___

The next day they met in Wilfred's bakery because it was closer to the forest where Heath had heard Merlin collected most his flowers from.

After scarfing down a quick meal of bread and sweetmeats, the two friends packed a small snack, a water bottle; and a small, well-worn blanket in a wicker basket before making their way to a small meadow Wilfred's sister had discovered some months back.

Once there, the two collected an ample amount of three flowers in particular; Cornflowers, Daisies, and Poppies. On the way to the meadow they'd decided they'd use colours that matched Merlin's features and external appearance.

Cornflowers for his blue eyes and matching tunics, Dasies for his pale complexion and pure heart, and finally, Poppies for his rosy blush and famous neckerchief. (Alright, so sue them, the flowers represented his most lovely external and internal features; Merlin was an extremely loveable person, alright?)

After half an hour of collecting, the two men finally set down the old blanket and began threading flowers together. Heath, having more knowledge about sewing and threading and other girly things (as Wilfred often liked to call them) due to him spending much of his time with the serving maids of the castle, took the lead on the actual construction of the crown, Wilfred meanwhile watching on fascinatedly.

Another hour later and the crown was ready; cornflowers, daisies, and poppies all brought together to create an intricate pattern that was sure to only enhance Merlin's already well-defined and well-known beauty.

Carefully placing it in a small box Wilfred had brought along, the two journeyed back to the city, Heath gingerly holding the box upright while Wilfred held the rest of their belongings in his satchel.

Deciding to give Merlin the crown immediately, lest the flowers begin rotting, the two embarked on their journey to the castle, continuing their playful banter as they walked.

___

Once as the castle's portcullis, Heath began to sweat nervously, "Do you think they'll let us in? Like, the both of us? Do you think he'll like the crown? Oh, I hope I've threaded it together tightly enough to hold..."

Wilfred stopped his ramble with a palm to his mouth, "Shut up, the crown's great, I'm sure he'll love it. And I'm sure the guards will let us in once they learn why we're here in the first place. Stop worrying so much, alright? It'll all be okay."

Heath sighed, closing his eyes and nodding earnestly. Wilfred let his hand fall as Heath slowly calmed down, nodding once before he resolutely knocked on the portcullis, praying what he'd just told Heath was true.

Slowly, the huge metal barricade rolled up, revealing two seemingly equally huge and burly guards. Wilfred gulped, he could feel Heath shaking in fear next to him.

He rolled back his shoulders, clearing his throat before speaking, "Um. We're here to deliver a... a present for Merlin? The King's manservant?"

The guards shared a look with one another, one of the grunting while the other nodded to the wooden box, "Open it, we need to see the present first."

Heath nodded shakily, his hand trembling as he unclasped the lock on the box and opened it, revealing the delicate crown.

Wilfred winced, thinking that the two guards would laugh them away; only to be pleasantly surprised when the most intimidating men he'd ever laid eyes on turned into gushing maidservants at the sight of the intricate flower crown.

"Oh! It's so beautiful! The colours are very well chosen!" The one with darker hair said, his companion nodding vigorously in agreement.

"He'll love it! I'll go fetch him right now, wait right here," the other, lighter-haired one said, his awed eyes still fixed on the crown.

Confounded, both Heath and Wilfred paused and took a breath of relief as they waited for the other guard to return with Merlin in tow, anxiously waiting to see the dark-haired man's reaction.

After a couple more minutes of waiting, the knight came back running, Merlin gracelessly sprinting in stumbling, stuttering stretches behind him.

Wilfred put his hand on Heath's shoulder in silent support as Merlin caught his breath, leaning on the threshold of the portcullis as the two guards stared at him in amusement. They were used to this sight, Wilfred thought, amused in equal parts himself.

Merlin finally straightened up after what seemed like ages, exhaling slowly through his mouth as he brushed off non-existent grime from the knees of his pants.

"Heath! So good to see you again, it had certainly been a while," Merlin greeted with a wide smile, seemingly having recognised the other servant.

Heath blushed under the shared watchful gazes of Merlin, Wilfred, and the two portcullis guards. "M-Merlin –" he stuttered, shaking once more, Wilfred noted "– the two of us have brought a present f-for you. We hope it is to your liking."

He handed over the small wooden box with trembling hands, and they all watched Merlin's head tilt in curiousity, his brow furrowing the tiniest amount.

The guards behind Merlin shook with excited giddiness; and Wilfred leaned over slightly to hold Heath's hand, whether to comfort his friend or calm his own nerves, he didn't know.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Merlin finally opened the box, gasping the moment he laid eyes on the flower crown, "Oh, my!" He exclaimed, evidently admiring their handicraft.

His eyes shone gold for a moment, and when Wilfred and Heath turned to look back into the box, they saw that the flowers had been preserved in time; their mouths hanging open in awe.

So it was true, Merlin really was a sorcerer. It had been another rumour floating around Camelot for a while now, but nobody had been able to confirm it up until now. Perhaps only those closest to Merlin were privy to his secret (though it wasn't very well kept).

Wilfred shook his head to break free from his reverie, surprised to find Heath, one of the shyest people he knew, speaking for what seemed to be the second time during this whole interaction. That too without being prompted.

"Do you like it?" He whispered softly. And though the earlier stuttering had disappeared, Wilfred could still hear the slight tremor to his words.

Merlin looked up at them with one of the widest smiles Wilfred had ever seen (though he reckoned Heath's was still brighter). "I love it! Thank you so much for making this for me!"

Heath breathed out a laugh with what seemed like relief and joy at the same time, pushing his hair back as he stared incredulously at Merlin.

"I'm so glad. I put it together, but it was Wilfred's idea to use flowers that complemented your appearance," he all but gushed, grinning like an idiot, his previous nervousness having melted away.

Now it was Wilfred's turn to blush as four pairs of eyes turned towards him, "It was nothing, we just thought that since you were making flower crowns for everyone, you ought to have one too."

Merlin smiled, "I'm so grateful you thought of me. Now, if you would hold your box for a minute, I will be able to repay your gesture in kind."

Wilfred took the box from Merlin and he and Heath watched on as Merlin's eyes turned a molten gold once more, two crowns appearing in his hands.

Merlin smiled as he placed them on both Heath and Wilfred's heads before taking out the one they'd made for him and placing it on his own.

"Well?" He said, holding his palms at arm's-length and facing skyward, "How do I look?"

"Brilliant!" Heath grinned back, "And how about us?"

"Brilliant as well," Merlin replied, still smiling.

After the two conversing some more, Heath leaned in and whispered something into Merlin's ear, Wilfred's brow furrowing in confusion.

Merlin's smile grew tenfold, something akin to fondness filling his gaze as he nodded, "Of course."

Then his eyes turned golden once more and another crown materialised in his hands. He passed it to Wilfred, "For your sister. Heath tells me you wanted me to make one to gift to her as well."

Wilfred smiled back, "Thank you so much. I will be sure it gets to her."

And then Merlin was waving them off as they walked backwards from the portcullis, the two waving back with as much vigour as they could.

___

That evening, as both Heath and Wilfred dined with Wilfred's sister, Frida, all three of them made sure to wear their flower crowns.

Wilfred: why's everyone wearing a flower crown?

Heath: Merlin made one for the king.

Wilfred: ...and?

Heath: the king turned it down because he was too embarrassed he "secretly" liked it.

Wilfred: oh?

Heath: so now Merlin is making one for everyone to make the king jealous.

Wilfred: .............why don't we make one for Merlin?

Heath: ...........yes

[phoenixborn]

9, 10, 11, 12, and 14?

Spicy mun asks

9: What has been the biggest mistake you’ve made since you started RPing?

Maybe that on an another site before coming to Tumblr I wrote smut when I was a minor. Before the witch hunt begins along with callout posts: I learned 75% of my English through reading fanfictions then roleplaying. NOBODY during that time told me it was forbidden and I was like it's fiction, it's not even me who is having sex in the story so I didn't see any problems with this. I'm Hungarian. Here the age of consent is 14. Before Tumblr, I had no idea that people can get into legal trouble because of this and when I learned about it at first I thought it's a joke. Those who I written with also knew my age, I never made it a secret. Now I've grown up and realized long before this is indeed a mistake & I made all of my blogs +18 even to interact with due to my muses nature, backstories, topics.

And of course I have not and will not write smut with a minor.

I would like to add that I don't feel assaulted or exploited because of my inexperience and probably most of my past roleplay partners were minors too. The irl sexual harassment was much worse & impactful than writing stories with sex in them.

10: What’s something you really hate seeing on your dash that seems to be popular with almost everyone else?

I don't think there's a thing like this? If someone's writing doesn't entertain/excite/inspire me I simply don't follow. So my dash is perfect💖

11: What’s your biggest pet peeve when it comes to RPing?

Tumblr's inconsistency with notifications hands down. I get notifications of being tagged in something literal months ago. Or that my ask got answered. So far I haven't noticed a delay with reblogs.

Oh and people who shit on female OCs because, idk think before even reading the info that they are self inserts and only want to fuck the canon characters. That's not why I slowly built up a historical noble house woven so deep into Hungarian history, not why I spent more research for my pirate blog than I did for my literal matura exams combined, not why I watched hours of singing explaining by vocal coaches, not why I studied Scott Adkins' borderline impossible movements which are not CGI.

12: What’s your biggest pet peeve when it comes to the fandom you RP in?

As @winters-club has touched on the subject, those who are 'You MUST portray this character's CANON sexuality otherwise it's ERASURE and you're a terrible/homophobic person.'

Especially if those people actively harass writers instead of minding their own fucking business.

The most common victims of this are those who write Vaggie (also how come that I haven't seen many complaints that Alastor fucks when he's supposed to be asexual? This is NOT an attack on any Alastor muns, you write him however you want, I just noticed this.), Winter is not the only person I know who had a struggle with it. Curate your own dash if you don't want to see it, don't follow people who dare to defy canon, block tags and don't harass them. And as a bisexual who only felt romantic desire towards women irl, I find myself not giving a flying fuck. It's called creativity and so what if the writers want to explore other possible romantic plotlines? Let me tell you a secret: there's no erasure the slightest. Why? Because the sexuality of the character in question is CANON. A few independent writers on a site will not change that.

14: Without naming anyone specific, have you ever avoided someone simply because they RP with one of your RP partners? If so, why?

I didn't and don't avoid anyone just because they write with my rp partners. I actually don't even understand this question, everyone is free to interact, be friends with as much people as they want, it's not a choosing game and two people go to a separate corner to play.

[i-cant-sing]

Speaking of Noaya's misogyny, what would his reaction be if someone else told fushiguro to do their laundry and basically degrade them in front of him. (Like I'm pretty sure I know the general answer but would like your thoughts on it)

Okay okay, imagine a new girl that Naoya had been sleeping with frequently, leading her to becoming an unofficial mistress of the clan. She's respected by the servants and a few of the female members, but she wants to be a part of the clan, which could only happen if Naoya married her. And to do that, she needs to win his heart or something.

She knows that you're important to Naoya, so when Naoya goes away for a mission for two months, she decides to use you to help her cause. She decides to turn you into a "proper lady of Zenin clan".

This time, we're gonna talk about teen reader here. So, teen reader is running around in the garden, bare feet and her clothes all muddy when the mistress calls you over. She gives you a disgusted look as she eyes you up and down before telling you to wash yourself because she needs to talk to you.

Since you'd overheard from the servants about how important she was to your uncle Naoya, you listened to her.

After cleaning up, she sat you down and tie you her plan of your "glamorous makeover" where she'd basically turn you into a lady fit for the misogynistic standard's of the clan. You laughed at her idea first, but when you realised she wasn't joking, you outright refused.

You were walking out of the door when she stopped you with one statement.

"Its what Naoya wants."

What? Your uncle wants this? He ordered her to help you become more "lady like"?

She placed a firm hand on your shoulder. "Your uncle has done so much for you, raised you, clothed you, fed you, sheltered you. And you can't even one thing for him?"

Her words were enough to manipulate you because after all, there was some truth to what she'd said. No matter how annoying you find Naoya, he had indeed raised you. He had given you the best of everything. And most importantly-

He hadn't abandoned you like Toji had.

So, you gave in. To please Naoya.

The mistress took control of everything.

No more runs, after all "it's not very feminine to run like a wild beast "

No more training or fighting, because "it's unattractive for girls to have muscles."

No more this, no more that, no more anything that made you happy.

She made you go to the kitchen and cook super intricate dishes, throwing away the food if it's a a little too salty. The kitchen staff had to hold themselves from wiping away your tears as they watched that vile woman berate your cooking.

She made you sit on your knees for hours until your legs went numb and didn't care for the tears.

And everytime you did something wrong, she made sure you were punished, brutally.

Be it by making you kneel on uncooked rice, or stand in the sun, or take your meals away, or even flogging your hands and calves.

None of the servants were able to help you because they were too afraid of the mistress complaining about them to Naoya. So, they helped her do whatever she wanted to do to you.

Right now, you were learning how to pour tea properly. You don't like tea, don't really drink it unless you're sick and Naoya forces it down your throat, but the mistress says it's an important skill to learn because "it'll make your husband happy".

Anyways, you had to sit a certain way, be completely uncomfortable, hold the heavy ass tea pot a certain way that left your wrists your hurting. You had been doing this for hours and you were now tired.

Well, disaster happened, as the pot slipped out of your hand and spilled hot tea all over your hands and lap.

You screeched at the scalding pain ans the servants rushed to help you, but the mistress? She walked over and slapped you across the face for destroying her carpet. She went on a whole derogatory rant about how stupid and useless you are, how you are an embarrassment for the Zenin clan, how you're a pain in the ass for Naoya, how he should've abandoned you because that's what you deserve-

"What. The. Fuck?" Her rant was cut short by the man standing in the door.

Naoya had returned from his trip.

He rushed towards you, pushing away the servants and his mistress. Naoya took ahold of your hands that had now turned red, and he could only imagine the damage the hot tea had done to your lap. He looked at your teary face, you were trying hard to suppress your whimpers.

"Shh, its okay. I'm here, now. Come along." He pulled you up, before giving a pointed look to the servants. "Get her a fucking doctor right now!" The servants scrambled and gently took you from him, guiding you out of the room.

The mistress stepped forward. "Naoya, I-" But he didn't give her a chance to talk as he slapped her so hard, she fell to the floor.

"HOW DARE YOU?!" He bellowed, and from her position at the floor, she really imagined that this is what a predator must look like before it devours its prey. "How dare you touch her?!"

"Naoya- I- I was doing all of this for you!"

"For me?"

She nodded frantically. "Y-yes! I just- I know she is important to you, so I just tried to make her more lady like! So- so that you aren't embarrassed by her! I- I mean, you're always the one saying how rowdy and unruly she is! How wild she is! I was just taming her- for you!"

"For me? Taming her?" Naoya's eyes widened in disbelief as he grabbed her by the collar and shook her hard. "WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU STUPID LITTLE BITCH!" He punched her in the face. "SHES NOT A FUCKING ANIMAL FOR YOU TO TAME! AND WHAT GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO TOUCH A SINGLE HAIR ON HER HEAD!? YOURE BENEATH HER, BENEATH ME, BENEATH EVERYONE THAT BELONGS TO THE ZENIN CLAN, EVEN BENEATH OUT FUCKIN DOGS, YOU WHORE!"

Naoya threw her across the room before stalking towards her. "What the fuck were you even teaching her?! To pour tea, put makeup on, please a man like you pathetically attempt to do?! Huh?!" Naoya grabbed her face and yanked her forward. "Well, since you liked giving lessons so much, I'm gonna teach you something you'll never forget." He began pulling the woman by her hair, dragging her towards the table where the tea kettle was set. He grabbed the hot kettle and poured the scalding beverage all over her face, her screams only making him angrier as his treatment turned worse until she passed out from the pain.

-

Naoya walked inside your room where the doctor had finished bandaging you up. He had already finished interrogating the servants about what that vile woman had done to you (and he'd already dished out punishments to the servants for not helping you or even reporting to him earlier).

"I'm sorry." You said to him as soon as he'd entered.

Naoya narrowed his eyes at you. "Why are you sorry?"

"For troubling you. And I don't mean just today, I mean for all the time." You looked down, ashamed. "I just- I didn't want you to think that I take you for granted. I know and I appreciate everything you've done for me, especially since I wasn't exactly an easy child to raise-"

"Shut up." Naoya scoffed, sitting down on your bed. "I didn't do anything for you. It was all for me. Nobody forced me to take you in, nobody forced me to raise you. I did it all for myself. So don't try to make this into some sappy little thing where you start being grateful and expect me to hug you and console you because I won't. I don't care if you start crying, I'm not risking getting your snot on my clothes-"

You chuckled and Naoya 's lips quirked up briefly as well. He sighed. "Yes, you weren't n easy child. Yes, you're a pain in the ass, but you're my pain in the ass. And I take care of things that are mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes, uncle Naoya."

"Good. Now, I know you're not stupid and you knew you didn't have to go along to her stupid ass orders, so why did you do it?"

You shrugged. "I don't know, I guess I thought that you'd like it if I was more feminine, more demure like the other women in the family."

"Idiot." He clicked his tongue. "The same rules don't apply to you that apply to them."

"Why not?"

"Because you're best when you're yourself. In fact, we are all best when you're happy. So, just focus on that. And stay safe. Also, I'd appreciate it if you'd sing my praises to the ladies of the family when you see them, I'm scared that they might poison me one day. You know what, just tell me what they say about me."

You shrugged. "I don't know, they mostly just say you're a bad influence, Maki says that you're a wannabe Toji, Mai says you had a thing for my dad- wait, did you? Is that why you adopted me? To lure my dad in? You want to be my mom? Should I call you that? Mama? MAMA-!"

"I'm gonna suffocate you with your own pillow tonight."

[sheltershock]

I think there’s quite a few connections with the code names, I’ll go in chronological order(that I think) when we discover them.

Teacup(Hollis): Teacups are dishes that serve liquid, specifically tea, which is hot/boiling water with tea leaves. In the ambulance of her mind she’s preparing to “serve” the “scalding” news about budget cuts because the Psychonauts are in “hot water” with their money problems. We don’t see her in combat, but it could be assumed she serves up something awful. She also leaves Sasha and Milla in “hot water” when she ends up leaving them both to die to go gamble due to Raz’s actions. Insert whatever worldbuilding teacup lore/headcanon here: (I like to think Truman gifted her a tea set due to her stress, and she uses the teacup, but pours like energy drinks and coffee into it. So the name stuck.)

Shoehorn(Sasha): Shoehorns are actual objects used to help fit ankles into the heel of a shoe, so it’s a callback to his family profession as a cobbler. More interestingly is the figurative use of the word: to shoehorn (something) in (usually in a conversation). Sasha often adds details to conversations that either don’t really matter or shouldn’t really be said. Ex:

“Now just relax. This will not hurt, unless something really very bad happens.” (PN1)

“The Rhombus of Ruin, known for the (loads of ships) that supposedly went missing there, along with its four equilateral sides!” (RoR)

He also just kinda…appears? Like he’s shoehorned into scenes. In PN1 he just appears when Lili says “because Sasha Nein is standing right behind you.” He wasn’t in the frame before that when Bobby Zilch and Raz are threatening each other, he’s just there when Lili says he is. Or before the casino mission in PN2 when everyone is around Nick’s body Sasha arrives kinda late, and just descends from I guess the fucking ceiling. He’s in his lab at this point, it would make more sense for him to run to the cutscene location, but he just drops down from the top of the screen like he’s just hanging out on the ceiling. He’s probably just really talented on accidentally sneaking up on people.

Dustpan(Milla): Like you said already she’s “sweeping” the area for guards. Which I personally think is what she does on every mission(levitation makes you go fast) which gives her a lasting codename. Out of missions she’s also sweeping up/cleaning up messy situations. Like how she immediately tries to talk Raz through his water problems when they present themself, or calming everyone down in RoR.

Eggbeater(Raz): Okay so. Beating eggs is the same thing as scrambling them, which is what he did to Hollis’ mind. Why an egg? Well he cracked the shell of her mind(the classroom) to go further to it her psyche to the hospital. Hospitals are known for being associated with white, so like “egg whites.” And Hollis’s gambling problem would be equivalent to the “yolk” in this metaphor, since the yolk I believe is the part of the egg where the baby chick would grow, and Lucky grew from her gambling mentality. When you beat eggs, the yolk gets combined with the egg whites, which turns it form translucent and the yolk, to an even light yellow color. By causing the gambling problem, the aesthetics of a casino was mixed with the “whites” of the hospital. And we don’t see them unmix on screen. Therefore: Eggbeater.

Potato Masher(Lili): The only connection I can see is what you already said with Raz giving Lili a similar nickname. And she beats the shit out of Gristol. You can say that she’s connected to plants, therefore potato? But I don’t think it goes with “potato masher.” But it being a bad code name could be characterization for Raz because he does have trouble coming up with an insult for Maligula. So maybe he’s just bad at coming up with nicknames/code names.

....do the codenames have some sort of connectedness? i mean there's some connections to be made but i can't quite make one for all of them.

milla's codename 'dustpan' was relevant to the mission in that she was "sweeping" the area for guards but i couldn't find anything else.

teacup is one of the symbols from "the world shall taste my eggs!" but i'm not sure how it really relates to the particular mission

eggbeater is another callback to those symbols but also feels like a foreshadowing choice once it's used within the context of him entering gristol's mind/the maliks and their egg-heads and raz being the one to foil gristol's plot

also makes me wonder why raz chose 'potato masher' for lili. did he just think that was funny or what. because i do love it

[bridgetserdocksketches]

I shall add “fist bump” to my caregiving matrix

(More below the cut)

Kara blew out her powers. Again.

Sure, Lena’s seen her like this before. Well, she’s seen Supergirl like this before. Never Kara, though. Not that it changes much about her, in truth. She’s still Kara, obviously. But there’s a clumsiness to her that never was there before. And it’s irritatingly endearing.

“Lena,” She whines from the couch. “Is it almost done?”

Lena shakes her head with a laugh, her back still turned as she finishes mixing the hot chocolate. She tosses a curious gaze over her shoulder at the kryptonian draped carelessly over her couch. “How are you this impatient?”

Affronted, Kara sits up enough to look at her over the back of the couch. “I can move faster than a speeding bullet, remember?”

“Can you?” Lena muses. She grabs both mugs off the counter and walks over to the couch to join Kara.

“Yes,” Kara answers indignantly. As Lena approaches she sits up fully, crossing her arms with a little pout. “I literally exist at a different speed than everyone else. Everything moves slower for me.”

Lena simply arches a brow at her. “But you blew your powers out. You’re moving just as slow as the rest of us.”

Kara’s mouth hangs open. Her lips work around a few rebuttals that never get voiced. Then she pouts again. “Well, I’ve had a really rough day. Okay?”

With a roll of her eyes, Lena sits next to Kara and hands her her mug. “Just because you dropped your hot chocolate from Noonan’s and didn’t have the time to go back and get another, does not mean you had a rough day.”

Kara cradles the mug to her chest with a soft little pout. “You’ve clearly never had a Noonan’s hot chocolate.”

“Darling, I have. You’ve gotten it for me.”

“Because it’s amazing.”

“Mmhmm,” Lena hums. Her eyes track Kara’s movements as she lifts the steaming mug to her lips. And suddenly she remembers that the mug is full of scalding hot chocolate. Not hot enough to affect a fully powered kryptonian. A pouty, depowered kryptonian on the other hand… “Kara, be careful it’s still--”

“Ow!”

“Hot.”

Kara recoils from the mug, nearly spilling it on her lap and making things all that much worse. “Dang it. I burnt my tongue.”

“I tried to warn you,” Lena points out.

Just as Kara opens her mouth to try a rebuttal, or another whine, or another adorable little pout that effortlessly breaks down Lena’s walls every time, there’s the sound of three beeps in rapid succession. It catches both their attention and startles them enough that their playful little debate is forgotten entirely.

“Is that Baymax?” Kara asks, her head whipping around to the source of the sound.

Air hisses as the healthcare robot inflates in his charging pod. The clunky red box is tucked into one of the corners of the living room, currently plugged into the wall and Lena’s laptop.

“Why isn’t he in the nursery?” Kara asks.

“I was updating his code,” Lena explains.

Fully inflated, Baymax stands within his charging pod, now at his full height. His eyes blink twice, his boot up sequence finally complete. A full 19 seconds. They could still cut down on that. But they’re making progress.

Baymax’s head swivels to look at Kara. And then he steps out of the charging pod. Gingerly. Careful of each movement. But he still bumps into the coffee table that was barely a foot in front of his charging pod. Lena stifles a laugh and Kara snorts. Looking down at the table, Baymax shuffles to the right until he’s clear. And then continues walking towards Kara, who is just smiling so brilliantly and proudly. Like a parent watching their kid walk for the first time.

“Hello, Kara,” Baymax says. “I was alerted to the need for medical attention when you said ‘ow.’”

Kara beams up at him. “Well, that’s new.”

“I think it’s safe to say the new code is working,” Lena announces.

Kara chuckles. “You think?”

Baymax’s chest lights up with a pain chart. One of those cartoonish ones used to help children qualify and quantify their pain.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?” Baymax asks.

“Hmm.” Kara drums her fingers on the arm of the couch. “I’d say about a 1.”

“I will scan you now.” Kara flashes Lena a grin, waggles her eyebrows, and winks. “Scan complete. You have a minor burn on your tongue. I suggest applying sugar to the burned area to alleviate the pain.”

Kara’s face lights up. “Sugar?”

Baymax produces a lollipop and holds it out to Kara. Her eyes bulge out of her head. Her gaze darting between Baymax, the lollipop, and Lena.

“You have been a good patient. Have a lollipop.”

With a smile so bright it rivals the sun, Kara plucks the lollipop out of his hand. She tears off the wrapper and plops it in her mouth. “I forgot he gave lollipops!” she exclaims around the candy.

Lena laughs. “It was your idea.”

Kara barely even reacts. “Thanks, Baymax!” She extends her fist to the robot. “Fist bump.”

Baymax blinks at her. His head tilts to the side. “Fist bump is not in my database.”

Kara shoots Lena an accusing glance, her hand dropping. “I thought you said you’d teach him how to fist bump.”

“You can teach him right now. His AI is designed to learn as he goes,” Lena says.

Kara’s jaw falls open. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Kara whips back around to Baymax. “Like this, Baymax,” she says.

She holds her hand up in front of him, her fingers curled back into a loose fist. The large, friend-shaped robot stares down at her fist. Blinks twice. And then mirrors her. With a broadening grin, she taps her fist to his.

Baymax blinks, and then lifts his head to meet her gaze. “What is the purpose of a fist bump?”

“It’s something people do sometimes when they’re excited or pumped up.”

Baymax stares at their connected fists for a few moments. Then pulls his own back and taps them together again.

“There you go! Now you’re getting it!” Kara beams.

Baymax drops his hand to his side. “I will add fist bump to my caregiving matrix.”

“Yes!” Kara exclaims.

“I cannot deactivate until you say you are satisfied with your care.”

“Well then, I am satisfied with my care!”

From the couch, they watch with beatific grins as Baymax blinks twice, the auditory input processing. And then he turns around. Waddles on over to his charging pod. Steps inside. And deflates.

“Wow,” Kara breathes. “He’s really come a long way.”

“We’re almost there,” Lena agrees. “We just have to cut down on the timing for the inflation, and fine tune a bit more coding. But he’s almost finished.”

Kara’s head lolls to the side to grin at Lena. “You’re gonna be able to help a lot of people with him.”

“I hope so,” Lena says.

“You will. I know it.”

Lena feels her cheeks burning a little. The praise that comes so easily to Kara is still so strange to Lena. She’s growing used to it. Has been growing used to it over the years. But every now and again, it still shocks her. So instead of responding directly, she just smiles shyly, and takes a sip of her steaming tea.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Kara lifting the mug to her lips again.

“Kara, it’s still--”

“Ouch!”

“Hot.”

[reilliane]

Gone ✤ Kazuha

G o n e

A/N: It feels good to be writing angst again. I don't want to lose my lovely touch for it- (slapped) finally, a post with a ficlet length lol

✤ she/her

Words: 754

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Kaedehara Kazuha is akin to a gust of wind.

You’ve always thought of him as one. He’s gentle as a sweet caress of a breeze when one is in the quietude of thing, lost in the recollections in one’s head. When you are sitting alone with no one as company, he’d come to appear and sit by your side.

“If ever the appellations of a certain haiku are something you desiderate, please do not hesitate to tell me.” He’ll say with a smile.

Anything else other than his curved lips is now a simple blur to you now, however.

You don’t quite remember how he looks like, but the sight of his smile and the sound of his voice… is still far from being lost.

Sometimes, he is as cold as the winds in the eventide.

Whenever that’s the case, you’d remember how his occupation as a samurai fits him. The brewed tea you left steaming hot at his side will grow cold and his ruby eyes will glaze over you with blankness. As if you aren’t there.

Still, you won’t leave him alone. Someone as hurt as him should never be alone.

When he wishes you to leave him be, however, then you will abide, pretending to be ignorant of the fact that he will ignore you for days on end. All in pursuit of the peace he can’t seem to find within him.

But more than often, he’s warm like the gusts on a sunny day.

He will mirror the very brightness of the sun—but he is not as scalding as it is, no. His touch is reposeful, calm, and pleasant as he would do things to compensate for his lack of thoughtfulness.

“I wish to make it up to you,” he’ll say, his hands lingering on your wrists, “What is it that you want to do today? Name it and I shall abide.”

No one can hate a person such as Kaedehara Kazuha.

There are times when he is as turbulent as a storm, of course. Although he doesn’t mean for it to be that way since his actions are only lit by the capriciousness of a human heart.

“I’ve asked time and time again to leave me alone. Is that so hard to understand?” his words will carry amidst the resonance of fragile objects.

His posture will be as frigid as his voice and for a moment, fear will consume you.

But the storm doesn’t stay. It comes and goes, it is how it is, after all.

It will not be long until he is back to being a gentle breeze, smiling and floating around you like a companion you’d have for years. That is the imagery you have hopelessly pictured in your head, and until now, remains as vivid as ever.

Remains as impossible as ever.

Because even if you love him, Kaedehara Kazuha is like the wind.

It can never be shackled into one place. No.

The wind is free—much like him—and can never be caged.

“I may sound out of line, but please.. don’t get attached to me.”

So when you wake up one day and notice his absence in the house, leaving no trace of his temporary stay in your abode, you can do nothing but let him go.

But is it really letting go when he’s gone before you can even think of letting him free?

Still, like the wind, like the flicker of cyan in his Vision, Kaedehara Kazuha is gone.

Free.

And as he leaves to be in other places, your untold affection interweaves with the whispers of his Anemo—much like the other words ushered to him by many others.

Eventually, the winds will silence them. Because that force of nature is never imprisoned.

And eventually, much like how that gentle breeze made its way in your home and heart, even if it’s painful to think of, you know that his memory of you will fade.

For to him, you are also the wind.

Gentle and warm—yet fleeting.

Although Kazuha adores the notion, he cannot stay. Because you, much like everyone else, are mere breezes in his life that will come only to leave.

The risk of pain is too high, the chances of a hurtful encore too good for him to stay.

So he leaves before he is compelled to settle.

He leaves before you will be like them.

Like his friend—like the wind—, like his family.

He leaves before you are gone.

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

a/n: it isn't like my usual angsts but i felt like writing something sad.. iamhollow- yes kazuha, kazuha is wind. but the wind leads! perhaps maybe someday he will be led back to MC :')))

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　Return to the Scrying Glass　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

≿————- taglist ————-≾

@lehra @melkxsh

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Of something beautiful, but annihilating🚬5/end

Warnings: nonconsensual touching, fingering, deceptive behaviour, allusions to abuse, blood, violence/death, fucking.

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Note: Another finale! Hahahhaa, hope you like it!

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You went to bed with shame burning in your cheeks but the heat quickly travelled to your loins as you thought of the scene at the drive-in. When you closed your eyes, you felt Arvin’s weight on you and his hand between your legs. You rolled onto one side, then the other, tossing and turning as you couldn’t escape the memory or the lingering sensation of his touch.

He was already downstairs when you woke up, a lazy Saturday morning as the garage was closed for the weekends. He was at the counter, boiling water for the coffee as you came down in a plain peach dress and flats. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at you, urging you to sit.

“I’m gonna make you breakfast, honey,” he announced as he filled the coffee press, “you know, my ma was a waitress. Worked down at this greasy diner when she met my dad. Before she died…” he stopped and his throat bobbed, “I dunno, I just remember the smell of her cookin’.”

“I’m sorry, Arvin,” you said as you took a seat at the table, “about your mother.”

“Why? It was so long ago, I hardly remember,” he shrugged as he searched the cupboards and pulled out the cast iron pan, “you know, I can barely even see my pa in my mind. Even when I really think. I feel like I’ve lived a dozen lifetimes already.” He put the metal to the burner, “but I think I found the one I want.”

You ran your fingertips along your throat nervously as you leaned your elbows on the table. You felt the void left by your missing wedding ring. You clapped your hands together and lowered them to the wood.

You watched him work in the kitchen. When you tried once to get up and help, he bid you back down tersely and you obliged. You felt restless sitting there as someone else did everything. He put a cup of coffee before you and sipped from his own between flipping the eggs.

Finally, he presented you with a plate of hash, egg, toast, and bacon. You thanked him as he sat and you picked up your fork and knife. You weren’t very hungry, the anxiety squeezed your stomach as you watched his hand. He buttered a slice and you recalled the tingle as his fingers sank into you.

You dropped your fork and apologised for the loud clang. You picked it back up and pushed the potato around. You were trying to think of what to say. Of how to say it. Arvin wasn’t volatile like Roy but he showed glimmers of anger that troubled you nonetheless.

“Last night…” you began.

“You liked it?” he perked up and swallowed, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Arvin,” you uttered.

“I just… you’re so wonderful and warm, I never known a woman like you,” he ranted, “and I… I never been with a woman, you know? I hope I didn’t leave you wanting--”

“Arvin,” you said more firmly, “I’m married.”

His face fell and he leaned back in his chair. He looked down as he scooped up some egg and hash and shoved it in his mouth. He chewed tight-lipped. His steely silence was worse than any punch. You shoved some yolk in your mouth and chewed.

“I…” you began, “I’m not meaning to upset you but we can’t just pretend--”

A deafening bang sounded and shook the house. Your breath caught as you looked at Arvin with wide eyes and he cleared his throat as he stood.

“Where is ya, boy?” Roy hollered as another blast came and you heard the door jolt. You rose and looked down the hall as slivers decorated the floor below the holes peppered in the wood. “I heard about you and my wife…” footsteps clamoured up the steps of the porch, “you think you can pull a gun on me? Well, I got a bigger one, boy!”

“Shit,” Arvin pulled you back as another gunshot blew out the handle, “go, hide.”

He shoved you away and turned back to the table. He tossed the butter knife and hurried to the counter. He pulled out a drawer and took out a steak knife. He shook his head and glanced over at you again.

“Go on,” he snarled.

“No, you,” you ran to him and touched his arm, “go, I’ll talk to him--”

“He’ll kill you,” he whispered.

“No, he won’t,” you assured, “he woulda done it years ago, Arvin, go.”

You pointed him to the back door and he shook his head. You met his eyes as he glanced back at you and you nodded. 

“It’ll be fine, I’ll get him gone and come find you when he goes,” you promised, “Arvin, I can’t see you die because of me.”

His eyes searched your face and he touched your cheek. “Alright, honey,” he breathed, “you know I’ll do anything for you, don’t you?”

“Go,” you insisted as the door flew inward with a heavy kick.

Arvin scrambled away and the back door creaked in his stead as you turned to near the doorway and peer past the staircase. Roy kept the double barrel level as he pointed it at you. You quivered but tried not to show your terror.

“Roy,” you greeted through your tight throat.

“You whore,” he cocked the gun and you flinched, “I oughta shoot your fuckin’ head off too, but I just want the boy. Where is he?”

“I… I dunno, he just went out front, I thought you woulda seen him,” you lied as you filled the doorframe with your body, realising the table set for two would give away your deception.

“Don’t you be hidin’ him from me, you’re still my wife,” Roy snarled as you came closer, trying to keep him from the kitchen, “and I’m gonna put down that punk and remind you who I am. Who you are.”

“I am your wife, Roy,” you said evenly, “I can never forget that, now please, lower the gun, I’ll help you find him.”

“I ain’t believe you, you let him beat me--”

“What was I supposed to do?” you touched the metal muzzle, “he been keepin’ me here. He has a gun too, you know that.” You slid past the barrel and hesitantly reached to touch his chest, “I been so scared without you here, you’re my husband, Roy, and I love--”

He sputtered and flinched suddenly. The gun sagged and fired into the floorboards beside your shoes. The metal slid from his grasp and fell down smoking as a red splotch stained the dingy fabric of his shirt. The cascade spread as he staggered and you saw the wooden handle of the steak knife stick out from his side.

Arvin pulled the blade out as you tripped over the gun and toppled to the floor. Roy slumped to his knees as the younger man brought the knife down over his shoulder and sank it into his heart. Your lungs puffed with panic at the sickly crunch as the blade twisted between his ribs.

Your eyes widened and blurred with tears as bitterness filled your stomach. You opened your mouth and screamed as Roy fell onto his stomach and gasped out his last breaths. You felt a slickness on your cheek as a hand touched you and an arm wrapped around you. You blinked and Arvin came clear as he held the knife against your face and pulled you into his lap to cradle you.

“Wh--wh--wh--” you babbled as your eyes found your husband, completely still across the floorboards.

“He can’t hurt you no more,” Arvin cooed as he rocked you, “I heard him, he said he was gon’ shoot you. I told you, honey, I’ll do anything for you. Anything to keep you safe.”

🚬

The porcelain was cold against your body as you sat in the tub, the hot water slowly rose around you. Arvin shoved your bloody clothes in a bag and took off his own. He tied up the sack, his hands still tinged scarlet. He put the bundle in the sink and neared the wall of the footed tub.

You watched him step over the side, his stomach tightly muscles, his figure much more slender than Roy’s, though his arms were thick and his shoulders wide. He lowered himself across from you as he sat with his back to the flowing faucet. The water deepened and scalded your skin.

He took a cloth and scrubbed your face, your neck, your chest above the surface of the water. You were numb as you felt itchy, as if bugs crawled over every inch of flesh. He stood you up and finished washing you. He was gentle but firm, lingering around your curves as his brown eyes drank you in.

He took a new cloth for himself and after wiping off the droplets across his face and rinsing his body, he scratched the red from around his nails. You shivered as he helped you out of the tub and hugged you in a towel. He led you to the bed and laid you down under the quilt.

“Gonna drive out and find a ditch,” he said as he dressed. “Finish cleaning when I get back. Probably need another bath then.”

You said nothing as you stared at the ceiling, a searing white.

“Honey,” he neared and pressed his hand to your forehead, “I know you’re shook. He tried to kill ya. We both heard him say it.”

You looked at him and your eyes dampened. He bent and pecked your lips and retracted his hand reluctantly.

“I’ll try not to be too long,” he promised and pulled on his denim jacket.

He left you and you listened to his footsteps fade. You closed your eyes and saw Roy’s blood spilling forth like a tainted river. You could hear the scraping as he was dragged across the wood, Arvin’s grunts as you watched him struggle to roll your husband’s large body in a sheet.

Your lashes flicked open but the picture is painted vivid in your mind. You hear the car and the engine fades into the soft sway of trees and the noise of critters in the grass. You don’t have the strength to do more than lay there. Time passes by your stagnant eyes and the shadows set in from the corner of the room. The windows darkened and deepened your gloom.

Arvin startled you as he appeared at the door. You didn’t hear the approach of his car or his footsteps on the stairs. He neared and kissed you again. He pulled the chain on the lamp and it cast a yellow haze over you.

“You’re awake,” he said as he stood straight, “I needa wash up again.” You hummed and stayed as you were, “you want tea?”

You shook your head and he watched you. He clamped his thin lips together and backed away.

“Found his truck, just down the way,” he pulled his grey tee over his head, “looks like he drove out to the river, walked up here. Make sure it was seen so he can’t be traced up here. Smarter than he looked.” Arvin bent to untie his boots. “I left it in the water, put it into gear and let it drift off.”

You rolled onto your side and pulled the blanket to your ear. He quieted as you listened to the rustle of his clothing as he stripped it away.

“Anyhow, they won’t find him,” he said, “likely he told whoever, if anyone even cared, that he was goin’ fishin’.”

He waited for an answer but didn’t get it. He went into the bathroom and you heard the pipes rattle as he twisted on the faucet. You felt the dampness cross the hallway and seep into the room. When he returned, he gave a sigh and tossed his towel over the old chair sat by your vanity.

He folded the blanket back and you closed your eyes at his nudity. He slid in next to you and tugged the blanket over his shoulders. He circled his arm around you and brought your body against his. Suddenly, you felt everything as you were set alight by the heat of his flesh.

“Honey,” he said softly as he framed your face with his hand, “I’m here. You’re safe with me.”

You quivered and pushed your hands to his chest. You’d never been naked with another man, never seen another man naked. In the tub, you hardly figured what was happening but then, it was all too real as you felt his cock twitch against your thigh.

“Didn’t I save you? He would killed both of us,” he rasped, “honey, I know, I’ve met so many men like him…” he rubbed his nose against yours, “and killed every one of them.”

You winced and your fingers curled into his shoulders. He smothered you with a kiss as his hand trailed down and he cupped your chest. He groaned as he fondled you, tilting his hips to rub his dick against you. He rolled your nipple under his thumb as he dragged his lips down your cheek and chin.

His hand crept around your side as he slipped lower to nibble your breasts. Roy never touched you like that. Early on he was clumsy but impatient, and after a while, he was thankless and cruel. Arvin was gentle, doting and diligent. He suckled at your bud and the tugging plucked at your core.

“Mmm,” he left a path of spit down your stomach as he nudged you onto your back, “honey, you’re so beautiful,” he disappeared beneath the blanket and pushed your legs apart as he nuzzled your pelvis, his hot breath tickling your patch of hair.

He purred as nosed your cunt and his tongue dipped between your folds. You murmured and reached down to grasp his damp hair. You brought your thighs against his head and arched your back as he tended to you, slow and scintillating as he filled you with a yearning you’d never known before.

You didn’t think as you tangled your fingers in his locks and tilted your pelvis against his lapping. You shouldn’t feel this way, should feel so good. Your husband was dead and there was another man in your bed. You were a whore, just as he said. But it felt good and he wasn’t there to tell you again.

Arvin moaned as he devoured you, his hands hungrily groped your ass as he lifted you slightly from the bed. He pushed a finger against your entrance and eased into you. You gasped and he dipped another inside of you. He moved his hand in time with his mouth, his groans rumbling through you.

You hooked your legs under his arm and cried out as you came. Your body spasmed and jerked and you rode out the shattering ascent. You shook as you stilled and kissed your thighs with his wet lips, smearing your juices across your flesh. 

You panted as he pushed himself up and the blanket fell down his back, leaving both your bodies bare to the soft glow of the lamp. His hands roved over your body and he bent again, kissing every inch his fingertips danced over first. He brought his lips back to yours and you tasted the sweetness as he forced his tongue into your mouth.

He pushed his thighs to yours so your legs bent around them, wide and welcoming. He parted and stared down at you, his deep brown eyes swallowing you up.

“The moment I saw you, I knew,” he said as he caressed your cheek, “and I haven’t stopped thinking of this ever since that moment.”

“Arvin,” you sighed and touched his wrist.

“I’ll take care of you, honey,” he reached down between your bodies as he planted and elbow into the pillow. He ran his tip along your wet folds and his jaw clenched. “I’ll keep you safe, I’ll keep you…” he pressed against you until his tip was inside you, “forever.”

“Arvin,” you gulped and gripped his muscled arms, “I…”

“He’s gone,” he sank further into you and kissed you again, “and you’re mine.”

You moaned and he bottomed out with a gasp. His body tensed and he shuddered as he wiggled his hips.

“God, you’re so perfect,” he groaned, “so warm, so… sweet. Oh, honey.”

“Please…” you croaked as your eyes watered.

You didn’t know if it was the bloodiness of the day or that you’d never felt anything so pleasant, so gentle, so caring. You didn’t know why you were crying or why your body buzzed like cicadas under the moon. You pushed your head into the pillow as he pressed his fingers to your clit and rubbed in time with his steady thrusts.

“Honey,” he droned and kissed your wet cheek between each stroke, “oh, you’re so nice.”

He tilted into you over and over. You brought your legs around him and hooked your arms under his as you clawed at his back. Your body contorted with his as your eyes rolled back and you succumbed to the stolid heat coursing through your veins. You cried out and let your hands fall down as you groped his ass, begging for more.

The bed quaked as he grew more fervent in his appetite, the pain was dulled by the sheer bliss and you sang out your delight. There was nothing but his body and that radiating pulse in your core. You came again and again as you whined ravenously and dug your nails into his flesh.

He jerked into you with a fluttery breath. His hips stuttered and he fell limp over you. His head hung over your shoulder as he huffed. His cum coated your walls in a salacious heat and you ran your hands up his back. He turned his head to kiss your temples, tears still rolling down to your lobes.

As your nerves stilled and the afterglow dimmed, reality shrouded you once more. The body over yours felt heavier as you were paralysed against the bed. Arvin drew you with him as he rolled onto his side and held you. It was nice but tinged with the horror wrought by his hands.

You didn’t miss Roy but you didn’t feel free either.

🚬

Arvin rolled out the rug over the bloodstain in the hall, the whole covered over  with a thin board of scrap. You watched and clutched your purse then checked the clock. He stood and neared to fetch his jacket from the small square corner table. He pulled it over the button-up that once belonged to your dad and the tie that was Roy’s.

His hair was combed back tidily and he wore a carefree smile. His eyes twinkled as he offered his hand and gestured to the door. The frame was curtained with a sheet as the shredded wood was removed and another would be ordered from Tim’s Hardware. He clung to your hand as he followed you out into the Sunday sunlight.

“We don’t have to go,” you said as he swung your hand and led you to the Chevrolet, “I know you don’t like it.”

“Nah, we should go to church,” he smiled and spun you to kiss you. He held your face between your hands as his lips lingered overly long. “Let the lord and all the other holy people see me and my girl.”

“Arvin,” you shied away.

He reached past you and opened the door. You sat and he gripped the metal as he looked down at you.

“I will keep my hands to myself before the lord,” he avowed, “I only ask his blessing for what I know to be his work.”

You considered him and wrung the short strap of your purse, “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“I didn’t, not before,” he said with a smile, “not ‘til I met you. His most precious angel.”

You chewed your lip and turned your face down. He chuckled and closed the door. He got in the driver’s side and the engine rolled over. His hand wandered over to your lap as he steered with one hand. You looked out the window and stared up at the pale blue sky.

You didn’t believe in God. You couldn’t. Just like your father said, a benevolent lord would not gift such suffering to his creation. There was no all-knowing being sitting in the clouds, no glorious purpose for you or any other. There were only devilish men and their dark deeds.

[fgfluidity]

Control

Description: Damien isn’t a monster. There are other people who fit the description far better.

Pairings: Damien/DA

Warnings: mentions of blood, abuse, harassment; people being Gross

@opprose @moriimae @volbeast

i have a ko-fi!

Waking up is uncomfortable, these days.

More uncomfortable that it used to be, of course, but that implies it was ever uncomfortable for him— Damien’s been called an early bird from the moment his peers ever knew of the phrase.

He likes the early morning hours. They’re calm and peaceful, cooler and quieter than the rest of the day. It’s a few moments’ respite from the fears and anxieties and stresses the heat of the day brings, the long hours of the night wrapping up loose ends.

He basks in the cool blue-gray light like it’s a balm for his soul.

Or, he did.

He still enjoys the cool stillness, but now, rather than the impulse to grab a cup of black (always black, he won’t take any additions, thank you) coffee or tea, the minor grumbling indicating toast or eggs should be prepared—

His stomach roars, and he looks in his bathroom mirror in fear. No sunken eyes, no fangs, no ashy skin or gaunt, feral features.

He looks like himself, perhaps in need of a trim, eyes wide and darting all over his countenance, from his wild bedhead to his hands clenching the sink.

Normal. Not a monster.

The coffee he prepares satisfies one craving: the craving for normalcy, the bitter but strong flavor and hot steam reminding him of every other morning he ever had.

It’s a sight better than—

His stomach roars once again. Grimacing, Damien grips the handle of his mug tighter, lifting it to his lips so the near-scalding brew can hopefully fill his stomach enough to calm it.

There’s a small package. A little bag, picked up from a local nursery, full of metallic-smelling granules, sitting in his cabinet behind all of his tea boxes and coffee beans.

It’ll help. It’s what he needs, these days. He’ll feel refreshed and energized, he won’t feel on edge or like his stomach is a second away from devouring the rest of his middle.

He stares at it, through the open door of his cabinet, and swallows down another mouthful of coffee.

His breakfast, waiting to be prepared.

It makes him think of how it was before. A year ago, before... before his incident. Before his non-diagnosis, weeks of searching for anything remotely like his symptoms, secretive whispers and reading and meetings towns over to avoid any suspicion.

Before he got pulled into an alley, and...

It’s still hard to remember exactly what happened that night.

But he changed, and now the promise of fried eggs and toast and laughter with friends over breakfast don’t satisfy.

The laughter might, if he didn’t worry they’d find out just how monstrous their gentle, proper friend really is.

He’s honestly quite glad William is off on some safari, and especially that Celine is out in some unknown forest, doing who knows what. William is nosy and eccentric; Celine is observant, and she has the big sister worry on her side.

If anyone at all might figure it out from looking...

Mark is a non-issue. He’s busy, these days, wrapped up in the life of a star, the glorious spotlight he built for himself. Set after screening after party— they haven’t had a poker night in ages, with all the fame in the way.

Which leaves...

The attorney, another of his dearest friends.

Perhaps something else, if he cares to address it rather than smother it under duty and fear.

Clever and observant, of course, as someone with their profession is wont to be, but compassionate, and above all else, close.

They’ve never left his side, for better or for worse.

Both, perhaps.

Damien can’t say for certain what they know of his condition. They’re well aware he isn’t the same as he was, but as far as specifics goes...

They must be too logical to think of him as a creature of the night, too rational, as he once was.

And yet, what else to explain his changes?

His attempts to keep distance failed in quite short order, and their angry, worried, saddened questioning of his avoidance still rings loud and clear in his memory.

He feels the guilt to this very day.

Which is crueler, really: avoid his closest friend for the rest of their life, or allow them near, with the risk of...

Of...

Bile and coffee churn in his stomach, a volatile solution of acids, and he sets down his empty mug.

Reaches deep into the cabinet.

If he keeps fed, he reasons, holding his nose and gulping down the thick red mixture, then they aren’t in danger.

If he keeps fed, he won’t hurt anyone.

These are the choices, and it does no good wishing he had been dealt a better hand—

Though it doesn’t stop him.

---

Damien is not mayor, yet, but everyone knows that is his ambition.

People on the street, his friends, his family— everyone knows it’s what he’s going to be, one day, after he’s built up enough experience as a councilman.

The council is an important stepping stone, practical experience as opposed to his previous learning by proxy, watching his father and his father’s contemporaries in the council chamber, scribbling in his notes to try and keep up as best he could.

That doesn’t mean Damien enjoys the process. If he could skip all of the tedium, he would.

Alas.

“I believe that our current course is a fool’s errand,” one councilman says, turning up his nose. “There’s little point in allocating housing if the tenants aren’t going to pay, or even attempt a better path for themselves.”

“Gambler’s fallacy,” another agrees. “‘If we just put in enough work, surely they’ll turn around’ isn’t working. The city budget isn’t equipped for another project of that scale.”

Damien grits his teeth, but keeps his face smooth, neutral. He’s their junior by a considerable amount of years— as much as their attitudes disgust him, he must keep silent. At least, for the moment.

“Then we’ll need to remove them. They cannot remain on the site— another construction is planned.” The mayor shuffles some papers. “Where shall they go? Surely not to the streets.”

One man reclines a bit in his chair, uncaring and dismissive as he shrugs. “Poorhouses are crowded. We can’t make a new one. It’s to the streets, or... well, we could propose a new ordinance.”

Damien perks up at that.

“A new ordinance?” The mayor raises an eyebrow, leaning forward. “What do you have in mind, councilman?”

“A curfew. Off the streets by ten sharp or to the jail they go.”

The room goes quiet. A few councilors smile, but the mayor looks uneasy. “Sir, I do not believe—“

“Well, why not?” The interrupting councilman stands. “Vagrants shouldn’t be out there where they could harm our citizens. If I may be frank, I would sooner they go to the long mile than—“

Damien stands, himself, slamming his hands on the desk.

Once more, the room goes quiet, all eyes on him.

“You treat them like they were pests,” he says, coolly, his vicious stare going from one to another. “Something to be eradicated if they cannot be of use. That is no way to treat the unfortunate.”

A councilman stammers. “Mr.—“

Damien turns his gaze to the man, seething, and he goes still as a statue, pale.

His teeth itch, heart pounding in his ears. If they were so certain of being useful, their rabbit-hearts pulsing and sending lifeblood throughout their weak shells—

It would be incredibly simple to show them just how terrifying the concept is to the prey.

“I think,” he says, dark and cold as the grave, “that you should all reconsider the proposal very carefully. Give them the housing, allow them the chance.”

The men around the chamber stay frozen, quiet, until he says, “Well? What do we think, councilors?”

They all manage nods, and they mayor, quietly, says, “Yes— I believe we can make do without the— current construction. We should invest in our citizens. Right?”

More nods, and Damien sits, pleased, but a touch confused. “Perhaps I should make my feelings known more often,” he jokes. “Who knew I could speak so well?”

He gets a few nervous laughs, and then the council adjourns for the day.

Sometimes passion isn’t a bad thing in his position, he reasons. So long as he keeps his... hunger... in check. He’ll do a better job of it next time.

--

“You’ll have to pardon my language, but when the fuck did everyone come back home?”

Damien coughs a laugh around his tea as the attorney spins around, wide-eyed, box of sugar cubes loosening to near the point of clattering to the floor. “That much of a surprise to you, too, hm?”

(It really was— the dark coolness of Celine’s general aura, her scent of dahlias— a favored perfume— and scrub oak— from her adventure— thick in his nose nearly sent him to the floor in shock.

Her smug smirk as she reclined on his couch was all he needed to know she was pleased. “Celine—“

“Damien.” She didn’t rise. “I was wondering when you’d show up. You’re always so punctual.”

They didn’t hug. She’s never appreciated them, and he... has his own reasons.)

“Of course it was. We haven’t been around each other since... well, the end of our undergraduates.” They put down the box, leaning back against their counter. “We’ve all been busy outside of the city; I never imagined we’d all come back, not so soon.”

“Nor did I. We— I— certainly wasn’t expecting it, nor was I expecting... the circumstances.”

His darkened, bitter tone catches their attention, and his friend peers a bit closer. “The circumstances?”

His jaw clenches, just as his fingers do around the cup handle. “My father.”

(“You always knew he was sick.”

“He’s been sick since before the beginning of time.” Damien doesn’t touch Celine’s drink. Always too dark, too bitter, with the nasty side affect of loosening his tongue more than he’d appreciate. “What happened?”

“It got worse.” Despite her laconic words and clipped tone, the furrow in Celine’s brow belies her concern. “Far worse. Wouldn’t they have sent you a letter, at least? That’s where I heard the news.”

They sent a messenger, first. The moment he heard the name of the sender, he sent them on their way. “I don’t open letters from them. I didn’t think you did.”

“Never. Until this one.” She drums her fingers along the ceramic, a sharp tapping that only irritates them both. “This one felt important.”

“So?”

She watches with her dark eyes, sympathetic, understanding of the bitterness, the scoffing delivery. “Do you know what it said, Dames?”

She says Damien. She has always said Damien.)

He can’t look up to see the clear sympathy. His friend has the softest heart, even for someone callous and cruel.

“... So you’re going to go and see him,” they say, so softly that he wouldn’t hear if not for his... gifts.

He takes a bracing sip of tea, taking sick delight in how he wishes it were something different, and the revulsion that instantly follows. “I will. Where better to try and put the past behind us?”

They step a bit closer, soft sounds over the hardwood. He can just see their shadow, the tips of their shoes. “You don’t have to forgive and forget. After everything—“

“I’m not planning to.” Damien meets their eyes, a grim smile on his face. Their wary eyes track over it. “I’m hoping we can finally have it out. Man to man— he always loved our talks before, why not go out with one?”

--

He hates the family home.

It’s all his father, hardly any touches of his mother to soften it: sharp edges, cold color if any beyond monochrome black and white, sparse and stoic and austere.

It stinks of wealth and privilege and elitism—

And death, once he’s allowed inside. Even the lifeblood of his mother and sister, waiting somewhere upstairs, can’t cover the smell of decay.

Damien straightens his jacket, schooling his face into emotionless indifference, and heads up the long staircase to his father’s bedroom.

His mother looks up first, already dressed in her mourning blacks, but a soon-to-be widow should be in tears, or at least in numb shock; instead, rather, her face is a mirror of Celine’s, slight surprise at seeing him, but hardly a drop of sorrow.

For all that Celine takes her looks from their mother, Damien got her heart, and he can’t stop himself from allowing an embrace from her. She’s warm, and it feels good, familiar.

“It must be cold outside,” she mumbles to him in her own language, quiet enough that her dying husband can’t hear, can’t demand English in his home. “You’re half frozen.”

Damien smiles thinly. “I’m very sorry, mother,” he replies, in a more stilted version of the tongue. “The wind has a bite to it today.”

He’s grateful he feels no such urge, at least not at the moment.

“Damien.”

The voice comes from the bed, and Damien finally deigns to turn his attention to his father.

The sound of him now suits his true self, his image: so weak and pitiful, but still trying to seem strong. Trying to exercise power he doesn’t have.

Power Damien and Celine managed to evade, years ago, and not a moment too soon.

It’s all he can do not to curl his lip. “Father.”

His father’s eyes are cold, but less sharp as he eyes Damien. “No flip words? I’m surprised at you.”

“We both know that was more Celine’s area of expertise, but I could certainly be flip if you’d like,” Damien counters quickly. “Would you like me to say you’re looking well, or would you rather a treatise on your philanthropic and benevolent spirit?”

Celine’s mouth quirks up beside him as his father scowls. “You never learned respect,” he spits. “After all I did for you, this is the way you repay me.”

“I think it’s payment in kind.” Damien’s expression doesn’t change, watching his father the same way he’s always been watched— an insect under a microscope, disappointing with each step out of line. “Mother, Celine, if you’ll give me a moment?”

“Damien—“ His mother is quickly caught by Celine, who ushers her outside, but not before giving Damien a look. For once, she almost looks proud.

Well. She can’t be the only rebellious spirit of the family.

“You stifled us, you know,” Damien says smoothly, taking Celine’s chair. “Forbid my mother from her culture, her language, her name. Forbid us from learning it, from being children. We were examples to be made, trophies to be shown off. Look at us all, acting more as a business than a family— surprising, as you’re a politician. Though perhaps the distinction between mogul and mayor is rather thin.”

“Rich, councilman.” His father’s eyes burn. “Why follow me, then? Why take my wealth?”

“To do better. Besides, you’d never give your wealth to the needy. You have a legacy to protect, after all.” The tendon in his jaw jumps, and he takes a deep breath of rot to stay his ire. “I won’t be like you. A monster who controls his family like puppets on strings. That dies with you.”

His father barks a laugh, trailing into a cough that smells of copper, of sickness. “Call me a monster. I’ve been called worse. But I’ve made you better than all your peers, your little delinquent friends. Celine dabbling in witchcraft, a military nut and a failed actor. That little friend of yours who never should have set foot in your university. You ought to thank me for giving you a future.”

It’s one thing to insult him. Damien has heard it all from his father. It can run off him like water off a duck’s back. He knows who he is and that person is not a bad one.

However.

“We deserve better,” he growls, staring his father down, heart pounding in his ears. “We have always deserved better than you. I made my future myself. You never gave me a choice, and now I am taking my choices. My choice is to be a better man than you could have ever hoped to be— but that does not make me infallible.

“You’re a coward to say that to my face and not theirs. You’re weak, taking cheap shots at people who can’t defend themselves. So I’m going to give you a choice: apologize, or face the consequences.”

Damien isn’t sure what to expect. More likely than not, another stinking scoff from his father, more put downs and snobbery. A man like his father has never apologized and meant what he said.

“I’m sorry.”

His father—

His father is shaking. Looking up at him, surprised and apologetic and—

His eyes are all wrong. Soft and not cold, not warm. Nothing.

“I’m sorry, Damien. I’m sorry to your sister and your mother and all your friends. I was a callous and cruel and cold man. Please, whatever I can do to make up for it, I will.”

Damien just... stares at him. His rage turns to disgust, and all at once he stands from the chair, turning to head from the door. “You’re pitiful,” he says, appalled at the mockery. “Good riddance. We’ll live better lives, and you won’t see a moment longer.”

He’s done his research. His bite could give his father life. Could reset his clock and let him continue on, healthy and strong.

The sniveling man is beyond saving, though, physically or mentally. His heart as dead as his body, and the thought of swallowing his vile blood in some final punishment, of pain and anguish to end his days, makes him sick.

Almost as sick as realizing that he told his father to say it all. That his eyes glazed and words his father would never say spilled forth at his command.

Almost like—

Damien just leaves him there.

He’ll be a better man.

He will.

--

“I don’t know how you do it.”

The music and conversation are loud, though he holds no such trouble in hearing them anymore. Damien lowers his glass. “What do you mean?”

“Drink.” His friend, dressed in their finery, holding a similar glass of bubbling drink, gestures.

He grins slowly. “You don’t know how to drink? Well, that is an issue. How are you standing? You must be beyond dehydrated.”

They swat at him, nose wrinkled in frustration, and he laughs.

“Drink alcohol, smart aleck,” they clarify. “That’s... what, your third glass? I’ve had half of mine and the bubbles are already getting to my head.”

“Fourth, actually,” Damien replies casually, amused. “You’re simply a featherweight, my friend. It takes quite a bit more to affect me these days.”

He hasn’t found that limit yet. Not for lack of trying, really. He has the bottles to prove it, carefully hidden away.

“I suppose, after all those parties in university, you simply built up a tolerance. Lucky you.” Their lighthearted smile turns quickly, and they lean in. “Is that safe? That you can still drink with your illness?”

Oh, bless their heart. He smiles at them gently, placing a hand on their shoulder and trying not to breathe their scent in too deeply. “I’m alright, I promise. It won’t affect me any more than water might. Trust me a little?”

His friend gives him a doubtful look, clear concern still present in their eyes, but they eventually sigh. “Alright,” they concede, “but if you turn up with hell’s hangover tomorrow, do not expect a tonic for you. I’m not making it this time.”

“Understood. I still remember the recipe, just in case one of us needs it at the office.”

“One of us.” They nudge him. “This is my last. I have to show up bright and early tomorrow for my first day.”

Damien beams. “Of course, your first day! How exciting to be deputy district attorney, hm? Before you know it, you’ll have that entire office to yourself, all the way across town. We’ll miss you.”

“You’ll miss me bringing pastries,” they correct, but they smile. “It is exciting... the big cases, more responsibility. The associates working for me, what a change! You... don’t think they’ll be upset, do you?”

“Not a chance. They’ll be proud of you.”

He means every word, and their shining eyes and soft smile prove that they understand.

“I ought to let you mingle. Enjoy yourself, you earned the promotion.” He gives them a last squeeze on the shoulder. “I’ll be here, if you need to come around and complain.”

“What would I do without you?” They wave goodbye, disappearing into the crowd.

What would they do... he takes a drink to calm his fluttering stomach. They’re both a bit caught up to be thinking anything so ridiculous as- as involvement.

... Not that he doesn’t indulge on occasion.

“They’ll be so much easier than the last deputy.”

The sound of one of the younger attorneys catches his ear, and Damien’s eyes track over the crowd, trying to pinpoint without being seen. There— a pair of them, holding drinks at the edge, eyes off towards the rest, focused on someone.

On his friend, by the sound of it.

He shouldn’t eavesdrop, it isn’t polite, and yet...

“You think so?”

“Sure. Look at them. Not married yet, young, pretty. Give them the attention and they’ll do anything you want.”

It was a good choice. Holding his glass tightly, Damien moves with the crowd, growing closer. They need set straight. He can make it happen.

“So what are you aiming for?”

“Well, you know, a better office wouldn’t be bad. I could have their job if I play my hand right.”

“I think they’re prize enough, really. But the job would be a nice bonus.”

“Good evening.”

Both— a tall one, one with glasses— turn to face him, eyes wide. “Oh, Damien,” Tall says. “We didn’t see you come up. How are you?”

He smiles his politician’s smile. “Well enough. Enjoying the party, of course. Proud of our new deputy DA. They’ll do wonderfully, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, of course.” Glasses smiles. They seem nervous; Damien can hear their heart pounding. “They earned their position.”

“More than just a pretty face, aren’t they?” He rather enjoys the blood draining from their faces, eyes boring into them. “Intelligent, shrewd, but most importantly— not a fool. They aren’t easily played, and even if they were...”

He takes a step closer. “You won’t be going near them save for work related concerns. They have enough to worry about without being used as a stepping stool or a trophy. Do I make myself clear?”

They just stare at him, eyes glazed.

“Well?” He glares. “You’ll leave them be. You will never speak of them that way again. Understood?”

Tall and Glasses just nod. Empty, vacant.

Like puppets on strings.

His stomach goes ice cold, and he takes several steps back. “Good,” he murmurs. “Now— excuse me.”

He stumbles away, into a more secluded part of the venue, taking deep breaths of thankfully-empty air. Using people, controlling them, treating them as objects— how much better is he than all the others?

What if they, his friend, did something he didn’t like? Would he do the same thing to them?

Take away their choice?

He can’t do this anymore. It’s too much power with too much risk, and if he lost it for even a second—

Let people do as they will.

The power to change minds isn’t worth the guilt, the invasion of privacy and free will.

He’s not a monster. He’s in control.

But only of himself.

[starrypawz]

If you like, "You and I are not finished" for Nemo and Gerry?

Ok so this has been stuck in WIP hell for a good while as this proved more of a butt to get out than it should be. Not really sure if this is a direction that people would expect for this but here goes

AO3 75 Random Dialogue Prompts

Content notes for anxiety, mild arguments and rsd

Nemo sighs, pretty sure their mug of tea is finally in the sweet spot of ‘brewed enough to drink’ and ‘not scalding hot’ as they pick it up off the kitchen table and take a sip and… 

Nemo grimaces and puts the mug back down.

“Nemo?” Gerry looks up from his own cup of coffee that in the tradition of the Zoyra sisters is  ‘dark as night and sweet as sin’ 

“You,” Nemo sighs, “You used this spoon in your coffee didn’t you?”  

Gerry shrugs, “Guess I did,”

“Gerry,”  Nemo snorts as they aim for a tone of affectionate annoyance.

However.

“What?”  His hand tightens around the handle of his mug and with a swallow he loosens his grip. 

“Could’ve washed it up first,” Nemo shrugs playfully. 

“You could’ve checked first,”  Gerry feels a prickle at the nape of his neck he tries to ignore. 

 “You could’ve not left it on the side,” Nemo sighs, “The washing up bowl is right there you know” 

The prickling at the nape of his neck gets stronger and he swallows down a bubble of frustration seemingly out of nowhere but despite his best efforts it escapes as a huff.  

“Gerry?” “What?”  It comes out sharper than intended and Nemo stiffens. 

“It’s… just a teaspoon?”  “Exactly,” Gerry sighs, “It’s just a teaspoon,” 

“What was that for?” “What was what for?” 

“You’re…” Nemo stiffens up further.

“I’m what?” Gerry sighs, places the mug down a bit harder than necessary but none spills at least and crosses his arms. 

“Overreacting?” Nemo swallows tries to keep their voice steady but they hear it rise in pitch, “Just a little?” 

“I am?” Gerry snorts, “Maybe you are? It’s just a teaspoon after all,” 

Nemo blinks, “Gerry-”

“What?” That one comes out harsher still. 

“Can you not talk to me like that?” Nemo feels their voice waver despite their efforts. 

“Like what?” 

“You know like what,” Nemotries to swallow down the weird lump in their throat, “Who pissed in your weetabix anyway?” Nemo tries to chuckle, expects Gerry to respond in kind, and this will be seen as nothing more than a tiff, maybe a spat if you’re being dramatic but instead.

“Can you just get off my dick?”

Nemo tenses, that weird lump in their throat hasn’t gone, “Don’t… Don’t talk to me like that,” Finds themself caught between shock and annoyance as their voice breaks, “What the fuck is up with you today?”

“What’s up with you?” Gerry tenses, “You’re the one whose dragging this out,”

“I’m… not?” Nemo sighs and bites down on a frustrated huff, “You’re the one who started acting weird,” 

“Maybe I don’t appreciate you nagging me about a bloody teaspoon when I’ve just woken up?” 

“Why didn’t you just say that then?” Nemo, despite their best efforts finds their voice rise to as close to a shout as they can manage. 

“Shit!” Nemo reaches out to touch Gerry’s arm but he flinches away. 

“Gerry?” 

“I fucked up,” Nemo barely hears it as he mumbles under his breath, “Oh I’ve fucked up, really fucked up,”

Nemo’s eyes widen as they go to speak but find they can’t get the words past the lump in their throat. 

“You’re going to hate me,” Nemo watches as his fingers dig into his arm as he speaks in harsh, panicked whispers, “I’ve fucked up  and now you’re going to hate me,”

“Gerry,” Nemo manages to get past the lump in their throat and tries to ignore the way their heart seems to be around their ankles right now. “Gerry, love, I don’t hate you,”

It doesn’t seem to get through, Gerry blinks at Nemo eyes wide and damp mirroring their own as with a shaky breath Nemo stands up on their toes to press a hand to his cheek, they expect him to lean into their touch as he always does but he doesn’t but he does stop clutching himself.

“Let’s… let's go sit down?” 

Nemo gently tugs at Gerry’s hand and steps back and to their relief he nods as he follows them the short distance to the living room. They end up on opposite ends of the sofa Nemo with their knees tucked up to their chest as they shake and blink away tears and do their best that one of them remains somewhat calm as the seat cushion between them might as well be the entire Milky Way. 

The silence between them seems to stretch for an age. Punctuated with shaky breaths as Gerry does eventually calm. Nemo themself shake and blink away tears and prays that tell tale cold doesn’t start to creep down their spine. 

Softly, shakily Nemo moves along the sofa just enough to place a hand on Gerry’s knee. Then fears maybe that was a step too far and goes to pull it back but just as soft and shakily Gerry grabs them and pulls them into his lap. Holds them tight against his chest as he nuzzles into Nemo’s hair and Nemo buries their nose against the fabric of their shirt. 

They continue being silent. This time at least they’re at the same end of the galaxy. Two bodies in orbit at the edge of the solar system just past Eris and Dysnomia. Pulses calm, breathing settles and eyes dry as they drift closer to Earth’s orbit once again. 

“Nemo,” He manages, voice a little thick, a little raspy, “Shit I’m sorry sorry, I don’t… don’t know I just… You got annoyed at me and I got annoyed at you but then you being annoyed at me made me panic and-” The words run together near the end and Gerry shakes his head, “I’m a fucking idiot-” He offers up with a borderline hysteric chuckle. 

“No you’re not,” Nemo mumbles, own voice just as thick and raspy, “Or maybe I’m also a fucking idiot because you getting annoyed at me made me panic,” 

“Oh,” Gerry chuckles nervously. “I don’t hate you, you know that right?”

“I… I know,” Gerry sighs, “I just… I don’t know what’s wrong?”

“I don’t either,” Nemo sighs, “We made a right mess of it back there,” 

“Yeah,” 

Tentatively Gerry cups Nemo’s chin and presses his lips to theirs and Nemo responds back softly and whatever chill was threatening to creep down their spine and through their nerves dissipates. And then they find themselves lost in each other for a while, soft lips and equally soft kisses as they cling to one another. 

Nemo chuckles weakly as they pull back, eyes damp and Gerry gently thumbs away a tear and Nemo as always leans into his palm. 

 “Also you really think after everything a teaspoon is what’s going to break us?”

[jeoseungsaja]

“Good morning Hyu-“ He’s not looking at Hyuk initially when he hears the footsteps of his friend. It’s only when he’s taking a sip of tea ( that he made from a teabag in Hyuk’s cabinet ) that he notices his dear friend has walked into the kitchen, well…shirtless. Which is more than understandable considering that this is his kitchen. But Patrick can’t help but notice how built Hyuk is, even with the bandage wrapped around his ribs courtesy of Patrick’s handiwork from that other night.

Has he always looked like this?

Only the tea scalding his tongue snaps him back to reality. Face ablaze, Patrick swallows, but even that can’t go right because the tea goes down the wrong pipe and now he’s coughing. “I’m…I’m okay.” He says rather timidly in between, setting his cup on the table. He can hear Hyuk approaching him and he has to squeeze his eyes shut, lest he wants to get caught staring dumbfounded.

No. No- this is not a thought he should be having about his best friend.

( But they've been long past that point by now, haven't they? )

A hand covers the bottom half of his face as he leans on the table for stability. Call it moral support too. His head spins. “Really…I’m fine.” His voice cracks, just a little. He stands up, unable to look Hyuk in the eye. His heart races as do the thoughts, one thousand forming and breaking per second. “I just- do you want tea? Or coffee, or breakfast, I’ll make us some right now-”

Dear god, how is he going to last the rest of this week? ( two words: gay panic. basically patrick realizes hyuk is hot and is now dying JFKLSDJF but also?? if this makes you uncomfortable, feel free to skip alex!! )

@ofgentleresolve ♚ click here to see what I think is the current representation of hyurick’s brain

♔ ———–

   Oddly enough, he managed to fall asleep last night. Just for a few hours, but it’s still something that doesn’t happen quite often. Regardless of wounds latched to his ribs and a few other scrapes here and there, ache wasn’t too overwhelming as to steal slumber away. He could blame this on fatigue finally catching up with his last traces of energy but, truth is, he felt more comfortable knowing Patrick was nearby, just a few meters away instead of continents afar. A semblance of peace, despite the embarrassment he had to go through. God, does he hate to make his best friend feel concerned; does he detest the fact that he saw him like this, weak and with the need of prompt assistance. 

    But Patrick, Patrick’s kindness glows with such intensity that instead of judging him or reprimanding him, he was there to take care of his wounds and overall welfare. Careful hands, soothing voice; gentle eyes that asked to be looked at. And he also...he also placed warmth that made Hyuk dizzy with secret delight. That forehead kiss the detective kept thinking about, even after having the tea Patrick bashfully prepared for him; even after they both hesitatingly said goodnight to each other before going to sleep.     The thought of it still makes him feel warm all over. 

    The detective sits up, rising and stretching with a bit of a groan due to injuries covered by bandages. A hand goes to his forehead as he breathes out, wanting to shake off all the thoughts he had last night; notions that still chase him the day after. There was a part of him that wanted...well, wanted to be nearer. There was a moment where he even impulsively stood up and almost reached the doorknob as to go to Patrick. He already had a silly excuse around his tongue; ready to be aimed at his best friend’s direction if he asked what was he doing there, standing at the guest room’s door-frame so late at night.

    I can’t sleep. Can we talk? 

    But that’d be silly, wouldn’t it? Besides, interrupting Patrick’s sleep would be awful, considering the jet-lag and all that. It’s not easy, to suddenly get accustomed to a different timezone, no matter how many times the same place’s been visited. 

    He takes another deep breath; stands up from his bed and goes to wash his face and brush his teeth. He considers it’s pesky to put on a shirt when he goes out toward the kitchen, thinking unnecessary movements might make injuries worse, or move the bandages about in uncomfortable ways. And so, he strides in his usual sleepwear, which is a pair of loose joggers and no shirt to cover his exposed, toned chest; a hand running through his long hair as he listens his best friend’s greeting.

    Ah. It’s nice to hear it. Nice to know he’s there.      It’s better than waking up to the usual emptiness of his apartment.

    “Good morning.” 

    Voice still sounds groggy; softer than usual. He stands nearby; heart suddenly skipping a beat. If Patrick’s visited him before, why is he suddenly so fond of finding him in his kitchen, serving himself some tea? 

   “How did you sl---” 

    Eyes widen when coughs begin to erupt from Patrick’s lips, Hyuk hurriedly going to him; a palm landing on his best friend’s back, giving it three pats before his palm carefully draws several circles around spine and shoulder blades. 

    “Patrick, you don’t look fine. You almost choked there.” 

    His best friend doesn’t sound fine, either; the detective can pinpoint vocal chords trembling just a little in the end of his statement. He can see how Patrick’s eyes squeeze shut, too. Is something wrong? Did a piece of something (besides the tea) get lodged in his throat? What’s going on? 

   “Yah, slow down.” 

   His voice is firmer; hand landing on Patrick’s shoulder when dear friend stands up. He takes note of the lack of eye contact. Hyuk leans in just a little; concern-filled gaze present. Why won’t he look at him? He’s befuddled and worried, to say the least. Is Patrick embarrassed because of accidental constriction? He shouldn’t be...but Hyuk understands if that’s the case. Let us remember that the detective also felt shamefaced over his wounds.

   Hyuk presses the back of his hand against Patrick’s forehead, slowly letting it slide toward his cheek. 

    “You’re really warm. Are you getting sick?” 

    The poor fool. He doesn’t realize that all he needs to do is to put on a darn shirt; hide all of the lean, defined muscle gathered in abdomen and arms. Hyuk isn’t aware this is part of the problem, because Patrick’s seen him like this before. 

   Everything’s suddenly different this time, isn’t it? 

   His thumb can’t help but fondly caress the skin on Patrick’s cheek. This is different, too. The last time he did something like this, it was when his dear friend was drunk and he was slightly tipsy, when they both sat on the floor after a night of drinking Soju. 

    Now, they’re both sober. 

   “Look at me, Dae-yah. What’s wrong? Breakfast can wait.”

   He blinks, noticing the closeness when concern starts to slowly wash off. It allows his sight to get a better view of Patrick’s face, of every feature; every line. He’s seen it so many times before, he knows, but lately, everything about his best friend has been making him feel something he can’t quite put into words. 

   “You’re---”      Really handsome. So handsome. So beautiful.      God, what is he---

    “Uh...just...take it easy, okay? You’re the guest here. We can...we can go out and have breakfast after you finish your tea. I’ll grab an iced americano from the fridge later.” 

    He blinks again, heart prominent in his throat. Should he? Should he---perhaps, as a response to last night. He shouldn’t think about this one too much, because if he does, he’ll end up not doing anything at all. 

   And so, before his hand slips away from Patrick’s skin, he quickly leans in and kisses his best friend’s cheek. 

  “I didn’t have the chance to tell you, but thank you for helping me last night. I’ll go get changed.” 

   Hyuk says this rather quickly, as if in a race against time; turning about and rapidly heading back to his room with quite a hurried stride. 

   The door closes behind him.    He hisses; pressing the back of his head upon wood.    What the hell did he just do?! 

———– ♔

[goodlucktai]

What about some hurt/comfort for Natsume & Natori? (Not slash tho)

Natori doesn't seem like he has anyone in his life to take care of him except his shikigami :(

x

"You need to sleep," Hiiragi says. Her tone is unchanging, an unhurried monotone, but somehow it manages to carry a thread of concern.

Shuuichi waves her off, sifting through papers. "In a minute. I just have to finish this."

A group of exorcists in over their heads sent these reports earlier today. Yesterday, now, Shuuichi amends inwardly with a bleary glance at the clock in the kitchen, which reads an inappropriately cheerful 6:07 AM. And they'll arrive to collect them, along with Shuuichi's notes, in just a few hours.

"They are presumptuous," Hiiragi says, "to assume you had this time to spare them, and on such short notice. You're busy."

"Not with anything that matters," Shuuichi laughs. It comes out not sounding like a laugh at all. Hiiragi tips her head incrementally to the side, no doubt staring at him behind her mask.

"Your work does matter."

"This work does," Shuuichi says, laying a hand on the papers scattered across the desk. "The other stuff-- "

"The 'stuff' that pays your bills," Hiiragi says. "The 'stuff' that keeps you fed, and gives you reason to leave your house and interact with people who won't make you think about ghosts."

It's Shuuichi's turn to stare. "I didn't realize you were such a firm believer in my acting career."

"I don't understand it," she says frankly. "But you enjoy it. It may not be.... 'vanquishing evil,'" she goes on, quoting the report the exorcists sent as if it's something slimy she's peeling off her shoe, "but that doesn't mean it doesn't matter."

It might be the lack of sleep talking, but Shuuichi feels strangely touched. He has to swallow before he can reply, something that happens rarely, if at all.

"I'll make sure to sign an autograph for you," he teases, grinning. "But only after I've finished this."

"Hm," Hiiragi says. She doesn't call him an idiot, at least. A few minutes after that she leaves from the living room window, ostensibly to patrol the neighborhood.

Shuuichi will just finish his notes, and then set an alarm for-- he checks the clock again, and winces-- and hour and a half. He'll get that much sleep, at least. He's worked with less.

At some point, the front door opens. That's odd. Only a few people have a key to his apartment, and none of them who do live anywhere near here. His shiki certainly don't use the door.

A familiar voice says, "Hi, Natori-san."

Shuuichi lifts his head, so fast his vision swims. There's Natsume, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, hands full with a cardboard drink tray and a brown paper bag bearing the distinctive golden arches. He looks decidedly windblown, as if he flew the whole way here. He probably did.

His brow is wrinkled, mouth tucked into a frown. It's the way Shuuichi imagines Hiiragi's face looks behind her mask at least ninety-percent of the time.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Shuuichi says, pushing himself upright. He has to lean on the desk to get there. Natsume clocks it with a flick of his eyes but doesn't comment. "Don't you have school today?" Shuuichi goes on, desperately trying to remember what day it is. Friday, right?

"No school," Natsume says, putting the drinks and the bag on the counter. "Teacher's institute."

"Are you in trouble?" Shuuichi asks carefully.

"I have to be in trouble to come visit you?"

Natsume wanders into the sitting room and sets his messenger bag and his ugly cat down on the sofa. He actually points a stern finger at the cat in clear warning that it needs to behave itself, as if it isn't actually a giant monster capable of leveling buildings should it so choose. Something about that manages to be hilarious, where it isn't slightly horrifying.

Shuuichi smiles a bit. This weird kid means the world to him.

"Did you bring me breakfast?" he asks lightly. "I hope that's coffee."

Natsume is so receptive to any manner of kindness, even after the life he's lived, that he smiles back like a knee-jerk reaction. It still feels like an accomplishment when he does.

"Tea," he corrects. "And some egg sandwiches. The sausage ones are for sensei. Can you eat with me, or-- if you're too busy-- "

"I can take a break," Shuuichi says, and slings his arm around Natsume's shoulders, steering him back into the kitchen. "Let's talk about what dragged you all the way out here in the early hours of the morning, shall we? Does your mother know where you are?"

"Of course she does," Natsume insists. "She even sent some leftovers with me. I put them in the fridge already."

Shuuichi is in a vulnerable state, and that just about undoes him. He clears his throat and takes a big, scalding gulp of tea instead of saying or doing anything embarrassing. "Tell her I said thank you," he manages.

"Or you could just call her," Natsume points out dryly.

"Or I could just call her," Shuuichi agrees.

In his defense, Shuuichi truly didn’t stand a chance. The combination of heavy food and a hot drink… the pale fingers of dawn creeping through the shades at the kitchen window… the steady back-and-forth of comfortable, friendly conversation… no one asking anything of him, expecting anything from him, except his company…

He dozes off in his chair at the counter, face buried in his folded arms. He feels someone draw a blanket around his shoulders, their cold fingers lingering protectively near his nape, and Hiiragi’s voice says, “Thank you. He’s very stupid.”

“No he isn’t,” Natsume replies loyally. “Well, not all the time.”

It’s ridiculous how well Shuuichi sleeps after that.

He wakes up a solid ten hours later, the blanket slipping to the floor. The TV is on in the next room. Hiiragi is perched on the counter beside him. Her mask somehow manages to appear both smug and judgemental without actually changing at all.

“Sleep well?” she asks with no inflection.

“What-- time is it?” Shuuichi asks blearily, looking around for the clock.

“A little after four,” Hiiragi says. “Those exorcists have come and gone.”

“What?”

“They didn’t come inside. Natsume dealt with them at the door.”

“Sorry, Natori-san,” Natsume pipes up in the doorway. He shuffles a bit, self-conscious until Hiiragi seems to catch his eye. Then he lifts his chin a little and says, “You seemed tired, so I handled it. Hiiragi and Sasago both said it was okay.”

Betrayal, Shuuichi thinks, glaring hard at Hiiragi. She gazes serenely back, entirely unmoved. He’s firing her.

“Natsume, I appreciate it,” because there’s very little in this life that Natsume could do that Shuuichi wouldn’t back him up on, “but don’t talk to strangers. Even though they’re exorcists, that doesn’t automatically make them trustworthy.”

“I don’t trust most exorcists,” Natsume says plainly. “You’re one of, like, two exceptions.”

And there’s a lot to unpack there, but for some reason the first thing Shuuichi thinks of to ask is, “One of two? Who’s the other one?”

After a beat, in which Natsume looks as though he doesn’t want to answer, he admits, “Hakozaki-san.”

“Hak-- the recluse with the dragon shiki? The owner of that mansion we watched burn?” Shuuichi laughs, unable to help himself. It unwinds tension in his body he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Natsume, you never even met him!”

“I still liked him!” Natsume says hotly, embarrassed. “He was friends with yokai!”

“And I’m sure if he’d had the chance to know you, he would have spirited you away as his son and heir within two business days.” Shuuichi chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Lucky for me he didn’t have the chance, I suppose.”

Natsume huffs, but he still climbs into the seat next to Shuuichi. After a beat, Nyanko-sensei hops up into his lap.

“I might have gotten you in trouble with those exorcists,” the boy admits. “I told them to do their own homework from now on. That if they kept taking advantage of your kindness, you wouldn’t help them anymore.” He glances at Shuuichi sidelong from beneath his fringe, and adds, “They got mad, so I sicced sensei on them. I, um, think they thought he was my shiki. I also think they thought I’m from your clan. I couldn’t tell ‘cause they were all, um-- screaming, at the same time.”

And-- okay. There is a right and a wrong way to react to this, clearly. A teenage boy using his terrifying yokai friend to menace people within Shuuichi’s network? Not good! Very bad, even!

But Shuuichi has to lean forward against the counter, face buried in his hands, because he’s absolutely howling with laughter. Natsume is stammering, trying to explain himself, but he doesn’t say sorry. He isn’t sorry for sticking up for Shuuichi. He showed up at Shuuichi’s apartment at seven AM with McDonald’s on his day off from school, and chased a bunch of exorcists out of the building, because his friend needed a break and that’s just the kind of person Natsume is.

The kind of person who deserves something fancy for dinner tonight, Shuuichi decides, and he’s still smiling as he reaches for his phone.

Hiiragi places it neatly in his hand.

“I don’t want your autograph,” she says. She doesn't call him an idiot out loud, but she's probably thinking it.

Hell, he’ll order something fancy for her, too.

[lilyharvord]

I saw another anon on king mavens page ask how Cal would react if mare died and they didn’t wanna answer bcuz it’ll make them go into a depressive state. So if u don’t mind how do YOU think Cal would react if Mare died. If u don’t wanna write this u don’t hv too tho

I too saw annie's response, and while it makes me super sad to think about as well.... I've thought about it... I may have started writing a fic about it once (it was like once chapter), and I had an idea. So I'll give you my branched ideas. They're loooong so I have put them under the read more.

idea 1: Mare dies before they are married, before anything.

It's horrific. People are shocked... the little lightning girl? Dead? Impossible. Cal doesn't immediately hear about it, he's so busy he's doesn't know something's happened until he walks into a room and everyone goes quiet and slowly looks at him like he might collapse right then and there. He finds out because Farley pulls him aside. She takes him away from everyone to a quiet little garden with a fountain and tells him what happened. When he hears, he just sort of gives her this confused look, like HE doesn't understand, doesn't believe. Then he sort of sinks down onto one of the benches and just sits there. Doesn't move, doesn't even seem to be breathing. Farley thinks he'll explode in a ball of heat and rage and pain, but instead he just gets really really quiet, and really cold. The air around her gets so cold her breath fogs in front of her. He asks her to leave him alone and she does. He sort of draws into himself after that, doesn't really speak to anyone, spends a lot of time running and sitting at his desk and staring out the window. He attends the funeral but is quiet the whole time, he only speaks to the Barrows and even then, there isn't much to say that wouldn't hurt either party. After that he BURIES himself in his work. He gets so good at it that one day he looks up and ten years have passed. He's still got the stack of letters they wrote to each other, and he even has the letter he had been drafting to send to her on the front where he lost her. It ends with the phrase: I miss you. And god does that ring true. He miss her like a limb he lost. It feels like a part of him was torn away, just like with Maven, just like with his father, just like with Nanabel when she passed a few years back, just like the hole his mother left without him even knowing it was there. He visits her grave that year, just sort of sits under the little tree they planted, looks out at the mountains as the sun sets behind him, and talks to her like he does with Maven, tells her about everything that's happening. After a while, he just falls quiet and sits there, digging his hand into the grass and dirt right above the grave, like he can dig down to her, like it's her skin and he can still feel it's warmth. He swallow really heavily and then says: I never met anyone else that made me feel the way you did... I don't think I ever will. You were it. You were going to be it. And then he gets up and leaves. He runs into Gisa down in the Ascendent, they grab coffee at what was once Mare's favorite coffee shop, now it's Gisa's. They talk about everything, never mentioning Mare. Gisa only asks once if he's seen anyone, and he just shakes his head, and she gives him a tiny smile and says: she wouldn't have minded... well if a random bolt of lightning came from the heaven and struck you, then I guess you would know she minded. They laugh about that, and then he leaves cause he has an early flight home. When he gets back, he puts the letters in a box and then puts that box in a drawer. He never sees anyone else though. Doesn't even really fool around with anyone either. He tries once, and the whole time he just thinks about her, thinks about all the what if's and could be's. He apologizes profusely to the girl and says that it's not going to work. Something in her understands, some weird warmth that she gets that makes her pull him into an extra tight hug before she leaves from his little apartment in Archeon. He doesn't mind being alone as much, he has his friends and a strange little belief/hope that someday, he will see Mare again. And when he does he is going to pull her into the tightest hug and never, ever let go again.

idea 2: Mare dies after they are married and have at least 1 child

This one hurts far more. He knows she's on missions, and they made a pact to never be on missions together so that if the unthinkable happens and one of them does die, Coriane will have the other at least. Its a god awful early hour of the morning when there is knock on the door. Coriane is sleeping in his and Mare's bed, she had a nightmare and immediately came for comforting snuggles. He thinks he's dreaming when the knock comes again, a little more instant this time. He gets up, and Coriane sleepily trails after him, curious as a cat always. When he answers the door, he picks her up and is still sort of half asleep. When he sees the young soldier standing on the porch in uniform and the most pained look on his face, he is suddenly wide awake. The soldier reaches up and removes his hat before pulling out an envelope with the official Montfort seal on it. He holds it out and quietly says, "I'm sorry."

When Cal takes it, he worries that his hand is shaking, but it is perfectly still, Coriane is falling asleep on his shoulder, not even aware of the ramification of what this little envelope means. And he just sort of looks up at the man and asks, "Do the Barrows know?" The man blinks before saying, "Protocol dictates immediate family are informed first... spouses are immediate family along with children. We leave it to them to inform the rest...I'm sorry again sir." Then he gives a little clean military salute and leaves. Cal stands there for a long time looking at empty space, wondering what comes next, what he is even supposed to do. Coriane answers for him: by lightly tapping his cheek and whispering that she's cold. He closes the door, and sets the letter on the little table by the door. There are already four other letters there. One, an invitation to Farley's wedding to Cordelia at the end of the month, and another is a letter from Julian addressed to all of them, most likely about his trip with Sara to see the land north of Montfort. But there is her name in beautiful script on both envelopes. There is her favorite jacket hanging on the peg she always hangs it on. There is the book she left on the table, chaptered at the exact part she was on. There is her favorite mug in the sink because Coriane asked to drink her milk from it last night. She is everywhere in the house, and yet that letter means she will never be in it again. Those were her things. They not longer are. He carries Coriane up the stairs and puts her back in their his bed and then lays next to her, watching her chest rise and fall as she sleeps, a tiny smile creeping to her lips as she dreams, completely and blissfully unaware of how her life has fundamentally changed now. Then he rolls and stares at the ceiling, but the tears come and they don't stop as they fall silently. He gets up and showers at dawn--he didn't sleep-- and cries a little more there. He has to crouch down under the scalding water and bite down on his knuckle to keep from sobbing out loud and waking Cori. It's pitiful, and he knows it. She would be furious with him for not being honest about how he feels and trying to hide it like its some ugly thing. But it feels ugly, a twisted ugly thing in his chest that is screaming and clawing at his insides. He stands, turns the shower off, steps out, shaves, does his morning routine, and then wakes Coriane and gets her ready. She's still sleepy, doesn't understand, asks him when mommy is coming home, when she will be back so they can go to the market and get ice cream. He says they'll go today, but his voice shakes, even as he tries to hide it. Then he takes her to the Barrows, tells Ruth and Daniel to gather all of them together. When they are all sitting before him in the living room, packing it to the brim, he takes out the letter and reads it. There is a horrible silence when he finishes and folds it before putting it back in the envelope. Ruth slowly pulls Coriane toward her and then lifts her into her lap and hugs her so tightly Cori actually whines about it for a second before she sees the look on Cal's face. They all sit in the kitchen after that and Ruth makes tea and she makes hot chocolate for the kids and gives Coriane an extra 4 marshmallows. The kids leave to go play and the adults sit and discuss the logistics, where is the will, was the a will? Do they have to adhere to anything if there isn't one? Would she want to... to be buried on Tuck with Shade? The will would probably say. Should they do that if there isn't one? Ruth offers to take care of Coriane while Cal deals with everything, settling paperwork, etc. etc. Then everyone kinda starts talking about everything again, and he just sits in silence and stares at this knot on the table that Mare pointed out to him because she said it looked like a turtle on its back. He traces it a few times, just sort of thinking about that moment and all the other times they would be in this kitchen doing dishes after family gatherings etc. Farley watches him from across the table

before getting up and nodding for him to follow her outside. Everyone pretty much doesn't notice them leave, or they pretend not to notice. They sit outside on the back porch in silence, just the two of them. After a little bit, it starts to snow. The first snow of the year. Farley holds her hand out to catch the flakes and says quietly: "I hate that it doesn't rain when these things happen. It always feels like it should be raining." He nods silently in agreement, and then she sets her hand on his shoulder, and he bends forward, letting the weight of it drop his head into his hand. He doesn't cry again, he honestly doesn't understand why he feels nothing now, just emptiness, and numbness from the tips of his fingers all the way to the tips of his toes. Even with Maven he didn't feel this way. He felt something then, something biting and hot like a pan that he touched when it just came off the stove. They sit like that for a long time before Coriane comes outside, and slips underneath his arm to snuggle against him. Farley gets up and leaves then, sensing she's said her peace and he understands she's there if he needs her. He holds Coriane close when the back door closes, and she whispers quietly to him, "Mommy's not coming home, is she?" and he just squeezes her once in answer. She frowns and stares out at the snow for a second and then turns around to face him and cups his cheeks in her little hands like she had seen Mare do a hundred times when Cal was in the middle of an especially hard day. She looks at him with a very serious expression for a child and he can see Mare in her when she does that, in the crease of her brows and the slight squint in her eyes. In the hint of chocolate brown in the curls of her hair. She will be furiously beautiful like her mother, and he had a feeling someday she will break a man's heart like his is breaking now. She looks at him for a good little bit and then says, "don't worry, I will take care of you." And he laughs, knowing that Mare always said the same thing. He pulls her close again and whispers with a thick voice, "it's my job to take care of you. But it's just us now... we have to take care of each other."

The funeral is in the spring. Cal pushed it off. Mare hated the winter. Even though she had happier memories of it now, her childhood and the painful clenching of her empty belly were like a permanent stain on the season. He would not bury her in that time. When the snow thaws and the ground melts, they release her ashes on a hill and leave stone for her on a hill under a tree, with a view of the mountains. There is a long line of epithet underneath her name: beloved daughter, sister, friend, wife, mother. Staring at it, Cal wonders if she knows just how important she had become. If she knew that she wasn't just a captain, or a figurehead that brought a centuries old regime to its knees. Everyone leaves after, the Barrows going last, but Cal and Coriane stay. Cal just sitting in the grass next to the grave, the wind in his hair while he watches the mountains for a little while. Coriane sits on the grave, probably not the nicest thing to do, but she does, and traces Mare's name over and over again on the stone with her little finger. "Mommy had a long name." She says as she traces the four names on the stone. Cal hesitated to put his name on there with hers, but he adopted the Barrow name as much as Mare took the Calore one when they married. And in the very, very short will she had drafted, that he almost didn't read because reading it made everything real, she asked that he put both their names on it (but to put his name before hers and she even made a little quip at him in the will about it which made him laugh, even as it made him cry). He glances at Cori after she says that and nods. She then crawls into his lap and they sit watching the mountains before Coriane says, "Uncle Julian says that when people die, they become the dirt that feeds the trees and the grass... do you think mommy is happy to be tree food?" He laughs and hugs her really close before saying, "She's not tree food. That dust we let go of today was mommy. She's on the winds now, traveling everywhere."

He does not remarry, no matter how many years pass, and how many women try to infer that it might be for the best if Coriane had mother in her life. He thinks its a stupid notion that he can't raise his own child on his own. And its hard, god is it hard. But he does it. He makes Coriane Barrow Calore into a women that Mare Molly Calore Barrow would have been very proud of. And he holds onto the notion that someday, when he dies, and they scatter his ashes, that his will find Mare's and they'll be together again that way.