#I have no clue how shading plants works but that is fine

[starpros-sunshine]

春の風

Version2 with the Wisterias + Sketch

[yellowkitkieran]

To Have and To Heal (Part 3)

Masterlist

Read part 1 here

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Single working dad Martin Odegaard is navigating the ups and downs of parenthood all on his own, and he’s struggling. That’s not to mention football, life and... love?

Martin isn't usually bothered when people don't pay attention to him. In fact most days he prefers it that way instead of having people swarm him to ask for photos or autographs, especially when he's with Atla. He wants her out of the spotlight as much as possible, and it's nice when people respect that. 

But when it comes to you Martin is curious to say the least. Last week you'd been friendly and always had a smile to offer him when you spoke. This afternoon when he picked Atla up from school you seemed off, almost like you were distancing yourself for some reason. Now, he knows you aren't exactly friends by any stretch and that's fine, though your sudden change in demeanor rubs him the wrong way, and he can't quite put his finger on why it's so important to him.

It doesn't sit well with him. He thought you were finally seeing him as an equal and not just another parent. Perhaps this is the universe's way of telling him not to try and make friends with people outside his current circle. He should probably listen. Then again, Martin is a stubborn man and he doesn't heed warning signs often. 

Martin has the fleeting thought that perhaps Atla has heard something. Kids do tend to hear things they shouldn't, like some sort of weird sixth sense. Maybe his daughter overheard you talking with another teacher and can provide him with some sort of clue.

So Martin clears his throat and does his best to sound casual, as if his toddler would understand the gravity of what he is about to ask. "Attie, have you heard anything about Miss. Sunshine lately?"

Atla's nose scrunches up, "What do you mean pa? I see her every day! I hear her all the time!"

Martin shakes his head and goes back to chopping carrots for their dinner. He's had a beef stew planned for weeks now, and tonight he finally found the time to block out to make it. "Nevermind elskling. What are you working on?"

"I'm finishing up my geography project." Thankfully, Atla's one track mind immediately distracts her from his earlier question. "We have to color all the countries in the world and then put them up on the wall to make one big map- each of us has a whoooole bunch to do, and I want mine to be the prettiest!"

Martin peeks over her shoulder. She's currently outlining freehand flowers within the border of Germany, her colored pencils lined up next to her paper in rainbow order. Martin smiles as she picks up the red and colors in a few of her blooms, "red huh? That's my favorite color you know. Perfect choice."

"It's mine too! I like red flowers the best, like the ones that grow in our garden."

"Mum's flowers," Martin notes, kissing the top of Atla's head when she nods. Tulips were Maria's favorite and she planted bunches of red ones in the gardens each year. Atla loved digging in the dirt with her, ruining whatever adorable outfit she was dressed in that day. Martin never cared about the stained clothes because clothes can be replaced- the memories Alta made with her mum can not.

Once their dinner is simmering on the stove and filling the house with a mouthwatering aroma, Martin sits at the table to help Atla. "Am I allowed to help?"

"Ja! Here take the oransje one pa-"

"Orange," Martin offers, having correctly assumed she had forgotten the English translation. She smiles ruefully, melting Martin's heart as she passes him a sheet."

"Orange. Now get to work pappa!"

Martin follows her instructions on what portion to color in yellow or blue or orange. He uses his left hand so it's a bit more authentic and toddler looking, his shading uneven and slightly outside the lines. 

Her ability to boss him around is unmatched, and he finds himself wondering not for the first time how solid of a leader Atla would be on a football pitch. She has the right balance between raw spark and assertiveness that would make her an important part of any team once she was a little older. For now, he'll enjoy her just as she is: an innocent girl whose only wish is to color her assignment with her pappa.

Once he finishes with Canada, he hands the sheet back and Atla claps her hands. "It's perfect pa! You did a good job! This one is my favorite so far because we did it together! You need to sign it in the corner so everyone knows it's yours."

Martin takes the paper that she thrusts in his direction, using a pen to sign his name on the bottom edge. He then tucks it safely in her folder to return to the classroom along with the others she's finished so far. Martin rests his chin on his fist, watching her carefully finish up the page she's working on now. There's a bit of purple paint smudged on her arm; where that's come from he has no idea. But it only further cements the image of his little artistic prodigy, brightening the world one brushstroke at a time. 

"Can I use my fancy markers for the last one?" She points to the cabinet on her left, where Martin keeps her crayons, papers, feathers, and other craft supplies. "We're supposed to color with different things. Jake used rice for his- but that's messy and isn't very pretty! I want mine to be pretty. Can I pleaseeeeee use my fancy markers pappa?"

Since she was a baby, Atla has had a knack for creativity and it has always been important to Martin that he nurture that side of her. Last Christmas he bought her a set of professional artist markers that cost him a pretty penny. She recognized the brand immediately as the same ones her favorite YouTube artist used for their drawings and fell in love at the first swipe of pigment on paper. 

His only rule is that he is home when she uses them and that she asks before grabbing them. He'd needed to implement that after she ruined her first set by leaving the caps off after a midnight art session, forcing him to buy a new set to avoid a total meltdown. 

"Yes elskling, thank you for asking. You can grab them- two hands on that container please!" 

Atla's tongue pokes out when she carefully carries the pink plastic box to the dining room table. She sets the box down and climbs onto her chair, looking at Martin for help to scoot it in so she can better reach her work surface. She gets right to work, grabbing her next country and carefully outlining abstract shapes within its borders. 

"Pretty soon I'll have to fit you with a proper studio," Martin half jokes. "I think you're outgrowing the dining table. What do you say, should I turn that playroom of yours into a little art space?"

Atla squirms in her seat, ponytail bouncing as she nods, "yes please! I would really really love that- could I have one of those stand up tables too? A staffeli for my paintings!"

Martin grins, reaching over to grab her under her arms and hoist her into his lap for a hug. "I can get you an easel søta, that's for sure! And you know what…" Martin leans down, cupping his hands to her ear like he's letting her in on a secret, "I'll even let you paint the walls."

Atla squeals, doing an adorable little happy dance. Martin decides then and there that her bright, soul-touching smile in this moment is well worth any paint that splatters on the flooring in the future. She throws her arms around his neck, squeezing with all her strength.

"Thank you pa! I know what I'm gonna do, I'm gonna paint it to look like the forest! But I'll need help… I'm too small to paint the tall trees!"

One day, Atla will be big and strong. She won't need Martin's help to reach the top cabinet or put her gloves on before school. She'll be her own person, equipped with the tools to take on the world. So for now, Martin will take any chance he can get to help her, no matter how big or small the task may be. 

He tugs lightly on one of her pigtails, "That's what you have a pappa for Attie, I'll help you with the tall bits okay?" When his daughter nods, Martin nudges another colorless sheet towards her. "One left, so finish this one up while I finish dinner. Maybe we'll see about doing something fun after."

Atla taps the end of a marker to her chin, leaving a few pink dots on her skin that Martin wipes off with a towel. "The park! Could we go to the park so I can go on the swings?"

"Finish your assignment and eat your dinner, then we can talk."

**********

Martin needs to work on saying 'no' to Atla because at this rate, she'll have him wrapped around her finger forever. Atla had finished her assignment but not her dinner, and yet Martin still followed through on his promise to take her to the park. One glimpse of her sad eyes and downturned mouth did him in and he had caved immediately. 

Atla is independent enough that she unbuckles herself from her car seat with no problems, but thankfully, she's still small enough to want to hold Martin's hand to cross the car park. 

"Hey- slow down søta, no running when there's cars around remember? Look both ways." He waits until she obeys, then looks at him for confirmation before he nods. "Okay, now you can go."

Atla tugs him along at a jog, giggling with excitement when the playground comes into view. He drops her hand as soon as their feet touch the grass and Atla takes off like a rocket, her hot pink coat making it easy to spot her as she climbs the steps of the playground. Martin smiles, keeping an eye on her as he heads for a bench to sit at. 

Only a handful of years ago, Martin doubted he'd have the opportunity for a family. Footballer life is difficult, with long hours and lengthy stretches spent away from home. It's a job that is as stressful as it is rewarding, and days like these are definitely worth it. He loves being able to switch off, blending in with all the other parents and guardians whose children play in groups around the park, laughing and chasing each other through invented games. No one cares who he is here. He could be the prime minister and no one would bat an eye. 

One of his favorite things about London culture is how the parents look after all the children, not just their own. So Martin has no problem pulling out his phone to read a few chapters of a book, secure in the knowledge that Attie will be safe among her peers thanks to the hawk-eyed mums scattered around the park.

Martin manages a few minutes of peace before Atla's shout has his head snapping up, "Miss Sunshine!" He scans the immediate vicinity to try and spot you, trying to pinpoint Atla's location.

"Oh, hello Atla! What are you doing here?" Martin shoves his phone in his pocket when he sees you crouched in front of Atla, fixing the buttons on her jacket. "Where's your pappa?"

The way you say 'pappa' has his stomach twisting. Your accent is nearly nonexistent and it makes him wonder if you know a touch of Norwegian. 

"Over there," Atla says, pointing in Martin's general direction. He waves when you glance at him. The smile he offers you turns to a frown when you almost instantly turn away. 

"Well, why don't you go play with my nephew? His name is Jack, I'm sure you'll get along great! He's in the blue and purple coat over there- go say hello!"

"Okay Miss Sunshine!" Atla laughs, running over to the boy and introducing herself. She suggests they play on the slides and Jack happily accepts- which is as much of their conversation as Martin overhears.

He wants to speak with you. Why are his palms sweaty? He wipes them on his jeans as he stands to make his way over to you. A tight lipped smile is all you greet him with- again with that frosty, formal feeling between the two of you. 

"Hello," Martin says, opting for simple and polite.

"Hi. My nephew," you offer before he can ask, pointing to the brunette Atla is being chased by. "My brother and sister in law are out of town on some second honeymoon thing."

He takes the opportunity to open a dialog, "Ah, I see. And I take it that you're the designated babysitter?"

You nod, arms crossed over your chest. "Yep, I guess I am. Never mind that my mum would love to have her grandson around for a full week, I'm first in line for some reason."

"Because you're a teacher, yeah? I can see the logic there I suppose. Good with kids and all that."

Martin wants you to laugh so he keeps his tone light and joking, but instead you look uncomfortable. "Yeah, probably."

He isn't sure what's suddenly changed between you, seeing as you seemed fine with him during the stadium tour not long ago. He is sure that he doesn't want you to think he expects you to speak with him though, so he clears his throat and scuffs his toe through the dirt. 

"Well, I'll leave you be. Atla and I usually come here after dinner on most weekdays, so if Jack has some extra energy to burn off, he'll have a playmate if you come back."

Again, you offer Martin a tight, almost forced smile and shift on your feet. "Thanks Mr. Ødegaard- I'll see you at early drop off tomorrow?"

Martin's stomach sinks. He can't force you to be friendly with him, as much as he wishes you would be. "Yes, you will. Have a good night, Miss. Sunshine."

Martin retreats to the bench he was at earlier and forces himself to continue reading. It only takes a handful of minutes for him to realize that his efforts are pointless; he won't remember a word he has read with his head as messy as it is right now. If you let him know what he'd done wrong, he could fix it. Your stubborn silence and sudden change of mood leaves him scrambling to figure it out on his own, and he's coming up empty. 

Maybe it does all come back to those drinks he'd ordered. He'd stepped out of line with that, firmly crossing a boundary that you drew in the sand. Granted he had no idea that you had drawn one but still, he should've known better than to treat you like an old friend when you were employed at his daughter's school. Whatever it is, he's determined to set things right. Because after running into you in public for the second time in as many weeks, he's determined to get to know you.

Only because of Atla. That's what he tells himself. The way his stomach flips when you call him by his first name has nothing to do with it. Martin's fascination with you comes purely from a place of love for his daughter and a need to see her happy… not because he thinks you're attractive. 

Because he certainly hasn't thought that each time he's seen you lately. No, not at all. Not even once. You aren't even his type- and maybe that's why he's so terrified. Whatever the case, he's already mentally cleared his nightly schedule for the next week in favor of planning to come to the park each day. On the off chance you return, he'll be here waiting. 

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Try, Try Again - a Malevolent one-shot for the Malevolent zine, This Too Shall Pass

The King in Yellow worked for a month to get Arthur to spill the information he wanted. Eventually, he got what he wanted through a made-up Bostonian, Adam Fry.

What happened in the month before Arthur woke?

So many things.

AO3

Written for the @malevolent-fanzine, This Too Shall Pass

————

You’re losing so much blood.

“How much is too much?” Arthur whispers.

Fuck. Arthur, if this is the end, I… I’m sorry.

“You and me both.”

The entity feels far, quiet and fading, and then it’s gone.

#

“Ready?” says Parker, tucking brass knuckles into his jacket pocket.

“As ever.” Arthur dons his hat, tilting it forward just enough to shade his eyes. It won’t make him look tough, of course. That’s not the goal, anyway; Parker’s got “tough” covered.

58 Pelican Lane is creepy, but strangely familiar.

Arthur can’t think why it’s familiar, but he pushes that weirdness aside as they try to figure out a way in.

The back window jimmies open easily enough (why is it familiar?), but the house yields no clues—except for the weird symbol on the wall, a creepy figure which… which…

Wait. That’s the wrong symbol. Isn’t it?

“Fuck this,” says Parker, scowling as they exit the place. “We need to try the next lead. You said you knew where she went.”

“What?” says Arthur, because something isn’t… right.

“Amanda? Amanda Cummings? The whole reason we’re out here?” No one could do dry disapproval like Parker.

“I… yes, of course, we…”

Come to think of it, had Parker ever worn a yellow tie?

He hadn’t. There was some reason he… he…

“You said you knew where she went. Well, this lead’s obviously a bust. Where’d she go, Arthur?”

And Arthur almost answers.

Almost blurts Harper’s Hill, but then he remembers with a little jolt that Parker never wore yellow, because idiots possessed of racialism could be swayed or scared or subdued, but always got stupid when they saw him wearing yellow, always devolved into some kind of ching-chong chant if he did, so he could never, ever wear that hue.

Something is so incredibly wrong. Arthur stares at him.

Parker’s eyes are yellow, too.

“What the fuck?” says Arthur.

Parker sighs. “Of course, you’d make this difficult,” he says in a deep and terrible voice, and—

#

Tess is nearly out the door and Arthur is annoyed. “How long did you say you’d be gone?” he says, trying not to sound too upset, because getting upset is how you lose hired help.

“Just a week or so,” says Tess, pulling on her coat.

Arthur runs his hands through his hair. It feels… less clean than it should, and he remembers he hadn’t showered this morning.

Of course he hadn’t. The symphony is almost done. He’d worked on it until five a.m., then passed out on the couch.

Tess’ timing was just fucking terrible. “I truly appreciate your familial loyalty, and I’m happy for your mother, but I have to admit that I wish you’d picked a different—oh, hello, darling,” he says, because Faroe has materialized the way she does, and is clinging to his leg.

She just looks up at him and says, “Hey!” with that smile, with that life, and Tess suddenly no longer matters, and neither does his symphony, and—

And—

He’s… crying?

“Hey, Mister Lester, you don’t need to take it so bad,” says Tess.

Arthur picks up Faroe.

She’s fine. She’s happy. Her diaper needs changing, but she’s warm, and precious, and heavier than she looks, and she plants a perfect kiss as tiny as a peanut on his cheek, and…

He can’t stop sobbing, ugly crying, and clutches her close and doesn’t know why.

Tess is still talking? “Look, I know it’s tough being a dad all on your own, no little woman to get things done while you work so hard. Hey, tell you what! You remember Amanda Cummings? I bet she could help out while I’m gone.”

“Am… Amanda…” And he can’t stop breathing in Faroe’s whispery hair, and kissing her soft, round cheek, and he doesn’t know why, he can’t remember what, he does not recall the very bad thing that hurts with a density like the core of the sun.

“Yeah. You remember her! She’s sat for you before. Where does she live, again?”

And he almost answers out of distraction, because his attention is split, because he was asked, because—

Faroe’s eyes are yellow.

They were never yellow. They were blue like her mother’s, like unblemished sky, like all the hope in the world that sings.

And he is grieving?

“What?” he whispers.

Tess sighs. “You are trying my patience, Arthur,” she says in a voice like a nightmare, a voice like a curse, and then—

#

Baby Stanczyk won’t stop crying.

Burn it, Arthur! Now! Quick!

Arthur manages to get the flame to light, and the (presence coldness force breathlessness terror) wraith seems to disappear.

“Where is she?” Arthur demands, heart pounding.

She’s retreated into the chair. You did it, Arthur!

“Oh, thank god,” Arthur gasps, curled forward and panting.

Arthur… it’s not over.

“What?”

We need to tell the wraith where to go. Remember?

They did?

It’s her favor. We decided. Remember? Arthur, you need to be smarter than this.

“I… her favor? Whose favor?”

Amanda. Amanda Cummings.

Wait. Was… was that right?

The wraith’s absence is terrible, anticipatory, tight in some worsening way, as if the longer he waits to do this, the more terrible it will become. “I… I thought we… had we decided?”

Yes, Arthur! For fuck’s sake! Tell the wraith where to go!

And he’s so close.

(The baby cries.)

So close to just saying the truth, giving the answer, sharing a thing that doesn’t matter at all in exchange for a good deed, for a dead woman’s freedom, for the safety of an innocent child—

The baby has yellow eyes.

Arthur shouldn’t know the baby has yellow eyes. He’s blind. Why does he know it has yellow eyes?

“This isn’t right,” he whispers.

Fucking hell, Arthur, says the entity, and then—

#

Arthur is singing.

He is so damned afraid, he could piss himself, but by gum, he’s singing.

“I can’t forget the night I met you… It’s all I’m thinking of. And now, you call it m… uh… But I call it love.”

“No, no, no!” says Kellin, and Arthur remembers why he’s afraid, why he’s sitting in a truck going 40 miles per hour next to a madman in a mask, and Kellin’s voice thrums low like unhallowed prayer. “You’re missing a word. You skipped a word. Why, Arthur? What makes you so afraid to say madness?”

Arthur doesn’t know the answer, Arthur feels wrung out, Arthur feels like he’s tilting off a cliff with no memory of finding its edge. “I forgot, that’s all. I just forgot what the word was.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

It is, it is, and he is so afraid. “No, of course not, no.”

“I offered you a ride. That’s not very nice of you, Arthur.”

Such words should not carry such threat.

“You hurt my feelings,” says Kellin.

“I… I’m sorry,” says Arthur, who doesn’t mean it, who feels for the door handle and remembers they’re driving down the road at speed, and if he jumps out blind, he is going to fucking die.

“I forgive you,” says Kellin, “or I will—if you tell me where we’re headed again.”

Arthur! Just fucking do it!

This isn’t how it goes.

Why does Arthur know that?

“Tell me where we’re headed,” says Kellin, too evenly, too calmly, not at all the strained-quiet man who (stabbed chased threatened) scares him so much, and Arthur feels like his head has detached from his body and is floating away.

Arthur! Just tell him!

This isn’t how it goes. “What?”

Arthur!

“Arthur, I need…”

Arthur!

“Will you both shut up, just shut up!” Arthur cries, and doesn’t know why, and feels upside down and spun around and long lost sight of land.

“I’ll stop the truck and let you out if you do,” says Kellin.

That’s not Kellin. Kellin didn’t want that.

Kellin wanted… something the fuck else, but not that.

Who the hell is this guy?

“I…” Arthur is breathing hard. His stomach hurts, and he doesn’t know why, and he feels so alone.

He could just say it.

Harper’s Hill. So easy to say it.

But this isn’t Kellin, and Arthur does not like to be tricked.

In fact, he’s angry that not-Kellin tried. “No.”

Kellin’s seat creaks.

Arthur! He’s got a gun!

Arthur breathes hard, unsure where the gun is pointed, unable to defend.

“Tell me where we’re headed,” says Kellin, and the cold, metal cylinder presses to Arthur’s temple, and Arthur knows he’s going to die, and if he’s going to die, he’s going out petty as fuck.

“Go fuck yourself!” Arthur says, and hears the chamber click—

#

Darkness.

Silence.

Arthur.

“Hello?”

Arthur doesn’t know where he is.

Everything hurts. His stomach more than the rest, but everything hurts.

He groans.

Arthur. You are making me angry.

“I… I what?” Arthur remembers the entity. Arthur remembers Faroe. Arthur remembers… very little else.

He feels weirdly fuzzy.

Mentally doused, somehow, as though someone’s thrown a blanket over the flame of his mind.

That’s happening because you keep resisting me, Arthur.

“What?” says Arthur in a small voice.

Tell me where Amanda Cummings is. Tell me, and this will all be over.

And…

Arthur…

Doesn’t know who this is.

He knows the entity.

This is not the entity.

“I don’t understand,” he says evenly, hardening against the unknown.

Yes, you do. What's the matter, Arthur? You don’t trust me, all of a sudden? That hurts.

And it isn’t the entity, and this is mocking the entity, and this voice knows damn well that Arthur doesn’t trust him, and there is anger in it, and impatience in it, and Arthur—

Arthur is afraid.

He can’t remember what happened, moments before.

But this is not the entity, and his stubbornness lifts its head like the Loch Ness monster and will not dive back down. “I’m not telling you anything, whoever the fuck you are.”

There is a long, heavy sigh. You know, there are moments, though brief, where I can see why the Piece attached itself to you.

Not the entity at all, something much worse, something bringing great danger and looming pain—

“Go to hell!” says Arthur.

And then other moments, says this devil, when I look forward to having you in my hands so I can rip you to pieces the size of the ant you truly are. Suit yourself. We will try again.

“What?” breathes Arthur, and then—

#

An intercom, staticky, somewhere in the background. He can’t make out what it says.

He remembers the lake. The boat. The knife. Kellin, dying on a dock. The severed head.

He has no idea where he is.

Arthur breathes too fast, trying to function, trying to recover. “Hello? Are you there? Um… friend?”

“Well, hey to you too, friend,” says some guy Arthur has never heard in his life.

“Who is this?” Arthur says, feeling utterly unsteady, completely thrown off.

“I’m your new friend, apparently,” says the guy, and laughs.

And the guy talks.

And the guy offers.

And the guy has nothing to do with his past, or his memories, or anything that’s scarred him, and Arthur needs a way out and a way home, and so he finally responds.

“Harper’s Hill,” says Arthur.

“A girl named Amanda Cummings,” says Arthur.

“Wait… did I tell you my name?” says Arthur, too late.

And the voice, so deep, so pleased (like the entity but not, and Arthur could never mistake the two), says, “Thank you, Arthur. Sleep well.”

And he falls.

#

He’s in a bed.

He’s never felt this weak. His breath is shallow, and his own odor smacks him lazily in the face.

He hurts. His body. His soul.

He groans.

 Arthur, relax. You’re in the hospital. Just relax, everything is okay.

He feels like he went ten rounds with a deity. “Where… where are we?”

We’re in Harper’s Hill.

Something’s wrong. “We need to find Amanda Cummings. We need to find her as soon as possible, before someone else does.”

Who’s looking for her?

Why is it so clear now? He was being pumped for information. Who the hell was that guy? What was that guy? Those weren’t guards, those were monsters, and he….

He’d said…

Arthur breathes too fast. “We need to move. God, I feel so…”

Arthur.

“What?”

We’ve been in a coma for over a month.

A month?

Oh, no.

Arthur’s heart aches, and Arthur’s thoughts crawl, but he remembers the answers he gave.

Arthur! calls the entity as Arthur freaks out.

He doesn’t know who Fry is or what he sought, but he does know this much: it’s all gone terribly wrong.

[prof-peach]

Hello again professor!!

I took your advice and got a Firestone, the moment my fluffy buddy saw me holding it, they tackled me down to the ground and evolved into flareon, they’re now trying to learn some fire type moves from my Houndoom, so thank you a ton for that!!

But now I have another dilemma, you see I have a leafeon named Spruce, I got as a gift back when he was an eevee, I wasn’t concerned at first even though he was a little sluggish and got tired easily he seemed perfectly fine so I thought he was just a chill lazy boy.

But when he evolved into Leafeon his leaves were a dark brown not a light green, I thought that’s how leafeons looked when the seasons changed since it was autumn, but the leaves still didn’t turn green when spring arrived.

I’ve been to every pokecenter, talked to a lot of doctors for Pokémon and I’ve even taken some of your advice on caring for grass types but nothings changed.

He doesn’t seem to be pain, but I don’t use him for battle since his leaves are brittle.

I’ve been trying to take him on walks to get some sunlight but he can’t go on long walks, because he then lays down on the ground and refuses to move so I have to carry him home, I leave him in a room with an old lamp to replicate sunlight on the days when he refuses to get up.

I’ve been giving him medication and trying to spend a lot of time playing with him when I can.

I’ve had Spruce for Three years now, I still have no clue what’s wrong with him and nothing I’ve done to make him healthy has worked.

I’m scared that I’m not taking care of him properly, even though he acts very happy and gets along very well with the rest of my Pokémon.

I’m sorry if I’m wasting your time by asking you another question, but I feel like your the last person that can help me since you specialize in care for grass types.

congrats on the flareon, I bet they’re super excited to learn fire moves now! Get yourself a fire extinguisher and fire blanket, maybe a bucket of sand too, just in case that training goes wrong. It happens, I’m sure you know this with your prior experience with fire types. The mention of your other Pokemon will probably be why your leafeon is having a hard time. We see it a lot, trainers don’t realise the ambient temperature and humidity is effected by their team as a whole.

Fire types will unintentionally raise the temperature and make the air very dry. It’s not on purpose, not seriously difficult to handle, but you will have to seclude an area for your Pokemon, with far more moisture. So you’ll need to buy a humidifier, give the leafeon it’s own room, keep the door shut, maybe install a poke-flap in it to keep the moisture contained, and also to allow your buddy to come and go. If you can, provide plant life in clusters of pots to keep the humidity high, and the air clean. A window in that room is good but leafeon don’t need a huge amount of light. They’re actually quite comfortbale in dappled shade, and are found wild in deep forests with shady conditions pretty often. If the eevee evolved around fire types, it could have already been severely dried out, and would have evolved while dehydrated or slightly under the weather. This will pass to the evolution.

Try including a paddling pool of fresh water to encourage them to hydrate in it, toys may help, berries often float so again, get them feeding in the water a bit. It’s going to help a lot with your house of fire types. Give this a go, and if you can, try clipping back the crispy leaves in your partners legs firstly, and take note to see if they grow back greener with the increased moisture in their space and around them. Mossy rocks in their room also help but this can be difficult to keep clean and regulated if you live in a normal home. Do wh tyo I can, report back when and if the leaves in the legs regrow. We will get to the bottom of this.

[hansolmates]

jjk; angel’s trumpet | masterpost

Angel’s Trumpet Scientific Name: Brugmansia Order and Family: Polimonailes and Solanaceae Plant Overview: A higher order of nightshade, the Angel’s Trumpet is a show-stopping pendulous flower that hangs like bells. In myth, they were prized as chimes holding magical properties. In modern use, Angel's Trumpets have occasionally been used to create recreational drugs, but the risk of overdose is so high that these uses often have deadly consequences.

summary; one second, your life is flashing before your eyes and the next, you’re transported into a world exactly like your own. but the jungkook you meet in this world isn’t a renowned singer or your former almost-lover, in fact he has no clue who you are and why you know him so well. as you work to find your way home lost and confused, you conclude that you’re either dead or in the middle of the most wicked drug trip of your life.

pairing; idol!jk x reader (f), alternatively film producer!jk x reader

genre/warnings; fluff, angst, supernatural, idol!au, non-idol!au, alternate universes, themes of fate, language, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex

w.c; ~45k

| 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | final | bonus |

a/n; coming soooooon! i’ve been dedicating the better half of the month to this so i really hope u enjoy my first kpop mini series!! inspired a lil bit by the k-drama W and the avengers! 

click under the cut for a preview!

Namjoon smells of dry-erase marker and antiseptic. 

He’s bounding into your apartment like it’s his own home, carrying two paper bags and a stack of leather bound books. The items fly across your coffee table, and you two work together to organize both your dinner and the books. Namjoon looks like a textbook nerd, wearing shades of burgundy and burnt orange as he breaks into your front door. Gone are the boots and sleek outfits that trim his figure, and you can’t help but go a little anti-starstruck at how normal this moment is.

The two of you eat in relative silence, and you gratefully accept the bag he pushes in your direction. To your surprise the sandwich inside is a favorite combination of yours, and you wonder if this restaurant exists in your world. 

Your world. 

“Namjoon,” you place your sandwich down, despite the fact that your stomach is protesting for you to finish the first real meal you’ve had in days, “you know that movie, Avengers?” 

Namjoon’s face is puffed with bread, and you hand him a water bottle to chug it down. “Dunno,” he shrugs, “Marvel isn’t a popular franchise, so even if I had I wouldn’t remember.” 

“Marvel isn’t popular—” what kind of fucked up world is this? Your Jungkook would have a field day if he was in your shoes. “Anyway. There’s a concept from Marvel that there’s multiple Earths. Like you can create a rip in space and land yourself in another dimension if you’re not too careful. Do you think it’s possible?” 

Your tall mentor pushes his charcoal hair back, exasperated. “Is this why you’re taking off? Because you believe in some silly comic book series?” 

You feel your heart cracking, desperately trying to keep itself together. In your haste you grip Namjoon’s arm, desperate. “Please, just hear me out.” you warble, “a few days ago I was out drinking with a friend. Next thing I know, I’m in another world where I run into a boy. That boy is my friend, but he says he doesn’t recognize me! But I don’t recognize this life. Namjoon I can’t even imagine you wanting to be a doctor!” 

Namjoon is looking at you funny, and you know he’s really trying to believe you. Instead of the reassuring words you hope for, he instead says, “this isn’t even pseudoscience, Camille. This is supernatural! How could you possibly think you’re from another dimension? I just saw you last week and everything was fine!” 

“I saw you last week too!” you exclaim, clutching your chest, “and you cried again for the umpteenth time because you lost another pair of custom Airpods.” 

A pause. “That does sound like me.” 

Hope blooms in your stomach. “Doesn’t it?”

“Well, in this supposed other life. What is my profession?”

Your face falls. “Uh, you’re in a worldwide K-pop band. You’re making millions and producing beautiful music.” 

That sounded way better in your head. Out loud it sounded absolutely bonkers. You don’t even blame Namjoon when he bursts out laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. You let him, sinking further into your seat and hugging your knees. You really hoped Namjoon would’ve come through for you. 

[nnightskiess]

₊° 𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐡-𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫!𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

‧₊° 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐲/𝐧, 𝐰𝐡𝐨'𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐬, 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐲/𝐧...

*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*

The first time, Hermione had jumped out of her skin when Professor Snape’s voice rang through the hallway, scaring a few students who hurriedly scurried off. 

She turned around reluctantly, wanting nothing more to run away, but knowing she couldn’t. Professor Snape marched over to her, his cape graciously moving behind him. She meekly looked up at him, having no clue as to why he needed to speak to her. 

She caved under his stern glare. “Yes, Professor?” She decided to say after a few excruciating long seconds of the two of them staring at each other. 

“I love... the shade of lipstick... you’re wearing today.” The slow pace his dull voice spoke to her, didn’t make it easier for Hermione to understand what he had just said. Well, she had heard him just fine— but, what?!

“I-I’m sorry- what!?” 

Before she could say anything else, Snape’s figure suddenly morphed a few inches shorter and within two seconds, her girlfriend Y/N had appeared in front of her. Her cheerful laugh immediately echoed through the hallways, but Hermione didn’t find it amusing at all— a scowl on her face.

“Damn you!” 

Y/N held onto her arm after Hermione slapped it harshly with her book, but her laughter hadn’t died done one bit.

“That was so inappropriate! What if someone had seen it?” She made a move to slap her arm again when Y/N didn’t seem to want to stop laughing, but halted in the air, “It wasn’t funny!”

Y/N bit her lip in guilt and started fumbling with her fingers, not daring to look into her girlfriend’s eyes, who still seemed to be fuming. Hermione saw how Y/N suddenly had the snout and ears of a tiny bear, knowing it usually was one of Hermione’s favourite creations. 

“No, that’s not gonna work.”

Y/N’s transformation disappeared gradually, indicating that she was too sad to maintain her bear ears. Hermione noticed too and immediately grabbed her hand, caressing the girl’s knuckles with her thumb.

“No more of those jokes, okay?”

Y/N finally looked up at her, visibly contemplating her answer. Hermione rolled her eyes and finally cracked a smile of her own. She rolled her eyes and tugged her along, having already forgiven her after seeing her girlfriend’s cheeky smile.

Two weeks later, while Hermione was making her way to the greenhouse for classes, she suddenly stood face to face with Professor Snape.

“Off to class?”

Hermione straightened her back and blew out a strand of her curly hair out of her face. 

“Um- Yes, actually. To-”

“Yes, Professor.”

She sucked in a breath.

“And I believe this is yours.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened when he pulled out one of her knickers. She gasped, immediately realising what had just happened— again. She snatched her underwear out of her girlfriend’s hands, who had transformed back into herself.

“You complete arse!”

The bushy haired Gryffindor turned on her heel right away, not sparing her girlfriend another look before stomping off. 

Y/N had really messed it up this time.

All week long, Hermione had purposely given her the cold shoulder, wanting to make her message loud and clear this time. 

“Hermione, I’m-”

“Not now, I’m studying.” She didn’t look up from her book but watched Y/N walk away with slumped shoulders, feeling guilty. Hermione let out a big sigh— fine, she’d accept the girl’s apology, tomorrow.

That same day, when Hermione was on her way to the library to study, she suddenly stood face to face with Professor Snape. He came to a halt immediately, seeing as she stood in his path.

“Going somewhere... Granger?”

His voice taunted, but Hermione didn’t care this time. Her ears got red from anger and she pushed every rational thought away when she shoved Snape’s figure backwards.

“You foul-”

She swallowed the rest of the sentence away— Y/N had rounded the corner with Ron. Hermione’s panicked eyes shifted between Y/N and Snape and her cheeks immediately blushed scarlet. Oh, now she had done it.

“What in Merlin’s beard is this suppose to mean?” Professor Snape spat out, and straightened his cloak in one swift motion. Hermione locked eyes with Y/N, whose eyes widened as well after seeing the situation and putting two and two together. She didn’t think twice and ran to stand in front of Hermione, her hands held up in defeat.

“Professor, I’m sorry- but, I think I’m to blame here.”

He raised an eyebrow but listened to her explanation nonetheless. “50 points from Gryffindor and one week of detention for you.” Hermione looked down sheepishly at the news.

“And you-” He turned to Y/N, “50 points from Y/H/H and since you seem so infatuated with being me, one month of detention everyday in my office at 8, weekends included. And don’t you dare think I’m not going to tell your Head of House or the Headmaster!” He glared at the girls, though his glare lingered on Y/N longer. He then quickly walked off.

Y/N pouted, feeling disappointed in herself. She had now not only made Hermione angry with her, but also given herself a month of detention with Snape. She crossed her fingers that that would be all, and that Dumbledore wouldn’t consider expelling her.

A tug on her underarm made her turn around. 

“I suppose asking you to morph into me so you can go to my detention is too much to ask?” Hermione quirked an eyebrow and smiled at her meekly.

Y/N sighed in defeat, “I guess it’s only fair, this wasn’t your fault, after all.”

Hermione perked up, and planted a quick kiss on the girl’s cheek.

“Thank you! Now I don’t have to mess up my studying schedule after classes!”

She intertwined their hands and tugged her along, to God knows where. But Y/N didn’t mind— she’d climb mountains for Hermione Granger. 

*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*

[carpsurprise]

sam stans i come.. bearing a gift.. sooo..

plot: the farmer teaches sam how to plant flowers, despite his clumsy nature

word count: 1.9k

notes: once again, gn!farmer. this is.. way more than i usually write but i felt particularly inspired... and we all know i love sam, put under a read more bc it is a little long. i’m also posting this on ao3! don’t be surprised if another sam writing comes up soon... 

A quiet sigh left the farmer’s mouth, their eyes focusing on Sam’s clumsy, gloved hands handling the delicate flowers. He tipped the young flowers from their nursery containers with care, mindful of the placement of his fingers against the dirt and the positions of the leaves. The empty nursery container was thrown haphazardly on the ground, making the farmer’s eyebrow quirk for just a moment before returning their attention back to Sam. With the young flower held in both of his hands, he shot the farmer a nervous glance.

“Heh,” he chuckled, heat starting to creep up the back of his neck, “thought you bought seeds from Pierre? I didn’t think you’d plant already blooming flowers.”

The farmer shrugged. “They’re still nice. Besides, those are more for decoration than anything— and you asked me to teach you to plant flowers, didn’t you? Teaching you to plant a seed would take a moment.”

“I guess so,” he muttered, still nervously holding the formed potting soil. “Now what do I do, stick it in the ground?”

“You could, or,” the farmer held Sam’s hands gently, allowing him to hear his own heartbeat in his head. The farmer helped support the stem of the plant, gently kneading their thumb and the inside of their pointer finger along the potting soil. The roots of the plant had finally appeared in a jumbled mess. “See, you want to spread out the roots a little so it can get water easier.”

Sam nodded with a dry swallow, watching the farmer’s eyes focus intently on the roots of the flower. They continued, “You want to be super careful, though, they’re very delicate. Just a gentle little touch will be good to separate them out.” 

A few clumps of dirt had fallen from the plant, landing on Sam’s lap and rolling off his thighs back to the earth. The farmer didn’t seem to mind the dirt that covered their legs. He directed his focus back to the flowers in front of him, and off of the farmer’s legs. Sam mirrored the farmer’s actions with his own gloved thumb, trying to smooth out the roots as gently as his clumsy hands would allow. It was funny, he thought, that he could master guitar strings flawlessly, but at a moment of tender precision he seemed to become nervous.

“Mm, that’s good!” The farmer exclaimed, slowly retracting their hands from Sam’s. “Now gently place the flower into the hole we made,” they directed, holding the sides of the parted dirt as Sam lowered the new flower into its forever home. He let go of it with slow hands, helping the farmer pat the parted dirt into the open sides with one hand. Sam let out a breath, retracting himself from the planter box.

The farmer let out a breathy chuckle, moving their trowel to their side. “This is usually relaxing for people.”

“I know.”

“You said you wanted to learn how to plant stuff because of your mom, right?”

Sam groaned, feeling himself get caught up in his own lie. “Yeah. I think it’d make her happy to know I learned, for some reason. I’m afraid she doesn’t think what I do for myself is very… useful.”

“But you’re a wonderful guitar player,” the farmer cried, turning their body to him, “and a wonderful song writer. You’ve got more talent than most in the valley, especially when it comes to music,” they smiled, making Sam’s heart skip a beat.

This is why he came to the farmer in a full sweat, red face, and nervous hands asking them to teach him how to garden. 

He grinned, instinctively moving his hand to scratch at the base of his neck. “Thanks, it means a lot—,” he interrupted himself with a startled gasp, feeling the remains of dirt on his gardening glove slip down his spine. He quickly pulled his hand from his neck, looking accusingly at the dirty, green and yellow gardening glove he had forgotten he was still wearing.

The farmer laughed at his mistake innocently, their shoulders shaking with them. It was charming for Sam, yet felt himself still chilled by the quick surprise of things running down his back. “I’ve forgotten I was wearing my gloves many, many times,” they laughed, “It sorta just feels like normal after a while.

Lifting their hands, also still gloved, they flipped them from the palm to the back of the hand. Sam admired the size of their hands, and the obvious wear and tear of the daily work they do written all over the gloves. 

“Need to get a new pair,” they muttered.

Sam had lit up, splaying his dirty gloves across his jeans without thought. “Oh! Let me buy you a new pair then, you know,” he began to fluster again. He stuttered out his response, weary of making his affections known too soon, “to thank you for teaching me how to do this.”

“Sam, you don’t have to do that. I had a lot of fun! Besides, I needed to do this anyway.”

Sam shook his head, grabbing one of their gloved hands. “No, no, please let me, and then I can get a pair that matches!”

The farmer was silent.

“... If that’s alright with you?”

The farmer snapped out of their little daze from his words, nodding and then reassuring him. Accepting his offer of new gloves, they promised to stick with the pair they have now until Sam came to the farmhouse with his gift. “Oh, Sam, before you leave can you bring home a potted plant for your mother? I’d like to thank her for the fertilizers she’s been sending me.”

He nodded. “Yeah, totally. She’d love that.”

Jumping up from their position, the farmer ran over to the side of their house, sifting through gardening tools and empty containers. They pulled out a weathered, but nice small pot. Sam watched as they dragged their hose out, rinsing the dust and dirt off of it before bringing it back over. “Here! I have no clue where this came from, but it’s nice and pretty.”

Sam agreed, immediately taking the trowel and shoveling dirt into it. “Ah, remember, Sam! Not too much dirt yet, we don’t want the roots exposed,” they instructed, causing him to quickly shovel out a little bit of dirt. He pushed the dirt to the sides of the pot, looking at the farmer expectedly. The grin on their face had made him nervous.

“You do it, Sam. I need to make sure you know how to do this, and I think Jodi will like it a lot more if you potted it. It can be a gift from the both of us.”

His fear of failure had returned to the center of his chest. Without another word he began to focus on the steadiness of his hands, removing the next flower from the container and carefully holding it with one hand. The plant  had seemed bigger when next to the others, but in his large hand it was evident it was still growing. His thumb and forefinger gently massaged the end of the dirt, staying mindful of the few roots poking out.

Feeling the farmer’s eyes upon his hands had made his heart pick up once again. He had always loved their eyes, especially when the sun hit them just right to show the beautiful color of— a slight crunch was heard. His right hand had immediately left the plant’s roots. 

The farmer laughed gently, placing a hand onto Sam’s arm. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just try to be more gentle. It doesn’t look like you’ve pulled any roots out… completely. Just focus on the roots and your hands, don’t think about anything else.”

Easy for the farmer, he thought. Trying to keep his mind from racing back to them (who had seemed to scoot a little closer to him when he was focused on the roots, now that he was thinking about it), he continued to softly spread the delicate roots of the azaleas, looking to the farmer to see if that was sufficient. The farmer nodded silently, a kind smile on their face to encourage Sam. He placed the small flowers into the pot, still holding the stems gently with his left hand and using his right to pack in enough dirt to keep it steady.

He sat back on his heels, admiring the bright pink of the flowers and the white flower pot with baby pink swirls just around the rim. He had, once again, unknowingly placed his dirty gloves onto his jeans. He was expecting Jodi to be upset with him as soon as he enters the front door, but hopefully, with this flower pot in hand, she’ll excuse his messy day out.

“See? You did amazing!” The farmer praised, fluffing out the flowers by the stems. 

Their praise had made Sam’s fleeting worries of his mother dissipate, causing him to turn to them with a teasing look. “Yeah, except for the part where I nearly destroyed the roots of the poor thing.”

Shrugging, the farmer got back to their feet and lifted the pot with a grunt. “It’s fine, you did great anyway. Like everything else, it takes practice.” 

They grabbed another bag, along with their watering can and returned to Sam’s side. They watered the flowers immediately, then cut open the bag of mulch and placed a thin layer over the wet dirt. Sam watched without question, watching their hands work around the plant and dirt effortlessly. The farmer’s moves seemed calculated, the only way Sam could relate or keep up was by comparing it to the movement of hands on guitar strings, knowing when to use gentle touch or a moment of pressure.

They pulled back, swiping the palms of their hands together to brush off any loose dirt from their gloves. Sam should’ve been doing that the whole time. “Finishing touches are done! She’s already to head to your house, Sam,” they stood up once more, hoisting the pot up into their arms and ready to hand off to Sam. 

“Make sure it’s watered when the soil feels dry; and it can’t be in the sun all of the time, it likes some shade sometimes. The pot is sorta big so it’ll grow a little, but once it kinda grows out some of the leaves and flowers may start dying. Just pluck or cut those off and it’ll grow back.”

Sam nodded slowly, trying to repeat the farmer’s instructions back to himself in an attempt to not forget them. He knew the attempt was futile, but found that with every gray cloud there is a silver lining: he can always come back to see the farmer, just to ask for it again. He gave a nervous giggle, awkwardly trying to hold the gift for his mother.

“Please tell Jodi I said thank you, it means a lot to have help from the community.”

“Well, uh, if you ever need any help don’t hesitate to ask. I’m always here for you,” Sam said sheepishly, almost immediately regretting not omitting his last sentence.

The farmer grinned, waving goodbye to him. “I know you are, and thank you, too.”

He smiled back at them, saying his goodbye and heading back down the dirt path to town, praying that no one would see him struggling with the giant pot of azaleas, potted by him, for his mother. 

[rose-blooms-red]

Significant Others/troopers under their command react to Edee's latest volley of obnoxious gifts :D

Did I start this 3 months ago? Yes. Did I also write over 2k of it Today? Also yes. Productivity is a Relative Term. 

[read on ao3]

Fox twitches as he reads the clearly handmade voucher. Says, pleasant as anything, “I’m going to fucking murder him.”

Ponds hums, looking over Fox’s shoulder, “It’s sweet. Probably.”

Fox makes a noise in the back of his throat that isn’t entirely describable by any known language. 

Does he still have that clock he found during that one shopping trip? The one with that awful fucking peach, mustard, and grey-blue combination that spat out an eeopie’s mating call every half hour? He’d been planning on saving it he remembers but—

“Telling you to take a break like that,” Ponds continues, like he can’t hear the way Fox’s higher reasoning is currently dying a slow painful death, “very considerate.”

Fox grits his teeth. Needs must, and Fox needs to crush the little fucker’s spirit thoroughly under heel. He’ll have to take it out of storage tomorrow.

“No.”

Ponds giggles, “I’m sure it’ll be entertaining at least.”

“Hondo,” Fox reiterates, digging his elbow back into Ponds’ stomach. 

Ponds drapes himself over Fox’s back, knocks the side of his head against Fox’s, “As I said,” he simpers, “entertaining.”

Fox makes a disgusted sound, sneers down at the offending…. Gift.

‘All expense-paid cruise on the Hondo Ohkana ‘Sights of The Galaxy’ tour!!!!!!’ It proclaims in neon colours and excessive exclamation marks, ‘Very Romantic and Exciting!’

“When’s it say it’s good for?” Ponds asks, like he’s actually contemplating it.

“No.”

Ponds snatches the voucher out of his hands anyway, “Oh good! We aren’t busy that ten-day.”

Fox’s hand twitches, “I am not getting on a fucking ship with fucking Hondo Ohkana, Ponds.”

“Mhm, ‘course not Fox.” Ponds responds absentmindedly, pats his arm lightly in the way that means they are definitely getting on the fucking ship with fucking Hondo Ohkana, “We’ve got a ten-day to pack and get everything in order, that should be enough.” He nods to himself, breezes out of the room with a vague sense of purpose as he flits around the house, presumably for things to take on a ‘very romantic and exciting’ trip.

Fox is going to murder somebody, preferably Hondo, or Neyo. 

He hears the sound of Ponds grabbing the DC-15A’s and he grimaces, ugh, time to find the fucking holdout blasters, those things haven’t been serviced in at least a ten-day, and he needs to check on the blaster packs for the DC-17’s. He can’t remember if he restocked the things after the last time he used them. 

If they’re going on the fucking trip, they’re gonna be well fucking stocked.

(Fox manages not to murder Hondo, but it’s a very near fucking thing.

He does come back from the trip in a much better mood though, other than the twitch he’s developed from listening to Hondo all day. Ponds is annoyingly amused and smug about it. Fox ignores it, like he does every other fucking annoyance in his life. 

He shuts down the talk of another trip like it happening any time in this fucking century before Ponds even opens his mouth to respond. Once was fucking enough thank you.)

__________

Colt closes his eyes, casts a net about his mind for a sliver of patience and finds his supply has dwindled something awful.

When he opens his eyes again both nuisance and potted plant are still there. Gree smiles winningly and Colt smells danger. 

Or maybe he just smells the plant, because that is the thing overwhelming everything else right now. He glares down at it, it looks harmless, mostly, in it’s large pot but already Colt can hear the sounds of flies swarming around.

“That is not a houseplant,” Colt says, relatively tamely in his opinion, given that the overwhelming smell it emits is decay, “that is the type of plant one shoots and hopes doesn't survive the encounter.”

“It’s a very rare and endangered plant,” Gree lies, grin earnest and eyes bright with humour.

“It’s a pile of banthashit dressed up in vegitive form.”

“It’s an Amorphophallus titanum,” Gree corrects, “and it’s very rare, it’s one of the largest unbranched inflorescence in the galaxy that isn’t also carnivorous in any shape or form.”

Colt gives the plant a dubious look, “I’ll believe that when it doesn’t smell like it just ate and digested something.”

Gree shrugs, “It’s possible it’s a type of carrion flower…. but in the name of protecting it from extinction there’s no one I’d trust more than you.”

Colt twitches, he has no clue what a carrion flower is or how that accounts for the way it smells like Colt has a pile of corpses rotting away on his front step, but he does not like it at all.

The worst part is that he can’t actually tell whether this is Gree being serious or him pulling a shithead move. Because this is exactly the type of thing Gree would genuinely do and also the type of thing Gree would do just to fuck with him.

Behind him someone gags and Colt twitches.

“Fine,” he grits out, and Gree’s smile tries for sunshine and comes up partly cloudy and fully shiteating.

“Wonderful, thanks Colt.”

“Please leave.” 

Gree laughs as he leaves and Colt closes the door with a sigh.

“It smells like someone died over there,” Blitz calls out and Colt groans.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Havoc sniggers, “It really does sir, we might have to keep the Little’s away for a few days, wouldn’t want one of ‘em puking.”

Colt winces, that image does enough to convince him of the necessity, the only thing that could be worse right now is over a dozen Little’s sicking up from the smell. “Might be for the best.”

Blitz hums, looking at the now closed door in interest, “How likely is it that he was pulling your leg?”

Colt slumps into his chair, “50/50” he admits and Blitz raises his eyebrows.

“That is almost more concerning. What the kriff did they put in your batch.”

“Mistakes,” Colt grumbles back. This is why he’s the oldest, he’s the only one in the entire batch who managed to wrangle any sense out of his tube and keep it all the way through.

Havoc laughs and Blitz snorts, then looks like he immediately regrets it, “Ugh, Colt your batch is full of sadists I’m not gonna get the smell out of my nose for weeks.”

“It’s probably seeped into the clothes at this point,” Havoc agrees and Colt groans.

(When Shaak comes home she takes one look at the plant and can’t seem to decide whether to grimace or smile.

“Apparently,” he drawls, “it’s a very endangered plant that’s been entrusted to my care.”

A burst of laughter ripples out into the room and Shaak smiles, hand covering her lips as her shoulders shake minutely, Colt forgets about the death plant for a second as he looks up at her, heart stopping for a moment in the split second it takes her to swallow her laughter back down and he wants nothing more than to pull that sound out from her again.

It takes him a minute to realize that at some point he’d started smiling. He can’t seem to stop it, but there are worse things to find himself unable to stop doing.

“It’s commonly known as a type of carrion flower,” she tells him finally, laughter lacing her tone, “otherwise known as a corpse flower for the smells they produce. It is not endangered, though there are those who agree that it might not be too much of a loss if it was.”

Colt groans. Shaak giggles and Colt finds himself forgetting for a second to plot his revenge.

Maybe Gree will get off a bit lighter this time, if only because Colt got to hear that bright laughter. 

He hums, “Plant it far, far, far away from the house?” Shaak smiles, presses a kiss to his forehead.

“That, my dear Colt, sounds like a brilliant plan.”)

__________

Gree gives the box a look of suspicious distrust that makes Barriss giggle and Decker snicker. 

It’s a big box, about the size of his torso and Gree has seen that bland, even smile too many times before to trust the contents of the box.

“Fox,” he warns and Fox’s grin goes sickeningly sweet.

“Gree, Baby Brother Dearest,” he drawls and Gree can hear the capital letters what the fuck, “I put my heart and soul into this you know, I’m hurt, really I am.”

That, Gree thinks sourly, is the worst load of banthashit he’s ever heard, and he’s had to listen to ‘scientific lectures’ given by people who read maybe one Edupad and then promptly forgot all of the information in the Edupad and decided whatever half-remembered thing left was Fact and Truth and refused to listen to Reason…. or sources and cited works.

Gree was very annoyed about that one, he’d put Effort into that paper thank you very much and he’d taken the class to learn things, not whatever that had been.

Fox wiggles the box in his hands around, expression pleasant and smile sharp.

Gree sighs. At least, he assures himself as he takes the box, it won’t be as bad as whatever happened after Fox and Ponds had come back from Neyo’s…… Gift.

Maybe.

The box is squishy. Boxes are not supposed to be squishy.

Gree has a Bad Feeling about this. He raises an eyebrow, Fox doesn’t even twitch.

Behind him Barriss is watching the exchange with wide, mirth filled eyes and a hand covering her mouth. Decker has long since lost the battle of keeping his snickering quiet and the rest of Gree’s so called loyal troopers of Green company watch with rapt attention.

He sighs again, loud and long-suffering, Fox’s smile never shrinks a shade less than serial killer pleased.

Gree unwraps the wrapping flimsi with ease, and then stares with distant horror at the plasti-cling underneath it. Not a box, no, plasti-cling.

It’s layered.

Gree twitches and reaches for one of his vibroblades.

“It’s very delicate,” Fox informs him, just as he gets the vibroblade out of it’s holder.

“Oh?” Gree asks, really quite pleasantly given the plasti-cling is so layered he can’t see a damn thing through it.

“Extremely,” Fox confirms, deadpan. Behind him Barriss giggles uncontrollably and Decker is flushed with laughter and gasping for air and the others aren’t much better. 

“Do they always do this?” one of them whispers incredibly poorly, Gree twitches, Fox eyes him with that malicious amusement that cements his place as youngest forever in Gree’s head.

“Always,” Barriss whispers back, giggling still and Gree’s heart warms for a second before his impending humiliation via gift settles in again.

“I knew the Commander wasn’t only, you know, learny, but I always thought he was sane.”

“Oh he’s sane,” Cooker reassures, “far as we can tell their entire batch is just, Like That.”

“But this is Torrent lev—” Fox’s face gives an unpleasant twitch that Gree sympathizes with.

Torrent, ugh.

“Shhhh,” the rest of Green hisses and Barriss hides her head in her hands as she laughs.

“We don’t compare them to Torrent, makes them touchy,” Draa mutters, as if he isn't half the reason Gree goes into interactions with Torrent prepared to have engineering go on another crazed building spree. He has a hunch that they feed on each other, the engineers, and it's their own special kind of crazy that Gree is half fascinated by and half resigned to.

“My point stands.” 

Gree grits his teeth, narrows his eyes at Green Company as a whole to no avail, turns a raised eyebrow to Barriss in a last attempt at gaining control of a situation he’d lost all hold over the moment Fox had walked up to him with a ‘gift from the bottom of my heart, Gree’.

His cold dead heart maybe. Gree is plotting his revenge already.

He puts the blade back with mechanical motions, feels around for the beginning of the despised plasti-cling, seriously who made it Gree has complaints for them, and begins the arduous task of unwrapping it all.

Who let Fox have this much plasti-cling.

(Over 10 hours of nonstop focus later the last of the plasti-cling has finally been ripped away and Gree stares at the new puzzle cube. Ugly and about the size of his palm. Much, much smaller than the wrapping he’d been given, nearly the size of his torso.

Gree makes a strangled sound that he will forever deny, Draa. 

The plasti-cling sits around him tauntingly, viciously victorious in all it’s piled glory.

It takes 3 days for Green Company to stop laughing about it. It does not take 3 days for them to stop sharing the holopics and vids they took, that takes much longer.

Barriss is Gree’s favourite now, everyone else is awful and everything they say is lies, and Fox has been demoted to all the way to being the baby.)

__________

Neyo tilts his head, grin bordering manic, “That, is the ugliest piece of garbage I’ve ever seen.”

Colt smiles, “It’s high class art.”

“It looks like someone took cans of paint and dumped them on the nearest patch of dirt they found.” 

“The texture adds value.”

“It’s chunks of dirt and grass.” Neyo hisses in delighted outrage. 

Colt waves a hand, voice disinterested and all ‘above all this nonsense’ like, “Very classy. Made with only the best of intentions.”

Neyo giggles, “It looks like actual manure, I hate it.”

“I got it just for you,” Colt simpers, like the little shit no one ever believes he is, “I saw it and just knew you’d connect to it.”

Neyo cackles, “This is awful, you’re awful, I’m hanging it on the wall and telling everyone you painted it.”

Colt raises an eyebrow, “No one will believe you.”

He’s right, it’s awful. Neyo pouts, “I could convince them.”

No he can’t, but that’s besides the point.

Colt hums, “mhm, I’m sure you could kih’vod.”

Neyo flicks at Colt’s wrist and wilts, “This is harassment.”

“Whatever you say Ney’ika.”

“You’re a bully.”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t believe anyone thinks you’re responsible.”

“That is because I am.” Colt says, putting Neyo in a headlock, they both ignore the way Neyo tenses up for a fraction of a second before he relaxes, sulks, digging his elbow into Colt’s side.

It’s the first time Colt has given him such a blatantly awful gift. Neyo cackles and something shakes loose in his chest. His throat feels grossly tight and the stupid shitty canvas covered in dirt and paint sits leaning against the wall innocently.

Colt makes the same even face he uses on the Little’s when they’re being hilarious and he can’t afford to tell them or when he’s about to say something completely karking stupid because no matter how much he likes to tell everyone he’s the oldest he totally isn’t. 

Neyo slips out of the headlock, giggles through the knot in his throat and rolls his eyes.

“You’re deluding yourself and everyone around you.” he tells Colt. Colt has only ever been responsible by necessity, and never once in all of Neyo’s memories of him, has he been anything less than an absolute shithead just like the rest of them when there was no necessity.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I’m not arguing with you like a first-cycle.”

“Are too.”

“Neyo.”

“You’re the one who gave me the shitty painting.”

“It’s high class art you bastard.”

Neyo preens, “Thank you, still the worst thing I’ve ever seen though. Might hang it up in the front room, just to really bring it all together.”

Colt sighs, aggrieved. Neyo has no sympathy for him, really if you’re gonna play the game you gotta be in it to win it. It’s not Neyo’s fault that the trashy, awful, horrible dirt, grass, paint mixture splattered onto canvas happens to be horrifyingly tasteless. Neyo loves it. It’s gonna make Fox so mad.

(“Neyo,” Vaughn asks, staring at the wall, “why is there a, what even is that, dirt? On canvas?”

Neyo straightens up, grins wide, “Colt painted it. Out of the love in his heart and the limited talents he was decanted with.”

Vaughn raises an eyebrow, “That’s lovely and everything, why is it hanging in our front room.”

“It is horrifically awful and I love it and Fox and Ponds are coming over tomorrow.”

Vaughn laughs.

The next day, Ponds takes one look at it and giggles, “Fox, Fox come here, you’re gonna hate it.”

Fox takes one look at it and walks right back out of the house, Neyo cackles the entire time.)

[letsperaltiago]

supercut, i’ll be your favorite scene

Here it is: THE KITCHEN COUNTER FIC™️

Hope you guys like this pile of filth and feel free to share your 😌thoughts😌 in the tags or in my indbox/ask! I’d really love to hear them!! For context: takes place during Season 6, Episode 6: The Crime Scene!

Also do I need to make a disclaimer saying that I know Jake would never intentionally neglect Amy yada yada...? You know the drill.

Enjoy!

READ ON AO3 HERE (RATING E)

It had been going on for weeks now and by then it was safe to say that Amy was getting fed up with the situation. Ever since this mysterious, seemingly unsolvable case had started consuming Jake’s every thought, move and decision, Amy had felt somewhat neglected. Her husband was of course still, as always, sweet and caring but lately the case had completely overtaken his life and Jake spent more hours twisting and turning every clue than he spent being paying attention to Amy – or anything that wasn’t case files or clues, for that matter. It’s not that Amy needed attention, like some child screaming for affection, but she was worried for her husband’s health and, even if it felt silly to say, their intimate life.

Sure, they’d kiss good morning, goodbye and hello but especially the past few weeks Jake had more often than not fallen asleep atop of the case files at the dining table rather than in bed with her. Naturally Amy felt many things: impressed by her husband’s dedication and hard work but also worried and frustrated… in more than one way.

One night, another one of those spent alone in bed with Jake sitting at the dimly lit dining table, Amy was done being cool and reasonable; fact was that she missed her husband and she was shamelessly horny. It didn’t take long for her to make a decision: tonight, four drink-Amy, minus the drinks, was going to make an appearance.

“Hey, babe,” she spoke softly with a sweet, curious air, keeping her ulterior motives hidden, as she wandered into the living/dining-room in her pajamas and pink nightrobe. Her steps brought her up behind him and when he finally came within her reach, she made sure to slide her hands onto his shoulders with extra grace and tenderness, softly squeezing them to hopefully give him a taste of the tender touch he surely had a craving for though he currently was too stressed to act on “What are you doing?”

A beat of silence.

“Just working the case,” he mumbled tiredly sounding unaffected by her presence.

It was going to take more work than what she’d originally intended to put into it, but Amy was more than willing to put in the extra work; she did love a good challenge.

“I see that,” she added bending over to wrap her arms around his torso and rest her head on his shoulder as to get a closer look at his work… amongst other things. He was only wearing his flannel and boxers, perfect, she couldn’t help but think.

“You’re working so hard, babe,” she stated sweetly making sure it went straight into his ear. “Don’t you want to relax a bit?”

Her hands stroked his chest smoothly sliding over to play with the top buttons of his flannel, the same flannel he’d worn yesterday, she couldn’t help but notice. Alas this wasn’t the right moment to mention this.

“I can’t,” he flipped over a page to scribble down whatever information crossed his mind. “Not right now.”

“But that’s what you’ve been saying every day for the past few weeks now. Working yourself too hard won’t do you any good, you know… It can affect your way of thinking.”

A peck to his neck was basically Amy begging for his attention, for some kind of reaction to both her words and actions, but it never came.

“I’m fine, Amy. I just need to get this done.”

Scribbling and flipping of pages continued even so, as if she was air, and Amy, more than ever, was now growing awfully frustrated about the situation. Never before, at least while they’d been together, had Jake been blunt and cold towards her like this. Of course, she knew it wasn’t personal, and that it was all tied to the case and the promise he’d made to the victim’s mother, but still she couldn’t help but feel rejected. Rather than letting it get her down, it did the exact opposite and fueled her inner flame.

This problem was only not solved because it was demanding new, more bold, methods.  

“But…” she swiftly as ever popped open a few buttons of his flannel “… don’t you think you would be able to think clearer…” she slid a hand down his now revealed chest before continuing to lure him in with sultry words and notes “…if you just let me help you feel good for a bit.”

Gosh, his skin felt so soft and so good, even after all these years, and oh how she just wanted to bite into it, scratch it red and raw with her fingers till both their hearts exploded.

“Amy, please. I love you but I need to keep working on this.”

Ouch. Her hand froze just above his belly button before removing itself. At least he said something kinda nice, she thought referring to the I love you, but this wasn’t enough. I love you wouldn’t have her writhing and screaming till climax.

First attempt was a lost cause but luckily, in a twisted way, Amy was furious and desperate. Vanishing back to their bedroom without another word, boiling with both lust and frustration, the woman proceeded to plan B; and plan she hadn’t really planned but quickly came up with.  Said plan was hiding in a paper bag in the back of her closet and she’d actually planned on revealing it to him on Valentine’s day but enough was enough: now would have to be the right time.

Said plan started ten minutes later when she waltzed down the hall and back into the dining/living room wearing the same night robe as before. Only this time she was wearing something else underneath: something fiery red and shamelessly lacey.

“If you’re going to stay up all night drilling this…” Smooth, Amy. She planted a few candles on the table before him before lighting them, making sure to bend over just enough for the dip in her robe to reveal what was hiding underneath, “…then lets at least make it nice and cozy for you.”

“Thanks, babe, but no need to. Just go back to bed and I’ll join you there later.”

He didn’t look up, not as much as a quick glance and Amy could feel her blood beginning to simmer in her veins from wanting her husband’s attention and touch so badly. He couldn’t be serious? He couldn’t not notice how she was basically begging for him, could he?

With a firm grip, in one smooth motion, she pulled out the chair besides him and sat down before slowly untying the knot of her robe as her eyes watched him, attentive, hoping see his reaction when he saw the surprise she was presenting him.

Slowly, oh so slowly, she peeled apart the robe and let it slide off of her like ice cream melting on a sunny day. The fabric fell to the floor without a sound and there she sat, half-naked and more inviting than ever before in her life.

Not that she’d tried to be discreet before, but she was now so very obvious about her intention that he couldn’t possibly let it slide. And if she wasn’t obvious enough then the way the red silky fabric enhanced her skin’s warm undertones while the black, soft lace complimented the curves of her breasts and thighs certainly were. All things she’d considered upon picking out the set. The gleam from the candles danced in the reflection of the silky fabric and Amy Santiago was more than impossible to overlook.

“Why don’t you join me in bed… now?” She bit her lip smiling while her fingers played with a lock of her dark hair.

“Babe, I’m really trying to work here. Please.”

He almost sounded annoyed with her as he scrolled through his phone, looking for whatever could be more interesting than her.

Anti-climatic was not the word; this was way worse, Amy was sure of it.

How could he do this to her? There she sat, exposing herself, metaphorically and literally, and all he could think of was work! Maybe she should try to be reasonable, consider how he felt in his situation with this specific case, but enough was enough! She pushed herself out of the chair and stomped off to the kitchen. At first she didn’t know exactly why she headed to the kitchen… Perhaps she just wanted to get away from him but then again, she could’ve just gone to the bedroom. The doubt faded the minute she saw some unpacked groceries, more specific carrots, on the counter. Standing there in the kitchen in her very lingerie at 1 AM feeling like a sad, rejected porn star, she found her Plan C and felt that there was no other way. Amy Santiago did what she had to do: grabbed a bunch of carrots, picked out the tiniest, crummiest knife she could find, a cutting board and started chopping.

Noisily. Over and over again. Repetitive and loud.

“Ames, what are you doing?”

A reaction – good. She looked up, just barely, through her eyelashes only to be met by the sight of her husband still not caring enough to look at her properly.

“Felt like getting a snack, that’s all…”

She kept chopping, faster, harder and most importantly: louder. Carrot after carrot, way too many, but she figured they’d just eat it some other time. For now it was all about pestering him, getting on his nerves as he on hers. Ten seconds went by… Twenty… Thirty…

Chop. Chop. Chop.

“Amy-“

Another loud cut interrupted him. Amy didn’t even bother to cut into proper shapes or sizes. It was all about the sound.

Forty… Fifty…

“Amy, could you please stop!”

Finally.

She smiled to herself at the sound of his snarl, hearing the specific shade of Jake Peralta she’d waited for all night long. Her eyes were still glued to the carrots on the cutting board before her and, she knew, if she looked up, she’d see her husband stare right at her. God, she loved their open kitchen-dining room.

“Why don’t you come over here and make me?” She challenged hoping to make it the tipping point.

Then she looked up and as predicted, her husband was staring at her with a newly arrived squint and dark look in his eyes. It seemed as if his frustration had finally opened his eyes to what was really going on: his wife was in their kitchen almost completely naked, wearing only the skimpiest lingerie, and he’d been stupid enough to look past it. Their eyes met: his angry and storm full, hers playful and hungry, begging.

Right then and there a pin could’ve dropped to the ground and it would’ve made the ground shake and sound like an explosion. The tension was thicker than quicksand and it was only a matter of seconds, an unbearable staring contest, before the sound of Jake pushing back his chair cut through it like a knife.

He slowly walked, as if he was planning his every step, around the counter dividing the dining area and kitchen area, and Amy could feel herself beam with excitement at the muffled sound of his steps.

“What did you just say?” Jake’s voice was low, a few tones deeper than usual, something he only did when he was angry or during sexy timez.  “Think twice before answering me.”

His hands slowly slid onto her almost naked hips feeling the arousing sensation of the lace beneath his fingers. She was trapped between him and the counter before her, on purpose, she could tell and God, she loved him like this. After years of being together it was no secret to either of them that Amy, as much as she enjoyed being dominant and in charge, loved playing the play of the submissive one, the one getting told what to do. Something, if put in the right mindset, her husband handled very well. Key word: handled. Tonight, she needed to be handled. By him… With care? No, they were way beyond stage. Amy was buzzing with impatience. This needed to be properly balanced with the nature of the moment; a tempered Jake who would not put up with being told what to do. Not tonight.

“I didn’t say-“ her breath hitched interrupting herself when she felt him lean his body against her from behind, leaving no room behind him and her, and her and the counter, before letting his right hand slide along the top hem of her panties. “I didn’t say anything. I was just c-cutting-“

His index finger tugged on the elastic hem.

“Cutting carrots,” she breathed out nervousl and he picked up on it.  

“Is this cool? Safe word?” he quickly added.

“It’s perfect and ‘Manhattan’ as usual.”

“Okay good,” he pecked the shell of her ear as a sign of approval before picking up where they left off.

“Hmm,” he hummed removing his finger knowing it’d disappoint her. “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

“Oh,” she whimpered in reaction to his words being breathed against her sensitive neck. While being distracted by his breathy taunts Amy had completely failed to notice the hand sliding down the right leg of her panty. Here, when down low enough, his index finger had crooked itself around the center section of the garment to pull it to the side and reveal her forlorn womanhood.

Tonight wasn’t going to be a long night of slow fucking, they both knew, but Amy was still surprised when she almost right away felt two fingers part her folds, automatically coaxing her into submission.

“I have barely touched you…” he spoke with a voice so soft and in no way is a match to the sinful activity happening further down her body, “…and you’re already this wet.”

No words, only sounds of strain and pleasure, were to come from Amy. Jake was in charge now and he would make the calls tonight. All she could do was wait and obey.

“You’ve been such an annoying little pest all night and I thought it was just because you were bored, when in reality- “

“Jake,” escaped her in the form of a breathy declaration, in a moment of weakness in reaction to his finger’s Godsent work, interrupting him and this usually wasn’t well received, not in a scene like the one they found themselves caught up in, but Jake was too pleased with the display of his effectiveness to reprimand her. Instead, he just smiled to himself and made sure to stroke the exact same spot over and over again feeling her get weak in her knees.

“When in reality you just, so desperately, need to be fucked.”

To prove his point, he leaned a bit more of his weight onto her forcing her midriff up against the counter. His fingers still had room to work thus moving with more and more ferocity.

“Am I right, Amy?”

Eyes closed, mouth agape and head bent back to rest against his shoulder, it was safe to say that Amy was in another world. Yes, she heard the loud rumbling that was the sound of his voice, but his fingers were louder than anything else happening at that moment. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had her trapped she would’ve been grinding for more, used her body to get a better feel of his touch. Alas she’d have to earn it some other way.

“Amy,” he scolded bringing her attention back to his demands. “Tell me. Am I right?”

His hand not stroking her heat slowly started playing with the upper edges of her panties, pushing them down her curves in the process.

“Y-yes,” came out in a voice so breathy that the word was barely audible, and Jake could only just hear it because he stood as close to her as he did.

“Thought so,” he bluntly approved her answer and removed his fingers from her heat to allow himself to push the panties down entirely, letting them to fall off of her and onto the cold kitchen floor. Amy could feel the bulge in his boxers pressed against her now bare ass and it killed her to not be able to grind against it, to feel it properly.

“So…” he used his now wet fingers, glistening with her juices, making sure to trail them across her skin, to slowly push her hair to the side and leave him room to kiss the back of her neck. “Now that you’ve so selfishly interrupted me and the important work I was doing, just because you just can’t behave and wait to get fucked…”

Amy’s voice hitched, loudly even, in reaction to his words. Dirty talk had definitely moved up a few spots on her favorites list when her and Jake got together; he was so good at it and it made her want to play along.  

“… there are two ways things can go now: either you pull yourself together like a good girl, let me get back to work and wait in bed…”

Amy did not like the sound of that. Nonetheless she bit her tongue and instead of fighting him she focused on the soft feeling of her husband’s breath dancing against her sensitive skin as his hands stroked her stomach, slowly inching themselves upwards towards her breasts.

“… or I give you what you need. Right here, right now.”

There was a moment of silence where Amy considered whether she should actually answer or let him make a choice for her. Did he want her to speak up or was it a trap?

“Tell me, Amy,” he scowled at the exact same moment as his hands reached her chest and latched themselves onto her still lace-clad breasts. “Tell me what you need. I’m not gonna ask again.”

“N-now, p-please” her stutters were weak, but they were there and she could only hope it was enough. They held so much desperation and honesty.

Meanwhile Jake feverously caressed her breasts, pinching her nipples through the thin, lacy material. Then, quickly running out of patience, he basically ripped the straps and cups down as to finally gain full access to this part of her he loved so much.

“Okay,” he pecked the back of her neck. “Can’t believe you’re so desperate that I get to fuck you right here on the counter.”

Jake definitely sounded smug, pleased with the situation, and Amy would’ve been be lying if she’d said she didn’t feel the same way… even though she couldn’t say it. They’d had sexcapades in the kitchen before but never like this and Amy was filled to the brim with excitement.

“God, I wanna see you on your knees with your lips stretched around me so bad but you’re just so ready for me, Ames… It’s too good to put off for much longer. Can you feel how ready I am for you?”

In case she hadn’t already noticed his hard on pressed against her bare ass Jake grinded into her and Amy very quicky came to hate his boxers even more, wishing she could just rip them off of him, and definitely let out a whimper at the needed touch. The full control he had over her was both everything she wanted and everything she dreaded; all she could do was hope that he’d fulfill her wishes for her.

Finally, as if a shooting had crossed the sky and heard her wishes, she felt one of his hands move away from her breast and relocate to push down the cursed material that kept her from being able to feel him properly. An outline trapped behind fabric was always promising but nothing could ever beat the feeling of Jake’s freed length.

“So ready…” he mumbled under his breath as he, impressively so, used one hand to fiddle open the clasp of her bra while the other was busy stroking his length. Given their current position there were things he had to take care of himself – many things, apparently. With both of his hands being busy paying attention to something that wasn’t her, Amy honestly wasn’t too pleased with the situation even though she knew it would pay off; she could already imagine, almost feel, the cool surface of their marbled countertop pressed against her torso causing goosebumps to rise across her entire body.

Thud. Finally, the strain around her chest disappeared as her bra joined the rest of their (limited) garments on the kitchen floor, soon to be forgotten by both Jake and Amy. Jake did still have his flannel on, barely hanging on by one closed button, but the parts of them that mattered were free and ready for tonight’s purpose.

She felt him take a tiny step back, away from her, and she was just about to let out a whine when suddenly her entire body quaked in response to his right hand giving her ass a firm squeeze before allowing it to run all the way up her spine, slowly and with great intentions in mind.

“Bend over.”

If only Amy could tell herself from ten years ago that she would end up marrying a man whose words could make her body and world tremble… The perfect two words, said so bluntly, demanding, had her convinced the second they fell from his lips.

She obeyed, with his hand on her back guiding her forwards, and soon she found herself looking out at their living/dining room from her new position: bent over their kitchen counter.

Jake’s hand continued its journey up her back, all the way up to her shoulder where he gave it a tiny affectionate squeeze before leaning down and pecking the back of her neck.

“Okay, babe?”

“Y-yes, perfect,” she whimpered, impatient, struggling to retain her recklessness.

“You look so good.”

The unequivocal sound of his palm patting her full ass cheek echoed in the kitchen. Even when trying to convey the need to ask for more into grabbing onto the counter, to a point where her knuckles turned white, holding back a whimper was out of her hands.

“Soon, babe. I just can’t get over how fucking good you look bent over like this...”

Another pat, a strike more appropriately so, to her other ass cheek let Amy know that he was definitely testing her patience and willingness to stay silent. He loved the frustration he knew she was battling with inside; mainly because he knew she’d never break because Amy Santiago’s desire to please and obey was stronger than the feeling of despair and need.

“… Bent over and desperate for me to touch you.”

Jake’s low, rumbling voice, the way an almost animalistic side of him shone through his words, was enough to keep Amy going. Although she did quickly take a preference upon feeling a sudden overwhelming burst of warmth and stimulus shoot through her when his fingers switched their attention from her ass to her folds, slowly running two fingers back and forth through them as to assemble as much moisture as possible.

Pleased with himself at the sound of a high-pitched and dragged out Oh there was no stopping him. Slowly torturing them both, mostly her, he kept working her open with his fingers as small moans and squeals dropped from her lips. His other hand kept a firm hold of her hip. Amy was off in another world, trembling at the feeling of his fingers finally doing to her what she’d been craving for for so long now. Her hands slowly turned sore from holding on so tightly to the counter under her, but she didn’t care. Everything felt so good and she’d die if it were to stop if she disobeyed or accidentally disregarded Jake’s wishes and plans.

All of the sudden, ready to whine at the loss of his fingers but quickly interrupted, Amy felt a strong hold of her hips from both of his hands and then, even better, herself being stretched around her husband’s cock. To hell with the consequences, Amy let out the loudest “quiet” moan she dared. The sensation washing over her was too much, too good, to keep quiet about however it helped that she expressed herself cheek pressed down into the cool kitchen counter.

“Yes,” Jake hissed pushing himself all the way in. “Fuck, you’re the best thing, babe.”

She felt a hand, once again, run up the length of her back as he shuffled on the spot to adjust himself inside of her. The stretch ceased for a brief second but immediately came back, this time for good, repeating itself in a steady pattern that had the entire front of Amy’s body, from her knees hitting the lower kitchen cupboards to the face rubbing up against the cool marble, following the given rhythm. The sound of their bodies slapping together, Amy’s skin drumming against their counter to the beat of his repetitive thrusting as well, came together like an obscene symphony. Only one thing was missing, and he knew why: she was waiting for permission like the good girl she was.

Bending over her so far that his chest ran parallel with her back, almost skin against skin, Jake made a makeshift ponytail with his wife’s soft, dark hair and, keeping in mind to stay careful, forced Amy’s head off the counter and back. Amy hissed, the pain and pleasure coming together, and she was finally in the perfect position for him to whisper into her ear.

“I know for a fact that you can be a hell of a lot louder than that.”

The observation, rather the implicit demand, went straight to her already extensive drive and with her head held up by his hand in her hair, Amy allowed her sounds of pleasure to fall freely from her lips and accompany the repetitive sound their body’s coming together, over and over, skin to skin, skin to wood, skin to stone.

“Oh- oh- ohmygod yes,” came tumbling out of her like the world was collapsing inside of her and having straightened back up, still with a hold of Amy’s hair, Jake could only admire the scene before him as he felt the stressful case and immense pressure melting away. After this he would definitely have to apologize for being so absent lately but for now, they probably needed this more than anything else.

“Y-yes, baby. Feel so good around me.”

Every word, every sound, every move was punctuated by a thrust, one after the othert, speed and force slowly increasing as a momentum built and both parties fell into and drowned in an endless pool of longing and passion.

“Was this what you wanted when you decided you were going to act like a fucking brat?”

A tug on the makeshift ponytail demanded that Amy listen even though she knew he might not necessarily want an answer from her - at least not a vocal one.

“Was is worth it? Tell me.”

Another tug on her hair, definitely demanding an answer, and his fingers digging into her fleshy hips earned him a small cry of submission that almost had him coming right there on the spot. Alas he stayed focused and steady. He wasn’t ready to let go yet, and neither was she. Just the way he wanted it and the way she loved it.

“Y-yes,” she just barely managed to stutter between thrusts, too far gone to make out a longer sentence, even though she was dying to tell him just how good he made her feel and how she’d missed him inside of her.

“Can’t believe all it takes to shut you up is a good fuck,” he accused her, but she could tell he was not so secretly loving it, simply saying it, making it sound filthy, because he had needed it just as badly as her. “So desperate you’ll take it anywhere…”

He trailed off, out of breath from snapping his hips back and forth into her with hefty momentum that had both his and her legs shaking. Although, he knew, he wasn’t quite done with her yet. There might’ve been beads of sweat running down her arched back, red marks on her arms from the rubbing of the counter and beginning knots where he held onto her hair, but it couldn’t be over yet.

Using the last surge of energy, he had left in him, Jake decided to let go of his wife’s hair and used the now freed hand to give her ass one last spank, one whose loud snap and following whine bounced off the kitchen walls. Besides that, nothing was said and Jake was pleased.

“No complaining, huh? You just know that you always look so much better when I mark you up.”

It was hard to tell since her entire body jerked every time he reentered her however Jake was sure: she nodded. He stroked the fresh redness of her ass before hunching over her still very much bent over figure. The new curve of his body to ran along hers, his chest to his back, and gave him the opportunity to take a hold of her hands where they were still clinging onto the kitchen counter’s edge for dear life. Now he could help his thrusts by pulling into her.

“I’m so close, Ames. So fucking close.”

He readjusted as to be able to whisper directly into her ear.

“You look so good bent over like this… All for me…”

“O-only for you,” she managed to stutter.

“But I want to be able to see your face when you cum.. So hard like never before,” he marked his point by gathering some extra force to thrust just a bit deeper and the small scream it derived was worth it. Although he had already (kind of) warned her Amy felt like dying the second he so brutally pulled out of her completely. It was all soon forgotten though; the second he pulled her back up straight, spun her around and lifted her, almost entirely by himself, up to sit on the counter. Before Amy could fully comprehend what was happening, he had her face cupped in his hand and their eyes locked.

Amy could’ve sworn what he did and said next was the sexiest thing he’d ever done to her: without letting go of her face, neither her eyes, he used his free hand to push her thighs apart and around him.

“Now don’t you dare look away.”

Without further explanation he grabbed his cock and guided it back into her, once more appeasing her with the feeling of being filled to the brim by him. It was far from as easy or smooth as their previous position, but they fell back into a enjoyable pattern of movements. Before they knew it Amy was back to whimpering at every thrust, her magic spot struck over and over again. She was shrieking her pleas as he kept their eyes locked and there was no escaping it. The hand holding her face snuck a thumb across her dry lips, furthermore, causing them to part and welcome his finger past the edge and into the mouth he was dying to kiss.  

“Do you have any idea how fucking hot you look like this?” he praised enjoying the wet sensation around his thumb and the muffled effect on her whimpers it had before removing his hand, to her disappointment, only to then please when he put it to better use down between her legs. “And you’re going to look even hotter when you fall apart around me, understood?”

“Y-yes,” she croaked with eyes slowly beginning to flutter closed. “I- I’m so close, baby.”

“Me too,” he breathed heavily as he saw her eyes shut as his fingers played with her clit, wishing and yearning to take her where they both wanted to be. “Now look at me,” he demanded using his free hand to once again grab her jaw and reposition her face as to be sure she was looking directly into his eyes as he felt himself come closer to his climax.

He picked up the pace, the slaps of their skin becoming louder, and Amy immediately reacted by grinding harder onto both his cock and fingers meanwhile her mouth let every deep, sinful emotion pour out of her as a messy ode to her own climax.

“R-right there, ugh- yes! Faster, harder-“

“I’m gonna cum, babe. Right now,” he exclaimed.

“Y- yes, inside of me. Keep going,” she begged afraid that his climax would interrupt God’s work he was doing on her.

“Ye-“ he was cut off by his own climax which caused his head to shoot back and a groan from the deep of his gut. Although Amy had nothing to fear: even through his climax Jake kept up his pace, mostly with his fingers, and not too long after he had Amy writhing and gasping for on the counter.

“Come for me, babe. All over me.”

He was slowly coming down from his own climax and passionately coaxed his unravelling wife through their shared euphoria, listening and staring into her eyes as she crumbled around him.

After a few moments of aftershock in the shape of shuttering, gasping and whimpering, the room fell silent and time seemed to stand still. By then Amy had slumped forward, completely drained, leaning her head onto his shoulder meanwhile the cool night temperature of the room started to get to her. Small goosebumps danced all over her body.

For a bit they just let it be, let the moment stand on its own, giving Jake the time to run his hands all over his wife’s shaky, beautiful body that he loved oh so much.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so absent lately. I hope you know that it has nothing to do with you.”

Although it was a statement and a fact rather than a question, Jake definitely wanted and needed to know if she knew that it was so.

“I know.”

He could feel and hear her smile because that’s how stupid well he knew her.

“Good. Still want to say I’m sorry though,” he smiled into the top of her head before pecking it and getting a small taste of the sweat they’d both built up. “…And I promise that I won’t let work control me like this again.”

Silence. A beat.

“I really appreciate you saying that. Thank you…”

She turned her head so that she could kiss his lips and, just an hour ago, Amy might’ve thought he was the most annoying, stubborn human on earth and maybe he was… But now she was also once again sure of the fact that no one could or ever would love her like her husband does.

[blu-joons]

My Little Miracle ~ Young K

Laying back into your pillow you couldn’t help but sigh, your body was exhausted at the end of a long Christmas, and now all you wanted was sleep. It was your first Christmas away from your parents, and now you found all the responsibility of Christmas had been placed on your shoulders.

Younghyun had tried to help throughout the day with little things, but anything he seemed to touch in the kitchen went wrong, and if he so much as breathed too close to a decoration, you just knew it was somehow going to fall and break.

None of that, however, stopped your Christmas from being entirely magical. Spending it just the two of you had been exactly what you wanted this year after having such busy years separately, it was a time for the two of you to simply reconnect with each other.

Whilst you laid down in bed, you could hear footsteps coming up the stairs, a heel kicked the bedroom door open, where Younghyun stood. He had a proud smile on his face as he walked in with two mugs of hot chocolate, placing one on each side of the bed.

Once they were down, safely, he laid himself down beside you, instantly reaching out for your body to pull in close to his. He sighed contently, resting his head on top of yours, staring out through the gap in your curtains as the city began to fall quiet.

“I don’t know about you jagi, but I think this has been my favourite Christmas yet,” he whispered down to you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

Without a doubt, it had been your favourite Christmas too. Not just because you were with Younghyun, but for once, you could do what you wanted. No one to tell you when to start drinking, or how to cook, or what film you had to watch at what time.

You hummed back at him with a wide smile, the more you thought about it, the more thankful you were to even be spending this Christmas with Younghyun. It had been a couple of years since you were last together for the holidays at his parents.

“I’m glad we’re together, it didn’t really feel like anything else was going to be important this year,” you finally responded, “I didn’t want to be away from you for another Christmas.”

His grip around your waist tightened, reminding you that he really was there with you. He felt exactly the same way you did, having such a small family too, it always made such a huge difference for him whenever you were around to be with his family too.

“Thank you for everything you did for me today,” he suddenly complimented, smiling widely as your eyes flickered up to look at him.

“You don’t need to thank me; we did all of this together as a team.”

He chuckled lightly, “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but you and I both know that if you weren’t with me, my Christmas would have turned into a complete mess.”

With his parents no longer in Korea, Younghyun was more thankful then ever that you made the decision to be with him, Christmas with you topped sitting alone and watching cartoons, that was a Christmas he always hoped he’d forget and replace with happier ones.

His lips rested against your forehead for a few moments before you heard him clear his throat. “I don’t say it enough to you, but I hope you know how grateful I am to have you, not just at Christmas, but every day of the year. You’re my little miracle all year round.”

“You really do underestimate yourself sometimes,” you scolded, resting your hand against his chest so you could look up at him. “Do you have any idea how grateful I am to have you? I must permanently be on Santa’s nice list to keep getting you as a present.”

His cheeks began to turn a dark shade of red, which you quickly noticed, pressing your hands to either side of his face, planting your lips firmly against his.

“I don’t ever want this Christmas to end, I don’t want to be away from you again when all of this is over.”

You nodded, laying back down against his body. It was the most heart breaking thing about Christmas, just as you began to get used to having each other back again, one of you had to go back to work or travel and you ended up back to square one. If it weren’t for Christmas, sometimes you wondered if you’d ever even get to see each other throughout the year.

Younghyun glanced down at you for a few moments, watching as you fought to keep your eyes open, slipping his hand out from under the duvet and pulling his nightstand open.

“Don’t sleep yet, I made you a drink,” he reminded you, “and I’ve got one final present for you.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, reluctantly sitting up so you could drink the hot chocolate he’d made you.

You watched closely as he passed you over a white box, encouraging you to open it. Slowly, you lifted the lid up to see a silver key resting against the black fabric, lifting it out and twirling it around in your hand.

Although you smiled, Younghyun knew you were clueless as to what it was. “It’s the spare key to this place, because it’s just as much your home as it is mine.”

Your body fell into shock, looking at him in slight disbelief. Once you’d processed what he’d told you, your arms moved around his neck, hugging him tightly, gripping hard onto the key. You knew, as he always reminded you, this was your Korean home, but now you had the key, it really felt like a place you’d always knew you’d be welcome in, a place that you could call home.

“I don’t even know what to say,” you whispered, pressing several kisses against his flushed cheek. “This is huge for you to give me this, you realise that don’t you? Are you definitely sure you want me to have this?”

“More than anything else in the world. You shouldn’t need to wait for me to let you into our home, and now you can be here whenever you want,” he spoke.

“I promise I won’t lose it; I’ll keep hold of it safely forever.”

He nodded with a giggle, “I know you will, that’s why I trusted that it would be safe with you.”

Even if this had been your home for quite some time, Younghyun knew that giving you the clue would be the physical reminder you needed that he’d always be your home. If you were thousands of miles apart, the two of you still shared the same key to your home.

“I know I should have given it to you this morning, but I was just too nervous,” he confessed, running a hand through his black hair.

Your head shook, Christmas or not, you didn’t care when, or if, he’d ever give you a key. You placed it delicately onto your nightstand, making sure you knew exactly where it was, before picking up the mug of hot chocolate, gripping it tightly.

“It’s probably cold by now,” he laughed, reaching for his own mug. “I can go and warm them up if it’ll make it nicer for you?”

“It’s fine, all of this was worth drinking cold hot chocolate anyway.”

He nodded, taking a sip of his drink with bated breath, shuddering at how cold he was. Somehow, he still managed to force a smile to his lips as you politely drunk it, trying to forget just how cold it was. “Don’t feel like you have to drink it, it’s fine.”

“No, I can drink it. It’s not even that bad anyway.”

Younghyun could tell you were only being nice to not upset him, as you quickly gulped it down to get it over and done with, placing your mug back on the table and laying back down. As soon as he was done, he was back laying beside you, pulling you into the side of his body.

“So, how does this rate for Christmas? Should we do the same next year?”

Your head nodded, draping your arm across his chest. “I think this has by far been my favourite Christmas ever, but that’s only because I got to spend it with you.”

“If I had it my way, every day would be spent with you, but I guess that’s what makes Christmas so much more special for us both, right?”

“Of course. But I’m just saying now, if you’ve given me the key to your house this year, I’ve got high expectations for next year,” you teased, staring up at his eyes rolled. “I’m only messing with you, being with you is the only present I need.”

He nodded in agreement, reaching across to turn his lamp off, making sure that the duvet was wrapped tightly around both of your bodies together.

“Thank you for the best Christmas, jagi.”

Your head shook, poking his chest. “Thank you for asking me to do Christmas with you and making it such a happy occasion for me. I love you Younghyun.”

“I love you too, my little miracle.”

---

Masterlist

[heavenunderthemoon]

Growing Pains- Spencer Reid x Reader {Chapter Two}

Prologue, Chapter one

The newly acquired I.D. badge battered her hip as y/n entered the bullpen, the heavy glass door shutting with a 'click' behind her.

It was as hectic as it normally was on a Wednesday on the Behavioral Analysis Unit's floor. Clerical agents walked to and fro amongst the sea of desks and strangely enough, rather than being overwhelmed by the vast amount of bustle before her, the newly entered female's lips quirked a bit at the corners at the constant foot traffic.

She hadn't heard him, Spencer thought with reassurance. Of course she hadn't heard him. A whisper, your name dancing across his tongue in a moment of surprise as you had entered, lost into the wind, floating into the abyss that was the sixth floor of the federal building, only heard to the small group surrounding him.

But not to you. Not to the woman whose eyes had sharp swept the room, passing over him with ease. A small part of him was struck with a small horrific thought: Was he forgettable? Forgettable enough that you had forgotten him entirely, all those years of whispered secrets, tree climbing, and treasure burying? All the years that you had knocked on his front door, bidding his mother a hello regardless of the mood she was in, strutting into his room until you flopped onto his floor (even if he was okay with pinky promises, slow dances, and arms thrown over his shoulder he never could allow you to sit on his bed and you were okay with that). Had you erased him from your memory?

And then another terrible, stomach-twisting, nausea-inducing thought struck next: Did you recognize him and simply steel yourself to appear ad if you hadn't? Did you not want to recognize him? The fizzling of your friendship had been neutral, he could remember that clearly. His mind wouldn't allow anything different. His mind had been haunting him all morning and it taunted him once more, sucking him into the last conversation he could recall the two of you sharing.

"Hold on, Spencer," Your father's gruff voice asked the boy, and the Reid boy nodded despite the man not being able to see him. Your father always had that affect on him. The hard stares, narrowed eyes, stiff posture; It all told the Reid boy that the man lived in a cloud of suspicion around his relationship with you. Friendship, Spencer corrected himself mentally, cheeks heating up at the mere thought of anything more.

There was shuffling on the other end of the phone, your father yelling for you to hurry up and the sound of your loud footsteps. He could close his eyes, imagining precisely what your movements would be. He could see you clamoring down the stairs, jumping halfway down the staircase because you were a bit too impatient to actually walk down them all the way. He could see you rounding the corner, the way your hand would use the bannister as a device to twist yourself around the corner, coming into the eye line of your father. He could see all the forgotten work boots and soccer cleats that lay discarded near your kitchen door (your brothers were awful at putting them away and your father hardly cared enough to tell them not to. Even you had a pair of sneakers propped against the baseboards.).

"It's Spencer." Your father said in that tone he used with the boy, saying his name similar to how Spencer might have said he had found a bug on his shoe- petulant and irritated- and suddenly he was opening his eyes back up, grateful to be in that stuffy phonebooth, the hot sun beating through the tempered glass window panes.

"Sherlock?" Your voice sounded different, he decided immediately. Deeper, but not by too much. He wondered if you had grown in the time between your last sighting of eachother (a full year, at this point).  He wondered if your hair was longer- before he left, you had convinced yourself that cutting your own hair was a good idea. You had been obsessed with the Bangles and Susanna's bangs were the peak of your hyper-fixation. He had tried to talk you out of it, but, you were, well, you. You were a 'do first, think second 'person. You always had been. You had been when you broke your arm in the fifth grade deciding to make the leap from your roof to your father's truck bed (It was much farther than you had estimated). You had been when you kept the fish you had won from a carnival (Pickles the Fish had not lasted very long in the Y/L/N household, his bowl a bit too close to the cat's resting place). And you were when you had stood in your bathroom, Spencer sitting on the bathtub's ledge as he covered his eyes, his green orbs peaking out from open fingers, watching as you chopped your hair with kitchen scissors.

"Watson." The nickname, one he hadn't spoken in what seemed like ages flowed freely from his lips. He remembered when he had first introduced you to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. how you had leant against him underneath the shade of that old Willow tree at the end of the block. Your head on his leg, his own propped up on the trunk of that tree. Your initials were carved onto it- Spencer's idea, surprisingly, and it showed by the sloppiness of that carving because his mother hardly ever let him near knives. And under the shade of that tree, the wind whistling through the barren branches he had read, hardly stumbling over the large words before him and even if you didn't quite understand everything he was saying you listened because this was one of the few times he didn't stutter- not once.

"You were supposed to call last night." You said sullenly. It was true. You had scheduled your call times for at least once a month on the third Wednesday of each month. It was the only days you got out of school early, early enough to catch him when he wasn't in lecture or seminars or library study sessions.

The boy's eyes flickered down to his shoes. Sneakers- you would be proud. He had never worn Converse before. He was lucky if his mother remembered to buy groceries, let alone new shoes and the boy found himself grabbing the cheapest pair at Salvation army's and Thrift Stores. He had seen the chucks on you often enough, how free you looked when you ran across the desert roads, shoes against pavement. And now, away from home he had splurged and gotten a pair, a small piece of you, a small piece of home.

"I know, I'm sorry. I got caught up in my book-"

You sighed and Spencer could tell you were wishing he had a better excuse. A better excuse than getting lost in the pages of something he could've read later. Something he could have set aside for time spent talking to you. But, because it was you, he knew you wouldn't say that. You wouldn't express your feelings because you had never really been good at that unless it was also followed with a swift punch to the gut.

"I'm sorry." He settled, and just like that you were telling him about the current events in his hometown, how his mother was, how the boys that had once chased him through the halls were finding themselves after graduating, but he could tell a shift in your tone, a loss of trust, and a pang of hurt.

"Spencer. Spencer." JJ's voice made the Reid man glance up from where he had been staring at you- or where you had been? A quick glance around the room had him planting his eyes on your moving figure. Your boots made swift, definite steps across the bullpen, eyes focused solely on Hotch's door until you reached it.

"You know her?" JJ asked and, apparently, it was just a repeated question because Spencer could tell that the agents surrounding him were staring at him intently, analyzing the way his cheeks had flushed, skin paling, eyes widening at just the mere appearance of the woman that was now entering the Unit Chief's office.

Spencer tried to think of what to say. 'You know her?'

Did he?

Did he know you? Or had he known you? The two were very different. He had known you before. before those promises set in stone by pinkies were broken and before he had outgrown that necklace you had given him all those years ago. He had known you when you had told him your 'happy place' was the beach and when Spencer had very expertly questioned how that could possibly be as you had never even been to a beach before, you had glared at him until he took it back.

And you had known him. You had known him when he was forced to ride on your bike's handlebars whenever he wanted to go the library (Your bike had a basket that he could fit all of his books on and his did not). You knew him when he broke that snow globe in the cornerstone that one holiday season, how his face had morphed into one of horror at the idea of getting into trouble. You knew how you had taken the fault for that incident, hating how the boy's hands had started shaking when the storeowner had asked who had done it.

You had known each other, sure. but did he know you?

His eyes watched your hand go out to shake Hotch's, the smile on your lips enough to make him want to faint, the mere weight of his memories pulling at his brain.

"Kid? Kid, you really don't look good." Morgan was expressing his concerns and Spencer had half a mind to tell him that the reason he might not look so good was because he was, in fact, not good. He was not good because this was one of the few times in his life that his past caught up to the present. When he was forced to relive those memories from so long ago, from a time that he tried to keep very, very separate from the now. A time that he had all but run from, packing his belongings in that teeny-tiny duffel bag (you had helped him pick it out, he realized with a frown) and boarded that bus to Cal-Tech.

"I'm-" Fine? Spencer didn't have a clue what he would say, which, he would suppose would be a first, but the embarrassment that would have caused was halted because the Unit Chief's door was opening and Aaron Hotchner was extending a hand to you, as if showing you off and the team was standing, like a crowd waiting to see the newest performer.

And there you were, your front finally facing him. Your eyes were that same, chocolate-y brown color that he could feel himself getting lost in. They held that same sharpness, that fierceness in your eyes that Spencer had seen directed always at those who tried to mess him and never at he, himself. A fierceness that had hardly needed the support of your quick tongue and curled fists but received it anyways. A watch on your wrist glinted, the leather worn and sun-soaked. Even from where he sat, his vision minority blocked from Derek's muscular body standing in the way, Spencer could see the familiar material, the government-issued time-piece recognized by the team of agents immediately.

Had you served time in the military? Spencer would've guessed so, if not for the go-bag in your hand displaying the military insignia, but the way your shoulders were poised back, pin straight and at attention. Or the way your eyes swept the floor, checking doors, windows, standard procedure. Where had you been? Spencer asked himself. What had you seen? What had you done? Without him, he tacked on as an afterthought, because maybe if he had kept on top of the friendship, stoked those withering flames of your relationship, things might've turned out differently. He wouldn't be sinking into his chair as Hotch pointed out to the floor, introducing each member.

"...And you can meet everybody. Everybody, this is Y/N L/N. Y/n, this is Jennifer Jareau, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, David Rossi, Penelope Garcia, and Spencer Reid."

And just like that, the fierceness was gone. The rigidity, the stoic-like confidence, the intimidating stance, and Spencer could just about see the girl who had cut her hair with those kitchen scissors, the shock on your face and locks on the floor.  It was all gone and your eyes were searching the crowd of agents just introduced to you and when they landed on the one you had been searching for, that lanky figure that looked so much like the one you had thought you would never see again, your lips parted in shock.

"Spencer?"

[celeste-clearwater-06]

A warm spring day in Neville's 5th year was a perfect day to go out and find productivity by examining some greenery near the Black Lake. He had brought fresh parchment and a quill outside with him, and he scribbled down perfectly literate handwriting, observing a blade of gold and olive-colored grass.

And coincidentally, he was not the only student who needed a breath of fresh air and to break away from the horrid witch, called Umbridge.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her small, hand-knit bag that she slung over her shoulder. 

She found a seat underneath a willow tree, sat close to the edge of the lake, and tucked herself close to the trunk, which made the perfect makeshift seat between its large and knotted roots.

Y/N sat cross-legged, and carefully emptied the contents of her bag. 

A well-used sketchbook and pencil, and a few snacks that she had been gifted from the generous house-elves after she had skipped lunch.

A fluttering of wings drew her attention away from the beautiful landscape and watched with a smile as her sand-colored tawny owl perched himself on a gangly root close to her.

"Hello, Percy. " she smiled, and gently stroked the top of his feathery head with two fingers. He closed his eyes with a content chirp, making Y/N chuckle.

"I brought you a little snack. Are you hungry?" 

She held out a small piece of bread, and let the owl happily snatch it from between her fingers.

Y/N then looked down at her sketchbook, feeling the urge to let her creativity discharge onto the paper. She scanned her surroundings longingly, trying to unearth any spark of inspiration. Her eyes scanned over large trees, and the captivating lake, watching as a few mermaid tails skimmed the water's surface and delved back down below. A small whip Scorpion scuttled along the ground near Y/N's feet. And when she grew frustrated that no inspiration had come to her, she saw him.

Neville Longbottom, her long time crush, seated on the lush terrain with his legs sprawled out, as he scratched words onto a piece of parchment, and gently biting down on his lower lip in concentration.

Perfect.

A sight for her sore eyes, and for a moment, Y/N can't tear her memorized stare away from the flawless presence about 20 feet away from her.

And when she could finally look away, it was straight down to her hands, watching as they mindlessly duplicated the stunning image not far from her.

Neville felt… strange. He felt the piercing stare of eyes on the side of his head. Nevertheless, he didn't draw his attention away from the violet petals of a beautiful flower. He figured that it was just his subconscious and panicked mind. It always felt that way, since he was known as the fool, the klutz, the screw-up of Hogwarts. He felt like people were always there to judge him.

But if only they were in his shoes. Then they'd know how hard it is to be him. To be Neville. For a moment, the feeling went away, and relief washed over him, but that feeling was short-lived, and the pressure began again.

Neville shifted uncomfortably and furrowed his brows just a bit more. He suspected it was just Draco and his obnoxious goons and decided to just let them stare and conjure up a plan to tease him.

He knew it would never change, and he would just have to live with that.

But, still, his conscience was persistent, and he found his attention pulled away from the delicate flower between his soft fingers, and surveyed his surroundings. And his heart skipped a beat.

Y/N had her beautiful eyes locked down in some sort of book, hand moving in gentle strokes across one of the pages, and her eyebrows knitted together, completely lost in her little world. Next to her, sat a small owl with unusually large eyes. It stared intently at Neville, and then let out a loud chirp.

Y/N smiled, looking up from the book, and up at her owl, speaking to it in a delicately inaudible voice, before realizing that it was staring at something. Neville's face flared as red as his house color, seeing her gentle smile and wave in his direction, and he could hardly lift his hand to wave back. 

He watched as Y/N chuckled, then turned back to her book continuing to scribble with eagerness. 

He tried to continue looking down at the fragile plant in his hand, but his infatuation with the girl nearby was all too much for his timid heart to handle.

Y/N sighed with relief, seeing him turn back to his original position, permitting the opportunity for her to finish the black and white sketch of Neville. She added finalizing touches, like the golden sun reflecting off of his chocolate-colored hair, and his beautiful long eyelashes that fluttered when he blinked.

She looked up one last time to confirm that she'd made the art perfect, but Neville was gone.

Her heart sank, knowing she had missed another opportunity to talk to him, but jumped out of her skin when she heard a cough on her opposite side.

Y/N quickly turned her head, to find Neville standing above her, wringing his clammy hands together.

"M-may I sit here?" He inquired politely, and immediately averted his eyes when hers widened.

"Absolutely." 

Y/N's answer surprised Neville, but he thanked her quietly and accepted the offer of her hand patting the ground. As he lowered himself in between Y/N and a tree root, Neville caught a glimpse of the drawing in her hand and his eyes widened in astonishment.

"That's amazing!" He gaped with perplexity, referring to the art with a nod of his head. Y/N flushed and choked on her own words.

"Ooh, uh yeah…I-I mean thank you! Thank you." She stuttered, internally hexing herself for doing so.

"How in Merlin's Beard did you do that?!" Neville asked, reaching his hand out, and stroking the pencil marks on the well-used paper.

"Just practice I guess. Takes a lot of work, but it pays off in the end." Y/N so badly wanted to place her hand on top of his.

"What spell did you use to do this?" 

"Sorry, what?"

"What spell?" Neville repeated, "I had no clue there was a charm for art."

"There's not…"

And Y/N thought Neville's eyes couldn't get any wider.

"REALLY?!" 

The loud noise startled Percy, causing him to screech loudly, and flap his wings. Neville gasped.

"Shh, shh it's okay Percy!" Y/N soothed the owl, with a marvelously lulling voice, and Neville just stared in bewilderment as she was able to Instantly calm him, stroking the top of his head.

"I-I'm so sorry!" Neville whispered guiltily, "I didn't mean to scare him."

Y/N laughed sweetly, making Neville's heart skip a beat.

"It's alright. You don't have to whisper."

"R-right. Sorry." His attention was drawn back to the sketchbook. "So you really  drew that yourself?"

"I did…"

"You're incredible…" Neville muttered and quickly realized that those words were not meant to leave his mouth.

"I-I mean, the drawing is incredible! A-and you are too! AGh… Merlin, I'm pathetic, aren't I?" He hid his bright red face in his hands

He heard Y/N laugh again, and found that her face was just as red.

"I don't think you're pathetic, Neville."

He looked at her with a deep marvel.

"Y-you know my name?"

She nodded, looking back down at her book with rosy cheeks.

"C-Can I ask you a question?" Neville spoke very quietly, turning to admire the lake a few feet away from them.

"Sure."

"Why did you draw me? There are plenty more interesting things to draw, than me."

Y/N was quiet for a moment, and Neville instantly regretted asking the question, afraid it made her uncomfortable, but before he could speak up, Y/N answered. 

"I like to sketch things that I think are pretty."

She answered simply, closing her eyes as the spring air blew gently against her face, and leaned her head back on the trunk of the tree.

Y/N didn't see Neville's face burn an intense shade of red, or how he grinned from ear to ear, mimicking the way she leaned against the willow.

"You think I'm pretty?" He muttered.

"Well, yeah I guess. I think you're very interesting. You seem very nice." She opened her eyes, looking over at Neville, anxious with the sound of his silence.

He was still grinning like a fool as he stared out at the captivating body of water. Y/N found herself starting. He was even more handsome close-up, with the reflection of the water creating beautiful moving patterns that danced across his complexion. He blinked his ivy green eyes a few times.

"Nobody's ever found me interesting unless I'm making a fool of myself." Neville's smile quickly vanished, and he looked back down at his fidgeting hands and picked at a loose string on his cable-knit sweater.

"I can assure you, I think you're more than just a fool. Not everyone can see that, though I'm not sure why."

"Well, I'm not the bravest Gryffindor, for starters. Not as great as Harry Potter. I'm the only one who can't cast his Patronus for Merlin's sake."

"You're brave for trying at least. There's a reason I'm in Hufflepuff, you know. I couldn't do half of the things you Gryffindors could."

"Well sure you can. Hufflepuffs are amazing!"

"Yeah… really though, I think you're incredible Neville."

Neville had nothing else to say. This girl was not one to let him talk down on himself.

After a few moments of stillness, Y/N coughed.

"I think we should get back before Umbridge sicks her evil quill on us."

This made Neville chuckle, a deep, butterfly inducing sound that made goosebumps crawl up and down Y/N's skin.

"You're right. T-thank you by the way."

Y/N looked over at him, realizing she was practically the same height.

"For?"

"Being so kind. It's not every day that someone wants to draw me."

Y/N blushed, and then got an idea, the thought evident on her face as her eyes lit up.

"Here." She ripped the page, and Neville stared in horror at the sound of tearing paper filling his ears.

"What are you doing?"

She pulled out a cleanly torn page, with the picture of Neville, and then held it out to him with a bright smile.

"A parting gift."

"You don't have to do this. Y-you worked so hard and-"

"It's fine, really. I always find the time to make more."

"Thank you. So much. Really, I mean it." Neville's face hurt from smiling so much, as he stared down at the beautiful artwork.

"You're very welcome." Y/N grinned and dusted off her clothes before standing up on her feet.

Percy fluttered from this perch and up onto her shoulder. Neville still hadn't looked away from his gift, and hardly noticed the girl holding her hand out.

"Need some help?"

He froze, locking eyes with Y/N, and unable to form even half of a syllable, with his bright burning expression.

Finally, he could move his head just enough to replicate a nod, and lifted a trembling hand to place in hers. And he would have melted into a puddle of happy-Neville right then and there if it weren't for the fact that he needed to get back to herbology class.

Her hands were warm and soft, and immediately he grew anxious that she would notice the sweat on his as she helped pull him from the ground.

When Neville was back on two feet, he had nearly forgotten how to walk, being so close to this beautiful angel.

He tumbled forwards a little bit, almost knocking Y/N over, and she laughed, helping him stand up straight.

"Oops!" 

He quickly pulled his hand away and started to stutter, but Y/N cut him off.

"Hey, you dropped something." 

She pointed down at the grass, and Neville noticed it as well. It was the same purple flower that he had been studying earlier. An idea of his own came to mind, and he stooped to pick it up, before holding it out to Y/N.

She gratefully accepted the beautiful plant and tucked it in the front pocket of her black school robe.

"Thank you, Neville! It's beautiful!"

"Y-you're welcome."  He smiled shyly.

The two acquaintances walked up towards where they had originally come from, having a deeply intriguing conversation about this so-called "Dumbledor's Army" that Neville had spoken of earlier, and though both of them had been very shy and hesitant at first, they walked away with one thing in mind; they were happy that something good had changed.

A/N- I hope you enjoyed this little one shot!! I know, im not super experienced with the entire set up of this format, but I'll get used to it eventually!! Thank you!! ❤❤

[batgurl1989]

A Wolf In Toussaint Chapter Three

Summary: After being summoned by the Duchess, you and Geralt head to the Palace of Beauclair with some trouble on the road.

Word Count: 2120

Warnings: spoilers for the Blood and Wine DLC

A/N: I know this is so soon after the last chapter, but I was too excited not to post it. Taglist is open, requests are open.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Taglist: @rmtndew @henrynerdfan @princesssterek @seanh-boredom @djinny-djin-djin @diegos-butt @cynic-spirit @daddys-littlewhitegirl

"Younin! Watch out!" Geralt growled a warning at you as you dodged a stream of caustic acid an Archespore shot at you. Where Igni hadn't scorched the ground, the large plant-like monsters' poison had. Geralt slashed at one of the large plants, trying to sever it's head.

You tried to stay to the edges of the battle zone, drawing on the smoldering embers for power as you kept fire shooting from one hand at the plants. You didn't have any silver weapons on you, which would have to be remedied as soon as possible. You knew Geralt was worried about you, and that was causing him to be distracted. It had only been a few days since you woke up, and this was the first time you had had to fight since the bandits on your way to Novigrad. You knew it was a risk to draw on the fire, as it was the hardest element to control, and the chaos was weakening you at an alarming rate. But right now, you didn't need to control where it went as long as you aimed wide of where Geralt was.

"It's multiplying!" You called out over the din of the fighting. Buds were springing from the ground. Though these weren't full blown monsters yet, the vibrations of the fire and the fighting were agitating them. One burst close to you, spitting acid in all directions. A droplet landed on your boot, sizzling as it ate through the leather. "Shit!"

Geralt was by your side in a flash, pulling your boot off before the acid could make it to your skin. His eyes met yours for the briefest of moments, concern and something else flashing in the golden depths. You nodded that you were alright, and he was gone again. He swung his heavy silver sword deftly into the monster, his energy seeming to have jolted back to full now that you had come close to being hurt.

Turning your attention to the buds, you carefully stepped further back, out of range of any shooting poison. With your boot off, the rocky ground bit into your sole, but you couldn't think about that now. As long as you avoided the acid pools, you could handle it. Eyeing up the buds that seemed ready to burst, you unleashed a stream of fire, using all your concentration to aim true. The blooming plants burst into fire, sizzling as they wilted to the ground, their poison remaining inside and lighting up with the petals.

Your head snapped around when you heard hissing and squealing. Geralt had slashed through the bud that served as the monster's head, ending the monster's life, and stopping it from creating more buds. He carefully wiped his blade off before returning it to it's sheath alongside his steel blade.

With laser-like focus, he stormed over to you, his hungry eyes raking over your body in such a way that your breath caught in your suddenly dry throat. The tip of your tongue darted out to wet your lips, his eyes tracking the motion like a starving animal. You heard a low rumble deep in his chest, and it set all your nerves on fire, ready for him.

When he reached you, he pulled you roughly into his arms, his mouth covering yours with such force your teeth clacked against his. A long low moan escaped you as you pressed against him, desperate to get closer. The adrenaline from the battle still coursed through both your veins, and it needed an outlet. His hands spanned your back, pressing you tightly against his armour, his fingers gripping the linen shirt you wore for the road. You clutched the grooves of his armour, standing on your toes to kiss him deeper, your tongue delving into his mouth to tangle with his own.

His hands travelled lower, gripping your arse before he lifted you off the ground. Instinctively you wrapped your leather bound legs around his waist, your arms going around his neck to steady yourself. With one arm banded under your legs, his free hand dove into your hair, pulling it free of the ponytail you had tossed it into. Your red hair caught in the breeze, fluttering around both your heads in a curtain of fire, blocking out the world.

You pulled away when breathing became a necessity, resting your forehead on his. His golden eyes searched yours, but you didn't know what he was looking for. You breathed deeply his scent, the adrenaline leaving your system, and your nerves calming. This man drove you wild and seemed to centre you. It was a complete whiplash effect, and had your head spinning, but you wouldn't give it up for anything.

"I suppose we should find the horses?" You whispered, not wanting to destroy the mood of your little world. Geralt chuckled softly, before kissing you all too briefly one last time. Slowly, he let you slide down his body until you were on solid ground again. As your foot hit the rocky ground, you remembered you only had one boot on. "I don't suppose you packed extra boots in my size?"

"Sorry, it was a vast oversight on my part." Geralt shook his head, going to retrieve your boot. He examined it quickly to make sure there was no acidic poison left on it, and to make sure the hole hadn't ruined the integrity of the boot. "You should be able to wear it until we get to the city. I promise to buy you a new pair."

"You don't have to do that. I can buy my own." You blushed as you sat on a nearby log to pull your boot back on. The hole wasn't any larger than the size of your pinky nail, and as long as it didn't rain, you would make it to the city. "Could we also stop by a blacksmith, and see about getting me a silver sword or at least a dagger?"

"Of course." Geralt nodded, offering you a hand to help you up once your boot was laced again. You took his rough hand, but didn't let go once you were vertical. He raised his eyebrows at you, but a small smile played at his lips, and his grip tightened around your fingers. "But first, horses."

It didn't take you long to find the horses. They had run off at the first sound of trouble, but these were Toussaint horses, and were used to being ridden into battle, so they hadn't gone far. They were munching grass as though bored, which you couldn't help but laugh at.

"Dandelion is bringing Roach and Marabelle when he comes down. He sent a letter while you were sleeping." Geralt explained once you were back on the road to the Palace of Beauclair.

"So the King let him go?" You were surprised that you hadn't been worried about it until now. Sure you had been busy being captured and then healing and regaining your strength, but your friend's well-being should have come to mind before now. You mentally kicked yourself for being so selfish. "Do we know yet what went wrong?"

"From what Yen could figure out from her sources, the King of Beggars is either working for someone who wants you and he was delivering you to him, or he was trying to get you away from the person who wants you." Geralt fought hard but ultimately failed to keep the edge off his tone. You weren't the only one jealous of an ex. "One day, you will have to tell me what he means to you."

"If that's what you really want." You had nothing to hide, and if Geralt needed to know for his own peace of mind, you wouldn't keep that from him.

"I'm not sure that it is." Geralt grumbled, adjusting the reins in his hands. "But it might be something that can give us a clue as to what just went down."

"Perhaps when we get back from the Palace, we will have time." You nodded. You knew how hard it was to ask about an ex, and if Geralt wasn't sure he was ready yet, you weren't going to push it. The King meant literally nothing to you other than as a friend, but you weren't sure Geralt would believe that without hearing the rest of it. "So is there anything I need to know about the Duchess?"

"Other than she likes things done her way and quickly, not really." Geralt shrugged. To him, the Duchess was no different than any other client, other than she had the army to back up her demands while farmers and villagers barely had the coin to get his services in the first place. "She can run a little hot and cold, but that depends on how grave the job is. If there is no job, she is actually quite pleasant to be around."

"Oh?" You raised your eyebrow at the Witcher, your voice dripping with unimpressed sarcasm. Knowing him and his past, there was only one conclusion that jumped out at you after what he said.

"Not like that, I swear." Geralt laughed deeply, warmly, in a way you rarely ever heard. Then his face grew serious. "Her sister, however..."

"You're joking! You have to be!" You blinked a few times, trying to wrap your head around the fact that he slept with the Duchess's sister. You were pretty sure she was dead, but didn't know if Geralt had a hand in that or not. "Are you joking?"

"I don't kiss and tell." Geralt winked at you but remained silent. Frowning you tried to think of a way to get him to talk, but knew that once he set his mind to it, there wasn't much you could do to change it.

"Fine. Keep your secrets." You mock pouted, turning back to the road ahead. The palace and the sprawling city across the river from it had come into view, and it took your breath away with its beauty.

"Like nothing up North, isn't it?" Geralt commented, watching you take in the fairytale-esque scene in front of you. The towering palace with its spires and arching bridges. Tall trees and rooftop gardens painted the scene with every shade of green. The lake shone like a fiery sapphire as the sunlight reflected on its smooth surface.

"Definitely not." You couldn't tear your eyes from it as you continued to ride towards it. You didn't remember making the decision to kick your horse into a gallop, but sound the wind was whipping through your loose hair, pulling it behind you as you raced toward the city. Geralt kept pace with you, smiling as the joy inside you bubbled into laughter at the freedom you felt in that moment.

At the city gates, you slowed your horses. Unlike in Novigrad, the guards at the gate were mostly there to keep the peace. No one was checking papers, or questioning anyone about whether they were magical or not. Everyone was free to roam in and out of the city as they wished. The atmosphere was completely different than what you were used to, and you felt almost giddy about it.

As you rode through town, your head was constantly swiveling to take in the sights and sounds of the lively city. Artists advertised their skills and their work outside brightly lit shops. Bakers were rushing to keep up with the demand for their pastries. Florists boasted about the colours of their most recent blooms, ready to steal the hearts of those who received them. Fresh fish was brought in from the river, the catch of the day being shouted to draw in more customers. There were few street walkers and even fewer homeless people. The cobble streets were wide and clean, nothing like what you were used to in Velen.

Geralt watched you with an amused look, indulging you when you wanted to stop to watch a street performer either sing or dance. He handed you coins to give to them when the performance was finished as you clapped loudly. Your heart sang out in happiness that he was showing you this part of his world and his life. You could see yourself easily settling in at Corvo Bianco, making wine, traveling to the city when you wanted to take in some art and culture. You found yourself wondering if Geralt would ever retire from the Path, and settle down here for good. But you shooed that dark cloud away before it could rain on the brightness of your day. You didn't know what the Duchess wanted, and that was as much darkness as you wanted right now.

[vampiresuns]

The Stories Of Dead Kings | Prologue, Part 3

✴︎ THE STORIES OF DEAD KINGS ✴︎

4.5k words. In which the Palace continues to bring out things long ago buried within Anatole, the investigation commences and he makes an unlikely friend. CWs: Memory loss, death penalty.

You can read the rest of Anatole’s apprentice timeline series here.

Antu did not like the white dogs. A shame, because Anatole loved that breed — he had only seen pictures of it, drawings in books and a couple of paintings, but he thought it was a fantastic one all the same. They looked so funky and given his preference for raccoons, it was no surprise he favoured fuzzy, slightly funny looking but beautiful animals. He’d pet them later. 

Antu liked the voice that called to Anatole even less. While he didn’t like it either, Antu reacted with a viciousness Anatole had never seen before.

Stay back! You’re not wanted! He threatened, his voice echoing in Anatole’s mind as he bared his teeth at the open air.

No! We don’t like it in there! You can’t make us go!

With the dogs pulling him through his clothes upstairs, he had to hold onto Antu for dear life, fearing his familiar would launch himself at the dogs. It made him a blur of hands, fur and hair. 

“Ouch, Antupillán, don’t scratch me!”

As soon as they’re in the dark hallway, the dogs vanished, but Antu did not seem any more calm. Still in Anatole’s arms but ready to jump if needed, he was still growling at nothing and every time Anatole tried to make an advance, trying to walk down the hall to explore the room by the end of it, Antu tried to bite his hands. 

“Fine, fine, fine, Antupillán, you win.”

When the ghostly voice purred behind them, Antu climbed over his shoulder before Antole could stop him. Of course his raccoon threw himself at an apparition, because demanding fair trials out of the Countess of Vesuvia wasn’t excitement enough for the furball he had for a familiar.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole tried very hard not to growl at Portia when she brought him breakfast, but the Palace kept hours that were too early, even for him, who had become a relatively early riser out of habit — waking up at dawn was too much, what had happened to seven AM? At least she had come with coffee, coffee he chugged while he listened carefully at her.

He had no clue about how to feel about the clothes, though the shirt was a dream come true. Cross-tied and with a V neck opening, big bishop sleeves, and matching, deep emerald green pants and a sleeveless long coat. The coat had a gold embroidered trim, and it reached his ankles, It would flutter deliciously as he walked down the hallways, the clack of the black boots with a golden plate shoe tip against the marbled floors.

Everything was miraculously his size; he didn’t still comprehend nor trust the Countess’ motives for giving him clothes, especially when he had brought his own. Anatole might not have a personal tailor, but he was very dedicated and careful about his clothing. He always strived to be well dressed, so what was the reason for it? Ease him after his opinions last-night? That felt too much like trying to buy him into the Countess' good side. However, while it was true he didn’t know how to feel about her, he felt it was unfair to automatically assume the worst. This required further analysis. 

Portia left his room and he looked at the clothes with a sigh. He examined for a minute longer as he ate another pastry. He looked at Antu, who was still pretending to be an angel after jumping from his arms to fight a ghost out of all things. 

He was eating some grapes. 

It’s pretty.

“We don’t accept gifts from people we don’t trust.”

Who’s we?

“Oh, is that how it is?”

You have never been very good at lying to yourself.

“And you’re awfully insightful this morning, huh?” 

Antupillán continued eating his grapes, this time in silence. He had a point, Anatole supposed. It was a gorgeous outfit but he hadn’t been lying to himself when he said he didn’t accept gifts from people he didn’t trust, and after last night, he wasn’t sure he was on the best terms with the Countess, even if she did seem civil enough afterwards. He couldn’t wear this, even if he really, really wanted to. It would be wrong, it would betray his principles, it would—

It would have to do because when he turned to check where he had left his clothes, he realised the Palace’s staff had taken all of them to laundry them. When Portia had mentioned that, he had assumed they’d only take the clothes he was wearing last night.

“Fuckers.”

He hated people rummaging through his stuff. He was very, very close to deciding to throw all caution and professionalism to the winds and be contrarian as could be. It was a bad idea, but there was a part inside himself which had been kept dormant for the most part. That part made him want to remind people he wasn’t trapped somewhere with them, they were trapped somewhere with him.

Perhaps another time.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The Palace’s library was one of the most gorgeous places he had ever set a foot in. From its doors to its high shelves, with the high windows with stained glass and the plants, Anatole wished he had the entire day to get lost in it, explore every section, even the ones he wasn’t interested in. He wanted to ask why was the library locked up under so many keys, but he didn’t know if he’d get an answer, or if Portia knew, or if the Countess would be up to more of his really incisive questions about things she would deem out of Anatole’s range of incumbency. 

If you asked him, Libraries should be public.

Despite how they left things last night, the Countess seemed to be in a great mood, complimenting his looks and treating him amiably. Anatole detected no deception nor flattery in her words; it threw him off for reasons he didn’t have the time to decode right now. Perhaps he had become too used to people shading half a light on things for reasons bigger than Anatole himself, perhaps the reason was another. It’d have to wait to be pried into. 

“You told me you read.”

“Constantly, as long as my brain lets me.”

Silence fell between them. Well, this was starting to get awkward. 

“Thank you,” the Countess said.

“What for?”

“You are very genuine,” she said. Anatole didn’t know what to do with that. Taking his silence as encouragement, the Countess continued. “Reading is a wonderful gift, shared by all citizens where I come from, but it’s woefully uncommon here.”

He hummed, squinting back at the Countess. He took a sharp breath as he made himself count to ten. He had felt the same need to speak without knowing what he would say as before, but this time he could anticipate it would be something angry. He didn’t need to know where these things were coming from to know he was about to ask the Countess whose fault was that, and then he’d be really, really done for. 

He kept his mouth shut this time — Antu biting him softly (but strongly enough to make him hiss) helped. Time and place. He was better than this, he was taught better than this. 

Wait, what? Taught what? By whom?

“Concentrate, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered between his teeth.

“Did you say something?”

“That this is truly a wonderful collection.”

“Anatole… you are my guest, if you wish to return here, you need only ask. But for the moment I would have your undivided attention here.”

There was something deeply intimate about prying into someone organisational systems. How they cluttered, why they cluttered, the organisation methods employed, the thought process behind it and what you could infer of it by looking. The way documents were studied and how and where notes were taken. In that sense, Dr. Devorak’s desk teemed with information.

It might have felt like prying a little too deep into him, but Anatole thought it was a fair exchange after he broke into his house. An eye for an eye wasn’t the best justice system, but hey, a little pettiness couldn’t hurt, besides, investigating the murder was his job now. 

His musings were tampered by the mention of Asra working for the palace during the Red Plague. He didn’t remember living through it, though he had always assumed he must’ve been present for it, given their earliest memory was of a post-plague Vesuvia. It had ravaged everything. Plagues were like wars, they seldom discriminated. Not that Anatole knew of war beyond books. If that wasn’t the case this was, once again, nor the time or place to second-guess himself.

Do you know what an explosion sounds like, Asra?

After promising the Countess he would meet her for dinner, he set himself to work. Anatole loved few things more than a good puzzle without a solution, and once he grew determined he did nothing half-ways. 

Lacing his fingers together, he stretched them, a waft of satisfaction dawning over him as his joints cracked. 

“Let’s figure you out, Julian ‘Magic Cards’, hm?”

He didn’t expect his search to lead him back into the city, but with Antu in tow he’s determined to follow the trace his magic had cast into its streets. Vesuvia was a wild thing, a glimmering thing in the lowlights of dusk making Anatole wonder why hadn’t he insisted in seeing more of it, wondering how much memories of it could he be missing. What used to be his favourite spots? His favourite streets? His favourite garden? 

He wasn’t one to dwell in the past, living in the past was no way of living, but that didn’t mean the past didn’t matter. He just wanted to be able to reclaim it, to say ‘this is mine, this took me where I am today, this made me myself, just like who I am today will make me the myself of tomorrow’. He looked at the past not with wistfulness but searching for an explanation.

The area he found himself in was crowded, urbanistically speaking, shabby, probably in need of repair, and while he didn’t stop chasing that trace something in his heart (and his temple) pulsed. Something unknown and caged, something which begged to be let out, something he couldn’t make out what it was. He hated not knowing, he was getting tired of getting all these feelings, these knowledge, these looks and these visions without any sort of explanation. This time he didn���t file it away for later, and yet whatever he felt, eluded him.

The word he was looking for and failed to find was Love. A word which would continue to escape him for a little longer, as Julian Devorak himself manifested out of an open door. Finally, he thought, throwing hypothesis and chasing them was starting to give him results. 

Falling into a barrel and stepping on Antu’s tail were unforeseen outcomes. So was falling face first into Julian’s chest after he helped him out of the barrel, both of them looking at each other like deers startled by light.

After Julian let him go, he held Antu, petting him as a way to apologise for stepping on him by accident. 

“I have a name, you know? Shopkeep isn’t it,” he said as he looked at the Rowdy Raven’s sign.

“Dare I ask what brings you to this neck of the woods, Not-Named-Shopkeep?”

Anatole caught himself smiling, but as he tried and failed to find a way to explain what had happened the smile faded from his face. Words eluded him and he had to admit he was very grateful for Julian taking it in stride. Because how could he explain any of this without giving away his new-found position? Or at all? He couldn’t find it in him to articulate such a thing — not to mention the glint in Julian’s eye as he turned to him was much more exciting.

It tied neatly to the trace of Anatole’s magic, like a master key he had been desperately looking for. 

“Rumour has it you’re working for the Palace,” Julian sneered. “What happened to not being a snitch? I’m sure— well, by now— you’ve heard some interesting stories about me.”

“As interesting as you’re prone to not explaining yourself, though both of those might be gross understatements. And I take great offence in you thinking I’m a snitch. Don’t you think that had I told anyone you’d already be found?”

“I’m very slippery and you don’t know where to find me.”

“I found you now.”

“By accident I’m sure, not to say you aren’t talented and magnificent and all those things the rumours say… but you haven’t heard my side of the story.”

“Julian?”

“Yes?”

“Stop assuming the first thing about me and how I do things, will you, sweetheart?” 

Julian’s cheeks went as red as his hair. Anatole let out a pained whine. Wherever that had come from, Anatole didn’t want to know and he expected it to not come forward again. He apologised; Julian, having composed himself, thought teasing him was a good idea but Anatole levelled a look at him that convinced him otherwise. 

He sighed. Julian was right: he’d only heard things from the Palace and muddled rumours. A wanted poster was a statement of capture, not an absolute truth and it was obvious to him there was some sort of power imbalance playing against the doctor. So when Julian said he could get him a drink, to get the story and to pay him what he owes him from the reading, Anatole found it difficult to say no.

“I don’t usually accept trading payments unless previously discussed, or the party is in need, but you know what? I think I’m willing to do an exception for you.”

“Oh, please, you work for the Palace now, I think you’re set on the money.”

“You know, I haven’t discussed fees and wages with the Countess, do you think we’d be cell mates if I did?”

Julian laughed. One drink couldn’t hurt, right?

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The flurry that erupted after the caw of the Raven would be etched into Anatole’s mind forever, becoming part of his daydreams unsanctioned. It was the kind of chaos which brought the familiar thump of an inconclusive memory. The Doctor might not have told him his part of the story, Anatole was well aware, but he did give him some insight into his circles and his person. Not anyone who was wanted by the Palace would shield the Palace’s investigator in the shadows so they didn’t get in trouble for hanging out with said wanted person. 

As he vanished after an awkward and unfinished thank-you-for-not-being-a-snitch, Anatole turned to make his way back to the Palace, only to be met with Ludovico, who introduced himself and tried not to stare at him while he hailed a carriage for Anatole. 

Anatole paid no mind to the staring. Whether it’s leftover staring from the day before, or staring driven by having found him in such an odd quarter of the City, he chose to ignore it. His apology for summoning a carriage for him despite him being the one who said it was a bad idea to leave the Countess waiting, was another thing altogether. 

It was true Anatole didn’t particularly enjoy carriage rides, but why would a Palace guard would know such a thing? Did it have to do with how he felt yesterday when crossing the gates? As he stepped into the carriage he tried not to think about it, afraid he’d overthink his way into a migraine. 

Relieved as he realised he was in time for dinner, Anatole took in the exquisite smells of what is definitely too much food. He was too hungry to think about the quantity for now, perhaps he could inquire about it after he ate something. 

His appetite seemed to hold itself back at the mention of the Courtiers, almost evaporating altogether. He still forced himself to eat, he needed it after such a day in the City, while he listened with rapt attention to the Countess' words. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin before taking a drink from his cup, doing the same afterwards. That he didn’t have any issue distinguishing the cutlery from one another somehow didn’t call to his attention like his next words did.

“I know, and I promise you I’ll be careful.”

“You already know my Courtiers?”

“Oh no, no such thing it’s just—”

“One can never second-guess one’s intuition, is it not right Anatole?”

For the first time in two days, when he smiled at the Countess it was genuine. “Exactly.”

Just like he knew the painting, the gardens, that other version of himself walking through them and his opinions on subjects which required more education than the one he thought he had, he somehow knew the Court — being equal times prepared to brace himself for meeting it, and unprepared for whatever he may find.

He knew deep inside he could trust the Countess to have his back on that, however. It’s the way the word ‘Courtiers’ felt from her mouth: she didn’t trust them. 

The mention of Julian’s hanging brought him back from wherever place of commodity his mind had gone into. The faraway look in the Countess’ eyes almost eluded him. Almost.

“Countess…”

“I am thinking about what you said last night, Anatole, but I expect you to understand I must seek to tend to my people’s needs.”

“And you think they need executions?”

“I think they need to see justice done.”

While restricted and mild, Anatole couldn’t help to look at her with some semblance of disappointment, his unspoken question dancing between them.: And is this justice? Is justice confession and punishment? 

She truly must’ve given it a thought to not react with the same impetu as last night. Instead she changed the topic with a weary sigh, claiming such were tomorrow’s matters and stating having questions for him — not of his day, like Anatole had feared, but of himself. Being surprised at the change of disposition the Countess had shown today didn’t cover it. Bewilderment might. 

At the mention of friendship, bewilderment fell short too. Sensing his apprehension, she smiled at him invitingly, jovially, exposing her hands to him in a gesture of trust. 

“I am afraid I do not have many friends, nor know enough people who fear not my position in order for them to tell me what their true opinions are.”

Anatole sighed. “Countess, I do not wish to antagonise you when I say those things, I find it hard to help it, that is all. I’d like to think if I was in such a position the responsibility was so heavy I needed council, I would wish it was sincere. It’s not up to us how history remembers us but that doesn’t mean we have no choice in the matter. I believe our choices make us who we are, whichever those choices might be.”

“You are awfully impertinent,” the Countess said with a playful tone, “which must surely give you an advantage at life.”

Anatole laughed with his mouth open, his head thrown back. “No, but it does give me a strong personality. Tell me Countess, what do you wish to know about me?”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Out of all the things he found about the Countess, perhaps finding out she too understood the feeling of homesickness for a place you could no longer return to — because one couldn’t or one didn’t wish to — was the least expected out of them all. Anatole knew he had been born in Bgraz, Balkovia, but that’s all he remembered of his hometown. He didn’t even remember how he had ended up in Vesuvia, though the more he thought about it, the more he suspected he had some kind of relation to the City beyond his deceased Aunt having a shop there. 

He didn’t tell the Countess as much, not even sure of how to word it aloud but it was refreshing to find someone with whom he could talk about these things.

The night was welcoming and cool. The stars were visible in the inky night sky, making Anatole wonder how they would look in Balkovia, that unknown homeland he couldn’t remember. The Countess’ words about Anatole not being quite like she had imagined him, or the intrigue she felt towards him pulled him away from his thoughts.

Anatole wondered if she, like Julian, was also a victim of the rumour mill. Word in town was she was a tyrant, yet she didn’t seem malicious — malice was something Anatole’s language filter picked up with incredible ease and it left a feeling in him hard to ignore. It didn’t just make him immediately stand on edge, it also felt like tarr on one’s skin. Hot, icky and venomous. The Countess felt lost, not malicious.  Someone with good intentions and not enough turn out, as he had previously felt.

“Tell me, Anatole… Why did you come to the Palace? Why did you agree to help me?”

“I believe I said it was a matter of justice, last night.”

“You did, but when I asked you to come, you didn’t know what for.”

She got him there. The offer of trust from the Countess would not last if he wasn’t honest with her — perhaps if he was, he would be able to convince her to reconsider the way in which the Devorak affair was being conducted.

The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? 

“Because it felt right. I knew that whichever answers I’ve been seeking, I would find them here.” Anatole existed in the liminal space between his heart and his head. They were extensions of one another. Living a full life required both. 

When the Countess asked him if he had any questions for her, reassuring him he could speak freely, Anatole already knew what to ask and in his defence, the Countess shouldn’t have taken it as a vague question, because it wasn’t. The claim was just an excuse to elude the topic; the stage they were in, of whatever it was she, him and whatever else bigger than them had sent in motion was looking at them in the eye and avoidance would help exactly no one. 

“You know I mean the murder investigation. The Count has been dead for years, so why now?”

“Ah, that is a right question to ask. Vesuvia is in dire need of help. Order needs to be restored… and I am in the unique position to restore it. However, I intend to lead by example, not fear. I must show the city I am capable. I have so many plans for Vesuvia. I was to see this city flourish… Perhaps you’ll be able to help me with those plans, Anatole. I could use more competent people on my side...”

Her loneliness was heavy, almost too heavy, the feeling pouring into her speech and threatening to cover Anatole under a heavy blanket, merge with his own unattended loneliness and trap him in place forever. Seen and unseen, craving connection and something more he couldn’t name nor grab, no matter how hard he tried to.

“It’s funny,” Anatole said, a knot in his throat. “I did not expect you to be as lonely as I am. I never allow myself to admit it out loud, let alone in front of someone else. Yet here I am.”

“You already know I won’t do things whatever way. I want to find justice, and I do not believe justice lies in a hanging. You are right, your position is unique, but it’s also risky,” Anatole paused to take the Countess hands in his. His next words came from the same unknown place as they did all those times he felt compelled to speak, though they were much kinder this time: “When we know something is not right, we do not settle. People like us, whatever that means, were not thrusted into the world to settle. Power wielded without reason, without justice, without kindness, without knowing the subject you must serve will always lack. I will not tell you what to do, you are capable enough, Countess, to figure that out on your own, but I will tell you this, as a friend: truth is the only thing worthy to be built on, and when we find that truth we plant ourselves in front of whomever dares us to move and we say they move. The truth can’t lead you astray, as unpalatable or hard to accept as it might sometimes be.”

Out of all the things he expects the Countess to tell him that he’s sweet is not one of them. He’ll take it.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Just between you and me… I think Count Lucio had a lot of enemies, too. Alone in his bedroom, having returned from exploring and chatting around with her, Portia’s words swirled around him, letters formed by a light orange haze, forming and evaporating in front of his eyes. Portia’s words came from rumours but they were enough to cast reasonable doubt about what might have transpired that night. It was kind of her to look after Anatole, so the least he could do was to take her words to heart. 

Originated in rumours or not, Portia was right. 

Going out with her was as strange as it was enlightening. He was sure the Chef, Hestion, had said something to Portia along the lines of how he expected Anatole to remember his way around the kitchen, only he had called him ‘Secretary Radošević’. Perhaps it had something to do with the investigation, but it made Anatole feel odd. 

The servants in the Veranda had been very welcoming, but almost too welcoming and he was sure he had caught a couple of them speaking about him —not as if this was his first time in the Palace, but as if this was him returning to it. Speaking of returning, someone had congratulated him for becoming the main investigator for the case and how it was nice to have him back. Ignoring the way his vision splotched as best as he could, Anatole had only thanked them and turned back to Portia feeling lost and ill. 

Normally, Anatole paid no mind to out of place comments. If someone demanded something of him he couldn’t remember, he tried to remove himself from the situation as fast as possible, but these felt different, the words staying with him even though his and Portia’s nightly adventures had finished. 

What weighed him down the most, though, was the Countess wanting him to join them for the announcement tomorrow. It made sense, but he had a terrible feeling about it.

Antupillán was nowhere to be found. Anatole hoped that he had a good reason to be missing at a time like this. 

[randomoranges]

part 2

goes after bleu comme le st-laurent and before rouge comme le sang qui nous passe à travers

Blanc comme l’hiver

July 4th 2021

 Edward lets out a content little sigh and twines his legs with Étienne’s. He’s forgotten how much he enjoys mornings like these where they lounge in bed, without a care in the world, and where lazy kisses turn to slow morning sex. He wishes, not for the first time, that the distances between Montréal and Edmonton wouldn’t be as big, if only to see his boyfriend more often. Still, he supposes that it’s gotten easier over the years, but he still would like to have more of these mornings in his life.

 “Hey,” He starts, a thought coming up to the surface of his happy daze to nag at him, “D’you think it’s cliché?” He asks, knowing full well that his question has come from nowhere and that Étienne will have no clue as to what he’s asking. His boyfriend gives him a questioning look and Edward smiles softly, before making himself comfortable against Étienne’s chest, ghosting his fingers over shamrocks and thistles alike. He’d reach for a rose or a lily, but they’re out of reach from this position.

 “Whenever we visit each other, it seems as though more often than not, the first thing we do is get into bed together.” He’d noticed it before and he’s noticed it now. It seemed that regardless of destination, after polite greetings, they’d end up naked in bed – and sometimes they’d get each other off elsewhere. It isn’t that he minds, far from it, but –

 He feels Étienne’s chest rumble with his quiet chuckle and looks up in time to see him grin down at him.

 “Nah, I don’t think so.” He replies, easy as that and starts tracing imaginary patterns on Edward’s back. It works, in a way, and soothes him for a moment. “The way I see it is – we haven’t seen each other in a long while when it happens. I missed you. You missed me. We both seem to be people who enjoy sex and we enjoy it with each other so it makes sense to go for it. We both want to – so, I don’t think there’s anything wrong or cliché about it.”

 He settles back against Étienne and ponders his words. He supposes his boyfriend has a point. He had missed Étienne. He just – doesn’t want Étienne to find him – predictable. Or find him boring. Old insecurities that keep resurfacing – nothing new there.

 “Promise I’d tell you if I didn’t want to and I’m hoping you’d do the same with me?”

 He nods, quick to assure him. They’re in a better place now – one where they use actual words to convey thoughts and emotions. It’s still a work in progress, but – they’re getting there, one trip at a time.

 “There, you see – not cliché. If it makes you feel better, I very much enjoyed what we did yesterday and this morning.” He presses a scraggly kiss to his cheek and Edward leans in afterwards to rub his face against Étienne’s beard. It feels good. Foreign yet familiar.

 Étienne chuckles at his antics, and just because he can, kisses him again.

 “What d’you want to do today?”

 There’s no game today, so they can spend the day whichever way they want and Edward would like to spend it here, in Étienne’s room, with Étienne holding him close. Yet, he knows his boyfriend will get restless, and quite frankly, so will he. Still, it’s a nice fantasy and he doesn’t mind indulging in it for a little longer.

 “What’s the weather supposed to be like?”

 “Hot and humidity will kick in.”

 Edward grimaces at that, but thankfully, Étienne has the means to deal with the extreme heat and humidity.

 “In that case, I want to get acquainted with your pool. Yesterday’s weather was inappropriate for that and we were otherwise busy.” They share a knowing laugh at that, but Edward makes no move to get out of bed just yet. “But, it doesn’t have to be right now either – perfectly fine where I am – cliché or not.”

 Étienne grinns and pulls him closer for a proper kiss.

 --

 It’s later, much later – perhaps hours and days and weeks later, when Edward finally steps out to the backyard. (But it couldn’t have been days and weeks later. The playoffs are still happening. This is just a minor break between maelstroms.)

 He gasps when he gets a proper look at the backyard and marvels at how different it looks from his last visit here.

 “Everything okay?” Étienne asks as he joins him, towels in one hand (one Habs, the other not), and a pitcher filled with ice and reusable water bottles in the other.

 “You weren’t kidding when you said you were fixing up the backyard!” It looks – completely different from any iteration of it he had ever seen. The only benchmark that reminds him that this was Étienne’s backyard is the giant maple tree in the far back, proving part of the yard with shade, the fence, the shed and the overall layout of the yard. Other than that, Edward could have passed it off as someone else’s place.

 “Ah, yeah, well, I figured I might as well invest in this place. I mean – it’s nice to have a decent place where you can unwind – or something?” He sounds a little unsure of himself, almost as if he’s embarrassed, as he puts the water and the towels down.

 There hadn’t been much to this space, back when Edward had visited it often. The shed, a rickety old white plastic table, two mismatched chairs, and an ashtray. The grass and whatever other greenery had been left at the mercy of Mother Nature and had suffered through heat waves and droughts alike. However, now, it’s lush, verdant and well maintained. Even the old tree looks in better shape than it ever did.

 There’s a small garden, by the looks of it, where once there’d been a half dead shrub, alongside the fence. It seems as though a small fruit tree has been added at the end of it, but it’s still too soon and he’s still too far to be able to tell what fruit it will bear. Even the shed, despite being the same as it was twenty years ago, seems to have gotten a second life, but it may just be the roof shingles that have been changed. There’s been laborious work put into this yard and it doesn’t stop there.

 The pool, on the other side, is obviously the biggest novelty to the place. An idea, much like many other people, born from last year’s lockdown that Étienne had decided to splurge on. He’d picked a semi-in ground pool and even though it isn’t the biggest of pools, it certainly would do the trick during the hot summer days. And of course, because it’s Étienne, he’d gone for a unique shape that fits perfectly with his backyard. There’d been more than one video call made from the comforts of his new pool and Edward had dreamed of being able to jump in it, while he’d suffered through the heat wave just last week.

 Back on the patio section, Étienne had finally retired his old table and chairs and had invested in something nicer that could accommodate a bigger crowd. The table and chairs seem sturdier and even more comfortable. The entire patio section, which is shaded off thanks to Étienne’s upstairs tenant own patio, has an air of coziness and comfort. He could easily picture his boyfriend lounging on his outdoor couch and start a small fire at night in his outdoor fireplace, or pull out the hammock in the sunnier section to lay in it, or maybe even sit in those impossible positions he often takes in his egg shaped hanging chair.

 “Life’s too short to have a shitty backyard,” He jokes and Edward looks back to his boyfriend and smiles softly at him. He sees beyond only this investment, but also sees how Étienne’s been slowly reinvesting in his own city in his own way. It’s still a work in progress, but Edward knows how careful Étienne has been in reinventing his own city. He’s proud – of him and of the progress he’s made and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever find the right words to express just how proud he is of Étienne.

 “Are those wild roses?” He asks to deflect from his own thoughts and emotions, as he makes his way closer to the plants and greenery that Étienne has planted, “And – marigolds?” He turns to face his boyfriend, disbelief evident as he takes in stock of what it is that’s been planted and that is growing. Once more, it seems, Étienne has managed to surprise him in his own way, with these quiet skills he’s kept to himself after all these years.

 “Maybe,” Étienne teases and joins his side. If his cheeks are a little pink, neither comment on it for now, “If it makes you feel better, I have the obligatory irises growing as well – their blooming season is over though.”

 They laugh, at the ridiculousness of the statement and stand side by side to watch the leaves sway gently in the breeze.

 “I realised,” Étienne starts again softly, playing with the string of his bathing suit, “That I enjoy puttering in the backyard. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty and it gives me something to focus on that isn’t one of the millions of problems running free in my head. It – grounds me, pardon the pun.” He puffs, self-amused and Edward takes his hand and laces their fingers together.

 “If you enjoy it, then I say, go for it.”

 Étienne gives him a brilliant smile in exchange and Edward’s insides go soft at the sight.

 He gets it though, the sometimes-mindless work of tending a garden that somehow takes you out of your own head. It’s why he’s always liked it. Gets him to think about what he’s doing and watching the garden grow and take shape is rewarding in its own way. Even if there are some issues he cannot fix in the world, he can still tend to his garden and watch it thrive and grow – problem solve when needed and see it flourish. He gets it, really.

 “So, how about that swim?” He asks, before the moment can grow heavy and change into something else entirely different. Étienne tugs on his hand gently and leads him back to where the pool eagerly awaits for them.

 FIN

[evesbeve]

it's tough to get away (tua s2 fix-it)

MAJOR SEASON 2 SPOILERS!

Summary: Ben has finally crossed the light, but has unfinished business back on earth. He does the only thing he can think of; he begs God to send him back.

Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & God, Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves

(Read on AO3)

___

“I have to go back.”

In the end, Ben didn’t get to cross the light.

The first time he laid his eyes on it, he was only sixteen with a foot in the grave, quite literally. It felt as if he’d been staring at it for hours, debating whether he should take the next step or not, because truth was, he wasn’t ready. For every second Ben was still on earth, he lost another one of his senses, he felt more and more numb, more and more dead. At least he couldn’t feel the monster in his stomach anymore.

There was nothing left for him in the world, and yet he wasn’t ready to leave it behind. Ben had been stripped of everything. His senses, his feelings, his honor. He didn’t even want to think about what kind of sorry excuse of a funeral his father put together for him.

Looking ahead into the light should have felt reassuring, but it only made Ben more anxious. All his life, Ben had never been sure of what would happen next, but nothing had ever scared him more about the future than this.

So when he heard the voice of his brother calling him back to earth, Ben didn’t hesitate.

Klaus had told him, that first day he conjured him, that he could go back to light anytime he wanted. He had assured him. Ben wasn’t an idiot though; he knew his brother, and he knew the way he lied. Klaus had no clue whether what he was claiming was possible.

But it was okay, because that meant Klaus wanted him there. So Ben stayed.

He spent the next years alongside Klaus, watching him self-destruct. It was fine, for the most part, but Ben could feel himself growing bitter. There was a voice in the back of his head that whispered ‘I told you so,’ as if it was a price for staying, but Ben never figured out who it belonged to.

He did visit the light again. Occasionally.

But he never crossed it. Not even when he stopped feeling altogether. Not even when he was certain Klaus didn’t want him around anymore. Because despite everything, Ben was still scared.

In the end, the light pulled him in.

It was funny, really. Ben had thought he could avoid it forever, but of course he’d been wrong. It came to him in shiny flickers of blue, resting on his clothes, on his skin. It was there to take him away, but also to make him feel again; the more light came, the more he could feel his sister’s arms around him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged. It was almost seventeen years ago.

Vanya never pulled away from the hug, and Ben didn’t stop feeling it for a long time.

Heaven was… nice.

Really, there was no other word to describe it. It was nice. Ben felt content in a way he’d never felt before, and everything was calm and peaceful. He earned a blank slate. He could be whoever he wanted.

And yet.

“You know you can’t do that,” the little girl with the hat told him as she continued picking her flowers and placing them on her bike’s basket. “Once you cross the light, that’s it.”

“But I didn’t,” Ben insisted, wishing she’d look him in the eye. “I didn’t cross it.”

“Is that right?” the girl said with a smile—a devilish smile—and went right back to work.

Once upon a time, Ben would have dropped it and continued walking down the path alongside the flowers. But he couldn’t do that anymore, not when the place he was supposed to spend his afterlife in couldn’t offer him the things he longed for the most in the world.

“You don’t understand,” Ben said, and the girl huffed. “I have to go back. My family, they—”

“Your family didn’t even know you were there,” the girl said. Ben shivered and bit his lip, but let her finish anyway. “But of course you already know that.” She ran her fingers through the flowers’ petals, before finally settling on one and pulling it from its stem. “You aren’t the first to beg for a way out, and you certainly won’t be the last. I do understand. I have to, to run this place smoothly. I can’t just pick and choose.”

“But that’s exactly what you’re doing,” Ben said, his eyes still pinned on the flower in her hand. “You pick and choose. You play favorites.”

“Not all souls are corrupted, Number Six.” Ben sighed at the use of his number, but it didn’t stop him from feeling helpless. “But I can’t let them mix with those who are.”

Ben’s mind traveled back to the girl and her flowers; picking and choosing, sorting through them, moving them… Not all flowers needed light to grow.

“Want to know which one you are?” the girl said, a teasing tone in her voice.

Ben hated that he couldn’t say no to her. 

The girl moved to her bike with a bounce, letting her flowers drop in the basket, and gestured for him to follow her.

They walked through the gardens for a while. As much as Ben wanted to leave this place, he’d always enjoyed looking at the flowers. They didn’t need words to express themselves—just shapes and colors, in a black and white world. And yet, Ben always knew what color they were.

They stopped in front of some bushes, tiny things, and the girl leaned down to pick up a blossom. Her moves were always so calculated, but now she was letting the flower and its white petals rest on her palm almost lazily.

The smell hit Ben like a hurricane.

The small flower smelled of lousy evenings and teasing, of quiet nights looking at the stars. It smelled like stroking a string of memories that hadn’t been touched in years, of something distant yet so familiar. Of laughter, of coziness, of bittersweetness. It smelled of home.

“A gardenia?” Ben asked.

The girl nodded. “That’s the bush I picked you from,” she said, stroking the blossom’s petals. “Of course, you’re here now, so your flower doesn’t exist anymore.” Without missing a heartbeat, she crumpled the flower with a swift movement, and let it fall to the ground.

Ben felt a knot tighten in his chest.

“Why would you do that?”

He’d never understand how God, or whoever she was, could be such a prick.

“You care,” she said, crossing her arms behind her back.

Ben stared in awe at the crumpled flower, then back at her. He wanted to prove her wrong so badly, to stand still, or to walk away, and yet he couldn’t help but lean down and pick up the gardenia. Its petals felt soft, too soft, against his touch, at least those of them who were still holding onto the flower.

“It’s too late for it now,” she said. “It’s just a blossom, ripped from its home. It doesn’t have a stem to plant.”

Ben kept stroking the flower’s leaves, trying to ignore her words. She was wrong. The flower was right there, it was still alive, emitting its bittersweet smell, calling for its home.

“That doesn’t make it useless,” she continued. “It can be used as a fertilizer, to help the other flowers grow. But it will die out, eventually. After all, it’s been corrupted now—”

“Klaus isn’t corrupted,” Ben interrupted. The words came out of his mouth without him processing them. It was only when he heard his own raised voice that he realised what he had said. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it was too late now. “My family isn’t corrupted.”

A smile tugged at the girl’s lips. “Now, I never mentioned him, did I?”

Ben wanted to look away, but everything else around him consisted of flowers, and flowers reminded him of the blossom in his hand, and the way the girl had ended its life as if it was nothing, and if that wasn’t enough, he could still smell it and—

“I keep wondering why you want to go back. What was it he called you?” she asked, looking up, pretending to be in deep thought. “His ‘ghost bitch?’” Ben closed his eyes. “I never liked him, you know. But he must have told you that, I don’t think he likes me very much either. I suppose that’s fair. I wouldn’t like someone who kept choosing other people over me either—”

“He’s not—it’s not like that,” Ben said, but it was. It was like that, because Klaus had acted like a massive asshole by ignoring Ben’s existence and pretending he wasn’t there, by keeping him from his family who he had missed so much, and Ben didn’t deserve that, he knew it, but it didn’t matter, because Klaus needed him. Ben needed him. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, locking them with the girl’s. “I never crossed your damn light.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re here now, and you need it.”

“Gardenias can grow in the shade,” Ben said.

“But those who never see the sun grow weak,” she said.

“I’ve never forgotten what the sun is like.” And he hadn’t. Ben was dead, detached from the world, but Klaus offered him a way out. He gave him oxygen, he let him breathe, he let him live.

The girl huffed. “You could thrive!” she said. “Inside these gardens, you don’t need to suffer anymore. You don’t need to hold onto a world that hurt you, that killed you. You could have everything you wanted here!”

“No.” Ben shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

The girl looked at him for a few lingering moments before turning around and leaning over the bushes again. Ben felt his body tense up in defense, his hand clenching around the dead flower in his hand. He wasn’t going to let her harm them. Not anymore.

“Hand it over,” she said, and Ben took a step back. She sighed. “I just want to put it to rest.”

Ben glanced on the ground in front of her, where she had dug some soil out of the way; a perfect fit for the blossom in his hand. Part of him wanted to tell her no, but the way she said it sounded… genuine.

Ben nodded and dropped on his knees. He glanced at the girl one more time as she gave him a nod back and he placed the gardenia on the hole. He run his fingers through its petals one more time, before gently covering the hole with the dirt on the side. For a split second, he was back on earth, lying on the ground, taking in the texture of it for the first time in almost two decades. He was snapped out of his thoughts when the girl gave the soil a gentle pat.

“They put gardenias around my grave.”

Ben had no idea why he said that.

“I know,” she said. Any hint of hostility had long disappeared from her voice. “I know everything.” She crossed her legs and made herself more comfortable, wiping her hands on her white dress and staining it, before taking off her hat and letting it rest on her lap. “And yet, I was wrong.”

Ben raised an eyebrow at that. He supposed he could sit down for a little bit longer, so he rested on his thigh, not caring about the dirt. He hadn’t minded dirt getting on his clothes in a long long time. “Wrong?”

“Yes,” she said, pressing her lips into a seemingly forced smile. “You are way more stubborn than your brother.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I know.”

Ben shifted so he was sitting down normally, his legs folded and forming the tiniest triangle between them and the ground. He leaned back, his weight supported by his hands placed behind his body, and looked up at the sky, so he could see the light.

Deep down, he knew it hadn’t been possible. Not everyone got the happy ending of their dreams, and Ben certainly didn’t deserve it. After all, his story—his life on earth, his family, Klaus—had ended seventeen years ago. You can’t turn back the pages on a book that doesn’t have any. You can’t leave a garden with no exit. And you certainly can’t bloom as a flower where there isn’t any light. This was meant to happen. All Ben had left to do was accept it.

He felt a bump on his shoulder, causing him to snap his eyes open. He hadn’t even realised he’d close them, until the figure of the little girl staring down at him came into view. She extended her arm for him, and Ben took it without any more questions.

Once on his feet, she spoke again. “Come on.”

“Why, is it curfew already?” Ben joked.

The girl rolled her eyes but didn’t let go of Ben’s hand. Instead, she started pulling him through the gardens again. “I said, come on.”

“Hold on,” Ben said, but she didn’t seem to be listening. “Hey, I said hold on, can you just—” He freed his hand from her grip, and it was only then that she stopped walking. “Where are we going?” 

She sighed, a hint of annoyance manifesting in her voice again, but it wasn’t rude like before. “Home, Ben,” she said. “We’re getting you home.”

Ben stared at her in disbelief.

“H-Home?” he said and she nodded. No. There was no way. “Home as in, home home?” She nodded again. “With my family?”

“Yes, Ben!” she said, and no matter how angry she sounded, Ben couldn’t shake the grin off his face. “With your dumb family!”

He covered his face with his hands, another chuckle escaping him. For a guy that was literally about to cry in front of God, he was feeling quite well. Spectacular, actually. He took a step closer to her, taking her hand between his. “Thank you, thank you so much, you have no idea—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… You’re welcome, and all of that, now come on,” she said. When Ben let go of her hand, she adjusted her hat and continued walking down the path with bouncy steps. She stopped, suddenly, turning around to look at Ben again. “I said come on, before I change my mind.”

“Right! Right.” Ben nodded to himself. He was going to see his family, he was going to see Klaus, he was going home where he belonged. Ben took one final breath and stopped fighting the grin threatening to take over his face. “I’m ready.”

The girl smiled. “I know.”

The first time Ben crossed the light, it was to get out of it.