#Elle is so nice to him and gentle and UGH

[sungwanns]

what we could’ve had with spencer and jj blah blah blah ELLE what we could’ve had with spencer and ELLE !! THATS what we should be mourning

[seventfics]

Lionhearted

Written for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Talking in your Sleep Relationships: Cirilla/Morvran Voorhis (+ background Emhyr/Geralt) Rating: T  Content Warnings: None Summary: Before her future reign can begin, Cirilla has to commit to the trust exercise that is an arranged marriage. If only her sleep would be peaceful.

Read on AO3

* * *

“...Cirilla?”

Ciri stirs fully awake at a gentle touch over her shoulder. It is a miracle she does not lash out instinctively and break something. Her limbs feel tight, aching by how tense they’d become in sleep. The faint shadows of a nightmare still dance behind her eyes. She hears the clopping of hooves, the horses of the Wild Hunt approaching—the cold blast of winter hits her as if naked in the snow.

Pure imagination. The bedroom is warm-lit by a hearth. It is summer, and she is safe. She is more than safe.

The touch that rose her pulls her back from the lingering vision of doom. She turns to light eyes, pinched in worry.

“Sorry..." She draws the sheets closer, her wild hair a fan over her face. The room is warm, but a chill runs under her skin all the same. "Did I disturb you?”

Morvran studies her. He sits a comfortable distance away from her. The monstrously-large bed makes that easy. “Not really.”

Slowly, her muscles unwind from their tense curl. A minute passes, and she’s tired again. “Don’t let me keep you awake,” she says rolling on her side, and then, almost a whisper, “you know, you can call me Ciri.”

* * *

The final battle is over. It has been for a peaceful few years. And yet, her mind stays restless, ready for the next enemy to come tearing through her life. So far it’s only been arrogant old men with predictable ambitions, which is pitiful compared to the ageless Aen Elle that had chased her through time and space, and the world-ending White Frost waiting at the end of it all. Really, they should step up their game if they want to make her sweat.

Her dreams made of frost and blood do most of the work for them. It's inescapable. Exhausting.

Every time she wakes from snow clogging her lungs, she sees Morvran had stirred awake in the night, and she apologizes with genuine-felt guilt.

Her husband is always polite about it, which is hard for her to accept at first. Experience tells her to expect a confrontation, or a fight about affecting him with her sleeplessness. But Morvran—she discovers quickly into their spousal arrangement—is quiet company, even if sometimes he seems a little on edge himself. A soldier's nervousness lies behind his gaze. The General without a war to fight. At least she’s not the only one struggling with peacetime.

They say that marriage forges a bond between two souls. That is what her father—of all people—tells her on one of their joint-breakfast mornings.

“There is a responsibility there," Emhyr says with enviable composure. "He is the only one’s opinion you must consult and rely on with matters of state.”

Ciri nearly scoffs. “Not even yours then?”

“Not even mine. Do you not trust him?”

She thinks long after that, a little angry with his nonchalance. Of course she doesn't. Of course it's not that easy. Ask any other lady or princess what their marriage gave them and see if any one of them bring up the word trust. Her father is biased. His own marriage had been sown by destiny's hand.

And yet, after the whispers of dark dreams rouse her at night, she does trust Morvran to be near, to remind her with his presence that she is no longer a child running from great and powerful enemies anymore. She is the daughter of the Black Sun. Nothing can touch her now.

Would be nice to sleep well again on her own soon, though.

Emhyr accepts her silence and sips his tea while it is still warm. He doesn't say anything about the dark circles under her eyes, and she doesn't talk about why they're there.

Geralt visits not a day after, the first time after her marriage, and he sure won't let it go unaddressed.

“I'm fine, Geralt. Haven’t slept well is all.”

That is all she's willing to say, not wanting to bother him too much when he'd arrived so happy to greet her. But it’s Geralt. He knows her better than anyone. Better than she knows herself.

"Haven't slept? You know what that does to your clarity of mind. And are you doing anything about it? Is it the mattress? I tell you, they make them too soft in the south. You need a little firmness to stop you when you're tossing..."

His fussing calms her heart. The opposite would be just as true. If he panics, all her own worries neutralize as she remembers how to think straight for him. They are each other's pillars.

So he frets, and she waves him off, feeling a little better by the second.

Tea together in the garden is a relaxing surprise activity with him, although now that he's brought up the topic of modern furniture and poor craftsmanship, Geralt is grouching about how uncomfortable the chairs are.

“They’re meant to keep your spine straight," she says, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, and it’s crap. Doesn’t fit all of me.”

“That’s because you’re carrying fifty pounds of armor and steel. You might not want to rest all your weight on it actually.”

Geralt purposely leans back on his chair, the wood giving an alarming creak. “Are you calling me fat?”

She laughs at him so hard the Impera keeping guard from the garden's entrance twitch their heads to them. They act like a sign of joy from her is a terrifying dragon come to burn the palace down.

“I miss that,” Geralt mutters with a fake pout.

“What? My laughter?”

“Your…ease with it. I know being empress is nothing to scoff at." At the mention of her future court, Ciri touches her imperial diadem—both a symbol of her patrimony and a wedding band. Geralt tracks the gesture. The sigh he gives is heavy and long. "I mean, shit, this whole marriage thing attached to it isn’t what either of us planned for."

The metal warms under her rubbing thumb. "None of what's happened in our journey ever has been."

A witcher's path is unpredictable. One lives by the day and learns to adapt to what comes. And she's doing that still. Adapting like a witcheress. Soon, she'll have to start thinking more like an empress.

"The General," Geralt starts, and she refocuses on him and the serious set of his brow. "He’s a good man at least. A little…eccentric I think, but he is one of the better ones in Emhyr’s court.”

Now it's her turn to grumble, “I know. It’s annoying. I wish I could have a reason to hate him but he’s so…ugh, mannerly!”

This time Geralt laughs, and for a moment, Ciri is a witcher’s child in the wilds again, punting her father’s shoulder for a dumb joke he's pulled at her expense.

She stops suddenly when a familiar figure, all shoulders and dark colors to contrast his light hair, comes through the garden gates. 'Speak of the devil' might be a rude thought to have, yet it perfectly encapsulates how luck draws its cards on her this morning.

“Geralt of Rivia!” comes Morvran’s happy voice. “I thought I heard the rumble of bickering servants on the way here. Now I understand what displeased them so.”

“I’m not wearing their black-and-white cotton traps and you can’t make me.”

Ciri blinks between them. It surprises her how well Geralt gets along with him, and how openly joyous Morvran is being about his company—and yes, she would call him joyous even as his face is subtle in expressing it. Breaking courtly address would normally upset her recently-made husband no matter the suspect. And yet Geralt, who does not mean to do it intentionally, receives no such berating speeches on etiquette and formality. Actually, Morvran shakes his hand the northern way of greeting. Maybe he's good at adapting too.

“Of course not, sir witcher," Morvran says with his other hand raised in acquiescence. "There is no dire interrogation to fulfill at this hour.”

"Don't threaten me with a free clean shave again." To her, he offers a parting, “Alright. I've taken up enough of your time, I’m gonna head out.”

Her heart sinks at the cursory goodbye. This is her father in all but blood leaving her secure little bubble once more, to be a witcher without her. She is not a child anymore—he doesn't ruffle her ashen hair, though she dearly wants him to for old time's sake. It would mess up her diadem and the intricate plaiting of the braids behind her head.

She is not a child anymore, and yet she is already melancholy at the quick turn of his back.

"See you later, Geralt." Her words are a promise. We will see each other again.

As he steps into the flower path that winds back to the guards, Morvran calls out, “His imperial majesty is currently in a meeting.”

Geralt stops. He looks, for some reason, abashed. “What? Why are you telling me that?”

“I thought you would be privy to that information." Morvran shrugs in dismissal. "Va faill."  

It's almost funny how fast Geralt stomps out of the garden. As Ciri observes the exchange, all her previous heartache is swept under the rug. There is something she's not picking up. Fortunately it's not all she has to talk about to her present, lingering company.

“It’s weird that you two actually get along.” At her words, Morvran turns to her with open surprise.

“Geralt of Rivia is a genial man," he says, his hands meeting behind his back as is Nilfgaardian custom in public. "I believe anyone would be glad to refresh their acquaintance with him.”

Ciri, who was not raised with said customs and is instead being tutored in them with little success, snorts. Loudly.

“You just like that you can rope him into joining a riding competition on a promise of free food.”

Under all his Nilfgaardian powder, Morvran blushes. She can see it in his ears.

She laughs at him too.

* * *

It’s another night of bad dreams. Her memories have toyed with her enough that now she is witness to futures she cannot control. Geralt alone on the Path, the Empire at war with itself from her negligence, all of her old friends, her family, broken apart and dying as she lives on.

She wakes slowly, not in a startle or a choked breath. Her body aches worse than if she had.

Morvran is already awake beside her, a frown set upon his lips.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Between waking and the dissipating fear of her nightmare, Ciri is caught completely off guard. “I...didn’t, no.”

He doesn't explain any more, choosing to give her space as he's done for previous interrupted nights. Part of her wants to ask more. She wants to hear what she had said—what nightmare had she been speaking into existence. Did he recognize anything? Did he want to ask, but simply refrain out of properness?

Whatever it is she uttered in fever sleep, she lets it go. Talking about it now would be worse, somehow. Like making her nightmares a real, concrete thing.

Sleep still fights her long into the night. It does not come a second time. Which is good, as she opens her eyes to a timely assassination.

The weapon under her pillow slides into her hand not a breath later. She always keeps something sharp and deadly there. Good habit, both her fathers would say, for different reasons.

Before the assassin can strike, Ciri blinks in between time. They are dead where they stand, frozen mid-step, collapsing the very next instant time moves for her.

In the commotion that follows, everyone wakes. The emperor looks as regal and rested as always and Ciri envies that as her hair resembles a rat’s nest, mussed from the fear-sweat of her haunted sleep. At least Morvran is just as unkempt as her. They make quite the competition for most messy bedhead, side by side. And though the hours stretch on, from private meetings to argued suspicions, Morvran looks in his element. Her element.

Put an enemy in front of them and they will beat it down until it’s rid of.

Her mind is driven to this new task. Securing entry points, questioning any guards that had slack. Her edges feels frayed—sticking to Morvran like a shadow as they move from room to room, servant to official, order to action, way past sunrise. Her angry expression turns any worried servant away from asking for her imperial majesty to eat.

The assassin had tried to kill him. And no one seems to be that concerned since her own head is still attached to her shoulders. Not even Morvran.

Things calm down well past noon. They both return tired and dry-eyed to their arranged room.

She touches his sleeve and holds his weary gaze. “If you die I won’t forgive you.”

Morvran nods, like she makes sense. “I would never plan on it. It would upset your father.”

For a second, Ciri doesn’t know which one he means, and that makes her smile stupidly, at its pure truth.

She wipes her grin off before Morvran has a chance to politely appreciate it.

* * *

“You’re antsy.”

Ciri hums, taking a bite of her deviled eggs. “I'm not antsy.”

“You are bending the good fork.”

She stares down at her hand and finds that Emhyr is right and the fork is just a little twisted at the neck.

"I'm sure someone's job is to fix it. Just, call them."

Nothing in her posture or her expression could possibly tell Emhyr what sits heavy in her head, short of him being a mindreader. And yet, somehow, he pieces everything together correctly to ask, “Would it be so terrible for you to like him?”

Ciri sighs, looking up at the ornate chandelier, begging it to crash down on her and get her out of this conversation. Because she already does like Morvran, quite a lot, and it is terrible. She would hate to admit to her father that he is right. He’ll never live it down.

Of course, she doesn't need to say anything at all. Her godsdamned mind-reading father already knows. When did he learn to read her so effortlessly?

...Has he been consulting Geralt?

However it may be, Emhyr clears his throat and straightens his fork on his side of the breakfast table. “Some people," he says as she sulks internally, "are fortunate and marry the one they love. Others find a way to make it work.”

At his following pause, Ciri straightens in her seat to meet his gaze. His silences are always weighty and grave.

“I hope that he is worth the work,” he ends.

Then the moment passes, and he's eating again. Leaving her to contemplate alone what it means that her father, the emperor, might actually want her to be happy with the man who would share her rule once she is officially crowned. It's...it's trusting. It's too much to think about so early in the morning.

Being who she is, however, Ciri returns to the source of her sulk and the many questions it created.

“So, have you spoken with Geralt?”

Emhyr drinks his tea very slowly. “Of course not. Had he anything important to relay to me?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “I'm sure you know he came to visit recently, but you don’t ask me what we talked about?”

“Whatever it is you two get up to does not concern me.”

She hums, sipping her own tea. “It’s funny I guess, I thought you asked of him through Morvran.”

Emhyr sets his cup down, narrowing his eyes in thought. As he studies her, she keeps on sipping her tea until it’s finished. “Just curious,” she adds before parting for the day. Give him something to puzzle over that isn't her.

* * *

'Did you know you talk in your sleep?'

Only two nights of the next seven does she stir awake. Not from bad dreams, exactly. Not from dark memories or anxious fears either. Ciri rubs her face now, frustrated, pulled from sleep again for no apparent reason.

Morvran is awake beside her, as he always is. His face is not pressed with a frown, though. She can't stop thinking on his words so casually spoken the night an assassin tried to take him from her, and settles back onto her enormous pillows.

“...What did I say this time?”

“Oh,” he blinks at her, and it’s sleepy and lazy, not at all very general-like. “Something about a swallow. That you miss it. Did you used to own a bird?”

She closes her eyes briefly, oddly at peace with her sleep talking. He had listened to her secret fears for all these nights, her haunted screams, and made them his own secrets.

If she could trust him to know that, then, it is not so difficult to trust him with the more simple things.

“No. Swallow was the name of my sword. I carried her with me everywhere.”

“Ah. Where is she now?”

“I gave her to Geralt before I came to be here. A witcher’s sword is not something I can wield from a throne.”

He touches his hand to her cheek, the first time he’s breached courtly etiquette with her. It is warm and callused.

“I am confident that sir Geralt keeps Swallow sharp and oiled so that the blade stays strong. I am...sorry,” he says with more awkwardness.

She covers his hand with her own, a little laugh escaping her when he blinks rapidly at her returned touch, like he had not expected it at all. “It's alright. I entrusted her to him.”

Marriage forges a bond between two people.

[sry-chrlie]

☁ mama who bore me, mama who gave me no way to handle things. ☁

a scene between charlie and his mother tw: child abuse references bc you know how it be

It had been months since Charlie had spoken to either of his parents. His mother had fallen from several texts a day to one or two a week, usually something benign like:

Oct 31: Happy Halloween, sweetie. Send me pictures of your costume! 🎃

Nov 5: Any requests for Thanksgiving supper? I got the last turkey at the store. Had to fight Elle’s mom for it lol! Have you talked to Elle lately? Miss seeing her around.

Nov 7: Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?

Nov 10: Have a good Wednesday, my love. Make sure you buy a Winter coat. It’s getting so cold out there, brrrr!! Mama is an icicle lol ☃️

Charlie wasn’t sure what was worse. The gentle kindness behind these texts or the ones blatantly telling him he needed to call Dad. Luckily, Talia had gotten Charlie’s message and had stopped sending anything like the latter. Apparently she understood that the more she mentioned his father, the less likely Charlie was to give in and answer her. 

But the ones she did send, these small notes of affection, overwhelmed him with guilt.  He had no reason to punish his mother. What was the point in hurting her when his father was away in DC doing enough of that on his own? He was shutting her out in reaction to imaginary conversations he had with her in his mind, ones where she took his dad’s side and blamed Charlie for their fight.

She hadn’t said these things, though. Charlie hadn’t given her the chance. He wondered, as he sat lonely on his bed, scrolling through all her unanswered texts, how cruel of him it was to refuse his mom the benefit of the doubt. She’d done so much for him. Given him the world. Suffered endlessly for her son to get into a decent school, to provide him a good future... 

Ugh. He’d been thinking so much lately about Oliver and Alec, about Jamie Dyer, about Elle engaged to Elijah, and it was starting to put his life into perspective. Maybe he didn’t have anything to complain about. Maybe he was being so callous to his mother because he was selfish and spoiled. It would certainly fit in with recent behaviors. 

With a heavy sigh, Charlie texted her back.

hey ma, thinking about you. how’s it going? 

It was lame, but it was something. He tossed his phone to the side, half hoping his mother would have the balls to give him the silent treatment right back. But of course not. His phone vibrated with a notification not even five minutes later.

There you are, sweetpea. 😇 I am doing GREAT! Happy as a clam. It’s funny that you should message because I’m about to make your favorite!! Why don’t you come over for pani popo and tea?

His mom was more clever than most people gave her credit for. She would probably be the one ruling the House of Representatives if she hadn’t been relegated to the role of housewife so many years ago. Her text was a perfect example: it sounded simple and earnest to a stranger, but it was coded. She was making Samoan food. That meant Dad wouldn’t be home, without Mom explicitly having to say it. 

Charlie, ever allergic to affection, sent his mom a pair of eyeball emojis and the single word “bet” before rolling out of bed to make an anxious trip home.

It was funny that Charlie’s new apartment was a mere 10 minute drive away from the childhood home he’d been running from. It made his months-long tantrum feel all the more pathetic - like a nightmare that only allowed you to run in slow motion. He hadn’t gotten anywhere. He was just jogging in place, waiting for someone else to make a choice for him.

“Oh my goodness, you are so handsome! I almost forgot how much,” his mother said when she opened the door. She stood on her toes to grab his face and Charlie had to lean down to let her kiss both of his cheeks. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you!”

“Okay, okay, mama,” Charlie said, a laugh easing some of his anxiety, “I missed you too.” 

Lunch was nice. Talia had cooked some Samoan favorites, which was a little indulgence she allowed herself when she was home alone. She paired coconut rolls and pork sliders with glasses of sweet iced tea, an amalgamation of her birthplace and the American South where she’d lived for so long now. 

Talia was getting older, but she wore her age a lot better than Charlie’s father did. Her curly black hair was braided into a bun and she wore no makeup on her face; she didn’t need it. She wore a flowy green dress - a dark, West Virginia green that suited the golden brown tone of her skin. The whole kitchen smelled like fresh bread and coconut, which is what Charlie always remembered when he thought of his mom. 

In that moment, he realized he had missed her in a visceral, agonizing way. She was right there, across the marble island, but Charlie’s heart still ached for the months he’d acted like an idiot. One day, she would be gone, and Charlie was terrified of a day, hopefully far in the future, when he sat lonely in a big house, trying to remember the smell of fresh bread and coconut, but coming up empty.

She talked to him about nothing and everything as they ate. Charlie was a chatterbox perhaps because his mother was. She went on and on about the jewelry she had started crafting, about the ladies at church, about new neighbors that had moved in. She had months of gossip for her son and Charlie listened dutifully, nodding his head and laughing at all the right moments, falling into an ease with his mother. 

“So, Charlie, there’s something I want to run by you.” 

When she said it, he immediately tensed up. It was like the trauma had given Charlie a sixth sense. He knew, from the subtle change in her tone and the way her posture had shifted, that he was going to hate what she said next.

“Oh yeah? What’s that, mama?” he asked, picking at bread crumbs on his plate. She hadn’t really said anything yet, but his heart was beating wildly in his chest. How easily it was for him to come undone. Being home was like driving top speeds down a highway made of black ice; Charlie was constantly prepared for the crash.

“Your father is on his way back from the city. He's got a couple weeks off for Thanksgiving. He should be here soon and I thought it would be nice if we all finally had a talk.”

 Like a compact car right into the tail end of an 18 wheeler.

“God, Mom!” Charlie shoved his seat away from the kitchen island, jumping off the stool to make escape that much easier.

“Do not swear at me, Charlie. I’m trying to make things better.”

“No you’re not, you’re trying to pretend like it already is better. Newsflash, Mom: Dad’s an asshole. Unless he’s been invaded by a body snatcher, none of this is going to change.” 

She wasn’t looking at him now. She hated confrontation as much as he did. She busied herself with the dishes, passive aggressively clinking them harder than she needed to.

“Do you really have to be so melodramatic?”

Charlie’s chest was on fire. Red hives of anxiety started to crawl up his neck, powered by the erratic nonstop pounding of his heart. He took deep, steadying breaths. His father wasn’t even in the room. He didn’t have to panic. He remembered what Jamie had said at The Gallows: tell your mom the truth, give her a chance to respond the right way.

“He’s sleeping with someone else, Mom. He left you here like the Kennedy sister they don’t talk about while he whips his dick out for every 20-something bimbo in DC.” 

Charlie’s mom slammed a plate so hard into the sink that it cracked, sending shards of ceramic to the floor. She hissed, pulling her hand close to herself. Charlie rushed over.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said curtly, brushing off his attempts to help. She rinsed her finger under the faucet, droplets of blood washing down the drain. “I know that your father has certain... indiscretions,” she confessed, still refusing to look Charlie’s way. “Although I prefer not to think of them in such lewd terms, but Charlie, marriage is complicated and your father has a very stressful job. At the end of the day, he’s a good man and if you would sit down and have a talk with us, you would understand. Things are going to be different now.”

The concern for his mother warped into more righteous fury and Charlie raked his hands through his hair to try and calm himself.

“Do you realize that you’ve been saying the same thing since I was like five years old? It’s always, ‘things are going to be different’ but, Mama, things are exactly the same.” 

“They’re not the same!” Talia argued. “You’re grown now, none of that old business matters anymore.” 

The wind had been knocked out of him with that one. Charlie didn’t have words for it. Years of hidden bruises that didn’t matter anymore. Broken bones with secret origins that didn’t matter anymore. Little Charlie, on his knees, sobbing, begging Mom, Let’s just leave. Let’s go back to your home and live on the beach, far away from Dad. Please, please, please. And Mom’s eternal answer: It’s okay. Things will get better. Charlie had long since given up crying to a broken record, but he felt the ghost of a knot in his throat that afternoon.

“Dad isn’t a different person,” he tried explaining again, his voice aching, begging for this time to be the time his mom finally understood what he was trying to say. “If I was magically 14 again, he would still hit me for doing nothing. When did I ever do anything wrong, Mom?”

“Oh, please, Charlie, spare me the victim act. You are hardly innocent.” Talia had started sweeping up the broken plate, ignoring the cut on her finger, like she needed something to do to avoid looking into her son’s eyes. “I heard about that Halloween party of yours. There was a fight. It wasn’t even a day later that I saw Alec at the bodega with his face all messed up. I’m sure you had nothing to do with that.” 

The mere mention of Alec and Oliver sent a flood of emotion through him. The pressure in his head was painful, his eyes watering despite himself. “I didn’t hit Alec,” he said, hating the way his voice had wavered. “Mom... do you really think I would do that? I would never hit...” 

He trailed off, no longer able to juggle the task of talking and not crying. It was just as well. If his mom had known how royally he’d fucked up with Oliver, she might have felt vindicated, and thinking about that was too much for Charlie. His silence gave her the opportunity for a final, devastating blow.

“Right, Charlie. In all those fights you’ve had with your father, how many of them started because you hit him first?”

It was ridiculous and unfair but also it was true. Maybe Charlie was making it all up. Maybe, the whole time, Charlie had been the problem. 

“Mom...” He sounded small. Weak. Pathetic. He didn’t want to be standing there, wet faced, begging, again, for his mother to choose him. For once. Please. Choose Charlie. 

“Maybe you should go. Your father will be here soon and I don’t see us having any productive conversations today with this attitude of yours.” 

Charlie didn’t need to be told twice. Running away was something he’d always been good at. He fled the scene of his own undoing, feeling ashamed that he’d ever expected it would be different this time. 

Gravewood never changed. Not really. Charlie was just the only one stupid enough to take this long to figure that out.

[colinthecaldwell]

Prompt: Sleeping drugs are no match for your insomnia!

I was sitting in another sterile room with white fluorescent lights humming softly in the ceiling. I wasn't really listening to the lady in the white coat as she talked on and on about the importance of sleep to proper physical and cognitive development in teenagers. My mother listened earnestly, and I figured that was enough for both of us. Besides, I knew all of this already. It's not like I wanted to stay awake all night long, I just couldn't ever fall asleep. Even when I ran that half marathon a few months ago, I couldn't sleep that night either. It's not that I'm not tired. Sleep just doesn't come for me.

The doctor finished her monologue with "...so I'm writing a prescription for something that should solve the mental over-activity at bedtime. Simply take one of these each night before doing your nightly routine, and you should be plenty relaxed by the time your head hits the pillow."

Yeah. I'm sure this one would be different than all the rest.

My mother, angel among people, thanked the doctor profusely as we headed out. On the way home, she tried to encourage me, "Sara, I really think this new doctor knows her stuff. Didn't you hear all the studies she was citing back in there? I feel really good about this new medicine."

My silence was my response.

"I understand you are frustrated by the insomnia. I mean, when I was pregnant with you, I could hardly sleep for the last couple weeks, and I thought I was going to go crazy."

I shot a sharp glance at her.

"Sorry, honey, I didn't mean it like that. I just want you to know that I know how you feel, and I want you to feel better is all."

"Thanks, mom. I know." We drove the rest of the way home in silence.

The rest of the afternoon was pretty bland. I mean, everything is pretty gray when you are constantly running on minutes of sleep. I'm not even sure I can remember what a good night's rest feels like. Luckily, at dinner my brother mentioned something about a guy he had a crush on in one of his classes, so the eager attention of my mother was focused elsewhere. It was kind of nice fading to the back when I didn't have the energy to be in the spotlight. I finished eating and excused myself to begin my lengthy night time routine in an attempt to relax. In my room, I unwrapped the pill bottle with my new script. Eight hot pink pills. I popped one in my mouth and swallowed. When you've taken as many medications at 16 as I have, dry swallowing pills becomes no issue.

Now that was done it was time to relax. I lit some lavender incense, played my "Tranquil Beats" playlist, and sat on the floor. I closed my eyes and began counting my breaths. One... two.... three... four... It's funny that I was raised being told to count sheep to fall asleep, when meditation experts laud the benefits of counting your breaths. I guess people just really like numbers. Whoops, wait, six... or was it five? Ugh, start over. One... two... three...

I was just starting to get into the swing of it when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I couldn't believe someone would bother me when I'm trying to relax before bed! I turned around to shout at who I assumed was my brother only to face a mysterious woman with jet black hair down to her waist. "Hello, Sara," she cooed. Her voice felt like silk brushing across my skin, and I was immediately disarmed. "It's been a long time."

"Who are you? How do you know my name?"

"Don't fret, child, I mean you know harm. I'm Sleep. Dreams should be joining us soon. It's been so long, I can't wait to hold you in my embrace again," she said with a smile. Her presence was so gentle, like your parents tucking you into your favorite childhood blanket.

"You're Sleep? Why are you a woman? What is going on?"

"Shh, shh, child," she whispered reassuringly. "I visit everyone, from the nappers to the hibernators. You just happen to be able to see me now thanks to your new doctor's medication, and if I had to guess why you have this I would say it's because of him," she said, giving me a hard shove. As she pushed me, I felt a weight fall off me as a book off a shelf, and I heard a thump.

"Now wot the 'ell are you on about, eh?" an angry voice behind me yelled. "I found 'er first, an' she's mine! Now if you don't mind, get yer filthy mitts off the girl and PISS OFF!" I turned my head to look at the source of the voice, but my motions felt as if I was moving through molasses. When my eyes finally came around, I saw a squat man with messy hair shooting in every direction. He glanced at me, and I saw a flash in his wild eyes as his lips parted into a snarling grin. "Ain't that right, dearie?"

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Why, that's no way to greet an ol' pal!" he exclaimed in mocking exasperation. He sprang from the floor to the corner of my bed singing, "It is me, for I am he, the one who keeps you up. I'll always keep your mind from sleep, and surely you will find: there secrets deep past counting sheep, when Sleep don't make you blind. So come with me, and I'll go with ya. I am Insomnia!" He finished his poem by brandishing his hands as if shaking tambourines. I couldn't help but giggle in my entranced stupefaction.

"That is enough," the woman said, her countenance darkening. "You have tormented this girl for long enough, and tonight, she needs rest." As she said these words, a billowy figure of shadows drifted through the wall. When it solidified a little more, I realized it was an owl the size of a man. It looked at Sleep with eyes as deep as the Universe itself before affixing them on me. "Excellent timing. Sara, meet Dreams. Now if you don't mind," she said, turning towards Insomnia, "we will be taking care of Sara tonight."

At this, the light in Insomnia's eyes flared so intensely it seemed as if they were ablaze. "Oh, no, you DON'T!" he shouted as he leapt from the bed at Sleep. Though he was much shorter than she, he took her to the ground and they began to wrestle, rolling back and forth across the hardwood. One moment, he was on top of her, squeezing her throat. The next, she was on top of him, her hair wrapping around his entire head. During the struggle, Dreams faded back towards the wall, keeping his eyes fixed on me. I looked from Dreams back to the fray and back to Dreams. Did he seem hungry?

Eventually, Sleep's size and prehensile hair began to overcome Insomnia. He thrashed and wailed and choked as her hair not only wrapped around his neck but also began stuffing itself into his mouth and nose. As he writhed and wretched, she said through a snarl "She needs us. We will take care of her. We have no need for YOU!"

Insomnia, choking, locked eyes with me, "Sara, don't listen to her. She doesn't want you to sleep. She wants you to die. That's not Dreams, that's the Void." He stretched out a hand in desperation.

As he spoke, she looked over at me, a crazed look in her eyes. "Don't mind him child. A wild animal will say anything when he is backed into a corner." Her grip around his neck tightened until air was no longer escaping. A pit formed in my stomach as I watched him struggle for air. I reached to pull Sleep off him, but it felt as if my arm was moving through pitch. I had barely enough strength for my fingers to graze her hair. I grabbed as tightly as I could, when I could sense the owl opening his wings wide. The woman looked at me, as the writhing body beneath her lost its vigor. "Fear not, my child. In one way or another, Sleep comes for us all." With those words, the floor vanished from beneath me, and I plunged into a bottomless pit, falling deeper and deeper into utter relaxation.

[khuntopia]

✧ drowning [ minchan ]

Summary: Summer in Australia with Minho and three of his buddies. Nothing could go horribly even if the poor boy can't even swim, right?

Pairings: Minho x Lifeguard!Chan

Genre: Fluff.

Length: 4.4K words.

Warnings: Usage of explicit language.

Requested: Pretty much. This was just an idea by @/starryknow on Twitter and I thought it might be nice to write about it. Thank you for the idea, Elle!

A/N: My first imagine book so it would be pretty nice if anyone could give me some advice and what they thought about this short story. Have a nice reading :)

Minho is watching the trees, how they sway in a warming breeze. It is that time when summer begins to blossom into something the body feels as much as the brain when the emotions catch their thermal updrafts.

The boy remembered when he first arrived in Australia on his first day, the heat rained down on them like the breath of hell. It felt as if the sidewalk was hot enough to fry a morning breakfast. It was one brutal day for him.

So when Minho felt the coldness against his face with the wonderful perfume of roses met his nose, he just wants to run around the nearby park from his hotel like a little kid.

He heard the faint sound of chirping above and saw birds soar across the sky. He closed the door from the balcony and turned his body to the opposite way, only to stop his footsteps when he saw his friend, Seo Changbin.

Changbin was wearing dark grey trousers, flat sandals with some stupid looking summer hat, from Minho's point of view.

Minho pulls away from his sunglasses from his face, a displeased look worn on his expression. "What's all of this about, and why are you bringing those surfing board out with this wonderful weather?"

"Oh, it's summer, we're not gonna stay at this neighborhood for the whole week! We're going to the beach, of course, Minho."

"Wait, beach?"

"Yes the beach Minho, go inside and change quickly, you're lucky that Hyunjin just woke up so hurry up!" Changbin repeated, not minding the other boy's expression.

"B-b-but—"

"Argh stop winning! Just go!" Minho was being pushed to go inside the room, causing the door to slammed to his back. Minho sighed, gave up and went to his bedroom to take his swimsuit.

Although he can't swim.

On the other hand, Hyunjin was just going out of his bedroom and seemed unenthusiastic. He too was forced to go. Seungmin followed him behind and grinned like an idiot when he saw Minho's face of horror.

"Remember to bring BB Cream and SPF to protect your perfect skin." Seungmin exaggerated, knowing how much the other guy hated being in the sun exposure.

And he hated that he could only sit while watching the rest having fun.

Minho was sitting on the back of the car, watching the outside's views from the window in the most lifeless in his life. His head was slowly following to the beat of the song played from Changbin's huge speakers.

And of course, if you put Seungmin on the first seat, he would turn on his favorite band Day6 and blast it at a high volume, head bobbing back and forth like a crazy chicken.

At least he was lucky that the passengers didn't look at the young boy and his group of friend weirdly. "This is gonna be the best vacation ever!" Seungmin looked from his back towards grumpy looking Minho.

"Fuck no." Minho cursed.

The rest of the boys chuckled, again, not minding about Minho who was utterly silent on their whole ride to his hell.

The beach was unexpectedly uncrowded, not what they were thinking of. Changbin was proud that he took the boys on the right day to go to the beach. Most of them didn't take much time to prepare, instead, they all started to run straight to the cool water. Leaving the boy-who-cannot-swim and Hyunjin all the kinds of stuff left.

"I wish I could have bought my cats with me."

"You know we can't bring animals on the plane, right? Just enjoy your time here, man, maybe look at the pretty trees or go talk to some local people here." Hyunjin uttered while having trouble smearing his suncream on his back.

"Tsk," said Minho, his voice half a whisper. "I didn't even get 20/100 on that last test. Do you think I'm really capable to talk to them? Stop being stupid, aussieboo, just go play and I'll stay here on my own." He finished.

"Fine." Hyunjin's tone held a warning note. "Don't be bored without my existence."

"I don't need you, shoo!"

"And hey, from what I remember, Changbin also brought his old cheap looking $10 float last week. He prepared a lot actually, so just check his bag."

With that, Hyunjin dashed away and followed the rest of the boys. Minho looked at them, having the fun time of their life, making himself wondering if he should actually try and go in the water. Ugh, he thought. He knows that he wouldn't be able to sit on the burning sand for more than hours, nor is he patient enough to even sit on one spot for even 30 minutes.

"Look at that grandpa running with his unicorn float. I swear this is embarrassing as heck." Seungmin said, but before he could say more, the other boy already came next to their side.

"I knew Changbin had a float but this isn't what I expected it to be. I guess he has been very interested in rainbows and fluffy stuff—oW!"

Hyunjin was hit as he tried to finish his sentence by no other than Changbin. He glared at the innocent-boy, and was trying to defend himself by saying that "It's my sister's old float."

"But you don't even have a sibling."

"Shut up Hyunjin!" Changbin raised his voice.

While the rest of them were arguing about the float, Minho was busy looking at the beautiful scenery of the smooth-looking sand, the local people around talking in their native language and kids building the sandcastle. In the gentle spring sunshine, the boy felt as if he were swimming in the briny aroma.

It wasn't as bad as he thought.

Minho observed every single detail from this beach, however, he stopped right when he saw this lifeguard's face. Right there. That guy had that kind of face to stopped your track, based on Minho's good eyesight. His rich chocolate hair, more like golden brown as the sunlight was hitting his face was slightly tousled and wavy.

The lifeguard seemed somewhere his age, which was pretty nice but the only problem was the language barrier. It was frustrating for Minho, but he kept staring from afar.

"Do you think that we should call him," Seungmin whispered to Changbin, snorting.

Hyunjin also saw what they were both talking about, and quickly swam closer to them and said half-whispered with amusement. "I wonder what he is dreaming about, huh?"

"I mean not gonna lie, that lifeguard is hot."

"Not you too, Changbin!"

Changbin shook his head in denial. "Nah, I don't believe on love at first sight."

But his word was drowned out by the sea of laughter, which confused Minho, who wasn't listening to their conversation since the beginning. Hyunjin noticed his confusion and quickly asked:

"So hyung, when are you planning to take him out?"

Minho blink. He knew exactly what they were all talking about. Him, that lifeguard. That handsome effing lifeguard. What should he say, that he was only looking at the coconut tree stupidly? Nah, that'd be way too obvious. He would rather be honest.

"I wish, but language barrier, guys." He said with a straightforward tone yet it seemed very dejected. It was easy to find a lover for him, it's just that he's not interested in girls.

The rest of them nodded, all disappointed.

"Hey but don't be too sad, you still have us here, we're enough handsome for you to look every single day, am I right?" Changbin smirk as Minho just laughed silently. It was true, they were pretty enough to complete his life.

Till then, Minho didn't think of him much.

"Hey guys, I think I saw an ice cream truck inside that place earlier. Should we go get some?"

"Is Changbin paying?"

"No! Last to arrive there is paying."

"Seems fine with us."

Just then, everyone started dashing to the shore, leaving Minho on his float alone. "Yah! Yah! This is unfair!" He kept screaming, not even moving an inch because it would be useless in anyway.

The rest were staying on the sand, making grimaces from afar like little kids. Minho sighed. It was what he had to deal with them every single day, so why was he even mad at this point.

He slowly tries and moves his hand, trying to get closer to the edge of the beach. When suddenly, he felt his surrounding less heavy and somewhat more weird than usual. Minho looked at the float, and quickly understand the situation.

Drowning, he was drowning.

Shit shit shit shit! Not now.. he thought, his hand was starting to panic as he tries to at least swim somewhere near the shore. His legs were trying to move along, but nothing worked. His body gave up on trying.

Minho couldn't hear exactly what was going on, sounds from above the water were muffled from down here. His eyes were starting to give up too. This is probably the end, was what he was thinking of.

On a matter of second, Minho was quickly pulled out of the water by two strong hands grabbing his arms.

The three boys were standing next to the lifeguard as he just got out of the water, holding Minho on his arm.

"Darn it Changbin, you shouldn't have bought that float for $10! Your rich ass could buy a slipper for millions of bucks, but not for a float?!"

"Hey, that's not my fault! And for your information, it's not even me that bought those."

"Can you all shush, please? Minho is literally unconscious and y' all are here arguing about a float? I'm supposed to be the youngest and most childish but it's actually the two of you?"

Hyunjin and Changbin were silent as they both watched the older one lay down on the sand. The handsome lifeguard pinched Minho's nose and was doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as Seungmin was sheepishly smiling.

"Now look at the childish one, smiling at someone doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

"If we told Minho that his hot lifeguard was saving his life by doing this, he would probably faint for another time." Seungmin chuckled. Their whole conversation has been in Korean, although they didn't expect that their words could change everything.

The lifeguard, named Chan, was trying not to react to their words. He was flustered and also surprised that they were speaking Korean right in front of him, who also had the same nationality as them. He tried to focus on the unconscious guy but just got more clumsy instead.

He just kept focusing on Minho's face more.

Luckily, Minho coughed out a huge amount of water and was now conscious, just a bit nauseous and very confused.

"Uh-uh—"

"Are you okay?" His voice was soft, compared with how huge and muscular he was. Minho was even more confused and very very flustered.

Minho swore to himself that he didn't mean nor want to stare at him in the eyes for that long. To the point that his mouth almost dropped open at the sight in front of him.

With all of his effort, he answered with his broken English."I'm okay"

"Can you walk?"

"Yes—" Minho started to stand up and run away immediately at this point, only to fall down again, luckily it didn't hurt as much since there was the sand.

He wanted to say that his leg hurt in English, but couldn't found the exact word. He hated Seungmin for not helping him when he's just right at the lifeguard's back. However, to his surprise, Chan got his back.

"I think you have leg cramps?" Chan asked, this time, in the language they both understand, Korean. At that moment, the three other was the one who was now shocked. They looked at each other, eyes fully wide, mouth opened, soon regretting everything they said.

Minho's heart was beating a mile per minute, the guy's voice was amazingly attractive. And someone with a striking look with a beautiful voice speaking in his native language, it feels like an angel singing.

"Ah-ah-ah yes! You speak Korean?"

"Yeah, I lived in Korea for some years actually." Chan smiled, which seemed so genuinely sweet.

And another striking moment.

Not for Minho though, but for the three other guys, wondering how they will have to tell the other one what they just did. They knew Chan heard what they said, and regretted it.

They didn't even care how cute the contact between the two older boys was, even if they were literally staring death in the eyes, but just how screwed they would be if the now-conscious boy knew the secret.

Loverboy and his lifeguard were having a small little talk, for about 10 minutes about things like their vacation, Chan's life of being a lifeguard, before parting different ways.

"I'm praying for the both of you, Changbin and Seungmin, especially you, little one," Hyunjin whispered, pointing at the Seungmin

Seungmin breath out heavily. "Maybe you can start planning my soon-to-be-funeral."

"Seungmin did what?"

"Don't act like you're deaf, Minho, he literally said what I just said to your lifeguard!"

"Hyunjin, you have such a big mouth, won't you ever learn how to shut up?"

Seungmin looks over at Hyunjin and wishes he could smack him in the face, glaring at him as if someone just stole his favorite toys. Changbin wished he could say something to comfort Minho, who looked surprisingly normal.

"I mean," Seungmin clarified, "it's not like I knew the guy spoke Korean, if I did, I would keep my mouth shut, unlike Hyunjin here!"

Changbin looked hugely entertained at their fighting, although his look changed to an alarming sort of way as he saw Minho leaving their car, whispering "I'm going to buy a coffee, I'll be back." The two boys were still bickering about themselves as usual.

Minho wasn't actually mad at them, or even Seungmin, instead, he kept imagining the scene Chan doing that mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, or even kiss him on the lips. It made him crazy just to think of it, and afraid that the boys would think he's a weirdo, Minho decided it would be a nice idea to go breathe some fresh air.

He heard noises of someone panting and running footsteps towards him. He stopped in front of a narrow door of the coffee shop before that person grabs his shoulder. He knew that person is none other than Changbin. "Hey," he muttered, exchanging a glance with Minho. "Is everything alright there, hyung?"

Minho shook his head as if to say I don't know.

"Okay look Changbin, I'm fine, it's just that, I hate to feel that I have to leave Australia and.. and that lifeguard guy." Changbin looked up, completely silent.

"I hate that I'm like this, Changbin. I hate that I'm so desperate over a guy I just met."

"I saw that the both of you had a nice conversation afterward, why didn't you ask for his numbers?" Changbin asked.

Minho stopped for a second, before answering. "You have a point, but have you seen the number of people who had rejected me? I'm honestly scared, Changbin."

Changbin felt a flicker of sympathy for him. It was true, Minho had been fighting over this for a while, and it was honestly not easy for him to watch his friend, feeling neglected. There was a moment of quiet and peace between the two boys. Changbin wanted to open his mouth to say something but completely forgotten it as he saw the one and only prince charming of Lee Minho, entering that shop they were about to go in.

This time, to make sure that Chan won't hear anything, Changbin half-whispered into Minho's ear. "There goes your chance, pretty boy, either you say it now, or it's over. I believe in you, hyung, I know that you can do it and if the guy even dares say a word about you, it's over for him, okay?" He insisted, trying to sound as calm as possible.

"Also bring me a latte, that would be nice."

"Al-alright." His voice broke unevenly with a very trembling hand. Minho had never been this hesitant before, so before he entered the shop, he let out a shaky breath. The dread and anxiety deadened his mind and body.

He is right next to that fucking counter where I have to order my drink, what a perfect way to start the plan, he thought. Being so cautious and nervous, Minho ran with high speed and ordered right away as he almost startled the old lady, probably the manager of the shop. While opening his mouth, he noticed the intense stare on Chan's face.

Wet brown tendrils of hair clung to his forehead and cheeks, droplets trekking down his jaw to drip from his chin. His eyes, especially his eyes, were stained with the color of hot chocolate on a cold, winter night that wraps around you like a blanket; engulfs you in its warmth and makes you feel at home. Minho stuttered for a second.

"I-I would like two lattes and..and.. 2 Coca Cola please."

"Sure darling, you can wait on this table here—"

Before the woman could finish her sentence, Minho already ran outside to Changbin's side, whirled to face him more than he ever thought he would. "Okay look Changbin, I confessed to people but it was only through social media—not face to face after meeting for 10 minutes. You know that I'm very introverted so—"

Changbin, to reassure his friend, this time, he holds both of his hand, saying, "Look, Minho. I was like you before, hyung. So coy and reluctant when it comes to these things. I remembered when I confessed to my boyfriend it felt like I was going on my final test. At some point, you just have to try, although there's a chance it would.. fail."

"Even if he would reject you, it will be the past, and if he did, it would just prove him as someone terrible for not even giving my wonderful friend that's right in front of me a chance." This time, Changbin's voice seemed a lot more comforting, adding that lovely smile of his, it boosts Minho's confidence.

When Minho felt that he was ready, before going inside one last time, he turned to Changbin, giving an assuring grin. "Also, Changbin."

"Hm?"

"I have to agree that your boyfriend Felix really deserve you after all, and thank you." Changbin suppressed with a smile, his blush seared through his cheeks and for a second, it was hot pink.

Going inside again felt exactly like Changbin described, it felt like on your final test. The lady still was still making the last drink while Chan—Minho could only see his back, huge shoulder. He noticed that the boy was just that he was writing something on a piece of paper.

Minho only stood there, watching what was going on. Later, when he finished writing his note, he gave it to the old lady, who sheepishly smiled back at him. Chan suddenly turned his back and saw Minho who was already walking to him.

"Thank you, how much is it for?"

"$12, dear."

Chan turned to his direction, making eye contact at the boy in front of him. Minho hands were trembling, although his tone remained calm. Both were looking in the eyes for a good five seconds. Before Chan said anything, he did a little awkward cough and said:

"Hey, so you're going to leave Australia soon?"

Minho shook his head. "In a week, actually."

Chan hummed in response. "Well, I guess I won't see you around soon, so... I guess.. this is goodbye?"

Minho opened his mouth but was stopped when Chan shot upright from his seat, approaching the other boy the closest they've ever been. Chan gave him a wistful look. "Must.. you go..? I was honestly hoping that you would stay here for a while."

Minho was frozen on the same spot.

"Well, I don't want you to go, honestly," Chan said. "I don't know why I feel it so strongly—I've just met you—but I don't want you to go."

Minho said nothing. He was too busy being shocked that the man right here is somewhat confessing to him. It felt like a sweet dream. It was like a sweet dream. But it was a reality. It was so odd, he thought, what brought out the tenderness in people. It was never what he would have expected.

"And I feel like trusting you," he said. "I don't know why—But again, I've just met you for a while—but I do." Chan unexpectedly moves his head closer to Minho. The next thing Minho knew, was that his forehead rests against his, and that feeling of both fear and excitement was growing inside him.

Is this.. it.. he thought.

"May I?" Chan asked softly, and with a swift motion, not even an answer, but just Minho's little nod. Chan brushed his lips across his and reached for him as if he would otherwise drown. Minho almost gasped when the other boy's hand went around his.

Minho was completely unprepared, even if he knew that the other one asked for a kiss, he was completely unprepared. His brain was lit on fire, the warm set through his entire body. It felt amazing, for both of them.

When they both pulled away, their breaths were shaking. Chan, from what Minho saw, was pale, paler than before, except for the two splotches of red across his cheeks. Minho felt like those first kiss that he would end up rolling in his bed and burying his face in the pillow. So lovely and innocent. He was hiding his face with both of his hand, covering his face to hide his embarrassment.

Before Minho could say anything, the next thing he knew was that Chan, already dashed out of the shop, leaving him standing like an idiot on the middle of the room. Not that he cared about the weird look on the local people, because there was none, but just the kiss.

"Yah! What happened? Why did he just stormed out like that?" Changbin asked, oblivious about the situation. From his point of view, it looked like Minho had been drugged from his lifeguard.

Minho, grinning like an idiot, answered simply with we just kissed. Changbin looked towards the boy in front of him, staring at him as he almost screamed loudly to the whole world.

"No way! So you got his number?"

"Mhmmm—wait what did you say?" Minho finally came back to his sense when Changbin asked that question and repeated twice.

"Y-you guys kissed.. and you didn't ask for his damn numbers?"

"Changbin, I forgot, Changbin, I really forgot.," Minho shouted, and he wasn't sure if he sounded angry, mad, sad or something else. What he knew was that next, he reached for Changbin's shoulder and started whining. The only thing the younger boy could do was sigh and comfort his brother by caressing his back.

"If not, maybe we can go back here tomorrow."

"Really? Please, Changbin please just this time."

"I don't really mind, hyung and I think the boys would love to go here for the second time. And anything for my friend, of course—" He was cut off by Minho's tight hug, almost choking him at some point until he pushed him away, chuckling.

Changbin stood up straighter, "Look here, our drink is already ready, maybe we can stay here for a night while you look for the boy, does that seems fine to you?"

"Perfect, actually. You're the best, Changbin, and let's drink these so I can refresh my head."

Changbin approached the table and saw a note next to it, he thought at first it was just a bill. But little did he know, it wasn't. As he got more curious, he opened the little piece of paper, his eyes almost as wide as a kid getting their Christmas present. All he did next was shoving the letter to Minho's face so he couldn't miss the content on it.

Once the older one read it, Minho felt like collapsing, screaming, dying—everything.

The letter was written by Chan, very neatly, and very... cheesy.

———

'It's Chan, the lifeguard guy. I was and always too shy to even ask you out, maybe we can at least call each other when we can? I think that you look pretty cute, and I would love to know you more.'

'Here's my number, it would be nice if you call could a lifeguard, because I'm drowning in your beautiful eyes.'

And to end everything, at the back, was written. 'And I think I kind of like you already.'

       — Bang Chan.

———

Changbin's smile was beaming, not as much as Minho, but there was a flicker of happiness in his eyes. "It looks like someone just got the jackpot, nice for you, hyung!"

When they got back to the car, Minho's mood had changed completely since the beginning of the trip, not because they were going home, but Chan. It was a hell of a trip, but he forgets most of the negative thought. The only thing is that he can't trust Changbin for bringing any float, again.

As for the 3 rest, they were ecstatic for the older one, even if the two aren't even dating, yet. Hyunjin is already claiming himself as their future children's godfather, while Seungmin is talking about how great of an uncle he would be, just, a mess.

Nonetheless, it was still indeed a beautiful and remarkable vacation for Minho.

As for Chan, he couldn't stop thinking of Minho. Whether if the other one is really gonna call him afterward. Chan was still scared, frightened about his sudden action, like the kiss, but he was honestly proud.

He didn't even know about Minho well, yet he knew that the boy was nothing but an angel. He isn't even sure if the cute boy would use him at the end or not, yet he trusts him with his whole heart.

For him, fate is beautiful. But what he didn't know was that the boy he saved that day from a drowning incident, is the person who is gonna spend the rest of his life with.

End

[stereksummerexchange]

Fixer-Upper

Clotpolesonly - A bit of a throwback fic! I tried to put in stuff you mentioned enjoying, so fingers crossed it hits the spot :)

by @troubleiwant 

Explicit - no warnings

Post-S2 divergence with no Alpha Pack and nobody dead, just rebuilding the Hale House and with a little bit of pining and maybe some kissing! Also, minor Lydia/Stiles and Erica/Stiles friendships

Stiles scrubs a hand through his spiky-short hair. It needs a trim, but fuck it. Summer means he doesn’t have to worry about shit like that. He’s beyond glad to be done with the year, not least because he was getting sick of the wary looks cast his way on account of the damage Gerard’s beating had left on his face. The split lip is long healed by now, but the bruise across his cheekbone is still a tender reminder, reflected in the bathroom mirror and in the gentle tone his dad takes with him at breakfast.

It’s not so bad, though, Stiles thinks sternly at himself. So he got knocked around, so Boyd and Erica were tortured, so Jackson almost died. Nobody’s actually got killed, except for Matt, who deserved it, and…. and what is his life that that’s supposed to be a reassurance? No, Stiles corrects himself. Things are not great in ye olde Beacon HIlls. Not great at all. They’re supposed to be enjoying a carefree break like the kids they are, but instead there’s so much bad blood lingering around town that you could drown in it.

Even Scott, usually so optimistic about everything, has been knocked down a few pegs what with the breakup with Allison in the wake of her realizing how shitty her hunter family really was. He’s taking singledom a little better than Stiles though he might, honestly, but that means he’s alternating between calm assurance that he and Allison will get back together in the end, and weirdly obsessive focus on a tattoo he wants. Stiles is glad he has goals besides winning her back, but he isn’t at all excited about the specifics. Needles, man. Ugh. He’s not sure what kind of emotional pain a dude needs to be in to think that’s a good idea.

The Hale pack seems equally adrift after the events of the school year. Derek isn’t talking to Scott, on account of the whole “using you as a key element of a plan that I kind of forgot to tell you existed whoops” and new beta Jackson would try the patience of a saint, which Derek certainly is not. On top of that, Erica is handling the trauma of her kidnapping the same way she’d dealt with her frustrations about being bullied when she was first turned - with sex.

She’s flirty with Stiles, who does his best to ignore it, and with Isaac, who doesn’t quite understand that it’s only teasing. Apparently she even kissed Derek at training one day, according Boyd. Fuck if that isn’t a surreal (and, okay, kind of hot) thought. Wost, she keeps hitting on Jackson just to rile Lydia, who takes it just about as well as you’d expect. Isaac, hung up on Erica and already feeling pushed aside with Jackson’s entrance into the pack, takes it worse than that.

Add in all the normal hormonal disagreements between a bunch of teenagers trying to live together in an old abandoned house, and the Hale pack is basically a powderkeg.

All the same, the Hale house is where Stiles is heading now, tromping through the forest because the Jeep is in the shop yet again. He tries to spend a good amount of time here, half to keep them from tearing themselves apart and half because Scott is going to need all the allies he can get. If the awfulness with Gerard showed them anything, it’s that supernatural folks need to stick together. Scott is certainly not in a place to appeal to Derek’s good graces, for the time being, so Stiles’ efforts will have to do.

At least the task almost takes his mind off of Lydia. She and Jackson have been some version of “together” for years, sure, but Jackson’s always been such an ass it was easy for Stiles to tell himself their relationship was unhealthy and he needed to save Lydia from it (and then claim her for his deserving self, obviously). Now, that fantasy doesn’t quite fly. Like, epic healing transformations and a possible resurrection because of her declaration of love? Yeah, all that pretty much put him out of the “one true love” running. It’s strangely painful to realize that Lydia’s relationship is not and maybe never was an obstacle to overcome on his quest to win her heart. In the meantime, Jackson isn’t making things any easier by actively, visibly trying to be better. Stiles can’t even hate the guy properly.

Then again, maybe Jackson trying is mostly because Derek would rip his throat out if he wasn’t. Derek, Stiles thinks, could convince anyone to behave through some combo of those fangs and those cheekbones. Or eyes. Or his perfectly symmetrical scruff. Theres alot going on with his face that could be used for positive reinforcement, basically. Beacon Hills has way too many hot people, but Derek’s up there with Lydia in terms of blinding perfection…. and Stiles has just about the same shot with both of them, which is zero.

Scott has sympathy for Stiles’ perpetual loner-hood, but it seems focused on the sexual aspect. His best friend actually had his lady love before he lost her. “Had” in every sense of the word. He talks about their love life in generalities out of respect, but the mere idea of sex gets him all starry eyed. Which, okay, Stiles would be totally down to cash that v-card and join the adult club already, but that isn’t why he wanted Lydia. He’s not exactly sure why he did want her, really. Maybe it had been primarily about, like, getting something right. Winning a prize, proving he was worthwhile.

Whatever it was, he thinks sourly, it isn’t happening now.

“Hey,” says a voice right at his ear.

Stiles yelps and flails, and Erica shoots him an odd look as she comes up in front of him up on the path.

“Didn’t you hear me catching up?” she asks.

“No! Fuck!” Stiles presses a hand to his chest, willing his heart to calm down. “We are not all supernatural. Did Lydia tell you I was coming?”

Erica gives him a sultry smile. “I’m a wolf, Batman. I could smell you.”

“Great, yeah, that’s not creepy at all,” Stiles mutters

“Oh, let it go already,” she snips, suddenly dropping the sex-kitten act for a much more natural, sisterly irritation. “Look, Derek is being insane, it’s just train train train over here. I’m dying. We’re all dying. Also, Jackson is ignoring me, and Lydia is being a total bitch. Even more than Isaac, which is saying something.”

“Totally unrelated to how you you keep riling him up with innuendo and then looking at him like he’s grown a third head when he tries to flirt back?”

She pouts, but doesn’t deny it. “You need to fix things.”

Stiles snorts. “What can I fix?”

“I don’t know, less training would be a great start. Derek likes you. Get him to calm down.”

“Derek does not like me,” Stiles corrects as they come up to the old house. It’s partially renovated, or at least there are tarps over the worst of the holes. They literally live like animals, hand to God. Where are their parents? he wonders, not for the first time.

Derek wrenches the door open as Stiles and Erica step onto the porch. He’s already scowling because, like Erica, he must have smelled Stiles from a mile away. What an uncomfortable thought. What does he smell like, anyways? Stiles wonders. Would it be weird to ask Scott?

“What’s he doing here?” Derek barks, pointing at Stiles. “It’s time for the pack’s training, you know that. He’s human, he can’t fight.”

Stiles shoots a significant look at Erica. “Wow, thanks for the warm welcome, but I have no intention of intruding. I’m here to hang out with Lydia while you wolves do your whole Battle Royale thing.”

“Fine,” Derek seethes after a moment of weighing silence. “Boyd! Jackson! Training!” He yells as he brushes by Stiles to head to the yard. The point of contact on Stiles’ shoulder seems to buzz. He looks back and finds that Derek’s refocused on him, gazing steadily with those light colored eyes. Hazel? Green? Stiles’ heartbeat ticks up, and not only in fear. “Keep out of my things,” the Alpha growls.

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Stiles quips. He lets himself into the house as Boyd and Jackson tromp out, looking as if they had at least three puppies that Derek has just run over with his car.

Stiles finds Lydia is in the living room. She’s the cleanest thing there by a wide enough stretch that she looks out of place reclining on the newest couch, feet crossed at the ankle and an Elle magazine in her hands.

“Hi, Stiles,” she says without looking up.

“Yo,” he answers. “So, what’s crawled up Derek’s ass today?”

Lydia shrugs, and sets her magazine down with a sigh. “Same thing as always. Hunter stuff, Scott not trusting him stuff, being used like a pawn for the upteenth time. But his obsessive training schedule is cutting into Jackson and my Notebook time. Plus he needs to take a firmer hand with Erica,” she adds darkly. “Somebody needs to tell her that her tits aren’t the best solution to wanting attention.”

Stiles doesn’t point out that Lydia might be both the worst and best bearer of that little piece of advice. “Why do people keep asking me to help?” he grouches instead. “I don’t know what makes Derek tick. What am I supposed to do about fixing his issues?”

“I think we need to get Allison and Derek together.”

“What? No, fuck! That’s an awful idea!” Stiles sputters. Scott would kill him, for starters, and the idea of Derek in a relationship is… its weird is all.

“Not like that!” Lydia snaps. “I just mean we need them to be friendly. Allison should apologize for the misunderstanding about her mother, but Derek needs to learn that not all hunters are monsters. He knows I’m best friends with her, and it’s making him treat me like a probationary member of this pack. I don’t like it. Plus, once Allison and Derek make up, you know Scott will follow their lead and come make nice, too. One happy pack against whatever thing comes for us next.”

“That’s… actually kind of a good plan,” Stiles admits.

“I know,” Lydia tosses out. “So, I’ll work on Allison. You get Derek to agree to a meeting.”

“Why does everyone think I have some special power over Derek!” Stiles demands. “He doesn’t even like me!”

“Don’t make me explain everything,” Lydia huffs with a roll of her eyes.

**

Okay, so, Stiles might be in a little bit of “doth protest too much” denial about Derek liking him. There’s some mutual texting (who knew Derek actually understood modern technology!) and Stiles gets away with jokes at Derek’s expense that nobody else would even try to voice. They actually do, in their way, get along. Or so Stiles thinks on his good days.

Then again, the last thing Stiles wants to do is overstate the situation. He’s still trying to get over Lydia, God damn it, and an impossible crush on the not-so-friendly neighborhood Alpha is honestly the last thing he needs. Derek probably puts up with Stiles because they’re both misanthropes who expect the worst in people, and because Stiles is interested in his knowledge and expertise while none of the other teens seem to have time for anything but interpersonal drama and like, lacrosse. The reasons Stiles puts up with Derek include those things… but also how Derek dips his chin when he smiles, and his sense of humor.

Whatever, fine, he just needs to remember that Derek doesn’t feel the same way.

Still, Lydia’s right that it’s only a matter of time before something else comes for their fractured pack, and Stiles has a responsibility to get Derek on board with the “Allison and by extension Scott are ok people who can be trusted” idea. For that, he needs to spend time with Derek, make himself useful. Not really a forte of his, unfortunately, he thinks with a wince.

Enter the Hale House Renovation Project. Derek clearly doesn’t need any help drilling his pack with fighting technique, or with pack lore. Home improvement, however? He’s quite obviously a novice, while weekend warrioring is right up Stiles’s alley. Growing up with just him and his busy dad in the house it had often fallen to him to take care of stuff, so he’s surprisingly handy. He knows how to find a stud and do some basic wiring, anyways. For the rest, well, he researches the hell out of it. Nobody’s ever accused him of doing things half-heartedly.

Or, well, maybe with schoolwork. Or lacrosse. But not, Stiles thinks with a very small pang, things that he actually cares about. Things like Derek, apparently.

So, the next time he’s hanging around with Lyda after a training session and Derek snarls at his latest project going awry, Stiles is able to pop up and, oh so casually, explain that he really needs a staple-gun if he expects to get that insulation to stay put between the studs.

Derek says, “thank you,” in a distinctly icy tone, and then ignores Stiles’ advice. Of course he does. Stiles has no idea why he’s surprised; what in his past experience would make him think Derek had any idea how to accept help?

Not to be deterred, he starts to just buy the tools and supplies that will be needed and leaves the stuff on surfaces where it’s easy to find, just sitting innocently by and waiting to be useful. Even Derek’s pride can only hold out so long he figures.

And lo and behold, one day the supplies that had been left aside start to go missing… just as parts of the house miraculously start improving. After a week of that, Derek offhandedly asks the room at large about what kind of switchplates should be used for the light switches downstairs, and Stiles is the one who answers. Derek just grunts and nods, like the answer came to him from on high. But still, after that, Stiles is tacitly accepted as the home improvement guru.

It starts to be almost a routine, their little home improvement powwows. After training, the baby betas all run off to do whatever the fuck it is they do, leaving and just Stiles and Derek to putter around the house. The training starts to get shorter as Derek’s attention turns to the frankly massive amount of work to be done; Erica mouths “I owe you one” at Stiles that Thursday, and he sticks out his tongue.

It’s a serious project. The bones of the house are there, but not much else in some rooms. They need insulation, drywall, wiring, paint… everything. It’s daunting, and Stiles considers once or twice just asking Derek if it wouldn’t be easier to start over fresh on a different chunk of land, or maybe to just buy a place downtown. But he always stops himself. Clearly rebuilding is important to Derek, or he wouldn’t be trying to damn hard.

Derek’s werewolf strength is a boon with the more physical tasks, like hanging the drywall, so the improvements go quickly over the next couple months. Stiles jokes around as they work, not sure how to bring up Allison and the hunters no matter how many times Lydia prods him about his progress. He hasn’t forgotten his real purpose helping Derek out, he just… kind of wishes he could. It’s unexpectedly fun to just hang out with Derek one on one.

Derek teases him about his terrible taste in junk food, but buys the stuff anyways. He spends a full afternoon bitching that the pack doesn’t need a TV, but caves in the end and brings home the largest one that Stiles had picked out - half as a joke. He goes with Stiles’ suggestions on fucking curtain colors. Well, shit. Stiles really can’t deny that he’s replaced one stupid impossible crush with another one.

Still, it’s not the end of the world, he tells himself morosely. Lydia is a great friend now, right? So maybe in eight years or so can expect that with Derek, too. Maybe some day his soft laugh when Stiles amuses him won’t send his heart pounding, maybe he’ll learn to be unaffected by his intense way of focusing on a problem, the bright crinkled-eyed smile reserved for when he’s truly happy. Sure. A likely story.

Finally, the house is done. While the project of getting Derek to accept Allison’s apology (of course Lydia got her side of things done) isn’t really making progress, Stiles thinks that his own side quest has done some good. Derek is calmer now, with his home base properly restored, which means less training and happier puppies. It also means that Derek has the patience to tell Erica to leave Isaac alone, and to actually praise the kid enough he stops looking like he’d knife Jackson to get some attention. Erica and Boyd of all people are the ones who start to date; the one person she never hit on was apparently the one person she actually gets blushy and flustered with. Things are actually good, Stiles thinks on particularly nice afternoon. Not just “nobody is actively bleeding” good, but honestly relaxed and happy.

Erica and Boyd are out on a date, Jackson and Lydia are upstairs decorating his bedroom to her tastes. Isaac is playing videogames on the huge TV in the den, and Stiles and Derek are in the kitchen making lunch, Derek listening in to Jackson and Lydia’s arguments and relaying the juicy bits to Stiles. Bits like “Erica agrees with me,” for example, a phrase he’d never imagine Lydia of two weeks ago voicing.

“Well, well, seems like your pack’s all finally getting along,” Stiles says to Derek, teasing. And then he can’t help himself. “Seriously, you’re a really good Alpha.”

Derek gives him a wince of a smile, ducking his chin. “Don’t know if I am. Certainly wasn’t last year.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, not willing to let the tentative moment of trust pass unmarked. He reaches out to tip Derek’s face up and look him in the eye. “You were doing your best.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, honest and warm. For a moment afterwards they just look at each other, sitting so close on the couch that Stiles can feel Derek’s body heat. It feels like a moment ripe with potential, but Stiles isn’t sure, can’t let himself think it… until, yes, Derek leans in, eyes dropping shut, and kisses him.

Stiles kisses back, heart thundering in his ears. It’s sweet and almost chaste, perfect. Derek scoops Stiles up and sits him on the kitchen counter for a better angle, runs his hands through Stiles’ hair and then nuzzles their noses together with a cute little smile.

The moment is perfection, which of course means Stiles has to ruin it. “So uh, wow! Are we like, boyfriends, then?” he blurts.

Derek gives him his crinkle-eyed smile, and tries to sound irritated when he says, “Yes, Stiles, we’re like, boyfriends.” He doesn’t sound irritated, though. He sounds impossibly fond.

“That means you trust me, right?” Stiles asks, looking down and picking at Derek’s tee-shirt nervously.

“I do,” Derek says with such a calm surety that Stiles looks up and meets his eyes again. Derek looks back, even and open.

“You should meet with Allison,” Stiles says gently. “She gets that she fucked up, okay? Lydia’s told you that she wants to say sorry, and you… you deserve to hear that. So, just give her a shot. Alright?”

Derek’s face has gone tense at Stiles suggestion, but he doesn’t shoot it down right away, which Stiles is willing to consider a victory. “I’ll listen,” he says finally. “If she’s really going to apologize for what happened with Boyd and Erica, and if you think it’s a good idea, then… okay. I’ll do it.”

Stiles takes Derek’s face in both palms and kisses him soundly. It feels like the start of something good in Beacon Hills.

**

(+ small coda with Allison and ace!Derek to come this weekend!)