#I was once or twice in her twitch chat

[zombieskae]

That song(Megan Shumway's In Another Time), is so (My oc's) coded. I love and hate it, because it never fails to make me cry

[jesterscourt-e]

Do you have to let it linger? Pt. 1

A/N: hey yall! First fic! This is part one to kind of get a feel for if people like this and want more. Let me know.

Third person POV

You're a streamer/singer/dancer who is asked to sing at the wedding of a fellow streamer. Schlatt is invited too, which means more fake flirting and bullying. Unless the flirting isn’t fake after all.

Y/N- She/her (may write more gn in future)

Slow burn, yearning, fluff

No warnings (for now..)

——————

Being friends with Jschlatt is weird. It’s actually like you’re friends with two people at the same time. In front of a camera he’s a boisterous, loud, obnoxious character, but behind it he’s pretty quiet and closed off even. He doesn’t do the cons or public appearances. He’s actually pretty introverted.

When you met schlatt on “love or host” in 2020 you didn’t love the energy, but did think he was funny. You made him laugh, you related to each other both being from the east coast, and you did find him wildly attractive. You choose host that game which led to an awkward conversation when you won. You invited him to your stream anyway though since you ended up regretting your decision. You playfully bullied and flirted with each other for a couple hours. Afterwards schlatt reached out and was friendly and chill behind the scenes. Even though he does still hold a grudge about you choosing host. This started an amusing partnership spanning the past couple years that was mostly him interrupting your streams to bully and flirt with you and you being “annoyed”. In reality you guys spend a lot of time on the phone after streams talking or just working on your own shit while in each other’s company. You’d fall asleep to his streams on nights he would stream. And he’d call you during them sometimes.

“When are you moving to Austin?” He’d tease

“When you fund my move,” You shoot back.

“Fucking gold digger,” he’d respond, sipping on his drink.

After many months of this and many appearances on each other’s channels and fancams you guys got used to this routine. Constantly getting asked about each other on each other’s streams. You had met only twice in person. Once a couple months after love or host, at the height of the “shipping”.

A week before you met in person for the first time, schlatt called during a stream of yours, “when I get out to LA I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you. And that’s no j-“

you hung up before he could finish the sentence and slammed your phone on the table laughing with fake frustration and put your head in your hands to hide your burning cheeks. You pretended to be annoyed and disgusted even, but in reality, that made for great content. You don’t even have to look at chat to know it’s going a million miles an hour. “Chat, can we ban that guy?”

You guys just knew how to boost each other’s numbers. Sometimes you didn’t even realize he was in the chat until people started freaking out.

You got into streaming because of Ted. You met Ted in college through mutual friends who you don’t even talk to anymore, and he convinced you to get on twitch to boost your numbers on your videos. You normally post your music or dancing, but Ted got you into streaming games and it helped get people into your other content. He’s the one who got you on love or host too. So really he’s to blame for all of this.

The first time you met, Schlatt was coming out to LA for chuckle week, a week of podcasting with Ted and Charlie, which you had been invited to be on. The meeting was highly anticipated and now thanks to schlatt, public knowledge, so your socials were very busy leading up to it.

The day everyone arrived you drove over to Ted’s place where everyone was hanging out. You couldn’t help but feel nervous. It’s weird, you felt so comfortable around Schlatt online, but in person? What if it just wasn’t the same?

When you arrived you went up to Ted’s apartment door and let yourself in with a deep breath and shaking hands. Faking confidence you yell as you burst in, “WHATS UP CHUCKLE FUCKS??”

A chorus of excitement from the group as you entered with schlatt nowhere in sight. You got in and said hi to everyone. Connor came out to say hey, “schlatt’s upstairs,” he said after giving you a hug.

You nodded and went back to mingling, Ted got you a drink and you were all catching up when I heard from upstairs, “where is she? WHERE’S THE BROAD?!”

You looked towards the stairs where you see Schlatt hurdling down them. You move to meet him in the middle of the room and as you do he grabs your waist and hoists you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and laughs maniacally. You immediately started laughing and pretend to struggle and yell.

“HELP HELPPPP ME!” You scream between laughter as he walks out the front door and shuts it, but as soon as you get outside he sets you down laughing. You both laugh hysterically and he gives you a big bear hug.

“Holy shit you’re real!” He finally says holding your arms, looking at you in full now still grinning ear to ear. You can tell he’s a little nervous about being in each other’s presence too.

“Jesus, dude,” You laugh still composing yourself after being manhandled. “Of course I’m real,” you laugh. The nerves melted away pretty quickly as you playfully smacked him.

He giggled mischievously and opened the front door to go back in where everyone was also still laughing. You could see Connor had his phone out recording the interaction. That’ll surely make the rounds on twitter later, you thought to yourself. The evening proceeded and it got sloppy relatively quickly thanks to the excitement of being together.

The week was mostly work for the boys and you only saw them again when you filmed your episode with them, but schlatt did make sure you guys all went out together one more time before he left.

When you did check twitter, the video of Schlatt throwing you over his shoulder and running out the door was blowing up. People in the comments losing it over how cute you two were.

—————

The second time you saw Schlatt in person was just as busy and chaotic. You went to Austin to visit him and other fellow streamers for a big streaming event. You didn’t get to see Schlatt too much but one of the last nights you guys hung out and stayed up all night as his house hanging out and talking. You guys played Mario kart and watched YouTube, but by the end of the night you guys put on Radio Head and discussed their discography and your mutual love for them.

“You know it’s funny though, one of their songs is my least favorite song of all time,” you say.

“Which one?” He responds.

“Creep. I fucking hate that song,” you fume.

“What? Why?” He asks.

“I hate that it’s their most popular song and it’s so shallow. It’s like what guys put on before they tell me I’m “not like the other girls” you know?” You finish.

“Honestly bad take dude,” he responds.

You guys keep arguing back and forth about Radiohead for a while until the conversation dies off.

“I’m moving back to New York,” schlatt finally says.

“Really why?”

“I fucking hate Austin.”

“Wow big surprise there.”

“Seriously dude it sucks. I wasn’t built for this heat, and everything is just fucking insufferable,” he rants.

“Well now I have more of an excuse to go back out to the East coast,” you respond. “When do you move?”

“When you leave I’m gonna start packing.”

You nod and pet Jambo who has found his way over to the couch and onto your lap. Schlatt scoops up the other one and starts terrorizing him. you giggle at them.

“Is it weird that I’m gonna miss you?” He asked. It’s late in the night, the drinks and tiredness influencing his mind.

“Yeah a little. You’re like obsessed with me or something though so it makes sense,” you say shrugging.

“We’re barely business associates,” he said back, Slipping into character, “fucking bitch.”

“Shut up, baby. You know you want me,” You said in a sultry tone. You look at his cheeky smirk. He tried to avoid your gaze and chuckled as he finished his drink. “I’m going to miss you too,” you finally said.

It hadn’t meant to be serious, but you could feel the tension shift after you spoke. All the jokes in person and online, sometimes you wondered where the line was. It was blurry and getting blurrier by the day. When the cameras were off he didn’t flirt with you as much if at all. But there was a genuine side to the playful flirting that seemed too real sometimes. When he’d speak he’d sound so serious even if it was an obvious joke. It made you a little excited and flustered sometimes when he said stuff on camera.

Sitting so close to him, he smelled so good, musky, and like clean shampoo, but also laundry soap. It was distracting. Man you were tired. And delusional. But the way he smiled at you, his eyes were dark and his freckles so perfect on his face. You shook your head and shook the thoughts away.

Fuck I need to go to bed.

———

The last time you saw Schlatt was over 3 months ago, and you did miss Schlatt like you said you would. Working on music and being in the studio dancing kept you busy, not to mention streaming. But late at night he would call you and you would chat until the early hours.

A fellow streamer contacted you out of nowhere several months ago about performing at his wedding you immediately said yes. He wanted you to sing a duet for the first dance and for the mother son and father daughter dances. It was such an honor to be part of someone’s special day like that, of course you said yes. So for the past months you’ve been rehearsing with a fellow singer/creator, Max, and now the wedding week was here.

Hotel arrangements were made in the place the same hotel the wedding will be held so you can get ready there. You showed up a day ahead of everything so you can see the space and practice. you have to do it in secret because the bride didn’t know you would be performing. The groom wanted it to be a surprise so you’ve kept most of it down low.

You did tell schlatt and Ted you’d be there a day early since they were both invited as well. You told them you’d be performing and to keep it a secret. You didn’t tell them much else about it though to keep it confidential. while driving to the hotel you get a call from Ted.

you answer, “Hey what’s happenin’ captain?”

“Heeyyyyy, Y/N!” He responds. He sounds immediately suspicious.

“What did you do?” You crack back.

“W-what do you mean?” You hear someone in the background.

“Who’s with you???”

“No one.”

“Theodore.”

“….Tucker… And schlatt.”

“Heyyyy Y/N,” you hear Schlatt say over exaggerated.

“Heyyy” you hear Tucker.

“Wtf I thought you guys weren’t going to be here until tomorrow morning?”

“They weren’t but then they decided to come a night early so we can hang out.”

“You guys know I have to practice right now right?” You say feeling stressed.

“Yeah but after we thought we’d hang out at the hotel or go out!” Ted responds hopefully.

You sigh trying not to expose how truly excited you are that your friends are here, throwing up a shield of annoyance. “Ok alright, come by at 7 I should be done then.” They agree and hang up.

Getting to the hotel all went smoothly, you met with the wedding planner and their team to be shown where you would be performing and met up with Max. You got to practice a couple times and do a sound check before the rehearsal dinner started. The whole time you felt like your heart was pounding in your chest. You felt distracted at the thought of seeing your friends who you haven’t seen in a while.

Your heart kept skipping thinking about schlatt being here. You couldn’t help but feel the butterflies in your stomach when you thought about schlatt lately. You missed him so much, more than you expected and all you want to do is hug him and be near him again. You push those thoughts out of your head as you went back to your hotel room.

You get freshened up and text Ted to tell him you were done earlier than expected. Ted responded almost immediately

We’re in my hotel room

345

Your heart skipped, you didn’t realize they were here already. You grab your purse and flannel and practically run to the elevator. Pressing 3 and waiting trying not to jump up and down. As you got out of the elevator you looked down the hall to see Schlatt swearing at himself in front of a door.

“Hey!” You yelled down to him, making him jump.

“Holy shit. you scared the dick out of me.” He starts walking down to you.

“I missed you too pookie bear!” You say reaching to hug him. He grabs you hard and lifts you up just enough to pick your feet off the ground.

“Ah! Jesus dude.” You say acting mad.

“Sorry toots.” He says and quickly puts you down and releases you gently. He looks down at you inspecting your face.

His gaze felt heavy and intimidating. He seemed more confident this time, less nervous. He was smiling so wide his eyes disappeared behind his lashes. Still standing so close that you could smell his cologne again and it made you shiver. His hair was ruffled and messy under his hat from travel. He looks so kissable. You pushed these feelings down, and out. You felt silly for even feeling this way about schlatt, it was supposed to be for show.

“What were you doing?” You say trying to distract him from your blushing under his gaze.

He looks back at the door sighing his smile harshly falling, “fucking- I fucking locked myself out of my room.”

“How did you do that?” You burst out laughing.

“Fuck off, ok? I was trying to get my bags moved in here and Ted’s room is down the other end of the hall and I just-“ he sighs and puts his head in his hand.

“Come on I’ll go with you to the lobby, Big Guy,” you chuckle and hold out your hand playfully.

He grabs it reluctantly and follows you to the elevator. His hand is so much bigger than yours. It’s warm and soft where yours is cold. He swings his arm with yours as you walk down the hall playfully. He drops it as you approach the elevator making your heart sink a little. Pressing the button and getting in with you. He stands next to you, looking down at you as his frame towers yours. You guys catch up and he tells you about how awful his flight was and how much he hates LA making you laugh.

You’re able to get him a new card from the front desk no problem, and head back up. He heads towards his room and you tell him you’re going to say hi to Ted. He nods and watches you walk down the other end of the hall towards his room. You can feel his eyes staring into you as you walk. Finding Ted’s room you knock super hard and keep knocking until Tucker opens the door.

“Hey! Y/N!!!” Tucker exclaims and hugs you.

“Holy shit, Tucker I haven’t seen you in a minute man how are you!!” You genuinely can’t hold how excited you are to see Tucker. He’s been busy with school and having a wife that you haven’t seen him much. Now that he’s doing streaming and content creation too you hope that will change.

“So you were a victim of Theodore’s pyramid scheme too huh?” I say.

“He makes compelling points!” Tucker says laughing.

“It’s not a scheme! Look how well it’s working for you, missy.” Ted says coming out of the bathroom.

You roll your eyes at him and hug him anyway. He gives you a bear hug that could crack your ribs. You just saw Ted at a creator event last week but he’s happy his friends are all together. It’s truly one of Ted’s favorite things when he can have all his buddies together at once.

“Schlatt’s down in his room,” Tucker says.

“Yeah I caught him already.”

“Oh?” Ted inquires

“Yeah he locked himself out,” you smirk. You explain the situation and series of events minus how soft his hands are and how his cologne makes you want to bury your face in his chest.

They laugh at the story and get to catching up but you can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you. As you listen to Ted and Tucker bicker about some small detail of a story, there’s a knock.

“Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!” You hear Schlatt say with a deep gravelly voice.

“Not by the hair on my ass!” Ted says back.

“That’s not how it goes,” says tucker chiding Ted.

You just laugh as Tucker lets Schlatt in. The shenanigans ensue and soon you’re all making plans to go to this steak place Schlatt never shuts up about when he’s in LA.

At the restaurant Schlatt complains more about mundane shit and argues with Ted. You guys order food and while you’re sipping a rum and Coke you tune out of the conversation. You sudden realize how hungry you are, smelling the food waft through the room. You tap your foot and look around the restaurant until you glance at Schlatt who has stopped fighting and is looking at you. His gaze is soft as he looks at you. Ted and Tucker are arguing now about something as Schlatt stares at you.

“What?” You say combatively, putting up a fist and pretending to go to hit him.

He pretends to flinch and cower making you laugh. He drops that act fast and smiles going back to his drink. You can’t help but hang on to his every move, suave and smooth, unless he was trying to be goofy. Even then, it was like he had to try to be awkward. You tried to make sure your gaze didn’t linger too long on him. Distracting yourself with everything, anything.

God I’m hungry.

Schlatt insists on paying your bill when you nearly have a heart attack looking at the menu. You tell him it’s fine, but he insists because it was his idea to choose a place this fancy. you had to give schlatt credit though this place was amazing. The food was to die for. You thought you were gonna cum from the first bite. Maybe he wasn’t being over dramatic in his love for this place.

Ted suggests going out to a karaoke bar when dinner wraps up. Tucker and Schlatt protest because neither wants to sing. You love karaoke though so you side with Ted. You decide to make a conscious effort not to take it too seriously or go too hard since you have to sing tomorrow. You didn’t take karaoke very seriously anyway because it was supposed to be fun and you always used it to try to make your friends laugh. You guys pay the bills and head out.

Walking down the block the guys all goof around as you follow. You’re glad you didn’t wear heels, because keeping up with these guys was a challenge. Their strides are much longer and faster than yours while you lag behind. You’d all had a couple drinks already and the jokes were flowing. The night air was warm and the cars were rushing by, you tuned out the boys and pulled out your phone to see Max had texted you about tomorrow. Suddenly Schlatt stops and waits for you to catch up, standing right in front of you, “Trust fall!” He shouts and then starts to fall into your arms. You instinctively grab him, but he stops himself, laughing.

“Nuh uh, do it again motherfucker you didn’t even fall!” You yell.

He looks at you seriously, “Y/n, I’m 250 pounds and 6’5”. You can’t catch me,” he scoffs scowling at you.

“Try me bitch!” You put your arms out this time. He looks at you.

“Ok but if you don’t catch me we’re not friends anymore. it’s not my fault when I bludgeon you to death with my body,” then he turns around and crosses his arms over his chest. Now Ted and Tucker are stopped and watching.

“Do it pussy,” you spat, then he does and as he does he yelps with a girly scream, but you catch him and prop him back up. Ted and Tucker golf clap. Schlatt turns around and looks at you.

“Jesus what steroids are you on?” He laughs now uncontrollably, “you have fucking man strength.”

“Bruh, I’m a dancer? I lift weights?” You roll up your sleeve and flex. Schlatt genuinely looks impressed as he laughs.

“Yeah dude, Y/N’s a sleeper build!” Tucker shouts.

Schlatt grabs your arm and squeals like a girl again “my HERO!” You smack him away and he pretends to be hurt still using his high pitch voice. You can’t help but laugh at him as you continue walking.

——

When you get to the karaoke bar you guys get more drinks and get a room. Ted starts cueing up songs telling you that he wants to do a duet with you but half a dozen duets with Ted later ranging from Barbie girl (he was Barbie obviously) to shallow from “a star is born” you feel yourself getting too drunk too fast. So you take a break and give the microphone to schlatt.

“I’m not singing,” he says indignantly.

Ted whips around to him, “schlatt come on.” Schlatt shakes his head and they start arguing back and forth.

“I can sing My Way better anyway,” Ted says finally.

“Oh ho no you can’t,” Schlatt says dismissively. This leads to ted singing My Way and Schlatt yelling and booing the whole time as you laugh your ass off with Tucker.

“Fine give me that shit,” Schlatt starts going through the menu looking for a song. You can’t see what he’s looking for then suddenly “Creep” starts playing and you groan loudly.

“FUCK OFF DUDE.” You Yell at schlatt over the music. He starts singing it all dramatically. You plug your ears and ignore him but he sits in your lap and continues to sing until you have to join in to get him off of you.

Ted makes Tucker sing with him a couple times and does a couple solos while you cheer and add ad libs. you’re all so drunk and laughing your asses off.

——

After you almost get kicked out of the karaoke bar, you all go back to Ted and Tucker’s hotel room and watch videos on the TV, many a wrestling match between Ted and Tucker later, around 2 am when you decide to call it quits. “Alright I have to go to bed, it's a long day tomorrow,” you say, standing and grabbing your purse.

“Booo party pooper,” says a very inebriated Tucker.

“You want me to walk you to your room?” Ted says.

“I’m a big kid Theodore, I can walk-“ you say stumbling to your feet. Ted rolls his eyes and follows you to the door. You honestly wouldn’t mind having a second alone with Ted.

As you walk toward the door schlatt calls after you, “Good night ookie wookie pookie bear!”

You flip him off without looking and walk out. As soon as the door closes Ted makes a look towards you, lifting his eyebrows.

“What’s wrong with your face?” You ask.

“Oh nothing, you guys are just cute.” He says cheekily.

“God you're worse than the stans,” You whine.

He laughs in response “yeah except there’s no cameras here that was just pure flirting.”

“That was very clearly a joke, Ted.”

“Dude come on you two were staring at each other all night.”

“Look, I don’t want to ruin this friendship with Schlatt so drop it. It’s a joke, you know? He’s joking around and so am I! It’s a bit..” you say not very convincingly.

“Alright… but it would be cool you know! Two of my best friends-“

“Fuck off.”

“Ok.”

It’s true, you don’t want to lose what you already have, especially not for a foolish crush. Plus it’s terrifying being that open to someone. There’s something about what you and schlatt have now that is like dating someone without the vulnerability and just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for them to decide you’re not the love of their life and leave taking a piece of you with them… or something like that.

———

The next morning your head is already spinning. You run down and grab some breakfast and coffee since you know you won’t be eating until much later, you avoid taking anything because you know you’ll be drinking later anyway so you just pray the caffeine and water will do its job. As you get ready in your room you begin your ritual to prepare your voice and get the shower ready. You take a shower, do your makeup and slowly warm up your voice. You make your tea for your throat and do some stretching too to calm the nerves. You’ve given yourself enough time until the ceremony to take your time finishing your hair and getting dressed. For the ceremony you have a pretty boring dark blue long sleeve dress knee length dress. For the the reception however, you have a burgundy red mermaid spaghetti strap dress to put on to perform in. It’s shiny with a deep V neckline and an open back. It’s fancy. And you have to admit it makes you feel sexy. You wear the same black heels with both. For the ceremony an updo then you’ll take your hair down when you perform.

As the ceremony approaches you double check that you have things ready for the reception and make your way down to the lobby. As you ride the elevator you text Schlatt.

I’m heading down, you guys ready?

He responds immediately

Yeah we’re headed down too.

You’re only in the lobby for a minute or two before the elevator dings and the guys arrive including Charlie and Connor, all dressed to the nines.

Schlatt in a suit. I mean come on. you can’t say you haven’t thought about it since you found out he was coming to the wedding. He cleans up really well. He looks so proper. He’s chatting with Connor when he sees you and you have to hide the breath hitching in your throat.

You can feel your cheeks glowing already.

“Nice monkey suit. You clean up alright,” You joke. “Who knew there was a handsome man under there?” You say adjusting his tie when he approaches.

He swats your hand away then suddenly grabs it and kisses it, “you don’t look so bad yourself, toots.” He winks at you.

Holy fuck. My knees are fucking jelly.

He immediately chuckles at your reaction. Cheeks burning up you roll your eyes and turn away.

On the grounds of the hotel, there’s a beautiful garden with a pavilion setup with chairs. You mingle and find other streamer friends you haven’t seen in a while or haven’t met yet. You recognize quite a few faces. You see Tyler (handsumfella) who you have had playful banter with on the SDMP and have streamed with occasionally. You haven’t met him in person yet however. You break off the little group forming to go say hey.

“Tyler, hey!” You say.

“Holy shit, Y/N! You look incredible. God damn, girl!” He says gassing you up, as you hug him. You blush and wave your hand to shoo his compliments.

“Says you! Look at you! now I see where you get your username.” you weren’t lying. Tyler was wearing a gorgeous suit and god damn was he even sexier IRL. Now here’s a guy you could really crush on. You guys flirt back and forth when Schlatt walks up.

“Hey! Tyler! What's good man?” He shakes his hand and Tyler pulls him in for a hug.

“Schlatt! Holy shit dude!” He grabs schlatt’s shoulder, “man everyone looks so good! I was just telling Y/N how sexy she looks.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna take her back to my room tonight,” Schlatt interrupts Tyler. He grabs your waist to pull you close to him, catching you off guard.

Tyler laughs at schlatts words and your shocked reaction and you join. Schlatt has a serious, borderline scary, expression, not moving his hand from your hip. You put your hand on schlatt’s chest to motion that the bit is over now, and he lets you go. Tyler goes on to chat with you and joins the little group forming on the lawn.

The ceremony goes swiftly, smoothly, and rather quickly. You sit with Schlatt, Ted, Tucker, Connor, Charlie, and your duet partner, Max. You’re not huge on the whole lovey dovey stuff so you’re glad this is a short ceremony. As soon as the ceremony ends you grab max and make a game plan to get ready and meet up to set up for the first dance.

As You break off from the group you tell Schlatt you’re going to get ready. You become focused on the task at hand. You slip into the silky red dress, and take down your hair, which you style and spray. You freshen up your makeup adding a red lip. As you inspect in the mirror you feel confidence rising in you. It’s rather revealing and you’re not really used to it, but dammit you look hot. Then you text Max and run down to meet the wedding planner. You check the instruments and microphones quickly before the guests come in. As guests arrive for cocktail hour you grab a glass of wine and stand by the bar.

Schlatt comes in and this time he’s the one blushing as he sees what you’ve changed into. He makes a beeline for you and you try not to watch him stalk over. He comes up next to you.

“Wow,” he says plainly. As introverted as Schlatt was, it was rare for him to be lost for words.

“Yeah yeah get it over with,” you say.

“Get what over with?”

“Your snarky comment about how I look like man in dress or whatever,” you say rolling your eyes and drinking your wine.

He looks genuinely confused, “Y/N. You look stunning.” He says seriously.

His reaction catches you completely off guard, no jokingly flirty remark or snide comment. It was just a genuine compliment. And the way his face was so real made you squirm. It’s a look you weren’t used to seeing on schlatt often. You could feel your heart racing in your chest as you continued to study you.

Before you can respond, the newlyweds are announced and given drinks you know you have about 15 minutes until the first dance. You have to excuse yourself from Schlatt after he just made your heart fall out of your ass. As you walk away you can feel his eyes burning holes into the back of you.

Nerves start to build as you focus on getting into your performance mindset. You are suddenly very aware of the skin you’re showing and how your head is still thumping, and the fact that over 50 of your closest colleagues (basically) are all here to listen to you. You suddenly think about how schlatt is out there now and he’s going to hear you and see you perform. You take deep breaths, being deafened by your pulse.

As the first dance is announced you take your spot with Max towards the dance floor discreetly. You go to sit at the grand piano and Max starts playing the guitar. As the couple starts to dance Max starts to sing “Die with a Smile” the spotlights shine on you two and the room erupts into applause as Max sings the first verse, the bride doesn’t realize you two are there at first but when she does it’s priceless. You focus on harmonizing with max and playing the piano. Soon the nerves melt away as you’re swept into the emotion of the song and of the day. You can’t help but glance around the room a bit. When your verse begins you notice Schlatt staring solely at you. You do your best to ignore it as you put your heart and soul into playing and singing and feeling every word and note.

If the world was ending I’d wanna be next to you, if the party was over and our time on earth was through, I’d wanna hold you just for a while, and die with a smile

You guys finish and the crowd erupts in cheers you stand from behind the piano and motion to the couple and clap, then to Max, then max motions to you and you bow. You play and sing for the mother son and daughter father dances as well with Max, afterwards more applause and tears. You can’t help but feel emotional about it all. something about this wedding was getting to you. You started to feel an appreciation for the whole ordeal. Once things quiet down you move to find your way out to run and freshen up before dinner.

You make your way through the crowd as people compliment you and praise you for your work. You whisper polite thank yous and excuse yourself through the crowd and out to the lobby. You and max stand in the lobby alone and you hug each other.

“Hey that was great, I think we really killed it,” he says.

“Yeah I think so too!” You respond finally breathing for the first time today. You guys grab each others hands and share a giddy moments

“Bitch, your voice is unreal,” max dotes.

“God the way you hit those notes in the beginning.”

You guys talk about the performance and exchange notes as you walk to your rooms. Max was a singer you met through streaming and you did some collaborations with him. Your voices just melded together so well. Over the years you guys had made a great friendship and working bond.

“Hey so what’s up with you and JSchlatt? Are you guys a thing?” He inquires raising a hopeful brow.

“You’re such a gossip whore.” You respond.

“God he looks so good in a suit,” he says, rolling his eyes at you.

“Yeah he looks fine.”

“If by fine you mean, drop dead,” he says flipping his hair. “You better get up in that otherwise I will.” He finally says opening his room and going in.

You scoff and open your door.

You quickly freshen up your makeup and hair and puff on your weed pen before stuffing it in your handbag and heading back to the party with Max. He jokingly sticks out his arm for you two to walk arm in arm like high school girls back into the ballroom.

When you get back you see dinner is already in motion, you find your table with Ted and the rest and sit down in your spot between Max and Tucker. You say hey to everyone as they compliment you both. By the time you guys get there dinner was pretty much over so you eat a little of whatever is left since you haven’t eaten much today. You quickly clock the open bar again and move to get a drink. Schlatt gets up when he sees your plan. As you weave through the tables Schlatt follows you. When you arrive at the bar you steal another look at him.

“You sounded amazing,” he says shyly.

“Thank you! I’m happy with how that went. I think the bride was pretty surprised,” you respond, giving a chuckle. You try not to stare at him for too long. There’s a small not entirely uncomfortable silence as you wait for your drinks.

“Ready to get fucked up?” He questions as he grabs a shot and his drink.

“Oh absolutely. Open bar for a bunch of content creators? Huge mistake.” You hold your shot out to cheers him, he does chuckling and you both shoot back a shot and head back to the table drink in hand.

After dinner they cut the cake and the dancing begins. Pretty standard party bangers. You get in with the crowd of other girl content creators you’re friends with and you’re all dancing on the floor like fools soon enough. You love dancing, seriously and just for fun. You don’t get to dance for fun often, but right now it’s all fun. You’re grinding on each other and doing the goofiest dance moves. Most of the guys are hanging out together and chatting. occasionally, some of them coming out to dance, namely Ted. Tyler too though. They both dance like fools. Soon you’re all screaming “FROM THE WINDOOOOOW TO THE WALL!” And you can feel the intoxication taking over quickly. You pretend to dance up on Ted and he throws it back at you. You’re laughing and shouting lyrics you can feel yourself losing your voice. After an hour or so of this You start to feel the spins and decide to go sit and nurse a water for a bit. Tyler comes over to sit next to you at a table.

“Hey you killed it tonight!” He compliments.

“Thank you! I appreciate that.” You smile back

“Of course dude.” He nurses a water too while you guys talk. “Where’s your date?” He asks after a while.

“Max? Probably flirting with a straight guy somewhere-“

“No! Schlatt!” He cuts you off.

“Schla- he’s not my- we’re just-“

“Oh shit! My bad homie, just earlier when he said that thing I just expected.”

“No you’re good, I mean idk why he said that but no we’re just friends,” you say maybe not hiding your disappointment very well.

“… I don’t think it’s just friends dude,” Tyler says looking over your shoulder.

“What-“ you start

“Pretend I made a hilarious joke, touch my arm, and then glance over there,” he says gesturing to his right.

“What are you-“

“Do it, trust.”

You fake an exaggerated laugh and grab Tyler’s arm leaning closer to him for a second, then you give it a beat then nonchalantly glance over your shoulder and see Schlatt looking over. He’s not hiding his expression at all now. He’s pissed.

“See what I mean,” Tyler says leaning in.

You do see, but you still can’t believe it.

“I don’t know, he just, looks like that. He’s not huge on crowds.” you respond after a minute.

“Well whatever the reason, he better nut up or shut up. Otherwise someone else will,” he says with a wink then gets up and walks away.

You sit there for another minute or two in deep contemplation. Nut up or shut up.

The music changes to a slow song. you recognize the opening of the song. You jump up out of your seat, looking for around the room. You see Schlatt jokingly threatening someone with a pocket knife and rush towards him.

“Dance with me.”

“Wha-“ he starts

“Don’t fight me, let’s go bitch.” You grab his arm and pull him toward the floor.

“Y/N, I don’t dance. I can’t dance.”

“It’s the song from Click, we have to,” you say chuckling. Couples make their way to the floor and start to embrace while “Linger” by the Cranberries starts to play. At first Schlatt was incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. You place his hand on your hip and take his other in your hand and begin to lead. He loosens up when he sees you’re being silly about the whole thing. You do a shitty Adam Sandler impression that makes him cringe. He begins to pretend like you’re middle schoolers at a dance and keeps you as far away as he can as you uncontrollably laugh.

Then why are you holding her hand? Is that the way we stand? Were you lying all the time? Was it just a game to you? But I’m in so deep

When you stop laughing he pulls you in and dips you in a dramatic fashion making you laugh all over again. When he brings you back up he keeps you held close to him and you get into a rhythm.

“What were you and Tyler talking about?”

You know I’m such fool for you, you got me wrapped around your finger, do you have to let it linger?

“He was asking me girl advice,” you respond quickly.

“Oh?”

“Yeah he has a crush on this girl and doesn’t know what to do about it,” you say glancing around the floor.

“What did you tell him to do?”

“I told him to nut up or shut up otherwise someone else might,” I say looking him in directly in the eyes now, almost daring him.

Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?

As the song ends you guys stop dancing but make no move to separate. A moment feels like a lifetime as you study his face this close. His lips, his nose, his brows semi-furrowed. The way his hair curls on top of his head.

“I need air, do you need air?” He asks. You nod and you guys move towards the door to the garden.

———

Outside is still warm but there’s a slight breeze. The moon is already high in the sky. The nighttime beasts make noises and the party rages on inside. You were starting to feel very overwhelmed inside. As much as you loved these people, you’re not a huge partier.

“God it’s gorgeous out here,” you say. “Are your ears ringing? Mine are ringing,” you laugh taking a deep breath. Schlatt doesn’t respond.

You turn to face him as he stares at you. You stare back at him as he unashamedly drinks you in. You suddenly feel exposed to him. The light out here bathing you and making you feel like you’re in a spotlight again. The outside air is a stark contrast to the stuffy dance floor you came from, it gives you goosebumps. You shiver a little as you shift uncomfortably. He slowly moves to close the distance between you.

“You look incredible,” he starts. “And your voice is so incredible. You look stunning in that dress. I can’t stand you.”

“Wha- You can’t stand me?” You’re genuinely shocked at his words. He spoke with a matter of fact tone. His eyes shifting wildly to every inch of your face.

“I can’t stand watching you like that all day. The way you effortlessly charm people. Unashamed, effortless, charismatic. You’re just. Astonishing,” he finishes and before you can respond he puts his hands on either side of your face and kisses you deeply on the lips.

You melt in his embrace. What is in reality only seconds feels like the culmination of years of tension being snapped. Years of uncertainty and personal turmoil all washed away. He splits from the kiss and looks at your face, a mixture of shock and pure elation spreading across it. You pull him back for a second deeper kiss. Needier and heavier this time. You hunger, suddenly starving. No amount of contact right now could be enough. You put your arms around his neck running a hand through his hair as he moves his arms around your torso pulling you closer. As His hands slide up your bare back you let out a soft moan from his warm touch. He stiffens at the sound.

After a minute or two you pull away for air looking at him, “About time,” you breathe out, smirking.

“Shut up,” he says, kissing you again.

After another eternity of learning and exploring each other you separate, remaining in each other’s arms. Just smiling at each other like idiots. You put your hand on his cheeks feeling his facial hair. You run your thumb across his bottom lip and shiver. You can’t help but just touch him. After all this time and yearning to be this close you couldn’t contain it anymore.

“You wanna get out of here?” He asks breathlessly.

“Absolutely.”

———-

[percivaljacksons]

preview

hi ive decided to stop taking myself so seriously -- when i finish this it'll go on ao3 as a oneshot, but this is what ive got so far of angsty divers au (no it still does not have a title). rated somewhere between t and m. can i get a hell yeah in the chat? um have fun lol.

..

NYT: A lot of headlines have already declared this as the discovery of the century—one even as the discovery of the millenia. Did you envision such a momentous breakthrough in your career?

PJ: Uh, no. I didn’t think I was gonna graduate high school. You can laugh, dude, but I’m not joking. This has all been one crazy ride. My life changed forever the moment I met Annabeth Chase. 

//

What Annabeth remembers, during the nights she tries not to:

The cold. The blackness so thick they might as well have been diving in ink. Percy’s mouthpiece, warm when he pressed it to her lips every twelve seconds. She’d breathe in, then tap his wrist twice, and it would disappear once more.

They’ve always been good at nonverbal communication. A twitch of an eyebrow here, a sideways glance there. She knows when he’s rolling his eyes without having to look. He always manages to pass her a tissue right before she sneezes.

Annabeth wonders if they’ll ever get out from beneath what they said to each other, down in the Pit, where neither of them could utter a single word.

//

The phone rings five times, tinny and faint in Annabeth’s ear as she waits. She’s breathing hard, her hair still dripping and her suit peeled down to her waist, a pair of sunglasses her only real protection against the late afternoon Mediterranean sun. 

The ringing cuts off, and a groggy voice says, “yeah?”

Annabeth glances down at her watch. “Percy?” She asks. 

There’s a beat. When the voice speaks again, it’s perfectly awake. “Annabeth?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I…I thought you’d be awake by now.”

“I’m in San Diego.”

“Oh.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine. Good, I’m good. Are you?”

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet, almost wistful. “Why the new phone number?”

“It’s temporary. I’m in Greece.” She listens to him breathe, feels her own heart settle. 

“Greece,” he repeats.

Her thumb smooths over the shard of pottery in her hand. “Yeah. How soon can you get here?”

“To Greece? Shit, Annabeth, I don’t—”

“I found it,” she says. A glance over her shoulder tells her that her two grad students are laughing as they organize her gear and not paying attention to her at all, but she lowers her voice anyway. “I saw it, Percy. It’s real.” She breathes in, then out. The boat rocks under her. “I found it,” she repeats.

Static crackles in her ear. “I’ll be there in 24 hours,” Percy says.

//

They’d gone down together, which was stupid. So much of it was stupid with even a few hours of hindsight. No one coming down after them, thinking they knew the cave too well to get lost, believing that doing everything right meant that they were safe.

Stupid. 

The light clipped onto her suit only illuminated about a twelve inches past her flippers. She could see the walls on either side, the familiar steadily making way for the unfamiliar as they descended to the section only Percy had explored. 

Percy’s flipper tapped her head. He was reminding her to stop and equalize her ear pressure, so she did. He was more experienced diving in salt water. It saved her life, in the end—she had her nose pinched and her mouth firmly closed when she got slammed into the wall regulator yoke first. 

The straps on her chest jerked from the release of pressure, but it was the feeling of the bubbles rapidly flowing up her that let her know she was really, truly fucked.

//

It’s been six months since the Pit, and three since they last saw each other in person. Annabeth thought he was in New York, Percy probably thought she was—well, Annabeth doesn’t actually know. Probably not where she’s been. 

She’s been in Sicily and Ostia and around sixteen different Greek and Turkish islands. She hasn’t stayed in one place long enough for her mind to settle, has managed to outrun every shadow that clung to her pumping heels, only now her throat burns and her muscles ache and Percy meets her at the arrivals gate in Athens with a fresh tan and an unsure smile and Annabeth is all too aware that her months of avoidance have come to an end. 

Percy comes to a stop a foot or so away from her, tantalizingly close. Within arm’s reach. “Hey,” he says. 

His hair is long enough that he needs a band to keep his bangs out of his eyes. She recognizes it—it’s the same one she’d used to keep her own hair from falling in her face when it started to grow back after she’d chopped it five and a half months ago. The duffel bag thrown over his shoulder is also hers, and so is the necklace peeking out from beneath his collar. 

Annabeth hugs him because she wants to kiss him. “Hi,” she responds. 

The duffel bag hits the floor. His arms wrap around her, fierce and firm, and she buries her face in the warm skin of his neck. Stubble scratches against her cheek; Annabeth breathes easy for the first time in something like twelve weeks. 

“I thought you might send one of your grad students,” he says. His arms stay locked around her. 

“You got on the first flight you could,” Annabeth responds, her voice muffled. “Least I could do was meet you halfway.”

His fingertips press the tiniest bit harder into her spine. “Thanks,” he whispers into her hair. 

Annabeth’s own necklace digs into her jaw. I’ve missed you, she says with the nudge of her nose against his pulse. 

He rocks them back and forth, just barely. I’ve missed you, too, he responds with the graze of his palms over her back. 

Annabeth takes a breath, takes in the unchanged feeling coursing through her blood, and finally manages to take a step back. “You ready?” She asks. 

Percy’s smile is dazzling. “You bet your bippy I am.”

Annabeth leads him to her rental with loosely linked fingers, her steps so light she’s half convinced she could walk right over the Mediterranean itself. 

//

The last time they saw each other—the last time she saw him—it had been in the artificial brightness of their living room. Annabeth hadn’t slept in days, Percy hardly ever looked her in the eye, and neither of them could muster the strength to turn off even their tiniest, most ineffective lamp. 

No matter how many times Annabeth took deep breaths, she was still gasping for air. 

Percy would turn on the shower and stare at the water hitting the other side of the curtain, the bathroom door firmly shut, and then turn the faucet off again without ever stepping in. 

They curled up together every night, their bedroom lit up like a department store, her fingertips leaving bruises in his hips and shoulders, and if they were lucky sometimes one of them could fall asleep. 

Annabeth left New York. Percy didn’t follow her. 

//

One of her grad students picks them up from the dock. They were the only passengers on the boat from the mainland, so she’s the only person waiting, leaning against a rusty pickup truck filled with scuba equipment. She’s also lazily smoking a cigarette, her bright blue hair lit up a striking cobalt by the sun. 

She drops the cigarette and twists her foot over it the moment she sees them approach. “Doctor,” she greets with a grin that’s a little too innocent. 

Annabeth glares at her. “Pick that up. We’re not here to litter.”

The grad student sticks a hand out to shake Percy’s. “Hey, I’m Lucy. You the pottery guy?”

“I leave for one day and your hair is blue,” Annabeth mutters, taking the duffel bag from Percy’s shoulder and tossing it into the back. “If you’ve been smoking in the truck…”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “No, Mom, I haven’t been smoking in the truck. My hair’s blue because Mitchell won our bet, don’t worry about it. I didn’t even stain the towels.”

“I like it,” Percy says. 

“See?” Lucy says. She bends down and picks up her cigarette butt when Annabeth keeps glaring. “The pottery guy gets it.”

“Um—” Percy tries to say. 

“This is Percy,” Annabeth explains. “He’s not a pottery guy.”

“When’s the pottery guy getting here, then?”

Annabeth goes around to the driver’s side and gets in the truck instead of answering. Lucy shrugs and moves the passenger seat up to slide into the rear bench, waving Percy away when he tries to get in. He sits in the front with a shrug once Lucy’s knees are out of the way, and the moment his seatbelt is buckled Annabeth tears out of the marina parking lot. 

“So.” Lucy’s fingers tap along the backs of their chairs. “If you’re not a pottery guy, who are you? ‘Cuz Annabeth found a piece of pottery on her dive two days ago and took off outta here like Icarus on his way to freedom.”

It’s a weird simile, but Annabeth doesn’t respond. When Percy turns to look at her, her eyes don’t even stray from the road. 

“You didn’t tell them?” He asks. 

Annabeth grunts. Percy keeps staring at her, wondering which question he should answer, and eventually says to Lucy, “Annabeth and I…” He sighs. “Well, we go way back. How long have you been her student?” 

“A few months,” Lucy says. 

Percy smiles and turns to look out the window. They’re along the coast now, and the ocean is blue like a jolly rancher. “She doesn’t need a pottery guy,” he says.

Lucy raises her eyebrows. She looks at Percy, then at Annabeth, then back to Percy again. “Totally explains everything,” she says, and the rest of the drive passes in silence. 

//

For weeks after the Pit, Annabeth was on the edge of a panic attack whenever she couldn’t feel Percy beside her. She knew why, logically. The therapist explained it, and everyone was so goddamn understanding. Grover, and Sally, and Piper, and Nico, and Clarisse.

Even her mother, under the thick layer of I-told-you-so that she didn’t bother to try and hide.

What can you say, when your head finally has broken free of the water? When all light is blinding, when you can’t get rid of the taste of salt on your lips?

What can you say to the person who pulled you back to life, when you’re the only reason his soul grazed the razor edge of death in the first place?

//

“Why are the vibes, like, literally rancid?” Mitchell mutters, loading the extra gear his advisor always insists on bringing onto the boat.

“Girl, if I knew,” Lucy responds, shaking her head. 

“You could help, you know.”

“I picked them up from the dock! No, don’t put the yoke by the O2—”

“You do it, then!”

“Fine.”

She joins him, loading in silence. After a minute:

“$5 they’ve boned.”

“You’re so on.”

//

They put their gear on together, her reaching out to zip him up without prompting and him holding her tank steady so she can slide her arms through the straps. They don’t have to look at each other to do it, so they don’t. 

Annabeth only glances over once they’re finished. His eyes are hidden behind his diving mask, and Annabeth’s heart migrates to her throat.

The last time she’d seen him like that had been—

“Ready?” She asks.

Percy nods. She goes in first, and he follows.

He’s still following, even now. But that’s Percy. 

From above the surface, it looks like a rock. A big rock, sure, but not dissimilar from the jutting stones that surround a lot of the Mediterranean, the jagged edges that contrast the white sand beaches. That’s been her main research tactic, recently—where do the tourists avoid? What stone has been left unturned, what looks so innocuous from above that no one would ever suspect it was an X, marking a very secret spot?

Under the surface, it’s a different story. Not an obvious story, but at this point Annabeth could navigate each curve and edge in her sleep. She does, on the nights she doesn’t dream of a blackness like tar. 

It’s a bright enough day that sunlight streaks through the water a good twenty feet down, exposing the imposing face of stone. There isn’t an entrance, really, but there’s nooks and crannies and crevices, and Annabeth is the particular kind of crazy to have wiggled her way through every single one she could. 

On instinct, she reaches down and clicks on one of her flashlights. With a confident flick of her feet, she propels herself towards the opening that started it all. 

There are three flashlights clipped to the straps around her shoulders. When she had zipped up Percy’s suit, she had noticed the four he had clipped to his.

She finds the optical illusion, the uneven meeting that looks like a solid wall. If you stare at it long enough, the ripples of light coming through the water reveal it for what it is. She presses forward, and just like six months ago Percy goes where she leads.

From there, it’s memory. Through the cave system, careful and slow, even as her heart pounds. Under the archway, chipped away from the rock, a little too even to be natural. She pauses under it and taps it with one hand. Percy nods in response. He sees it. He knows.

After the archway, it’s left until the opening below, leading down to darker and colder waters. Annabeth checks her backup flashlights, braces herself, and heads down. 

She doesn’t look to see if Percy follows. He either will or he won’t. 

The space gets smaller, then larger, jagged edges of rock cutting into the path. This wasn’t an entrance, as far as Annabeth can tell, but it’s the only way in she’s found so far. Everything else has been long since blocked off by time. Earthquakes, rockslides, storms, erosion, all of the above. It’s proper cave diving because of it, something that Percy has infinitely more experience in.

She reaches the air pocket and pops her head out. She takes a breath of stale, cave air and waits. A faint light grows steadily brighter.

Percy’s head pops above the water. He lets his rebreather drop from his mouth.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Annabeth, this is—”

Annabeth reaches through the water and grabs onto his rebreather with her left hand. Her right hand is busy clutching her own. They’re both attached to their diving tanks, obviously, but…

His hand covers her own. “I’ve got it,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

Annabeth yanks her hand back. “Right,” she says. “Did you see the arch? I’m thinking 4,500, maybe earlier.”

Water drips from the low ceiling above them onto Percy’s diving mask. He doesn’t even blink.

“Plato said 9,600,” he teases.

“I know what Plato said.” Annabeth rolls her eyes. “What did he know?”

“4,000,” Percy says, shaking his head, “is neolithic settlers in Thera, precursors to the Minoans. Annabeth, that’s…that’s—”

“—the Older Peron,” she finishes. “The timing makes perfect sense, but I think there was something else. I mean, look at where we are. There were the rising sea levels during Holocene Epoch, sure, but—”

“—it was never at sea level,” Percy realizes. He gestures around them, splashing her with water. “It was already below sea level. Which is why—”

“—the rise was so devastating,” Annabeth continues, building on his enthusiasm. “They had fortifications of natural rock but—”

“—they were effectively trapped when the levels rose unexpectedly!” His voice echoes off the walls around them. “We’ve been going deeper and deeper this whole dive.”

“Probably a storm,” Annabeth says. “It was gradual, and then a big storm caught them off guard. They…they probably starved, if they didn’t drown. Those who didn’t made their way to Crete and kicked off the Bronze Age.”

The slow drip of water is the only sound between them for a long moment. 

“Where’d you find the pottery?” Percy finally asks.

“Up ahead. Ten minutes, maybe.”

“Is it all submerged?”

“I don’t know,” Annabeth admits. “Maybe, maybe not. I called you as soon as I had anything concrete.”

He takes his mouthpiece out of the water and slots it between his lips. Annabeth does the same, then heads back under to show him the way. She’s so excited to show him that she can barely even feel how the water has gotten gradually colder during their dive. It had freaked her out, her first few times trying to navigate the crags of the cave. 

Caves are always cold. It’s why they have wetsuits. Annabeth only wishes it wouldn’t take so goddamn long for her to warm up again once she was above the surface.

//

NYT: Your preliminary article talks a lot about the Holocene epoch. What does that have to you with your discovery?

PJ: Right, yeah, so that’s—we’re in that right now. That’s our current geological epoch. It’s an interglacial period equivalent to MIS 1, and started around 11,700 years ago. Basically, ‘Holocene’ is two Ancient Greek words smushed together meaning an ‘entirely new’ age. In terms of, like, humanity, it’s when all of our written history and technological revolutions have happened. It’s all happened since the last ice age ended those 12,000 years ago. In terms of my research—which is our research, really—it’s thinking about the impact of the vast warming of the planet after the last ice age and what that might be able to tell us about pre-Minoan civilizations in the Mediterranean.

NYT: Are you talking about global warming? I think of that being a lot more recent than 12,000 years ago.

PJ: Eh. It’s kinda relative. Pretty much anything is global warming after an ice age, you know? We do split the Holocene into three main eras of slight cooling and warming, but our sweet spot is around 7,500 years ago, when the Mediterranean especially was having to deal with rapid sea level rise and colder waters. Can I be honest with you, dude?

NYT: Of course. 

PJ: Everyone thought we were f****** crazy.

//

Later, back on the boat, Mitchell throws together some PB&Js for them to devour. The two of them eat quickly, tired from the dive, and don’t speak. Mitchell always uses a little too much peanut butter, and it sticks to the roof of Annabeth’s mouth, but that isn’t why she stays quiet.

There’s a lot between them besides the silence.

“This is everything I’ve ever wanted,” she eventually says, staring at the unassuming point of rock above the water. Just a rock that was really the cave that held the answer she’d spent her life searching for. Will they call it Chase Cave? Probably not, at this point. She’s glad. Something about that smarts—her greatest achievement marked by her father’s name.

“Is it?” Percy asks. His hair is wet, mussed up from when he yanked off his hood. There’s still a faint red oval around his eyes and nose.

She turns to face him more fully. They’ve never worn jewelry when they went in the water, and earlier she’d caught the faint tan line around the fourth finger of his left hand. He still wears it, or wore it recently enough to still have its mark.

Annabeth looks back to the rock. It’s much easier to stare at. “Almost,” she says.

//

NYT: Where do you go from here? Back to Berkley? Columbia? Are you staying in Greece?

PJ: Honestly… [Laughs] anywhere that offers us a tenure track. We’re open to suggestions! Our RateMyProfessor scores are through the roof, man. At this point, I’d even say yes to NYU.

//

“Berkley’s funding you?” Percy asks.

Annabeth nods, swallowing the mouthful of wine she’d been letting sit in her mouth. It’s easy to get lost in it—early signs of the sunset, Percy backlit by it all, wearing a loose blue shirt with the collar open so she can see his collarbones, her necklace nestled right in the middle. Missing him has been as frequent as breathing. She doesn’t quite know how to handle having him right across the table from her.

“Damn.” His mouth twists in that charming, trying-not-to-smile way. “What a coup.”

Annabeth snorts. “Right? I don’t know that she’ll ever talk to me again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Percy grabs an olive from their shared plate and pops it in his mouth. “She’s going to milk your relationship for every grant she applies for until the day she retires. Or dies.”

“Fuck.” Annabeth takes a larger sip of wine and closes her eyes. “You’re right. Goddamn it.”

“Hey, it’s been known to happen.” She opens her eyes again just in time to see the smile slip properly onto his face. “Good thing she made sure that you didn’t share any kind of name.”

Annabeth raises her wine. Percy grabs his water and follows suit, his tan-lined finger wrapping around the glass. “To Dr. Sofia Athena,” Annabeth says. “A name that has had no lasting impact on the study of archeology and the world’s shittiest mother.”

“Hear hear!” 

They clink their glasses and drink. 

The sun sinks below the ocean, pink orange red streaked across the sky, and below the table Percy rests the length of his leg against her own. 

//

Percy kept waking up with bruises on his wrist, his forearm, along the edge of his ribs. She never remembered grabbing him that tightly, hadn’t roused from sleep for a moment, didn’t even know that she was capable of gripping him like that.

She kept thinking about his life before she came into it, kept thinking about his childhood and his aversion to alcohol, and kept spending her mornings throwing up bile.

He held her hair back. He kissed the space behind her ear. He took it all, right up until the day she left.

//

They leave the restaurant as dusk slips into evening. Everything drips blue, and they could go back to the ramshackle house Annabeth’s been renting for three weeks and go to sleep. They should, really. Tomorrow all of the difficult stuff starts, the phone calls and the grant applications and fierce defense of their life’s work. 

But Percy takes a deep, sucking breath in, and his hands in his pockets. He lets it out again, a satisfied sigh, and jerks his head towards the horizon invitingly, and Annabeth already knows she’s going to agree to whatever he’s going to ask. 

“What?” She asks. 

“Want to go for a walk?” He asks. “It’s a beautiful night.” 

He’s right. She wants to. Still, she hesitates. 

“On the beach?”

“Why not? There’s a sandy bit down there.”

Annabeth can think of at least seven reasons that they really should not. Up against Percy’s relaxed posture and open expression, none of them put up a fight. 

“Alright,” she agrees. 

He doesn’t offer his hand, so she doesn’t take it, but when they start to walk towards the shore, their elbows brush with every other step. 

//

“Don’t be ridiculous, Annabeth.”

Annabeth’s head snaps back. “I’m not being ridiculous,” she says.

Her mother shoots her a look, her face half obscured by her office’s desktop monitor. “You’re turning one of Plato’s metaphors into a pipe dream of a discovery. It’s not like you.”

Annabeth takes a deep, controlled breath in. “I’m not basing the entirety of my research on Plato.”

“You’ve found another source that references Atlantis?”

“Not exactly,” Annabeth admits begrudgingly. “But—”

“Annabeth.”

“Just because they don’t call it the same thing that Plato did—”

“Lower your voice, please,” her mother says, turning her focus back to her computer. She starts to type, her face impassive.

Annabeth seethes. Quietly. “The study of Stone Age civilizations always requires careful historiographical reading into the Bronze and Iron ages. Their interpretation of history is a valid course of investigation for today’s scholarship.”

Her mother sighs and closes her eyes for a brief, devastating moment. “You’re a promising archeologist, Annabeth, but…”

Always a but. 

“...these caves, and the diving, well…” Her mother finally gives her undivided attention. “It’s not difficult to see where you got the idea.”

Annabeth digs the fingernails of her left hand into her palm and tries her best to keep the tears at bay. “I’m not plagiarizing research ideas.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“This research project just happened to pop up right as you started seeing a scuba diver? That’s a sheer coincidence?”

“He’s not a—”

“Oh, he wears an anklet.”

“He’s a marine archeologist! That’s literally part of your department.”

“They’ve tacked on an adjective before the word ‘archeologist.’ Is that supposed to—”

Annabeth slams her binder down on her mother’s desk, a savage satisfaction building in her chest at finally being the one who gets to interrupt. “I’m not debating this with you,” she says, her voice filled with finality. “My research has to do with Pre-Minoan Thera and early Bronze Age art and documentation. Read it or don’t. If you don’t fund me, someone else will.”

Her mother rises from her seat in one graceful movement, her eyes dark and swirling storm clouds. Annabeth realizes that they’re the same height; she’d never noticed that before.

“Who approached you?” Her mother asks. “USC? BU?”

Annabeth lets the smile that stretches across her face be as bitter as it wants to be. “I’m a Chase,” she says. She knows it’s a twist of the knife. “Who wouldn’t fund me?”

//

The sand is cold between her toes. The wind off the water is warm and makes Percy’s shirt flap around and hug the contours of his torso for brief, devastating moments. Annabeth focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and not on the way this whole night has felt like a date.

“I kind of want to get in,” Percy says. 

“What?”

“The water,” he clarifies. “I want to get in. Don’t you?” 

Annabeth gapes at him. It’s only been three months. He went in with her earlier, even followed her into a cave, but this is different. This is a walk along the beach with their shoes in their hands and stupid small talk that hasn’t been getting at any of the things they should probably be working through.

Percy drops his flip-flops. He only has to undo one more button to be able to pull his shirt off over his head. Annabeth keeps looking—obviously—as he shucks off his pants and adds them to the pile, too. 

There are little slices of pizza decorating his boxers. 

There’s a tiny, innocuous breath of hesitation. Is he thinking about stripping all the way down? Is he balking now that he’s facing the might of the ocean? 

In the end, he goes towards the water confidently, his boxers still on, and calls back once his ankles are submerged. “You coming?”

Annabeth slips the straps of her dress over her shoulders and lets it fall to the sand, kicking it over to join Percy’s pile of clothes. After her own moment of hesitation, she slips the chain around her neck off and wraps it around her hand, clutching the bulk of it tight in her palm. She won’t leave it on the beach, but she won’t lose it to the ocean, either. 

By the time she’s up to her calves, Percy’s already dunked himself under and come back up again, hair slicked back and water dripping down his chest. He’s got a slight t-shirt tan she hadn’t noticed before.

“How far do you want to go out?” She asks him.

“We’ll freeze if we stay like this,” he says, goosebumps all along his arms with his wet torso exposed to the breeze. A tiny wave crashes right behind him and sends him staggering a foot or so. “Past the break?”

The wave hits her next, soaking through her bra and splashing salt up onto her cheeks. “Sure.”

They wade out together and dive through the next wave in perfect unison. When she comes back up, brushing the water out of her eyes, all that’s left of it are bubbles bursting against her skin. The water settles around her shoulders; when she looks over, Percy’s eyes are lined up perfectly with hers. Bending his knees, probably. Staying under the water to stay warm, or stay on her level, or some mixture of the two. 

“Warmer than I thought,” Annabeth admits.

Percy smiles. She wishes the moon would rise, so she could see the emerald cut of his eyes better. “That’s almost like saying I was right.”

“Almost,” she agrees, smiling right back. 

“We probably could’ve stripped all the way down. When in Rome, and all that.”

“We’re not on Naxos.” She shudders. “Never again.”

That makes him laugh, finally. “Come on, it was a cultural exchange!”

“A-bah-bah,” Annabeth tuts, raising a finger. “It’s one of the sacred three.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Ice water, air conditioning, and we don’t have to look at wrinkly old dudes naked. U-S-A, U-S-A.”

“And don’t forget it.”

“How could I?” He replies softly. 

Annabeth resists the urge to curse. There goes their lighthearted small talk. 

She dreams of Naxos. Not of the famous nude beaches or Percy laughing at her horrified expressions, but of the crisp white sheets of their hotel room and the faint red imprints of her teeth against the perfect bronze of his tan. She dreams of the purest conversations they’ve ever had, the ones they had crammed together on their Juliet balcony and the ones that passed with skin pressed close and no words spoken at all. 

The dreams are always exact mirrors of memory, flawless from start to finish, loving and being loved. She never wakes up before an orgasm or before the sun had finally risen that first morning and lit up the muscles of Percy’s back like a goddamn Yuriy Petrenko painting. It’s complete contentment, morning breath and a sort of pulled hamstring halfway through, no detail lost.

But she always wakes up, and Percy’s not there, and reality feels like a nightmare.

“You’re not wearing your ring,” Percy breathes out.

“Neither are you.”

“I took it off to dive.” His head tilts, just slightly, and Annabeth’s eyes slide down his neck to her necklace. She catches the smallest glint of metal through the water and clenches her fist around her own ring, so tightly that the chain digs into the meat of her hand. 

“So did I,” she says.

His mouth quirks up. “Okay.”. 

“San Diego,” she starts, weirdly confident from the wine or the quiet or Percy being right in front of her again. “Did you get an—”

“I’m still on sabbatical. Staying with Tyson.” A wave laps up and covers his chin for a second. “He says hi, by the way.”

“He’s good?”

“Mhm. Trying to teach me pottery.”

Annabeth grins. “Are you any good?”

“Obviously not. It’s better than, like, baby goat yoga with Grover.”

“So that’s why you’re not in Portland.”

“Uh, that and the human baby they’re very enthusiastically trying to create. Barf.”

She splashes him in the face. “Shut up. What? Since when?”

He spits the water that got into his mouth out in a beautiful arch. “I can’t believe he told me before you! Like, a few months now. I think they maybe kept it hush-hush because…”

The waves crash against the sand. Annabeth knows what he was going to say. She can hear it in the squint of his eyelids, the exact angle tilt of his eyebrows. It’s kind of comforting—she still knows how. 

“That’s amazing,” she says, her voice quiet. “He’s going to be such a good dad.”

A swell of water builds towards them, and their toes leave the sand in the same moment, the tiniest push to keep their chins above the surface. 

“He accidentally synced our Google calendars,” Percy admits after a second. There’s a dangerous kind of glint in his eye, the one that Annabeth has always been a little bit in love with. “They, like, scheduled it.”

Annabeth gasps. “No.”

He nods, dunking half of his face in the process. “I know so much about Juni’s ovulation cycle that I can’t unlearn—”

“Percy!” Annabeth objects, as though she’s not laughing through it. “That’s such a violation of their privacy—”

“It’s not like I wanted to know it!” He laughs right back. “Grover apologized, like, six times. Juni called to ask if we ever did any fertility rituals. I did not need that boundary broken.”

Annabeth covers her face with one hand and ducks herself under the water. The muted sounds, the sting of the salt, the knowledge that she could reach out and touch him—she breaks the surface again. “Why would we have done a fertility ritual? We don’t have kids!”

“I think maybe she thought we’d done one to prevent it. Anti-fa, right?”

“I know you know that’s not what that is.”

His straight face breaks. “You thought it was funny, though.”

“No comment.” 

“Hey, don’t be mad. I told her our sexytime is exclusively based on passion. No scheduling involved.”

Annabeth wrinkles her nose. “A good excel spreadsheet is kind of hot, though.”

“Oh my god.”

“Like, a color-coded one.” She rolls back her eyes and moans. “With tabs.” 

It’s so easy to tease him, so natural to fall back into their rhythm, to turn off the filter in her brain and let the conversation go wherever it’s going to. It’s so easy to forget why they were half a world away from each other. 

He splashes her this time, only she’s already laughing, eyes closed and ready for it. She hears his laughter join hers before she sees it, low and infectious. 

Annabeth could stay here forever, high on her life’s mission accomplished and Percy right in front of her, both of their heads above the water, both of them laughing. She would make this second of air stretch on forever, only then she wouldn’t get what comes next.

She opens her eyes against the sting of the salt and sees him, the jut of his collarbone above the foam, his hair curling a little bit around his ears where it’s beginning to dry. She could look at him forever, watch as the crinkles around his eyes go soft and fade, as his mouth settles from a grin into something smoother, more familiar.

“Wanna kiss you,” he mumbles. The waves push him closer, or he moves closer, or Annabeth does.

“I thought we based our sexytime exclusively on passion,” Annabeth responds.

The heat of Percy’s torso presses up against hers. “Don’t be a dick,” he whispers.

Percy’s mouth slides hot against hers, rough-soft in the very particular way he always is, and waves lap at their shoulders and Annabeth thinks something about baptism and then thinks about nothing at all for as long as she’s able.

//

“Sometimes I think we never got out,” she whispers to him one night. 

They’re wrapped around each other in the blaring light from both of their nightstands. It’s some time past three in the morning.

“Like, this is all a dream?” He asks.

“No.” She presses her nose against his chest, breathes him in. “I just still feel it. I started down there and it never stopped.”

She feels the breath shudder out of him. “Yeah,” he agrees.

..

[lifesmpeditz]

It’s just me and you (IJMAY)

A fanfiction story about Scar (Goodtimeswithscar) and Lizzy (LDShadowlady) being the last players in secret life.

DISCLAIMER: Not all conversations that players had in this were their exact words or described how they said it I have tweaked a few things to make it more suspenseful and emotional to my liking.

TW: Blood, Gory scenes, Mental Health struggles, Murder, Death.

Prologue

LIZZIES DEAD, SHE’S OUT? No, she’s not…

“Ok I’ll see you there.” Scott says with a trembling chin and a raspy whisper. He jumps into the glittering ender portal ready to face whatever Lizzy has planned for him.

“See you there.” Lizzy says as Scott is performing his jump into the portal. She seems happy as if she doesn’t know what fate awaits her, but the watchers have been whispering a little bit too loud this time and she knows what is bound to happen. Just not how it will happen. Happen in a way she could never expect.

He lands in the end with a beating heart, Scott doesn’t know what’s happening and he is confused, trying to remember why he is trusting a desperate red name. But he has a kind soul, a soul that would not do harm to a red name in need, a soul the watchers hate.

“Oh…” Lizzy adds as she wasn’t expecting Scott to be so far in front of her already when she lands into the end, she needs to catch up to him if she wants her plan to work.

“Remember when we came here before and there was the ender dragon.” Lizzy exclaims with a glint in her voice as if triggering a good memory. “I wish I didn’t…” Scott replies still clearly nervous as she recognises the twitch in his voice.

“Now follow me.” “Ok…” “There is something I need you to see.” “okay…” his voice is coarse.

Her plan is working, it must be, she’s going to the spot where she realised would be the perfect place to push him off or at least kill him.

“To be fair this works, Jimmy has been following me all day, making me a bit nervous that he may or may not be trying to kill me…” Scott says casually “Oh yeah, no one is ever going to find you here,” Lizzy assures him “no one is ever going to find you here.” She once again says with an eery smile that makes you uneasy.

“Why do you say it like that?” He speaks with a chuckle of the heart thundering under pressure.

“Eh…” “Say it like what?” she replies in an innocent tone.

“Anyway”

Scott’s trying to move on from that awkward interaction as he analyses her. “Let’s go this way” she says. “It’s here look just there.” “I think I just want to put somewhat down so we don’t fall.” Scott replies to her; he is getting increasing suspicion from her that this isn’t what it seems to be.

“Oh, take this teleportation pearl I don’t know where they come from but you can have it so you can teleport if you fall off” Lizzy tells him. Stupid, why would I give him that.

Lizzy puts her pack down and takes her axe out while Scott is distracted looking at his gifted teleportation pearl. She swings her newly sharpened axe at him. She scrapes the side of his shoulder, and she skims his arm, yet she doesn’t hurt him, and he foolishly just yells her name at her.

“Uhm… sorry”

But she swings at him twice more and as he is going to ask for help in the chat she goes for him again but this time she makes eye contact with one of the tall dark figures they were always told to ignore and never to look them straight in the eye and yet that’s exactly what she did. It teleports to her. Teleports. And hits her relentlessly, she tries to avoid it and run away but it pushes her into the endless void, and she falls.

Scott runs over to the edge to do something, anything to help her but nothing can be done.

⋆ ༺ ❀ ༻ ⋆

It is said when you fall into the void on your last life you die but no one has ever fallen into it on their last life and the horrid truth is that you don’t die you just keep falling and the horrible watchers feed from your loneliness, they make sure to keep you alive by providing for you.

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Twenty-Eight

(AO3 counterpart here.)

However, the world does not stop for grief. Fireheart and the rest of the Clan had duties to attend to, prey to catch, borders to mark. Keeping them busy would stave off that sinkhole of despair; that seemed to be the running theory, anyway, if Speckletail’s constant orders were anything to go by.

Fireheart didn’t blame her. She was in a tough situation, he knew that, and she was doing an admirable job for what she had in her supply. But it did strike him that she was more running herself ragged than busying her Clanmates.

“I’m fine,” she would say every single time Fireheart checked on her. “Just do your duties and take care of your apprentice. Let me handle this.”

And every time, with increasing exasperation, he would think, Why would you expect me of all cats to drop the subject when you’re visibly not doing well? He’d never say it, but he was certain it was showing on his face, because she’d dart her eyes away and hurry off to do something else.

He obeyed her, at least, kind of just to humor her. Not entirely—Cloudpaw was eager to learn and explore, and Fireheart was eager to show him new knacks and skills. Having Cloudpaw’s learning style on the mind, his nephew caught onto lessons quickly. Fireheart watched with pride as his nephew started finding and catching prey on his own (though he still missed the jump here and there). Even better, he seemed as disinterested in learning to fight as Fireheart was in teaching him.

“Figures,” Darkstripe muttered one night. “The cat who’s never even raised a paw to defend his Clan would have an apprentice just like him.”

Fireheart’s thoughts escaped him before he could trap them between his teeth. “Well, hopefully your apprentice is learning a lot of great fighting skills from you. You’re famous for that, I hear.”

Darkstripe twitched his lip, but didn’t respond. Cloudpaw gave Fireheart a cheeky look, and he couldn’t resist a wink back.

One night, Cloudpaw was unusually subdued. Fireheart had brought him out to the southern part of the forest for tree-climbing practice on a surprisingly clear night, the stars glittering overhead and the air kindly still. At Fireheart’s order, Cloudpaw clambered up a few trees, sliding down once or twice and landing on his back, getting covered in snow. Even this didn’t seem to make him want to talk.

Well, Fireheart knew what to do with that. “Is something bothering you, little guy?”

Cloudpaw stood up from his slide down a trunk, shuffling his feet a little. Bark-slivers were pulled off his claws as he sharpened them on an exposed root. He didn’t look at his uncle for a long moment, until he approached and more-or-less forced eye contact.

“Do kittypets go out at night?” he asked at last.

Fireheart had a faint idea where this was going. “They sometimes do. They’re usually up in the day, or in the evening. Why?”

As he suspected, Cloudpaw hesitated before asking quietly, “Can we go see Rosy?”

Fireheart only paused to gauge what time of night it was: a little less than halfway through. To the increasingly nervous-looking Cloudpaw, he said, “Of course we can. Come on.”

He turned around and started off towards the Houses. Cloudpaw scurried along behind him, catching up quickly with his tail high and bristling in stress at the same time. Fireheart let him sort through his anxieties on his own, and the organized questions came soon:

“What if she doesn’t come out?”

“We’ll try another night.”

“Will we get in trouble if someone sees us?”

“Speckletail is pretty understanding. But we might get scolded a little by anyone else.” He blinked reassuringly. “Don’t worry. No one’s coming this way tonight and we have time to chat a little before anyone wonders where we are.”

Then a much bigger worry. “…What if she doesn’t like me?”

Fireheart stopped at that one and gave his nephew a gentle look. “She will. I promise.”

Cloudpaw met his eyes, saw the confidence in them, and settled. He took in a deep breath and nodded, walking with a more certain stride alongside his uncle.

They reached the Houses quickly. Fireheart took the lead, trotting through the grass and onto the stony, skinny road. Cloudpaw made a face at the new texture on his paws, but he didn’t say anything until they stopped in front of Rosy’s house.

“Is this it?” he whispered, like he was afraid to be heard.

Fireheart nodded. “You’ll be able to climb this fence easy, but wait for my signal. I want to surprise her.”

At this, Cloudpaw’s eyes lit up. He sat down and watched Fireheart leap up onto the top of the fence and jump down into the yard without a word.

“Rosy!” Fireheart called, pawing at the flap in the door. “Rosy?”

Only a heartbeat passed before he was nearly tackled by his sister as she sped out of the house. She barely stopped in time to avoid completely bowling him over, but he did have to stumble back a few steps.

“Fireheart!” she cried, purring like a car. She wove around him, rubbing her fur and face on his shoulders and neck. “You’re here!”

“I am here.” Fireheart bumped his head against hers when she stood still for a moment. “I’m sorry it’s been so long. A lot’s been happening.”

“I– I heard.” Rosy’s joy slipped into an anxiety similar to Cloudpaw’s. “The fire, I smelled the smoke. I was so worried for you and Cloudy. Is he okay? When can I see him again?”

“Oh…” Fireheart falsely paused in uncertainty. “About that…”

He immediately regretted the joke when Rosy’s yellow-green eyes bulged in terror. Quickly, he turned his head and called, “Come on over!”

A bit of scraping and scrabbling, and a ginger-pointed face popped up over the fenceline. Rosy gasped as Cloudpaw landed with admirable grace and stood as tall as he could. Fireheart realized too late that there was still snow on his back.

“Cloudpaw,” Fireheart said, gesturing, “This is your birth-mother, Rosy.”

He didn’t get a chance to say anything else. Rosy burst forward with a cry of joy and scooped up the considerably wider apprentice in a single-paw embrace, holding him to her chest like he was still a tiny kit. Fireheart watched with amusement and warmth as Rosy licked the top of her son’s head, purring so loudly Fireheart half-wondered if her humans could hear her.

“Oh, look at you!” She drew back to touch her nose to where she had licked. “Look at my baby boy!” She released him to wind around him too, nosing him and chattering excitedly. “You’re so big and handsome now, Cloudy, look at how lovely your fur is- oh, you poor thing, you’re covered in snow, here—”

Cloudpaw had a face Fireheart wished he could somehow capture somewhere other than his memory: confused, startled, bashful, and cautiously happy all at once. It was quite a mix of emotions to see as Rosy dusted his back and sides clear of any remaining snow, still talking the whole time.

“…and your colors are coming out so beautifully, you look just like your father—” She finally came to a stop in front of him, purring through her words. “You must be such a big, strong warrior!”

“Oh…” Cloudpaw meekly lowered his head a bit. “I’m just an apprentice right now.”

“He became one early,” Fireheart told Rosy. “He’s Cloudpaw now.”

“Oh, yes, yes, sorry.” Rosy shook her head. “Name changing, I forgot.” She returned her attention to her son. “When do you get your warrior name? Will it be soon? You have to come and tell me as soon as you get it! I’d love to hear your real grown-up name!”

“Rosy?” Fireheart took a step towards her. She looked his way and he twitched his whiskers. “You’re overwhelming him a little.”

Rosy looked back at Cloudpaw, who gave her a sheepish nod, and stepped back with a deep inhale. She shook herself hard and spoke slower.

“I’m sorry, baby boy,” she said, still shuffling a little in place. “I’m just so excited to see you again! Fireheart must have told you, I gave him to you so that I could know you were safe and happy.” Her ears fell back a little and her voice softened. “All of your siblings went away to different houses so long ago. I miss you and them every single day. I’m just so grateful that you got to live nearby and be taken care of. The molly who nursed you, will you tell her I said ‘thank you for raising my son’?”

Cloudpaw stiffened immediately. His eyes darted to Fireheart’s, and his uncle stepped in.

“She knows,” he said. “And she was happy to raise him.”

Rosy didn’t appear to notice the change in his volume; she simply continued on with the conversation. “Tell me everything! I heard you grew up with that molly’s litter? What are they like? How is being an apprentice? What’s your favorite thing about the forest? I want to hear it all!”

“W-well, um…” Cloudpaw sat down at a gesture from Rosy. “My brother and sister are Ashpaw and Aspenpaw. They’re both grey, like mi.”

“‘Mi’,” Rosy echoed, a little muted herself. Before anyone had time to reflect or respond, she shook her head and brightened up again. “Are they big and fluffy like the rest of your Clan?”

“Well, Ashpaw’s pretty skinny,” Cloudpaw said, slowly growing more confident. “He’s not as tall, either. Aspenpaw, she’s regular-sized. We all train together sometimes. It’s really fun, because we’re still kind of playing, but we’re learning at the same time.”

“He’s been excellent at tracking down prey so far,” Fireheart added. “And he’s snuck up on me in the snow before he was even an apprentice.”

Rosy trilled. “You’re amazing! I knew you would be.”

Cloudpaw relaxed a little more. “I mean, I just follow pawprints and scents. It’s not really that hard… but I like doing that in the forest, too. I didn’t see any of it before the fire, because kits aren’t allowed out of camp until they become apprentices.” He perked up. “And Fireheart saved us! Eparme*, tell her about that.”

“We’re supposed to be showing you off.” Fireheart approached and sat down to the side so Rosy still had complete access to Cloudpaw. “I can tell her about that later.”

Rosy shuddered. “Yes, please wait. I’d love to hear the story someday, but the idea of you both being stuck in a fire… it’s too awful.”

“It was really scary,” Cloudpaw confirmed. “But we’re okay now.” He hesitated. “But… Patchpelt died, when we were running away.”

“Ohhh…” Rosy moved forward and started grooming Cloudpaw’s head. “I’m so sorry, baby boy. Was he a good friend of yours?”

Cloudpaw spoke quietly. “He was an elder, and he was nice. Ravenwing was really, really sad.”

“My friend,” Fireheart elaborated. “Patchpelt was his grandfather.”

Rosy looked to Fireheart now. “Was he the one I met? Black and skinny?”

Fireheart nodded.

“Poor thing…” Rosy turned back to Cloudpaw, but she seemed to be speaking to herself. “I don’t know if it’s worse to know exactly what happened to someone you love or to never know.”

There was a brief moment of silence.

Fireheart broke it. “Cloudpaw, is there anything else you want to tell Rosy? We should leave pretty soon, before dawn starts coming up.”

“Uh…” Cloudpaw thought for a moment. His words were soft and a bit hesitant, but they were earnest. “It was nice to meet you, Rosy. Mira. Um. You know.” He straightened up again. “I’ll come back when I can.” He peeked at Fireheart. “If I can.”

Fireheart nodded warmly.

Rosy rasped her tongue over his left ear. “Please do come back soon, Cloudpaw. And Fireheart. I’ve missed you both so much. It was torture, not knowing if you were okay.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Fireheart stood up, tilting his head with the apology. “We ended up traveling all the way across the territories to live in the Barn—a big, empty house—and we had to wait to go home until all the humans were gone.”

 Rosy sighed in a sad way, rather than exasperation or frustration. “I think I can be ready to hear the story the next time you come by. When will that be, do you know?”

Cloudpaw looked inquiringly at Fireheart.

“I don’t,” he said. “There’s still a lot going on for us.”

Another inquiring look, one with a clear message: Do we tell her about…?

About what didn’t matter. There were too many things to say that would send her into a panic. Fireheart just shook his head.

“Well, alright…” Rosy licked Cloudpaw’s forehead a final time, then turned and pressed her own head under Fireheart’s chin. “Thank you for coming. Thank you so much for– for everything. Taking care of him, teaching him, bringing him here…” Her wide eyes were wet when she drew back. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

Fireheart touched his nose just above and between her eyes. “It’s been an honor.”

Cloudpaw said nothing, just blinked kindly at his mother. Rosy blinked back and stood there, watching them as they jumped up onto the rail and over the fence. Fireheart didn’t hear her flap open again, even after they were quite a distance away.

“She was nice,” Cloudpaw said at last. “I like her.”

“Good!” Fireheart bobbed his head encouragingly. “I meant it when I said I don’t know when we can go back, but I’ll get you back there as soon as I can. As long as it’s safe.”

Cloudpaw paused. “Should we have told her about the dogs? What if they come into the Houses?”

Fireheart sighed. “My friend here knows about them. The last I heard, rumors were going around, but Rosy doesn’t leave her yard very often. And, well, I didn’t want to tell her about the dogs when they’ve done… what they’ve done.”

Cloudpaw shivered.

“If you weren’t there, I would have said something,” Fireheart continued. “But I can’t bring you to her for the first time and immediately tell her you’ve been in more danger than just the fire.”

“…Okay.”

Fireheart looked at his nephew. “What’s on your mind? The dogs?”

“No,” Cloudpaw almost murmured. “I’m just thinking.”

Fireheart tapped his side with his tail. “Well, if you want to share those thoughts, I’m right here. Rosy will be, too.”

 At this, the tension in Cloudpaw’s body eased. His fur smoothed out and his tail raised.

“Yeah.” His eyes softened. “She will. I’m glad I met her.”

“See, I told you she’d like you, remember?”

A small crease in his blue eyes. “…Yeah.”

*“Eparme”: uncle.

[hades--baby]

It Will Come Back || Chapter Three

Summary: Price finally gets a hold of Frost's file and pays her one last visit before she makes her way to base.

Chapter Content Warning: Cannon Typical Violence, PTSD, allusion to past alcoholism, Military Jargon, Reader uses she/her pronouns

Note: Trying to figure out whether I want to update once a week or twice a week--either way, here's chapter three! Hope you guys enjoy :)

|| this work was also posted on my ao3 account: hades_baby ||

Word Count: 4042

previous part || next part

Price had been feeling unbelievably antsy all morning. 

Laswell hadn’t spoken a word to him as they made their way to his office for a quick meeting. She usually had some sort of small talk to keep them busy as they walked side by side down the corridors and through the building, but today she didn’t care to hold such niceties with him. Instead, she walked a few feet ahead of him, forcing the larger man to trail behind her like a lost puppy. 

They had passed by Simon and Johnny in the hall not too long ago. The two men had immediately steered clear and moved out of Laswell’s way while shooting Price a sympathetic look. They could tell that Laswell was on a mean one and it would do them some good to stay out of her way. They were sure her stoic rampage was justified, but they feared for their Captain nonetheless. 

They entered his office and as they took their seats, Laswell set a tattered looking manila folder on the edge of the desk closest to her. Price’s eyes flicked down to the folder for a moment before they found their way back up to her. She was still staring blankly at the folder, but the twitch of her lips told him that she was trying to find the words she wished to speak. 

She found them eventually. 

“Before I give you access to her entire, unredacted file, I need to know what happened when you visited her on your own,” she said, her tone straight and cool as she finally looked up to meet his gaze. 

“Nothing happened, Kate. I just went over for a quick chat. That’s all,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Details, John. Details are going to be very important right now,” she said, narrowing her eyes into a near glare. 

“You know, I’m a bit confused as to why you’re upset about me going over to have a chat with Frost. You’re the one who wanted her on the job in the first place. I was just making sure it happened,” he said in an exasperated tone. 

Laswell scoffed out a harsh laugh of disbelief and sat up in her seat a bit. 

That’s when John knew he was in trouble. 

“Frost has been one of my closest friends for a long time, John. Her and I have been there for each other through the best and the worst times of our lives. So forgive me for being a little high-strung when she tells me that she doesn’t want anything to do with the Makarov case and then a few days later phones me in the middle of the night—which she never does because she quite literally keeps her landline disconnected when she feels that it’s been ringing too much—to tell me that she changed her mind and that she’s in for the job after having some sort of surprise visit from you,” she snapped, her voice finally holding the sternness that matched the fierce look in her eyes. “Frost rarely acts out of character. And when she does, things usually go to shit real quick. So I need you to give me the details of your visit so I know that all of this isn’t going to go to shit the second she gets here, please and thank you.”

Details. 

Details were going to be important. 

He understood that this time around. 

“I visited Frost about midday. Knocked on her door with a nice bottle of whiskey in hand. She invited me in to have lunch with her. We ate. We talked. She introduced me to her dog Riley. We had some tea. And then we went our separate ways,” he explained, going down the timeline in his own head as one of his knees started to bounce beneath his desk. 

He could still see so vividly the image of Frost sitting comfortably in her arm chair with her legs tucked in front of her with a bowl of stew in her hands. The hardened look on her face slowly melted away as they traversed through their conversation. Blunt answers and rolling eyes filled his head.

“You brought a bottle of whiskey with you when you saw her?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. He hummed in response, curtly nodding his head. Kate could feel her heart beating in her chest, practically thrashing against her ribs. It was such a rare thing for her to feel that. “Did she have any?”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head. The bottle of whiskey he had brought along had sat on the counter in the kitchen his entire visit. She hadn’t even cared to pick it up or read the label, which had surprised him. He had assumed that a woman that had been in the business of war for so long would have developed a taste for the finer alcohols of life. “Didn’t even look at the bottle.”

“Good,” she said as she sat back in her seat. 

There was a certain type of trouble in her eyes that bothered him. 

“Why do you ask?” he wondered aloud. 

Kate sat quietly for a few moments, trying to figure out how much she was going to tell him. Well, if she didn’t tell him now, then he’d found out soon enough by looking through the file that sat between them. 

“Frost has been sober for thirteen years,” she said, meeting his gaze again. Price froze in his seat, the nervous knee bouncing he’d been enacting quickly coming to a halt. “She had a bit of a problem with alcohol in her late 20s, but she managed to straighten herself out with some help.”

Thirteen years of sobriety. 

And he brought a fucking bottle to her as a gift. 

“Even through everything that happened with Makarov and losing her task force?” he asked. 

“Stone cold. My wife and I thought that she might fall off the wagon after losing everything, but she spent most of her recovery with us and she never had a drop,” she said, shaking her head. 

John felt embarrassed. 

He had brought a bottle of whiskey to a woman that had been sober for thirteen years. 

He felt his cheeks fall red at the thought of the bottle that stood alone on the counter in her kitchen. He didn’t take the bottle back with him when he left. He wondered what she had done with it. Was it still sitting on her kitchen counter? Or had that contents been emptied one way or another?

“So all you did was share a meal and talk?” she asked, snapping him out of his guilty daze. 

He hummed in acknowledgement.  

Kate didn’t mind the fact that Frost was coming out of retirement to decimate Makarov with a task force that she had come to love and trust so much. 

She wasn’t worried about Frost getting back in the game; she knew that she could handle herself without a doubt. 

But she was worried about the fact that the Captain sitting in front of her seemed to have taken a liking to the Lieutenant Colonel. 

John Price had always been a cordial and kind man, but she knew that he had a side that was strictly business. He rarely mixed business and pleasure and whatever he was doing now was starting to toe the line between the two. The John Price she knew would have considered Frost to be a dead end, an outlet unworthy of his task force having alongside them. He would’ve experienced his first interaction with Frost and considered it a done deal that she wasn’t going to be tagging along for the ride. 

But he didn’t. 

Instead, he went out of his way to get her to come back. 

He went out of his way to see her.

Out of his way to talk to her. 

John Price was a good man, Kate knew that. 

But she also knew Frost. 

And she knew that the combination of the two could be a catalytic disaster. 

She could only hope for the best.

“Well, whatever you said worked. She called to tell me that she changed her mind and that she wanted to put a bullet in the Russian bastard’s head. Her words, not mine.”

Kate finally slid the file over to him. She kept her hand on it for a moment before slowly drawing it away. Price had to hold himself back from snatching the file to dive into the details. 

“Since she is officially a part of your team now, here's her file. I’ll email you a few of her mission reports so you can get a taste of how she works,” she said, standing from her seat. He was surprised that she wasn’t going to stay with him to walk him through Frost’s file. She walked toward his office door but stopped before she could leave. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Frost’s got a hard but broken soul, John. Be gentle with her. For me.”

And with that, she opened the door and left. 

And he was left in the thick silence of his office, the tattered manila folder delicately taunting him.

Boysenberry pie. 

That’s what Laswell had said was Frost’s favorite. 

It was his sore attempt to make up for bringing a bottle of liquor to her sober abode. 

The pure white snow crunched under his feet as he walked up to her cabin. Everything was still save for the smoke billowing from the tall brick chimney on the side of the house. 

He loved the way her cabin looked. 

Set in the middle of the forest, small, quaint, and comfortable. 

It was akin to something he wished to have in the future when he was rid of the military life. That is, if he was ever rid of the military life. He always had a feeling that he would die in the military, but sights like this made him hope that his intuition was off. 

It rarely ever was, though. 

A loud bark caught his attention and his head whipped to the side in time to see Riley barreling toward him. He held the boysenberry pie in one hand and crouched down to pet the large german shepherd with his free hand. Riley whipped around him, trying to meet John’s hand for a good pet as he moved about. He rolled over in the snow, letting the tall man rub his belly as he panted happily. 

“That’s a good boy,” John said, softly smiling at how happy the beast in front of him looked. He wondered how simple life would be if he was just a dog with a bone… and if he had a gorgeous owner who was now standing in her front doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe as she watched the pair in the snow. Price looked up at her properly, his smile remaining. She was donned in a comfortable looking jumper that was loose on her frame and a pair of nice black jeans. The white jumper fell loose on her frame, exposing part of her collarbone and neck. 

She looked good. 

Too good. 

“Afternoon, John,” she greeted in a polite tone. 

She liked the sight of him and Riley together. John was playful and rough with Riley, but in the way that the energetic animal needed. He didn’t get much action out there. She had a feeling that he didn’t count chasing rabbits and squirrels through the brush. Other than that, nothing truly amounted to what Riley had experienced out on the field with Frost. 

Maybe that’s why the beast liked John so much. 

Reminded him of what he once knew to be normal.

Perhaps the slow life wasn’t for him… just like it wasn’t really for Frost. 

“Afternoon,” John greeted back, giving Riley a few rough but loving pats before standing to his full height. The riled up dog whipped back up to his feet, ran circles around John a few times, and then dashed over to his owner. She gave him a loving rub to the head before he hopped off the porch and ran into the forest, snow falling off of his fur with every step.  

“You know, you have oddly good timing,” she said, a slight smile pulling at her lips, but she doesn’t let it show completely. “I just got done cooking. Care for a plate of steak and potatoes?”

John practically drooled. 

The thought of having another home cooked meal sounded amazing, especially if it was going to be as good as the stew she had made last time. He had trouble going back to eating the food from the mess after the meal he had shared with her.

“Only if you’re offering,” he said, repeating what he had said the first time she had ever invited him in for a meal. She hummed contently and gestured for him to come inside. He made his way up the porch steps, stepped inside, and slid his shoes off before lining them up neatly by the door just the same as last time. He walked into the kitchen and the smell of freshly seared red meat filled his system. After surviving on nothing but MREs and whatever he could get in the mess, the smell of a perfectly seared steak made him melt. “Christ, it smells amazing in here.”

Frost let out a light laugh, barely a breath of humor. 

John set the boysenberry pie on the counter as she plated the food for them. His eyes searched the kitchen, trying to find the bottle that he had brought around last time. He found it eventually, spotting the seal on the cork completely untouched and the full bottle sitting in the corner against the wall. Something in his heart eased and he let out a quiet sigh. 

It wasn’t that he doubted her sobriety in any way, but he would have felt guilty if he had been the one to give her the means to fall off the wagon. 

“You can have a glass if you’d like. I’d hate for it to go to waste in my kitchen,” she said, nodding at the bottle as she turned around with two plates in her hands. She handed one over to him as he looked away from the bottle and back to her.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the plate from her. She opened up a cupboard to grab a short glass, but he stopped her. “It’s alright. This’ll do just fine for me.”

She nodded and tipped the glass back into the cupboard and shut it. She stepped into the living room, completely ignoring the dining table that she seemed to rarely use. John followed and they took their usual seats in the dark green armchairs across from each other, the warm fireplace set between them.

The plate that Frost had given him was loaded with a gorgeously seared steak sliced into perfect strips of medium-rare meat and over roasted potatoes with a hint of thyme and pepper lacing the steam that wisped off of them. Price sunk into his seat, wondering if he’d ever get to live a life of coming home and experiencing a meal like this every night. 

He hoped that one day he would. 

They both dug in. 

A few bites in, John finally spoke. 

“You changed your mind,” he said, stating the obvious. 

“I did,” she said, nodding her head once before taking another bite. 

“Why?” 

“Why do you think?” she asked. 

“Doesn’t matter what I think. It matters why you did,” he said, throwing her own words back at her. She let out a huff of a laugh at that, clearly remembering that she had used the same tactic on him last time he was there. 

“Because I want that Russian piece of shit six feet under with a bullet in his brain,” she said bluntly, not looking up at him. “Multiple bullets, actually.”

“Understood,” he said, nodding his head. 

After John had left last time, Frost had stared at the photo of her old task force for hours before finally calling Laswell to tell her that she had changed her mind and that she was in. Memories of each member had played out in her head along with the memories of each of their deaths like a fever dream. And Makarov’s devious smile had overtaken the memories of the loved ones as she had stared off into the abyss of despair. 

The bottle in her kitchen had been tempting, but she didn’t pursue it as her old self would.

“Have you read my file yet?” she asked, glancing up at him. “The one that Laswell usually keeps stashed away in her desk.”

She knew that Laswell had two copies of her file. 

One that was heavily redacted that almost anyone in the CIA and military could access. And then there was one that Laswell kept for herself and the higher ups that actually mattered. The latter had every detail of every mission that Frost had ever been a part of. Every gruesome detail and achievement Frost had managed to acquire over the years. 

It was rare for it to ever make an appearance in anyone’s hands, but she knew that joining the task force for this mission meant that John would have access to it. He was going to have to learn who he was having to join his team for something so important. 

She had just been counting down the minutes until he mentioned what he had read. 

“I did read it.”

“So?” 

John was surprised. 

He didn’t think she’d care about what he thought of what he had read. 

“I think you’re bloody brilliant,” he said, adding her name at the end of his statement. 

Hearing her name on his lips made her feel warm. 

She had isolated herself out in the wild for so long that she rarely ever heard her own name nowadays. The only time she ever really heard it was when Laswell and her missus occasionally came around or when the florist in town greeted her when she’d go around to pick up a bouquet to fill the lonely cabin she called home. The florist was the only one in town that she allowed to know her name. She avoided everyone else it seemed. The old man just had a certain charm to him that she couldn’t deny to be kind to. 

“Ridiculously brilliant, actually,” John continued. 

“You clearly haven’t read the entire file then.”

“I have. Every page, every mission,” he reaffirmed. “Made sure I got everything I could from Laswell.”

He had stayed up all night, going through everything Laswell had given him access to. In reality, he could have just read her personal file and left it at that. Her personal file was everything he really needed to know, but there was something so alluring about the woman in front of him that he couldn’t help but read everything he could on her. 

Every mission report, finally unredacted and missing the black lines that had once barred him from seeing the truth the first time around. 

The things that this woman had accomplished had astonished him. 

Frost didn’t know what to say. 

“Laswell was right. I think you’ll be a perfect fit for the 141,” he continued. 

“Whatever you say, Captain,” she muttered, taking another bite of steak and potatoes. 

A scratch at the back door echoed throughout the house and Frost rocked up to her feet, placing her plate on the coffee table. 

“Riley,” she explained to him shortly as she walked into the kitchen. 

She opened the back door and Riley dashed inside, heading straight to the living room. The energetic dog was sitting patiently next to Price, tail wagging and slapping against the hardwood floor. Frost smiled softly and grabbed a piece of meat from her plate, tossing it into the air just for him to prop up and catch it in his mouth. He gnaws at the piece, trotting off to her bedroom to enjoy it in peace. Price watched the two fondly, feeling the connection they had with each other. 

“Want anything to drink?” she asked. 

“Tea, if you don’t mind me making it again,” he said, nodding his head. 

She wondered if he was anal about how his tea was made or if he was simply trying to do something nice. 

“Feel free,” she said, grabbing her plate and heading into the kitchen. Price followed, plate in hand. Frost continued to eat as John put the kettle on. 

“I brought a boysenberry pie this time around,” he said, turning around to lean against the counter. Price looked over at it for a moment, waiting for her to look at it as well. 

“Did Laswell tell you that boysenberry’s my favorite or was that in my file too?” she wondered aloud. He smiled coyly and nodded. “Did she tell you about the drinking problem?”

His smile softened and almost turned down, but he didn’t let it fall away completely. His eyes flicked to the bottle set in the corner for a mere moment. 

“She did,” he said, letting out a little sigh. “I’m sorry for bringing the bottle last time I was here.”

“Don’t be. You couldn’t have known,” she said, shaking her head. “Plus, I’ve been doing this shit for thirteen years. I’m not going to say that it’s easy work, but I’m doing well enough to not be tempted by a still-corked bottle.”

A few quiet beats passed. 

“Though, I would take the bottle back with you when you leave today,” she said, looking over at it before looking back at him. Just as she admitted, she had been doing it for a while, but it was still hard some days. 

“Noted,” he said, nodding. “Want a slice of pie?” 

“I’d love one,” she said, a small soft smile gracing her face. It was the closest thing to a genuine smile that Price had seen from her and it practically made his heart jump out of his chest. John pushed off the counter and put his hand on one of the cupboard handles. 

“This one, right?” he asked, looking back at her. She hummed in confirmation. 

He’d only been to her home twice and he already knew his way around it. He had watched her pull plates and bowls and serve them food for the past two visits and he was starting to get a lay of the land. She silently loved it. 

He searched the drawers for a knife and Frost let him, not giving him a hint as to where the knives may be. He eventually found them and pulled a large kitchen knife out. Breaking open the pie, John cut a slice for each of them, setting them carefully on the plates. He turned and placed a plate in front of her, searching the drawers one more time for two forks. 

“Thank you,” she said, taking the fork he had offered her. “For visiting and for the pie.”

“Any time,” he said, smiling at her. 

They both dug into the pie and Price could tell that she was enjoying it more than she was letting on. 

It was nice. 

Seeing her like this. 

He hadn’t known her for long, but from what he had experienced and from what he had read, moments like this were rare with her. He was starting to understand why Laswell liked her all so much. 

He wondered how it would be once she started to be fully comfortable with him. 

“Tell me about your task force,” she said, leaning her elbows on the counter while she messed with the pie with the sharp prongs of her fork. She had already gotten halfway through her slice. 

John had brought a damn good pie. 

“What do you want to know?” he asked. 

“How many and who?”

“Well, there’s four of us. Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish, Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley, and me,” he said, listing off the members of the small team. Task Force 141 was smaller than her old task force. “And now you.”

“Do you trust them?”

“With my life.”

[lavendernlilac]

Scar gently wrapping the rope around Grians arms, connecting her to the bed posts, tugging the knots once or twice to make sure they’re secure. He makes sure he gets her legs too, a little less restrictive than the arms so she can squirm around a bit. The last of rope is used to make a bralette shape across Grians chest, beautifully framing her boobs. By now she’s already whining slightly, the texture of the rope and light touches of Scars fingers winding her up, while he’s calmly asking how each knot feels.

Once she’s all settled in her bindings, Scar picks up the vibrator and sets it in place, turning it on briefly to make sure it works, getting a high moan out of Grian. Content with this set up, he makes sure that the camera and earpieces are all ready to go, and that Grians all set(and still play with this all) before he’s hopping out of the window to start his patrol.

It’s sudden when the first wave of vibrations hits Grian, a shocked gasp and whine falling out of her throat as she tries to grind against the sensation. Steadily, the intensity drops, sitting at the lowest it can for a while. She can hear Scars soft chuckles and praises in the earpiece as he messes with the intensity again.

This goes on for a couple hours, Scar reducing the intensity when he has to fight something/someone, but edging Grian when he’s just observing the area. They chat a little(it’s more begging on Grians side) when the vibrations are low, making sure to check in whenever possible.

Scar barely lasts 4 hours into his patrol shift before he’s on the way back home. He’s been edging Grian(and himself) for the last hour and a half and he can’t take it anymore, his hands twitch for Grians skin, lips dry from not being able to kiss her. He doesn’t tell her he’s on his way, just appears in Grians bedroom so suddenly she’s jolting out of her skin.

The rope stays on when he gets on top of Grian, kissing down her body until he’s lapping at her pussy, right next to the vibrator. She’s moaning and twitching while Scar eats her out and ups the vibrations. Takes barely a minute until her orgasm hits and the vibrator is turned off, leaving her to grind as best she can against Scars tongue until he’s leaning back up to kiss her. Grian is babbling between kisses, whining for scar to fuck her right in his ear.

The vibrator gets removed, but in its place lands Scars cock, already sliding into Grians hole. It doesn’t take long for Scar to finish, maybe a handful of slow thrusts, before he’s leaning back and untying the rope from Grians body.

She’s boneless, fully ready to knock out as Scar cleans up the bed. She barely registers getting picked up and transported to the bathroom to get cleaned up. Scars fulfilling the usual bath routine with a mostly asleep Grian against his chest, who’s mumbling all sorts of praises about tonight. She’s out cold when Scar tucks her back into bed, but he still has at least half his patrol left so Scar is giving her a kiss on the forehead and climbing back out of her window, leaving the camera on just to keep an eye on her.

My own prompt got stuck in my own brain lmao. Personally can’t really write, but I gave it a shot ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-bodypillow anon

chomping on this actually hello??? I love this wdym you can’t really write !!!! /lh

I’ve been spinning this around in my brain for the past few days and now you hit me with THIS… I’ve been meaning to actually write out a drabble for this idea because of how much it’s latched on LOL. that’ll be in a separate post me thinks but I’m looking at this with big wide eyes waugh !!!

obsessed with the image of scar just showing up announced and scaring the hell out of grian DBDBRHRH but I’d image with how quickly scar is climbing on top of her she doesn’t have much of a chance to say much 😳

though I’m also very soft over scar holding her to his chest after. I can imagine him untying her very slowly and very carefully, rubbing her arms as he helps her sit up. grian being grian, flops herself right against scar’s chest and demands that he carries her and who is scar to deny her?

and WAUGH I just have this image of the two of them after, grian’s starting to fall asleep and scar’s stroking her hair,,, he still has to finish patrolling for the night but grian is so warm and soft he doesn’t want to leave her,,, he kisses her forehead and starts to get up but a hand is grabbing his shirt to stop him. grian looks at him very sleepily and asks him not to leave ;w;

it’s,,, so tempting for him to stay with her, pull her into his arms and fall asleep. but he has a responsibility to the city,,,, he promises to be back as soon as he can :(

this isn’t related to the post at all but it’s got me thinking about like. one of the first times they really butt heads about anything. in the beginning I don’t think scar has any balance between being scar and hotguy, and when he starts dating grian, it gets even more complicated. and grian kind of gets a bit upset about that because a) she wants to see him :( and b) scar’s not taking proper care of himself but he fails to see why that’s a problem and waugh. waughhhh!!!!

anyways. ahems. ty for this <3

[fortisfilia]

Promised Part 10 - Tom Riddle x reader

Info: This is a rewrite of a story I've posted on my old account years ago. If it sounds familiar, that might be why :)

Summary: In this story, Tom didn't grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader's sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.

Warnings: Arranged marriage

Word count: 3k

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 9 | Part 11

Part 10 - Mors Grano

The days after Avery’s poor attempt to gather information went by quite eventfully. Not only had Avery and Lestrange almost gotten expelled by Dippet for what they had done, but had received the worst detention you had ever heard of. 

Every day, up until the N.E.W.T.s would start, they had to help Mr Carpe, Hogwarts’ caretaker, clean every last bit of the castle. Without magic of course. And when they weren’t scrubbing floors, cleaning windows, or polishing trophies, they were copying the school rules on parchment, by hand. The amount of paper they had to fill wouldn’t even fit into an entire classroom, had it not been rolled up. 

Even if they wanted to, their new schedule didn't give them enough time to follow you or even think about you. They barely had enough time to finish their homework before tumbling into their beds. You would have felt sorry for them, but Tom’s snarky grin, which he wore every time you saw the two in the hallways, was a reminder that they deserved it. 

Thank Merlin you hadn’t told Avery much when he had disguised himself as Tom. You had just confirmed that the engagement had been arranged but fortunately hadn’t said anything about your sister. There had been worse rumours going around about Tom and you. 

Camille almost didn’t believe you when you told her what they had done. After a lot of head shaking and “no, they didn’t”s she just stared at you with her mouth open and proceeded to laugh for a full minute or two when you told her about their punishment. 

It was a lucky coincidence that she had found an interest in Ben, as she didn’t mind now that you were spending a lot more time with Tom. She was preoccupied as well by the looks of it. 

After the accidental sleepover, you had stayed in Tom’s dorm overnight more often. Not on accident though. It had become a routine, to have another quick chat with Camille after classes, arrange some dates for when you wanted to study together and then make your way to Tom’s.

Tom was sitting at his desk when you entered the room, apparently deep in thought and studying the Potions book he had gifted you.

“Alright?” you said when you closed the door.

He nodded as you went up to him.

“Found anything interesting for the Moly?” you asked. “It still looks quite healthy to me.”

“Not really,” he answered and turned towards you. “Nothing specific.”

“Oh, I just got an owl from my parents.” You crammed the letter out of your bag and handed it to him. “They set the date. For the wedding.”

Tom read the letter quietly, his eyebrows twitching slightly once or twice.

“June 30th,” he said.

“That’s only one day after we graduate,” you stated. “Seems like they can’t wait for the big day.”

He nodded as he gazed into the flames inside the fireplace, a tiny grin pulling on the edge of his mouth before he looked up at you. “Can you?”

To keep the giggle that was building up inside you from bursting out, you took Tom's hand, tugged lightly on it and gestured towards the couch where you wanted to sit. He closed the potions book but kept a finger in it, taking it with him as you led him over.

“Well, I don’t know,” you said as you let yourself fall onto the cushion. “It still doesn’t feel real, does it?”

He nodded in agreement.

“I can’t wait to try on the dress, though. That’ll be exciting,” you went on and noticed him smiling. “And then there’s the most important part, of course.”

He gave you a look as if to say he didn’t know what you meant.

“Elsie,” you explained. “Your uncle will lift her curse completely then. Or so I hope at least.”

Morfin had to, didn’t he? It was part of the pact after all. Tom and you would get married so that they would free your sister. As much as you wanted to believe that the Gaunts were trustworthy, there had been a nasty sting in your stomach ever since the engagement. Would they give up, even when they had won? They wouldn’t be able to control you anymore afterwards, or Tom, or anyone but themselves. Marvolo’s filthy grin appeared in your head. Would he ever give it a rest?

“He will free her, won’t he?” you asked.

Tom looked into your eyes for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Well, it’s what they agreed on.”

“But?”

“But,” he went on, “You’ve seen how they are.”

An invisible weight seemed to pull on your limbs and the sting in your stomach got more intense. 

“They’ll never let go,” you sighed. “But how-”

Tom shook his head and exhaled slowly. “I have to show you something.”

He gave you the Potions book and opened it at the page where he had put his finger before. “I thought you’d come across it on your own, but as I noticed you wouldn’t… Just see for yourself.”

You stared at him for a moment, wondering what Morfin’s book had to do with anything, before looking down at it. Tom pointed at a recipe, written in scrawled handwriting:

Mors Grano or The Dust Of Slow DeathThe dust is used to be scattered over an item and will cling to the first person that touches it.Vanishes the second the victim comes in contact, which makes it very hard to be detected and cured.Victims will suffer from a distinctively harsh cough, as well as pain and flu-like symptoms, which will worsen each day until they become fatal. The average time until death is around three weeks after the first encounter with Mors Grano. In most cases, the victim will lose their life before the appropriate antidote can be given. 

You didn't bother to read the list of ingredients, your hands shaking too much to make out a word. You had heard of Mors Grano before. Professor Binns had mentioned it in History of Magic when you had learned about the Passing of Men in 1650. Hundreds of witches had poisoned their abusive husbands with it when the dust had been invented. It had taken years to find out what had caused such an increased number of deaths, all of them male wizards. The potion and most of its ingredients had been banned, and no cases had been reported since.

Until now. Suddenly it all made sense. The Gaunts had sent the letter and covered it in Mors Grano. They had known all along how to cure Elsie and had waited patiently, days and weeks, letting your sister suffer until Father had contacted them. No wonder the owl had given her the letter, even though it was addressed to Father. They had specifically chosen her. A ten-year-old, innocent, little girl. 

Nausea hit you like a brick, coupled with the immediate need to punch something as your stomach twisted and turned in ways you had never felt before. A thin layer of sweat had formed on your forehead and your hands were still shaking.

“They…” you whispered. “And you knew?”

Tom swallowed thickly. “I didn’t at first. But then I came across it when Morfin prepared the poison.”

"And you never told me?" you asked, your voice rising and threatening to break as you tried to get up.

“Let me explain,” Tom said and grabbed your hand. “Sit down.”

“What is there to explain?” you asked, trying to pull away from his grip. “You’ve known for months. Even before your first visit. Before Elsie got sick. And you never tried to prevent it, nor did you tell me.”

Tom's grip on your hand tightened the more you tried to get him off you. “I said let me explain. I let you explain yourself when I saw you with Avery, didn’t I? Imagine I just ran away then. Now sit down.”

Finally, his grip loosened, allowing you to tear your hand away from him. Not knowing what to think or say, you sat down but couldn’t bring yourself to even look in his direction.

“Yes, I knew,” he began with a sigh. “And I didn’t care. But even when I started to care, I couldn’t tell you. Or anyone. I still can’t. I’m unable to talk about it. They were a step ahead. Understand?”

The Gaunts were a step ahead. They always wanted to be. Just like on Christmas Day, when they wanted you and Tom to do-

“An unbreakable vow?” you asked with wide eyes. “You had to vow not to tell anyone.”

He nodded. “I vowed not to tell. But I didn’t vow not to show.”

He turned one page inside the book and handed it to you again.

Mors Grano - antidote

Ingredients: 

The skin of a snake

2 fresh Foxgloves

3 blossoms of a Moly

4 drops of Moondew

5 tears of a Banshee

The antidote. Full with an ingredient list and instructions. 

“Morfin brewed it already then? They gave it to Elsie, otherwise, she wouldn’t have gotten better.”

“He didn’t complete it,” Tom answered, apparently trying not to say something that would interfere with the vow.

“He left out something? They gave her an unfinished antidote?”

Tom nodded. 

“The tears?” you guessed, solely because it was the most powerful and rare item on the list.

“I’m not sure. They never let me into his chamber after the engagement.”

“Can we… Can we steal it from him? And add the last ingredient?”

“Marvolo has the flask on him at all times. He’s suspicious, even of Morfin.”

Bloody hell. Marvolo’s paranoia was a real pain. You scanned the antidote again, thinking of all the ways you could get your hands on that potion.

“But I could brew it myself. Most of the ingredients are easy to find. Foxgloves are for sale in Diagon Alley, I’ve seen them countless times. The Moly, we have it here,” you listed and looked at it standing on the desk, finally realising why Tom had tried to keep it alive so badly. “Snakeskin from Nagini. We just wait for her to shed. Moondew and the Banshee tears will be tricky, however.”

Tom nodded at every new thing you had said. “You figured it out.”

Your stomach had stopped squirming at the glimmer of hope you had for saving Elsie. You carefully read the recipe for the antidote again, understanding how long it would take and how hard it would be to get the potion right. If everything went well, it would be finished by mid to late June at the earliest. Besides, Slughorn had never taught you such advanced techniques. Now that you were thinking of your Professor, it began to dawn on you. “Do you think Slughorn has Moondew and Banshee tears in his chamber?”

“Possibly,” Tom answered. “But do you really want to steal from him after what Avery and Lestrange did? I’m sure he’s got it all locked up in his office now.”

“Well, I have to try. Where else would I get those things from? And I better try soon. The antidote will take months to make as it is and the earlier I start, the better.”

Tom took the book, got up from the couch and put it into the drawer of his desk, closing it shut slowly.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“We’re going to Slughorn then, aren’t we? Come on.”

You followed him out hastily, trying to sort out your thoughts. Frankly, you had not expected to get the ingredients this quickly.

“Wait, how are we going to do it?” you asked, struggling to keep pace. “We can’t just sneak in and grab the things we need. He might be in there.”

“Even better then,” Tom said, not deigning to look at the other students strolling along the hallways. “I talk, you get the stuff.”

Slughorn's office was on the sixth floor, so it took a while to reach it. Your mind was still racing around the facts you had just been given and you needed to talk about it.

“I can’t believe they made you vow,” you muttered. “Marvolo and Morfin are…”

“Bastards,” he finished your sentence when you stepped from one of the moving staircases to another. “I’m aware.”

Everyone who knew them longer than a minute had to be aware of the fact. You were the only people on the staircase, floating higher up towards your destination. Tom looked over his shoulder to double-check if anyone could hear him.

“You know what,” he said pensively. “I actually expected people to ask me what I, or my family, had done to make the engagement happen. Seeing as it was them who got the ball rolling. But everyone suspected you. They all thought your parents bribed us.”

A sour smile had formed on your face as you thought about what to answer. One that, for all you knew, every woman had worn at least once in her life. 

“A woman's intentions will always be questioned a hundred times harsher than those of a man, Tom. What else is new?”

He pressed his lips together, nodded and kept quiet until you reached the sixth floor.

“Wait,” you said and got a hold of his hand when you had entered the corridor of Slughorn’s office. “I wanted to thank you. For helping me. The book, the Moly and now this. You know you don’t have to.”

He squeezed your fingers lightly in response, stepped closer and you pulled him in further. With his arms around you and your head pressed against his chest, you shut your eyes for a moment, feeling his lips on your forehead for a fraction of a second. When you looked up at him, his mouth parted, then closed again, stopping himself from saying something. His eyes, dark and restless, searched yours for a moment before returning to their usual deadpan state.

“Believe me, no one hates Marvolo and Morfin more than me. If I can make their lives more difficult, I’ll gladly do it.”

There wasn’t a lot of time to take in Tom’s words when you separated. There it was. The door to Slughorn’s room.

“Get behind me,” Tom instructed. “Make sure he doesn’t see you.”

You did as he said, your back against the stone wall, watching from a distance how Tom knocked on the door and Slughorn opened it.

“Oh, Tom,” the Professor said. “Good afternoon. What brings you here?”

“Good afternoon Professor. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I have some questions about Avery and Lestrange. I’m trying to sort out some things for Professor Dippet. Would you mind letting me in?”

Slughorn opened the door fully and stepped back. “Of course, boy, of course. Come in.”

Tom had left the door open for you to slip in behind them, which you instantly did. He lured Slughorn to the far end of his office, walking backwards and keeping an eye on you. Slughorn’s potion stock was right next to the entrance, where you knelt between the shelves, in case he would turn around unexpectedly.

The small drawers weren’t tagged, but you noticed that their contents were sorted alphabetically. As you silently roamed through them, you could hear Tom and Slughorn speak.

“So, Professor,” Tom said. “Do you know if Avery and Lestrange have taken anything else? Apart from the Polyjuice Potion?”

The Professor hummed. “Not that I’m aware of, no. Why?”

Every single drawer was filled to the brim with ingredients, some vials even contained finished potions, but you still hadn't seen the things you were looking for. It was a delicate act to go through everything so quickly while remaining quiet and ensuring not to miss anything.

“Well, there were some items found. Residues of Moondew and Banshee tears,” Tom explained.

“Banshee tears?” Slughorn asked.

“Yes. We can’t be sure if it was them, but I thought if you missed those things from your supply, the two might have something to do with it.”

“No, everything else is there, I counted it myself,” Slughorn assured. “What baffles me are the Banshee tears.”

Tom was an excellent liar, even though Slughorn would have probably bought anything his favourite student said. The bottom drawer at the penultimate row was stuck. You pulled the handle tightly but it only opened up an inch and gave a screech while it did, making you freeze from fear.

“Did you hear something?” Slughorn asked, his voice echoing your way.

“No, I didn’t,” Tom answered and coughed. “Why are you surprised about the Banshee tears, sir?”

“Well, those tears are rare,” the teacher answered, his head directed towards Tom again. “Very rare and also not very legal, boy. I’ve never seen them anywhere in my whole life. They couldn’t have been from me.”

No Banshee tears from Slughorn then. You pulled out your wand and cast a nonverbal spell to loosen the stuck drawer. Should have done that right away, you thought to yourself. Finally, it opened smoothly and your eyes went over all the flasks and their name tags. Mandrake, Maw, Mistletoe berry, Mollowsweed ... Moondew. Thank Merlin! There were over ten vials of it in the drawer, so you hastily took out one and put it into your pocket.

You peeked over the counter, locked eyes with Tom, and pointed towards the door to let him know you would leave.

“I see,” Tom went on, his eyes back on Slughorn. “We’ll have to look into that. Anyway, if you do notice some Moondew missing, against all expectations, I’m going to have another talk with Dippet about Avery and Lestrange.”

“I’ll let you know, boy. Thank you.”

“Enjoy your evening, sir.”

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 11

Tags: @ariachaos

[streamdotpng]

The streamer Enid au

---

Wednesday Addams sighted in San Francisco!

After the recent hit on her latest book: Viper de la Muerte: Lunal Curse, Wednesday Addams mentioned going off the grid for personal reasons. A hiatus from our so studious author? More likely than you think!

But what people definitely didn't think would happen is to see her out in and about in the streets of San Francisco. No one has been able to reach out as to why specifically she is in such a sunny place but the tall figure she was with might just give a hint! Several witnesses have mentioned them being rather close and isn't that so shocking from the usually touch averse writer of gore?

Read more at…

–

"Wednesday is here!?" squealed a streamer. She seemed a lot sparkly today, her bangs falling to frame the side of her face and her scars stretched as she smiled brightly at the camera.

This is Enid or Endespair if you want to go by channel name. She is a small twitch streamer who regularly posts her videos on YouTube and is known for her rather upbeat personality. The contrast of such a sunny person is why most would take a peak on how she would react whenever she'd play this year, month or day's horror game.

Safe to say, she reacted like most would do. Very loudly. Atleast at first, until slowly but surely you'd see her screams tamper from a shrill shriek to the barely contained jump. It has her chat becoming nefarious little shits and doing the best they can with horrible timed sound alerts and donations with text to speech.

She also is a werewolf and in a world where most are normies, a lot of people were rather intrigued and some monsterfuckers took solace by lurking in chat.

The mods had to ban a few people when the streamer bared her teeth at a character once or twice. For an outcast, Twitter murmurs that she's rather good at controlling her instincts.

Anyways, talking about Enid's background aside, the reason why she's squealing and clapping her hands like a seal today is for one reason alone.

Wednesday Addams, the ever so revered thriller and horror author. One who is very well known for her graphic depictions of gore in her books. It was a shock to some newcomers when the ever so jumpy Endespair genuinely loves and adores such literature but it definitely painted a confusing picture.

However, it isn't just the books that Enid loves but the author too.

Yeah, chat can put two and two together. Enid was simply a masochistic dog who liked things that scare her. All jokingly said of course, her fans know better than to push boundaries. But the contrast of such a colourful person enjoying all things dark and macabre is the opposites attract trope that most would fall for.

"Do you think I could try to bump into her?" Enid gasps before her brows furrowed. "Wait no that feels kinda creepy, seeking her out like that is weird as hell don't do that guys."

"so true, just go about your daily day and maybe luck will grant you a wish"

"I ROLLL UP IN A NEW BUGATTI"

"woo her with your cute beanies and sweaters!"

"imagine walking around with flowers, she likes black dahlias right?"

"this some gay shit right here"

Enid turned a little red at the support of her making a move towards the author, her cheeks blooming as she pushed up her glasses. "Now guys, it'd be weird if I just came up and besides!" she picked at her nails, a pretty colour of black turning to white, the sparkles of beads shining in the light. "She's here for vacation so let's not be bothersome."

"Tru Tru but who's stopping admiring!?!"

"pull some main character moment and bump into her at the grocery store"

"she's very pretty"

"one day streamer, one day"

The blond sighs, her hands cradling her chin as she pouts. "if only I could see her! Hopefully she's fine with a little hug or maybe a hand shake-" her hands flew about, a cheap attempt to explain. "For someone who only dresses in shades of black and white, she makes it work so well.." a dreamy sigh escapes Enid as she sinks into her arm.

"why's the stream tagged for RE when she's just simpin?"

"games extracting give her a sec"

"bc it's funneh"

"god I can't wait to see how she reacts to the daughters"

"streamer got a type and we will exploit it"

It's the ding of her pc that reminds her that she has a game to play and with a rather dramatic sigh, she straightened up in her seat to stare down at the newly extracted game.

Her brows furrowed as she grinned at the camera.

"Simping time over chat, let's get over my fear of flesh eating zombies over before dinner!" she cheered, clicking onto the new shortcut on her pc. The Pic of a half man and half wolf making her smile as she enters into Resident evil: Village

In an hour or two, the horrified stare of Endespair has people clipping as she watched Ethan get his hand cut and sipped on. The scene made her brows furrowed and her nose scrunched as a look of disgust came over her face.

"Oh God- that's disgusting," the horror in her tone is obvious but the blush splattering across her skin made others think that something was running through her head.

Enid ends the stream with a slump against her seat, a whole eight hours spent on the game as she finishes the Dimitrescu castle. It shouldn't have taken so long but she got distracted, lost and very confused so many times she considered quitting once or twice by the fifth hour.

Chat was as unhelpful as always but some donors took pity and helped her out. Luckily, after hours of mind numbing game play, she got through it.

As Ethan stumbles into the church and she saves, for some reason the sight of a typewriter brings a rather beautiful smile on her face as she leant on a hand. Chat chitters at the bared teeth, cheering and spamming.

“YOOOO ANOTHER CLIP FOR THE MONSTERFUCKERS”

“Those teef are BIG”

“With the headphones youd think she’s a normal”

“Lowkey forgot shes a werewolf until this, im so thankful for the reminder”

It makes Enid blink as she notices the rather fast speed chat. She rolls her eyes and gives a tight lipped smile this time, shoulders shaking at the influx of sad and pleading emojis.

So once the beating of her heart finally slowed, she couldn't help the sigh of relief as she sunk deeper into her comfy ass chair. But, such peace didn't last and her ears burned when she vividly remembered black gothic clothes on women.

When Enid managed to catch her breath and sit up, she pointed at the cam with way too bright cheeks.

"You guys know how I react to people in black!" she pulled her glasses off, rubbing at her eyes as she waved the frames around. "I should've known when you all clamoured for RE:8 instead of the fourth remake, yall are so luck-"

There's a ring of a phone and almost immediately, she perks up, nearly throwing her headphones off her hair as she stands to get her phone.

The stream ends suddenly after that.

–

Raven in love? Wednesday Addams seen with an unidentified man in San Francisco!

To think the ever so elusive Wednesday Addams would be out with a person today! We are just as shocked as you readers.

Our sources have seen the oldest Addams seemingly pressed next to this unidentified man in a park far from any noticeable place. Perhaps… Star crossed lovers? From the photos, the two would be friendly if this was any other person but to the Wednesday Addams, this is a completely different stance!

Read more in…

—

[scorchieart]

Double Deflection

Genre: Slice of Life, Comedy

Characters: Maron, White Horse, Licht Klein, Chevalier Michel

Wordcount: ~6400

Prompts: Blue: Loyalty, Yellow: Friendship

Summary: A late-night chat between horses and humans. Each has the potential to offer something, but gestures and facial expressions and mind reading aren't enough to tell when someone is asking for help.

A/N: My entry for the Wish Upon an Aide CC hosted by @lorei-writes and @wordycheeseblob. This story may borderline crack with its execution, but I hope it's an enjoyable read regardless.

If you were to ask Maron what he most wanted in the entire world he might respond with an enthused neigh, throwing back his mane, and a clop clop from his front-right hoof. If Maron could speak, he could say it was to eat carrots fresh from harvest, or to race through the fields outside the palace with the other horses, or to snooze indoors on a rainy afternoon while his rider Licht sang him a lullaby. Or something along those lines. In truth, it is difficult to say. The intricacies of horse communication cannot be covered comprehensively through text alone—tail swishing and muzzle twitching can easily get lost in translation, you see—but an attempt will be made to relay the events of this particular evening from both the equine and human perspectives to most accurately depict the story from all participating views.

Now, as we were saying, Maron, much like yourself and I, often finds it difficult to express his desires when asked on the spot. Any manner of things could affect the answer, from the place to the weather to even the time of day. Indeed, a much simpler question to ask (man and horse) is what he dislikes the most. And in the palace stables on that muggy summer’s eve, Maron was confident he was experiencing the absolute most dislikable thing imaginable.

“By the way, the kitchens were out of carrots.” 

Licht ducked his head in time before Maron whipped his tail.

“There’s no use taking it out on me,” Licht said, straightening up and resuming brushing Maron’s flank. “Believe me, you do me a favor eating them. But I swear this time they were gone before I could get to them.”

Maron snorted once and rubbed at his muzzle in what one would believe to be a contradictory manner.

“I doubt it. You should’ve seen the way Yves’s eyes lit up when he read about that new carrot cake recipe from Jade. He ordered double the monthly stock of carrots. And Leon approved it without even batting an eye.” At this, Licht covered his mouth and let out a small groan that on the surface appeared as though he was repressing a gag. Maron wiggled his nose in circular motions in response, which I am told is the horse-equivalent of scoffing and rolling one’s eyes.

“Don’t give me that. I said I’m fine,” said Licht, but both he and Maron knew he wasn’t. 

It is at this point I must confess that while I myself am not proficient at human-horse translations, my ineptitude is not a universal ailment. If you were so far unaware, there exist in our world a gifted few interspecial interpreters across the ages. Perhaps you have seen a dog warmly protecting a flock of chicks while the hen takes a bath? Or maybe you witnessed a squirrel rushing to call a goose to save a kitten from drowning in a lake? Sometimes this communication is as implicitly universal as a mother cares for her young, while in more curious cases gesture and sound bind common souls together. On exceedingly rare occasions, such a bond can manifest from one source to multiple different species with zero previous contact, as is the case with the Eighth Prince of Rhodolite. But just as special can be the connection built upon years of collaboration and struggle and trust, and Licht and Maron checked all these boxes multiple times over. Why, when Licht wraps the reins twice around his hands, Maron understands to hurry home because Yves is baking something special. And when Maron bonks his jaw against Licht’s head, Licht knows he’s being chastised. And whenever Licht says “I’m fine,” Maron learned it always to be a lie.

“Really, I am,” insisted Licht. “Let’s go for a ride in the morning. You’ll see.”

Not in the mood for an argument (they always ended up with them going in circles), Maron turned to look out the window and the two resumed their brushing routine without communication. The dewy night air hung thick and silent around them, and several times more Licht had to cover his mouth and cough as he worked. Maron’s ears twitched at the sound, but he never commented further. 

Just allergies, Licht told himself. Horse doesn’t know what he’s thinking.

And the night would have continued on unyieldingly so, as it always did when they disagreed in private, were it not for an unexpected development. The hairs on their limbs shot straight up as a cold, prickly sensation overtook the summer warmth, and Licht and Maron spun their heads towards each other in unison. Someone was entering the stables. 

Stubbornness forgotten, Maron slowly lifted his head and peered over the high walls. His stall was located in the back corner of the stable, but even through the darkness he could make out the tall cloaked figure leading a horse by hand through the entryway. 

Licht tapped his knuckles against Maron’s neck. What do you see?

Maron raised a hoof up and down twice. One human and one horse. Both look male.

Got it. Stay low. Licht quietly reached for the sword he lay on the ground beside Maron’s grooming tools. A prince wouldn’t be so foolish as to wander the palace unarmed, and Licht knew better than most how easy it was to sneak past the grounds undetected through the stables.

Be careful. Maron gently rubbed his muzzle against Licht’s back and ducked low behind the wall. What was meant to be encouragement consequently had the opposite effect on Licht. Maron, like all who lived at the palace, knew of his rider’s unparalleled mastery of the sword. It is said that his skills were only rivaled by two, but Prince Leon was presently knocked out on his couch after a full day tidying up the faction office, and to even consider Prince Chevalier to sneak around at night like some common hoodlum was simply unthinkable. So Maron’s warning made Licht grip his sword more forcefully as he took a defensive stance by the door. 

What need would a talented fighter have to visit the stables at this hour? Licht pondered the question as the foot-and-hoofsteps steadily approached their stall. Was it a spy fleeing into the night to relay royal secrets back to his master? A horse appraiser here to kidnap (horsenap) a prized palace stallion to sell off for exuberant riches? An enemy of the royal family who knew the swordsman Sixth Prince was an equine enthusiast and would therefore hesitate to fight back with a defenseless horse on the battlefield?

The truth, as I am sure you have already deduced, was none of the above. Unfortunately, the only living thing in the vicinity that could steer Licht’s thoughts away from the bizarre was currently pondering whether he could fight with a flat brush between his teeth if things became too dicey. And with the intruders now only a couple of stalls away, Licht did not have the agency to think rationally and burst out from his stall ready to swing.

What followed was a short, anticlimactic confrontation that I am sure Licht would prefer never to see the light of day. Unfortunately for him, Maron found the whole affair rather amusing, so I shall provide an abridged account.

No sooner than Licht exited the stall did an overwhelming cough threaten to overtake him. Midway through winding his arm for an attack, he had few options to steady himself from the conflicting forces of his limbs propelling him forward and his lungs pushing him back, and in the heat of the moment he elected to toss his sword upward into the air and simultaneously tackle the mystery man. He had hoped the shock of it all would stun his opponent long enough for him to recover and strike again, but this plan came to an early stop when his midsection was caught by a pair of taut arms and he found himself flipped, lifted, and staring upward into the displeased face of Prince Chevalier.

If you have ever been caught by your elders for sneaking out of your room past your bedtime, you would understand only a fraction of the dread coursing through Licht’s nerves in that moment. Aside from the obvious fact that he ambushed (with the intent to at the very least incapacitate) the Second Prince of Rhodolite, Licht was physically in a state he would best describe as Yves’s Fashion Nightmare™. His eyes were redder and less alert than usual, his frown curved down farther than it had in years, and his typical restless bedhead stuck out at wild angles, not in the least bit aided by the fact that he was currently suspended upside down. But oh, the worst offense of it all was his wardrobe! When the coughing fits had extinguished any hope of getting sleep, Licht slipped into the muckiest boots in his closet, tossed on a tattered old coat from his teenage years, picked up his sword, and headed straight for the stables. He could only pray Chevalier was too distracted by his annoyance to notice the wrinkly, hay-infested, cough-stained mess of his nightclothes. 

Chevalier’s stern gaze followed Licht’s to his outfit. Whoops… I forgot to mention Chevalier could read minds as well as narrations. 

“Please put me down,” said Licht, his voice barely masking: and spare me some dignity. Behind them Maron let out a sound almost like a chuckle, and Licht shot him a warning look he was sure lost all credibility of appearing threatening.

“What purpose have you here at this hour?” asked Chevalier, still holding on. It took a great deal of fortitude for Licht to not give in to his embarrassment and wiggle his way out of Chevalier’s clutches like a worm, but in the end he swallowed his discomfort and strained his neck to look back up.

“I could ask you the same,” Licht replied, and instantly regretted it. The blood flow to his brain must already be making him hysterical. Is that how blood worked? How long was he upside down for, anyway? 

Chevalier’s expression twisted into a deeper frown that easily topped any of Licht’s personal records. “Employ deflection at your own risk, mime,” he warned. But just as Licht was calculating the combined punishment for assaulting and backtalking Chevalier, a sudden gallop echoed across the hall, the pressure on his stomach lifted, and Licht fell head-first onto the mucky stable floor. 

Once the pain and shame faded enough, Licht opened his eyes and sat up expecting to find Chevalier towering over him. When all he saw was Maron merrily rolling on the floor whinnying, apparently now fully recovered from the intruder fiasco, Licht wondered if it was all just a sick-induced hallucination. The figures cloaked in night, the galloping, this headache; surely it was all in his mind and he merely tripped and fell from exhaustion. Bothered and bitter, he buttoned his coat and rubbed his bruising head, wondering if anything like this had happened recently, when Chevalier appeared once more in the entryway patiently guiding White Horse back inside.

“You frightened him,” he said when they reached the back stall. 

“Me?” said Licht, forgetting his headache and rising to face the pair. In all the years he’d known him, White Horse proved a stallion who did not know fear. Chevalier selected him to be his trusted steed from among all the foals—even passing up baby Maron and his adorable wobbly knees—because he was the first to fully stand on his own and the quickest to wean off from his mother. As the years passed, he only grew more magnificent and intimidating among his peers, heading fleets into battle like the gleaming helmet of the army. White Horse admitting he was afraid seemed the equivalent of Chevalier admitting defeat.

“Indeed. He was shocked to see you bursting out of the stall like a lunatic,” said Chevalier.

Licht felt his eye twitch, and not from the returning pain. “He’s a war horse. He’s seen far worse than that,” he said.

“True,” said Chevalier, “but you have never appeared before him looking so disheveled.”

A knot swelled in Licht’s throat. Was Maron right? Surely he hadn’t neglected his condition so carelessly that he let his appearance grow abominable enough to scare White Horse of all creatures. Yves, perhaps, but that was exactly why Licht had been avoiding his brother like the plague. 

“You do have some manner of plague,” said Chevalier.

“It’s only allergies,” Licht countered, muffling a cough into his arm.

“Strange how the clown never developed the same.” 

It was only then that Licht noticed Chevalier carried a bag across his shoulders when he pulled something out and tossed it. Licht caught it and looked it over; it was a newly washed towel, like the type soldiers used during training, but the stench it gave off was far more repugnant than even a shirtless, sweaty Prince Jin in the height of July. An earthy smell that lay buried deep in the back of his mind, but Chevalier was not intent on giving him the time to dig it out.

“Clean your face, it is offensive,” he said, then moved past Licht to look in the stall. Maron instantly sobered and stood. “And you, get out.”

“What for?” Licht asked. He held his breath and quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face.

“This is White Horse’s preferred stall.”

“We were here first.”

“And I asked you first what you were doing here, and you have yet to answer me,” snapped Chevalier. “Our needs supersede yours unless you can prove otherwise.”

Licht and Maron each glared back at him, simmering in place. It wasn’t as though they didn’t have their reasons for choosing that particular stall; Maron enjoyed the bit of extra leg room the corner stall provided while Licht favored it for its distance from the entrance and ease to hide away in. But the other corner stall on the opposite side of the hall provided the same advantages, and Licht and Maron wondered why Chevalier and White Horse couldn’t simply occupy that one.

Normally, Licht would either frame his suggestion of the other corner this way or simply agree to move out to avoid confrontation, but he was ill-feeling courteous tonight after Chevalier banged his head like a boiled egg.

“What’s so special about this one that the others don’t have?” Licht asked. If by now you’re thinking Licht was playing his luck talking back yet again to Chevalier, you’d be right. But ever the megalomaniac (as Prince Clavis would insist), Chevalier acknowledged an informative rebuttal to his authority as a worthy challenge and allowed the conversation to continue for just a little longer.

Chevalier rolled his eyes at this insinuation. “The window,” he responded.

“They all have windows,” said Licht.

“This one provides the best view of town,” said Chevalier, then he huffed. “I grow tired of this chatter. Vacate yourselves before I do it myself.”

Licht was not satisfied, but he knew better than to argue with Chevalier once a discussion was deemed concluded. Though Maron would take some more convincing to leave. They were still midway through grooming and all the tools were laid out and ready after all, but to Licht’s surprise the horse walked out without any prompting, passed Chevalier, and lowered his head to sniff the towel in Licht’s hand.

“Don’t lick that, Maron. It’s dirty,” said Licht, pushing him away. But Maron pressed his nose to the towel and began chewing at its edge. “It’s not food. Stop!” Licht grabbed the other end and pulled and pulled, but Maron’s chomp was firm and refusing to yield.

“Haybrain,” Licht said, tugging harder. “You’d think you were munching on a bunch of—” And then the pain in his head nearly completely vanished as a wave of realization surged through him. Sometimes it takes a little longer for Maron’s messages to reach Licht.

Still maintaining his grip, Licht steadied his stance and asked, “Prince Chevalier, what else is in your bag?”

Chevalier, who had been leading White Horse into the newly emptied stall and therefore took little notice of the tug-of-war behind him, curled his hand around the straps on his shoulder at the sound of his name. “Has your condition also turned you excessively chatty?” he said. “Perhaps some rest will restore your quietude, mime.”

Licht and Maron exchanged a glance across the towel and nodded. “Employ deflection at your own risk. Now!” yelled Licht, and the two charged towards the stall. 

If you have been at all paying attention to this unwieldy tale, you may recall the last time Licht attempted to ambush Chevalier earned him an unsavory bump on both his pride and his forehead, and you are probably wondering what on Earth would lead him to believe a second attempt would fare any better. You may also remember in that little skirmish Licht threw his sword up in the air and have probably been questioning this story for the past few pages about where it landed. Rest assured, these inconsistencies shall be answered in due course. But first we must discuss strategy.

In addition to being a gifted swordsman, Licht was also a budding tactician. And while his brothers agreed his open-fighting battleplans leaned excessively self-destructive, no one could deny Licht’s acumen for sneak attacks. Even Maron trusted Licht on this front, which is why he made sure to match Licht’s speed in their charge even though his trajectory would knock him into White Horse. As soon as Chevalier noticed their approach, he whipped around, grabbed the towel with both hands, and ripped the fabric in midair. 

The force of the rip wobbled the two off guard, and while Maron quickly managed to steady himself to a reasonable halt before colliding with White Horse, Licht surged forward and knocked his side into a pillar separating two adjacent stalls. But before his fall, he made sure to wrap his remaining half of the towel around Chevalier’s wrist and drag the man down with him. The impact of the hit shook the entire building, causing a certain misplaced sword that was previously precariously balanced just above the princes to slip out of its place and fall. Chevalier, still stuck in the hand trap, roughly shoved his and Licht’s bodies out of the line of descent and replaced them with his bag. The bag cushioned the fall and prevented the sword from ricocheting into anyone, but not without sacrificing itself to the cause as the blade cleanly cut through the linen and deposited the contents within. Dozens of bright orange carrots, of different sizes and thicknesses by the bushel, spilled out from the tear and rolled across the stable floor.

This narrator now takes this chance to inform the audience (and Prince Chevalier) that Licht is also very skilled in deflection. And in humility.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut if you do,” Licht offered once the two managed to pry as many carrots as they could away from the hungry horses’ mouths. They piled the saved carrots into the bag and lifted it together to keep them out of the horses’ reach and from spilling again.

“The information I have on your condition is far more significant than a simple carrot heist,” said Chevalier, unperturbed by the turn of events.

It was the truth. Licht nabbed carrots from the kitchens loads of times before, and the response from the cooks never extended beyond an angry rant to the domestic faction office about coordinating supply every few months or so. Jin always claimed it was probably a herd of hungry rabbits sneaking into the kitchens at night, and that was enough to placate the masses. Missing carrots didn’t spell the end of the world, after all. Surely they would treat this incident in the same way. On the other hand, Chevalier still lorded Licht’s illness over his head like a carrot on a stick (which in Licht’s circumstance meant the exact opposite of that saying). Any moment now he could decide to leave the stables and tell Sariel about Licht’s total lack of self-care. Or worse, he could tell Yves.

No, Licht had to gain some leverage over Chevalier right there and now. If only he could figure out why he was there in the first place.

The bag seemed to increase in weight with each passing moment, and the orange poking out from the rip goaded Licht like a heckler in the audience. He shut his eyes and breathed through his mouth to stave them off. Just their presence muddied his mind—why did there have to be so many carrots? 

The best he could do for now was to keep up the deflecting. Even if that meant he had to keep up the talking.

“If White Horse eats this many, he’ll have an upset stomach in the morning,” he said.

“They were not all meant for him, obviously,” Chevalier explained. “When dealing with animals, extra precautions must be taken to guarantee a successful transaction should any anomalies arise.”

Licht pondered over those words. Couldn’t Chevalier ever say what he meant directly? (“No,” said Chevalier.)

“You’re saying you needed hush money—er, food in case other horses saw you two? Were you expecting to wake up the entire herd?” asked Licht.

“Precautions taken for the worst-case scenario naturally account for any hypothetical.”

“Except for my being here, apparently.”

“No, I had accounted for this as well. Though I had expected you to have fled from the vicinity of all these carrots by now.”

The tear gaped slightly as Licht’s hold tensed. Did Chevalier view him as a child who still couldn’t look foods he disliked straight on? Was Chevalier basing his reactions on tests he performed on Nokto, he wondered? He recalled a time years ago when Nokto returned from a diplomatic trip to Benitoite complaining about how their boasting of their recent super successful carrot harvest forced him to cut the trip short. It was the first time in ages Licht felt so strong an urge to console his twin when he heard the news, but what if Chevalier had a different reaction? Something seemed off about it all.

He decided to test his theory. “You’d need a boat-load of carrots to do that. And strand me on a deserted island first,” he said.

“I shall keep that in mind for the next order and charter a vessel from the Jangler,” said Chevalier.

“Nokto already asked us to halt carrot orders to the palace once. Leon told him to submit a lengthy request form with evidence and justifications and we still voted against it, three-to-one. Unfortunately.”

“My word supersedes the clown’s, as well as it does yours.”

“I wasn’t implying otherwise. Only that palace supply orders are under our faction’s scope, not yours,” said Licht. This time the rip tore larger from Chevalier’s end.

Licht really was only speaking fluff at first, but now he felt he was on the verge of uncovering something scandalous.

“In fact, food orders are specifically handled by one of us four princes to prevent showing favoritism to any one noble or grower. And we keep the records of all orders locked in our office,” he continued. “Strange how you were able to run your worst-case scenario calculations when supply was different this month. Was it just a happy coincidence?”

“Enough stalling,” said Chevalier. “Speak your mind directly.”

“Prince Chevalier.” Licht paused and inhaled. “Have you been illicitly influencing the domestic faction’s operations behind the scenes?”

The stables went eerily quiet. Even the horses, who stopped following the conversation ever since the carrots came into view, could tell an intense weight had dropped, and this time Chevalier was on the receiving end. Maron silently cheered for Licht, while White Horse ground his teeth impatiently.

Slowly, purposefully, Chevalier’s mouth widened to a grin. One that simultaneously filled Licht with a sense of victory and unease. “You speak it as though it was a laborious effort, when in truth it does not take much to influence you buffoons. A cursory inspection of your office is proof enough of your dullwittedness, which made it exceedingly simple to send the clown over on his futile carrot prohibition request to peer pressure your lot into establishing a cleaning routine. Even simpler was it to determine which days were Black’s, considering he wakes with an obvious imprint of his couch’s pillow embroidery plastered across his cheek. But simplest of all was slipping the latest edition of Jade’s Renowned Recipes onto the showoff’s desk the morning after one of Black’s cleaning days.” 

The only thing preventing Licht from completely tearing up the bag was the understanding that it would drown him in those awful carrots, and that would only make him more upset. “There’s no way Nokto would agree to that,” he said to release some of the anger. “Your plan ended up with double the order of carrots in the end.”

“I never deigned to have co-conspirators,” said Chevalier.

It didn’t make sense, and yet with Chevalier it could. But it took such precise managing and calculating of everyone’s opinions and behaviors to have carried out so perfectly.

“But… but you still miscalculated,” Licht said in a small voice. “With me.”

“An unfortunate side effect of your seclusiveness. Lack of data points skews the probability of success. But this defect is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things,” said Chevalier, dropping his face to a frown once more. “Very well, we shall agree to never speak of this encounter beyond this night.”

A victory? Against Chevalier? On a mental battlefield? By all accounts, Licht should have been thrilled, even if this arrangement meant no one would ever know of his triumph. But a hollowness still dominated inside, different from the betrayal he felt from Chevalier’s reveal. He looked to Maron for support, and even his horsey smile wasn’t enough to satisfy his troubled thoughts.

“You still admitted political subterfuge, even if this is an admittedly minor instance of it. How can we guarantee you haven’t done it in the past, or won’t do it again?” asked Licht.

“You have my word that I have not nor shall I ever plot such an endeavor again without the knowledge and approval of the eight,” said Chevalier.

That should have sufficed, but Licht shook his head. “I’ll need some collateral to prove your sincerity.”

Chevalier narrowed his eyes. “What do you require?”

“Half your remaining carrots,” he said. “And tell me why you did it.” Maron perked up and licked his lips greedily while White Horse snorted and rushed beside Chevalier.

“White Horse says one-fourth and no more,” said Chevalier.

“Half,” Licht demanded. “Yves never would have put the double order if he wasn’t so intent on baking the carrot cake for me.”

Chevalier and White Horse stared intently at each other. You may have guessed correctly that these two make up another human-horse bonded pair, but unlike Licht and Maron, they mainly communicated through staring contests to determine the other’s thoughts and feelings. To the onlooker it is a curious sight, and Licht and Maron watched the pair mentally debate like statues for several awkward minutes until at last they broke apart.

“Agreed. But tonight you must vacate this stall and share your grooming tools,” said Chevalier.

“Fine, you can use them after we finish our routine,” said Licht, and the princes set out dividing the carrots equally among themselves and leading their respective horses into opposite stalls. Maron happily gobbled up his share before Licht could finish setting his tools up again in the new stall, and White Horse solemnly poked his head out of the window as Chevalier passed him carrots at regular intervals. A complacent tranquility settled in as the sounds of horse munching, hair brushing, and the late night summer breeze whooshed through the stables, calming its occupants and warming their hearts. While these two princes were inclined to introversion, the silent acknowledgement of horse care they shared bonded them on that night closer than they ever knew in the past.

Once the grooming session was completed, Maron shook his head satisfied as Licht patted his neck. Licht packed his tools neatly in their kit and crossed over to the other stall, ready to hear Chevalier’s story, when he saw his brother holding two long strips of ribbon, one bright yellow and the other bright blue, up to White Horse’s pearly mane.

“They’d both look nice on him,” Licht said as he entered the stall. He extracted a fine brush from the kit and began working out the knots in White Horse’s mane.

Chevalier watched intently, holding the ribbons closer so Licht could see. “But which will look nicer?” he asked.

Another ripple of warmth began to swell in Licht's cheeks, but a breeze hadn’t blown in a while. Did Chevalier actually value Licht’s opinion?

“Well, maybe the blue will look better in the daytime and the yellow at night,” Licht replied. Chevalier hmmed and took the ribbons back, tying them into different intricately shaped bows on his fingers. No doubt Yves would find them charming, and a small smile involuntarily crept onto Licht’s face as he pictured the three of them dressing up White Horse in tiny bows. 

What a ridiculous idea! As if Chevalier would ever agree to that! But still, even though Licht always spent time in the stables alone, the thought of inviting others once in a while wasn’t too indigestible. Is this what it was like to share hobbies? Could this be how Licht could cure his—as Chevalier called it—seclusiveness? They could have been friends all along?

The moment seemed right. He decided to shoot his shot. “Yves has lots more ribbon. And lace, too. Maybe we could all make bows for Maron and White Horse someday?”

“Perhaps,” said Chevalier, all ten of his fingers now bound by bows. “Tell me, do you think White Horse is attractive?”

Or maybe they were never meant to be friends after all.

“Er—” Licht stumbled. “He’s a healthy and well-kept stallion. I could ask for nothing more from him.”

“Not to you. A female.”

“Uhm… You could probably ask Nokto to grab a maid’s opinion?”

Chevalier clenched his fists, crushing the tiny bows. “A female horse,” he hissed.

“Oh!” Licht accidentally pulled too hard on a knot. White Horse turned to him and snorted sharply, dousing his face in chewed-up carrot. Yes, that tranquil moment had definitely passed.

Licht quickly unbuttoned his coat and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. The very next morning, that shirt would be burning in the back of his fireplace. 

“Is White Horse trying to impress a mare?” he asked in an attempt to salvage the conversation. 

“We only agreed I reveal my intention for the carrot theft,” said Chevalier.

“Political subterfuge,” Licht corrected.

“Shall I send you to dreamland instead?” said Chevalier.

“I’ll be sure to ask for the story in the morning then,” said Licht.

Chevalier leaned against the wall and began undoing the bows as he spoke. “Do not interrupt. It began on a trip west last fall. Clavis and I were inspecting numerous citadels along the border, and as luck would have it I received word that the newest volume of a series I was following was set to release the day before our scheduled return to the palace.”

Licht swapped his brush for a flat bristled one and started on White Horse’s neck as he listened. He recalled Chevalier’s trip very clearly. Clavis had made a point to leave behind a timed-trap in his absence. On the morning of the twins’ birthday, hundreds of colorful paper airplanes were released in the roundtable room, each bearing a handwritten message like: “Thinking of you from so far away!” and “Big brother will bring home a bigger gift, just you wait!” and “Say your prayers, Sariel!” Licht occasionally still felt the ghosts of those paper cuts stinging his skin.

Unfazed by Licht’s cringing expression, Chevalier continued. “Despite Clavis’s bemoaning protests, we managed to reach the final location of our tour and complete the inspection with time to spare, albeit at the sacrifice of several nights’ rest. Our fool of a brother was at his wit’s end, but aside from his sanity we arrived back in town with zero casualties. He agreed to retrieve the book before returning to the palace as an excuse to finally be out of my sight, so he broke off from our party as we rode up. And seeing as White Horse knows the way to the gates I saw no imminent danger requiring my remaining alert and allowed myself to rest my eyes.”

Licht tried to remember the exact day of their return and if anything remarkable occurred, but his mind kept coming up with blanks. (He wasn’t allowed to interrupt, but the narrator can. Chevalier said he fell asleep.)

Chevalier finished removing the yellow ribbon from his fingers and crumpled it in his fist. “While resting my eyes, I could still sense the passage of time, and after an appropriate amount of time until when I knew we should have reached the palace had passed I opened them again but found we were in an unfamiliar area I had never visited before. We were near the outskirts of town where the cattle graze. Seventeen houses in total, each unremarkable in size and structure, yet White Horse perched at the fence of the red brick house watching a jet black mare race across the yard. Never before had I seen him so fixated on one task, even when we are in battle. I called his name and pulled his reins but he completely ignored me. I was about alight from his back to admonish him when the woman of the household spotted us from her window, and she let out a piercing scream that would have woken the entire town had it been dark. It was enough to startle White Horse, at any rate. More than seeing you tonight.”

At this, Licht instantly remembered the day. Everyone at the palace heard the scream, and the subsequent chill emanating from Clavis’s smile when he suggested Licht join him to wait by the gates could only be bested by Chevalier’s cold stare. Never before nor since was Licht so grateful for it to be his turn to clean the domestic faction office than on that day. Maron remembered the day because it was the only time Chevalier returned wearing robes stained not in red, but brown. And Chevalier remembered the day because there did not yet exist enough scientific literature in Rhodolite on lobotomy.

Recounting is all well and good, but White Horse preferred matters tending to the future. And while he was used to his master and his soft-spoken brother’s tendencies towards silence, this silence stretching on in their conversation soon bored the stallion. When at last it became too much to bear, White Horse sucked in breath through his teeth, pressed his nose against Chevalier’s head, and released a mighty sneeze that nearly shook the princes off balance. From across the hall, Maron whinnied at White Horse in disapproval, and Licht quickly steadied himself then began patting the horse’s white neck. This served two purposes: calming White Horse’s fury, and giving Licht an excuse to turn away as Chevalier picked globules of horse mucus out of his hair.

It seemed acceptable for Licht to speak now. “So White Horse likes Verona?”

“Who?” Chevalier raked the last of the snot out with the blue ribbon and tossed it onto the remains of the ripped bag.

“The mare. That’s her name,” said Licht.

“Don’t be ridiculous, they have never once interacted for White Horse to develop any feelings of ‘liking’.”

“Fine. He fancies her.”

“Such a useless emotion. Enough of it to lose his head at the screams of her owner,” scoffed Chevalier.

“He’s alright though, isn’t he?” said Licht.

“Only because I had the sense to steady us in time,” said Chevalier. What he conveniently neglected to mention was how after steadying White Horse, the woman raced out of the house waving a broomstick in the air because she didn’t recognize the Second Prince and assumed he was there to horsenap Verona. Before Chevalier could diffuse the situation, White Horse jumped at her advance and fell backwards, landing both himself and his rider in a puddle of mud. Prince Clavis was the only person standing at the gates to witness their soiled return, and he keeps the memory fresh in his mind for days when he feels blue. But there was no reason for Licht to know about it, so Chevalier said, “I have upheld my end of the deal. Pass me a brush.”

“But you didn’t explain the carrots,” said Licht. 

“Do not ask for a story if you are too bleary-eyed to follow along,” said Chevalier. He swiped the brush out of Licht’s hand and began grooming White Horse’s other side. White Horse neighed softly and went back to staring longingly out of the window. 

Rays of false dawn shone from the horizon, layering the first brush stroke of saturation on town. Licht followed White Horse’s gaze out the window towards the pasty colors of the pasture in the distance, just as the signs of a red house came into view.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion truly catching up to him, but Licht didn’t notice Maron trotting up to him until he felt his warm muzzle pressed against the small of his back. Even without facing him, he knew what Maron wanted to say.

“Maron’s friends with Verona,” said Licht. “We visit the horses there every month for a stretch. We could introduce White Horse next time we go, if you want.”

Perhaps the exhaustion caught up to Chevalier as well, because the small part of him that planned to find Licht in the stables tonight tingled with vindication. “What do you require?” he asked.

“I don’t need anything,” said Licht.

“And I do not desire to remain in your debt. Name your price,” said Chevalier.

It is a curious state to find oneself able to demand anything from Prince Chevalier. I can think of several princes who would jump at the opportunity and ask from him all manner of favors. But Licht was a simple secluded sword master equine enthusiast who when asked what he wanted most in the world would probably reply with the most seemingly mundane thing. And yet, it would still make him smile.

“Help me get rid of this cough. That way I can help disrupt the carrot supply chain next time.”

I once wrote a fic in the past when I thought Maron was a mare. If anyone else mistakenly thought he was a lady horse because of that fic, I take full responsibility, that's my bad.

With this fic I tried out a new narrative style. It was out of my comfort zone, but a fun experiment. If anyone has any constructive feedback about it (positive or negative, I want to learn) feel free to leave a comment or an ask. Did it engage you more in the story, did it slow it down, did it make you laugh, did it bore you... whatever you feel like sharing :) Otherwise, thanks for reading.

[dollwrites]

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 — 𝐨𝐛𝐢 𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐮

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!stripper!reader, lapdance, dry humping ( obi gets away with A LOT more than you’re supposed to ), needy!obi, reader has a stage name but no physical descriptions, praise kink, all characters featured are 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ do not repost or translate. please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading <3

𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 ∣ kiss me you animal by burn the ballroom

“Darling!”

it was hardly audible over the thumping bass from the speakers, but you’d heard someone call out for you. you glance over your shoulder; you had been leaning against the bar, chatting up a regular, and pretending to sip on the cocktail he bought you, when one of the newer girls squeezed through the line at the bar, making a bee line for you. “‘Scuse me.” you flashed a smile at the patron, standing up straighter to meet her as she approached. you lean close with your ear inches from her lips so you can hear her over the music.

“Your fire soldier captain’s here. By the door. See?” as she speaks, she points a sharp, manicured nail towards the entrance. your eyeline follows and you find that she’s absolutely right. Captain Obi had wandered in. even with the Saturday night rush, he stood at least a head over everyone; still clad in a plain black tee that was dusted with ash, and his uniform bottoms, the arms of his suit tied like a belt around his hips. that wasn’t usual— he typically came to the club in his civvies.

you frown, reading his tense expression like a book that was opened just for you. brows knit tightly together, eyes dark and sporting black rings; hell, you could almost see how bloodshot they were from where you were standing. he was looking towards the stage, but when he sees that you’re not the one performing, he shuffled inside and headed for an empty table near the back.

“I need to…” you started, biting on your lip, you look at her and she gives you an affirming nod. “Thanks.” you reply, grateful, and press your hand to her bare back, letting her slip into your spot at the bar. you look to the patron with a flirty smile and lean close to his ear. “This is Angel. She’s brand new, and she’s dying to get to know you. Be good to my girl, okay?”

but, you didn’t exactly wait for an answer. you couldn’t. you gave his shoulder a polite pat, before you turned and weaved through the crowd of people, smiling when they said hello to you, but not bothering to stop and chat. if Obi wasn’t there, you would’ve been much more social, but he took priority. maybe it didn’t make sense to the other girls; there were plenty of bigger, richer fish in the sea, but Obi was special. maybe they’d never understand, and you didn’t mind.

as long as they didn’t get in the way.

and they didn’t.

you noticed that, even though Obi was about to sit by himself at a table, the other girls kept their distance— they knew he would send them away anyways; he only ever came for you. one of the waitresses handed him a drink for the wait, but she smiled when she saw you coming, and you did the same to her, mouthing a “thank you” before you were an arm’s length away from him. you approached from behind, reaching out, with your pinky hooking around his thick, calloused forefinger. he turns, a wave of pure relief on his features. he knew it was you. whether he could smell your sugary perfume in the mix with the others, or he knew the silkiness of your touch by heart, it didn’t matter.

and you didn’t have to say anything. you smiled, soft, and gave his finger a little tug, stepping backwards once, twice, until he was stumbling towards you, and then you led him around the tables. careening around them, you felt his finger twitch, trying to hold on to your pinky tighter as he followed you to the champagne room. you only had to give security time to see you, and the pathetic giant toddling behind you, and he stepped aside so you could draw Obi inside, and the door was closed behind, muffling the music and blocking the rest of the club out— leaving you two alone.

you let go, and step over to the bar, setting your clutch purse down on to it. it’d been a busy night, and the purse’s belly bulged with hundreds of crinkled bills stuffed inside. “You want to hold on to that?” you ask, eyeing the drink that he hadn’t even sipped on. he shook his head, though he was only staring at you, and you smile again, gently plucking it from his hand and setting it down beside your clutch. “Sit down, baby,” you cooed; you could still feel him lingering by you. “Get comfortable.”

he did as instructed, albeit a bit reluctant, plopping down on the velvety couch. he was twice the size meant to fit on such, so he always looked like he was sitting on dollhouse furniture. sometimes, it was funny to watch, especially when he was red faced and squirming, but now he fidgeted, his dark eyes deep, black oceans, and it wasn’t funny anymore.

“I need…” he’d hunched forward, his elbows resting on his massive knees. “I need you.”

you’re already sauntering over to him, placing both hands on the expanse of his broad shoulders and urging him to lean back. “I’m right here.” you assure him, waiting until he’s reclined to step up onto the couch. you’d balanced on it so many times in your heels that it was second nature, now. you start slow, resting a knee against his massive shoulder, you lean forward, rolling your body against him, one of your hands delving into his dark tendrils. they were damp to the touch, probably from sweat, and you cradle the back of his head, combing him to drop it back against your palm. he looks up the length of your scantily clad figure, teeth sinking into his lower lip. “Rough day?” you ask, combing through his hair as you drag yourself against him. you can practically feel the heat from whatever fire he’d just stumbled out of. he nods, but he doesn’t speak. he’s much too entranced, too focused on the way your body moved, fluid and graceful as a swan coasting on a sparkling, midnight lake. his hands ghost over your calf muscle, pulled taut as you balanced. typically, the second a customer reached for you, the dance was over, but you could admit to yourself ( and anyone else for that matter ) that Captain Obi Akitaru had special privileges. he could touch, because he never did so to hurt you. his fingers, though rough and split from countless hours of countless days training, always tried to be as kind and soft as one his size and strength could be.

“You can tell me about it.” you murmured, flipping yourself over so you can slide down his chest on your back. his hand follows up the flare of your hip to hold you close as you wiggled your ass against his groin. “I promise I’m a good listener.”

“No,” he whispers into your neck, perhaps a bit too quick, sitting up to press himself flush to your back, “no I don’t want to. I just want you. I just want to be here with you.”

you were happy to be facing away from him, because the way his voice cracked must’ve embarrassed him, he got quiet after that, simply holding on to your hip as you rubbed into him. even with those thick, uniform pants on, you could feel a firm lump against his thigh, hardening significantly when you targeted and slid over it. you’d be lying to tell yourself that it didn’t turn you on, every time you felt his clothed cock and just how hard it got for you. you’d never once seen it, but you knew every inch by heart, from touch alone. “You are,” you affirmed, “feel me?” you reach back to hook your arm around his neck. “Because I can feel you…”

his breath stuttered as he pushed closer to you, holding on to your hip with one hand, and the other grabbing desperately at the couch cushion underneath him. “I feel you.” it was a moan into your neck where he buried his face. you were hyper aware of his lips pressing against your glitter-coated skin, but you didn’t mind. in fact, he was worshipping the sweetest spots on your neck, and breathing heavy, hot air on to them; it felt so good you wished he’d never stop.

“Good,” you whisper; you’re surprised at just how shaky it is, planting your heels on the floor to lean forward. you had to get away from those addictive kisses, otherwise you might forget that you were only meant to be dancing for him. “Good, baby.” he made a quiet sound of disapproval as you bent over to grab your ankles, shaking your ass back and forth in his face, but both of his hands were holding on to your thighs, thumb pads rubbing firm circles over the skin.

“C’mere, Darling.” he pleaded, leaning back again. he didn’t want to let go, but he had to do so to pat his lap. you felt the heat of a blush on your cheeks and it felt… foreign. you’d been working in the club long enough not to blush like a schoolgirl anymore, but there was something in the baritone of his voice, a need so deep that you could feel it like electricity in the air, and it made you want to swoon. “Please.”

you stand up straight, twirling on your heels to face him, and straddle his gargantuan thighs like he wanted, hips oscillating to the faint baseline of the song booming just outside the door. your fingers are in his hair again, combing it back, but this time, both of his arms hook around your waist and pull you closer to him. “Obi—“ you gasp, surprised. his face nuzzled against your breasts his nose dragging along the sequinned bikini top. you could also feel his hips jutting forward, pressing his hard on against your panties. you stilled for a moment, wide eyed.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, voice husky with lust. you knew he didn’t want to, but if you told him to let go, he would.

you thought about it.

you knew you should say yes.

mixing business with pleasure was a terrible idea.

but you were so wet.

but you shook your head, and eased back down against his bulge, listening to the way he sucked in a harsh breath. “Don’t stop.” you replied, grabbing his hair at the root. fuck it, you thought. “Obi, don’t stop.”

he moans, desperate, pulling you down against his needy rutting, one arm snaking up to hold one of your shoulders, and the other keeping a tight vice on your waist. your back arches, rocking your hips to meet his grinding, and you tilt your head back, eyelids fluttering. the wet patch on your panties left your scent on his groin with each, furious buck of his hips. your lingerie was a flimsy shield from the roughness of his uniform, or the hardness of the cock that he used your body to tend to, so each slide over his lap had you mewling and squirming with pleasure.

“Moan for me again,” Obi begs, stifling his own sounds of ecstasy by killing them in his throat. “You sound… so beautiful… let me hear it again.”

you acquiesce with a happy purr when he litters your chest with eager love bites, and you pull on his hair with a tight fist, biting down on your lip to relieve some of the pressure building between your hips. “O—Obi, please… that feels good… you feel good…”

Obi grunts in approval, muscles in his herculean biceps bulging, veins poking out, as they contract. you’d never been locked in a hold this strong, and you didn’t mind it at all. if anything, you’d never felt safer.

“Just like that, baby,” you moaned again, back arching. his rutting was becoming more and more fervent, his mouth more passionate and insatiable as he nudges your top aside to bring your breast into his mouth and clamp his teeth on your nipple. “Fuck!” it’s a harsh whisper, the knots tying over and over in your belly pulling tight. you almost can’t believe it— you’re going to cum from this. “Obi! Cumming, oh god, I’m cumming!”

he holds you tighter when you come undone, bear hugging your much smaller frame so you can’t run away from euphoria, and instead ride out every, last wave of mind blowing pleasure, calling his name over and over, your eyes closing under the rush.

it was after several moments of shuddering and heavy panting that you finally came back, and realized you’d soaked not only your panties, but his uniform as well, and you sheepishly press a hand to it. “Sorry about that.” you mumble, but he shakes his head, letting go of you to cup one hand over yours.

“That’s not only you, sweetheart.” he replied, “I came minutes before you did.”

his massive chest was still heaving, but you were pleased to see his usual smile was tickling the corners of his lips.

your blush deepened in heat and magnitude. why hadn’t he told you? did he think that he owed it to you to make sure you enjoyed yourself, too? you mirror the smile, your own just as genuine, as you consider how lucky you were to have been working the first night he stumbled into the club the year prior.

you clear your throat, shifting on his lap, and tap his chest with both hands, “Well, luckily for you, I think my legs are pretty much jello right now, so we’re going to sit right here like this until I’m confident I won’t break my neck trying to wobble back out onto the floor.”

[hookedonapirate]

I’LL WAIT A LIFETIME OR TWO

Summary:

At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.

Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn’t ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?

The Idea of You AU

Rated: M

AO3

Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6

CHAPTER SIX

Colors bleed into one another like a masterfully painted canvas—streaks of pink and orange fading to purple as the sun dips into the horizon. Killian and I are poring over the menus in a cozy booth tucked away in a recessed alcove on the terrace, the ocean waves crashing into the shore. Twinkling lights are strung through the trees, illuminating the lush gardens. Flames flicker in the fire pits dotting the landscape, and soft music drifts through the air, creating an enchanting atmosphere.

His eyes rove over my red dress before his gaze catches mine, and he flashes me one of those heart-stopping grins that has my stomach doing a somersault. “Swan, have I told you how ravishing you look tonight?”

I manage a laugh, the familiar warmth creeping into my cheeks. “About four times already.” Twice during the car ride, once after he handed the keys to the valet and once again when we were shown to our seats. Though, neither time failed to make my cheeks heat.

“Is this place okay?”

I set down the menu and sit back, resting my hands in my lap as my eyes sweep over the alcove, taking in the fairy tale setting—a perfect blend of elegance and intimacy, with dark wood accents, plush seating and candlelit tables, the air filled with the scent of blooming flowers, sea salt and delicious food. “It’s perfect.” My eyes come back to his, lips twitching into a smirk. “But honestly, you could’ve taken me to Mcdonalds and I’d be happy as a clam.”

He chuckles, a deep, hearty sound that sends goosebumps over my skin.

He thinks I’m joking.

“I almost opted for Nobu, but I wasn’t sure if you liked sushi,” he says.

My eyes widen. “Are you kidding? I love sushi.”

His smile is a thing of beauty, lighting up his features in a way that rivals the setting sun. He extends his hand under the table, seeking mine, and when our fingers intertwine, electricity zips through me. His touch is warm, firm yet tender. “Good to know for next time.”

Next time?

There goes my stomach again, doing another somersault.

I love the idea of next time.

“I should’ve known you loved sushi. Henry gets his good taste from his beautiful mum.”

A blushing smile crosses my lips, and I squeeze his hand, my heart pounding as I fight off the urge to pull him closer and kiss him. Even though we’re cocooned in a pocket of privacy within the restaurant’s lush gardens, we’re not entirely invisible. A few of Killian’s acquaintances have already made their way over, each receiving a nod or a handshake from him.

When he introduced me as his art consultant, I played along, grateful for the anonymity the title afforded me. I have no desire to become tabloid fodder, especially not when my heart is tangled in a situation it shouldn’t be. I’m supposed to be on a date with a furniture shop owner, not dining with a rockstar.

As we chat, I’m acutely aware of Killian’s hand in mine, the warmth of his skin, the strength of his grip, and I’m imagining what it would be like to be alone with him—truly alone. The possibilities send a rush of heat through my veins. 

When his thumb traces gentle circles on my skin, tiny shivers shoot up my arm. The contact is tender, intimate, and I can’t help the way my breath catches just a little. Then he frees my hand briefly, making me miss his warmth, but it’s only long enough for the server to approach, jot down our orders and retrieve the menus from us.

“So, where is Henry tonight?” The softness in Killian’s voice matches the touch of his hand as he slips his palm into mine, threading our fingers together once more.

“He’s staying over at Roland’s house.” I take a sip of my pinot noir, savoring the rich bouquet of ripe cherries, a hint of spice and subtle earthy undertones. But the alcohol does nothing to soothe the fluttering in my chest.

He arches an eyebrow. “Is that the lad who was at Coachella with you?”

I nod, smiling. “Yeah, they’ve been best friends since elementary school.”

He leans back, a half-smirk playing on his lips as he watches me with an intensity that feels like it could pierce right through our casual facade. “That’s nice.” His eyes narrow slightly, a playful glint in them. “Did you tell Henry I was at your house for lunch the other day?”

I can’t help but laugh at the thought, picturing Henry’s reaction. His jaw would be on the floor, his expressive green eyes would grow impossibly wide and he’d launch into a barrage of questions, each one more incredulous than the last. “No way. He would lose his mind if he knew you were there. He’d probably also be furious with me for not including him.”

His thumb strokes the back of my hand beneath the table, a clandestine gesture that sends ripples of warmth through me. “Will you tell him you ditched your date to have dinner with me?”

I sigh, shaking my head. “No, probably not.” My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass, the truth settling heavy on my tongue. “I wouldn’t even know what to tell him at this point.” How could I possibly explain to my son that the man whose name alone would send him into a frenzy is the same man who turns my insides into liquid?

“Fair enough.” Killian squeezes my hand gently. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand answers or declarations, and I’m grateful for it. Grateful for this moment of reprieve, where I can simply exist beside him without the weight of explanations hanging over us. “You don’t have to tell him anything right now. We’re just having dinner, right?” There’s a lilt of playfulness in his voice that makes his British accent even more pronounced, a wink accompanying his words.

I smile wryly, the tension easing from my shoulders. “Right. Just dinner.”

But we both know this isn’t just dinner. Just like lunch wasn’t just lunch.

“What about Elsa?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

I can picture her now, her raised eyebrow, the knowing look she’d give me if she were here, witnessing Killian’s thumb caress mine. She would see right through our charade of “just dinner” without missing a beat.

As I’m about to respond, the waiter arrives with a basket of warm bread and a dish of herb-infused olive oil. Killian thanks him and offers the basket to me before taking a piece.

I break mine in half, dipping it into the olive oil.

We take a bite, and I savor the warm, fluffy texture as I continue our conversation. “I told her we went out to lunch but that it was only business. I think she’s on to me.” I’ll have to figure out how to tell her and Henry about Killian later. For now, I let myself be swept away by the moment, the uncertainties of tomorrow fading into the background.

“So, when do I get to meet her?”

My heart flutters, betraying my calm exterior. The idea of him meeting Elsa, facing her scrutiny, her silver-blonde hair likely to bristle like an indignant cat’s fur, is both terrifying and exhilarating. “She won’t be happy when she finds out I ditched Walsh for you. She’ll probably interrogate you to find out what your intentions are. Henry will too, just so you know.”

Killian’s chuckle rumbles through the alcove, warm and rich. “Can’t wait.”

I arch a brow. “You’re really up for that? Elsa can be pretty fierce, and Henry—well, he’s very protective.”

“I can handle it.” He flashes a smile, one that says he’s faced tougher critics than my protective entourage. “Besides, I have nothing to hide. Just ask Google.” The twinkle in his eye tells me he relishes the challenge—a man used to the spotlight, unfazed by scrutiny. Yet beneath the bravado, there’s a sincerity that makes me believe he’s not just playing the part. Killian Jones might be an open book to the world, but he’s still full of stories yet to be told. And I find myself wanting to read every page.

I smirk, my finger tracing the rim of my wine glass. “I could…but what I want to know are the secrets I can’t find on Google.”

A smile, disarming and far too charming, stretches across his lips as he leans back in his seat and rubs his chin, thinking for a moment. “Alright, here’s one—my moniker as a kid was Hook.”

Laughter bubbles up from my chest as I picture a young Killian, a boy full of spirit and spunk, bearing that nickname. “Hook, huh? Like Captain Hook? How did you get that nickname?”

His eyes, those deep pools of blue, hold mine, and in them, there’s a flicker of the boy he once was. “From a fishing trip with my brother Liam. We were out on the lake, and I was determined to show off my fishing skills. When I finally caught a big one, I thought I’d impress him by handling it myself. But as I was trying to remove the hook, the fish gave a sudden flip of its tail, and the hook ended up in the back of my hand. Liam couldn’t stop laughing, and from that day on, I was ‘Hook’.”

“Oh my God, that sounds painful.”

“It wasn’t my finest moment, but it certainly left a mark.” He holds up his free hand, showing the small scar on the back of it. “And a nickname.”

I lean in, my fingers gently tracing the rugged scar. My brows knit together involuntarily as I look up at him with a teasing smile. “That’s your big, juicy secret?”

“Well, maybe not juicy by tabloid standards, but it’s a part of me you wouldn’t find in any magazine. Liam and I made a deal long ago to not share embarrassing stories with the world. Some things we like to have for ourselves.”

I shake my head and laugh. “You know, I was expecting something more...I don’t know, scandalous?”

A playful twinkle lights his eyes as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “If you want scandalous, I could tell you about the time my ex-girlfriend, Milah, a French actress, dumped me for Robert Gold.”

My eyes widen, my wineglass poised in the air before it can make it to my lips. “Wait, Robert Gold? As in the American singer and pianist?”

He nods regrettably, a shadow of some past hurt crossing his face. “Milah and I met before I became famous. She was friends with Mary Margaret, who had just started dating David at the time, and came to one of our gigs. We bonded over our love for music—she studied piano and classical music before going into acting.”

I nod, finally taking a sip of my wine.

“We kept our relationship a secret for a while.”

“But then she left you for Robert?”

“Aye.” His eyes meet mine, a storm brewing in their depths—a tempest that speaks of betrayal and heartache weathered and survived, like that of my own. “Apparently, I wasn’t mature or famous enough for her.” He lets out a soft chuckle, but there’s an edge to it that speaks volumes. “It stung, but then Midnight Moon started gaining popularity, we signed with a big record label and ended up outselling Robert in albums.” A sly grin returns, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not that I was keeping track or anything.”

“Of course.” I smirk, understanding all too well the bittersweet triumph of proving oneself against the doubts of an ex.

Killian shrugs. “And it wasn’t until I became famous that Milah started reaching out to me again. But I haven’t responded to any of her calls or texts. Nor do I plan to.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Ah, becoming famous—the perfect revenge on your exes.”

He chuckles. “It really is.”

Then I think about something for a moment, recalling the last time I saw a picture of Robert Gold on social media. “But isn’t Gold like sixty?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I wince, hoping I haven’t prodded a tender wound too harshly. “Not that I’m one to judge someone’s age,” I add quickly.

“Aye, he is. But Milah…she’s a bit older than me. Thirty, to be exact. At the time we were dating, I was eighteen and she was twenty-four.”

I laugh, raising an eyebrow teasingly. “So, you have a type?”

“A type?” He shakes his head. “Not really. I actually liked Milah.” His expression softens as he leans in even closer, the distance between us diminishing further, and I’m caught in the gravitational pull. “But now I find myself drawn to blondes with eyes the color of emeralds.” He meets my gaze with a twinkle in his eye. “Okay, that’s a lie, there’s only one blonde—one woman—I’m interested in.”

My heart doesn’t just skip a beat—it falters, flutters, then thunders back to life with a ferocity that leaves me breathless. A wave of warmth cascades through me, pooling in my stomach and spreading to the tips of my fingers intertwined with his. His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand.

“I hope I didn’t offend you that day at Coachella by mistaking you for Henry’s older sister.” He chuckles at himself. “I genuinely thought you were.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “No, not at all. I took it as a compliment.”

“Good. But don’t worry, I won’t ask how old you are because it’s impolite and also because it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Well, I just turned forty last month,” I admit, my cheeks heating. “Ready to run yet?” I ask, afraid he might think of me as a middle-aged woman clinging to the fringes of her youth.

He doesn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.” He graces me with a reassuring smile, his eyes full of warmth. “I told you, it doesn’t matter to me.”

My eyes lock with his, and I find myself ensnared in his cerulean depths that seem to hold galaxies of unspoken words. The air between us crackles, each second stretched taut with anticipation. I can’t help but wonder where the night will take us, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I just want to enjoy our time together, no matter how it ends.

Our server returns with sautéed lump crab cakes and a watermelon salad with feta and mint. After he leaves, we eat our food, falling back into easy conversation.

“My favorite place as a kid was this old lighthouse near our home,” Killian replies when I ask him about his childhood. “There was something about it—standing tall and resilient against the chaos of the sea. It always made me feel safe when I was inside it, like it could weather any storm. And now, I feel like that lighthouse sometimes. Trying to survive all the crowds and chaos. Trying to survive the storm.”

His words hit me like a tidal wave, crashing against my heart and leaving me speechless. His metaphor is profound, striking a chord deep within me. “That’s so beautiful,” I breathe, my voice almost a whisper. “I mean, it’s beautifully put. And I can definitely see how you would feel like a lighthouse braving the storm in your line of work. I could never do what you do. And you make it look so easy.”

He blushes, his lips quirking up into a smile. “Thank you, love.” He squeezes my hand, the tips of his ears just as red as his cheeks. “The lighthouse actually inspired a song I’m writing.”

My curiosity is piqued. “I’d love to hear it.”

“It’s still a work in progress. And honestly, I don’t know if I’ll share it with the band. It’s something I wrote for myself.”

I nod. “I get that. Some things are just too personal to share. But if you ever feel like letting someone else hear it, I’d be honored.”

His eyes soften. “That means a lot. Maybe one day, I’ll play it for you.”

“Whenever you’re ready.” I find myself even more drawn to him, wanting to pick the creative part of his brain, the artistic side of him. “So, is that where you did most of your writing? When you were at the lighthouse?” 

He chuckles, scratching behind his ear. “Actually, no. I do my best writing when I have the telly on in the background and an electric guitar in my hands. If someone saw me, they would think I was watching the telly while playing the guitar, but what I’m actually doing is coming up with song lyrics. Something about the noise helps me focus.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s so funny. That’s exactly how Henry does his homework. He always has the TV on, his laptop in front of him and his music blaring—your music blaring. But me? I can’t think if there’s a fan humming in the background. I need complete silence to concentrate.”

He nods, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “What about you, Emma? What was your childhood like?”

I take a deep breath, smiling softly as memories flood back. “Well, I grew up in a small town. My childhood was pretty normal, I guess. My parents were always supportive, but they were also pretty strict.” Their expectations were like the masterpieces they so loved—to be protected and preserved. “My father’s an art history professor at Harvard. My mother was a curator. She’s retired now.”

“Art is the family business, then?” he asks, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Sort of, yes.” My answer comes out softer than intended, a hint of nostalgia threading through the words. “Their worlds revolved around art, and I got swept up in it long before I knew how to walk.”

“Did you attend Harvard?”

“I went to Brown. Then Columbia for my master’s.”

“Brown and Columbia,” he muses, lips curling into a smile. “That’s quite impressive, Swan.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Thank you,” I murmur, the words almost lost to the soft music.

“Did that piss off the professor?” His eyebrow arches in playful curiosity, his voice low and smooth. “Not going to Harvard?”

“A little.” A smile finds its way to my lips at the memory of my father’s stunned silence when I told him about Brown. It had been my first step out of his shadow, my own declaration of independence.

Killian’s eyes lock with mine, gleaming with mirth and something more—understanding, perhaps. He gets it, the need to forge one’s path, even if it means disappointing those we love. He knows what it’s like to choose the unexpected road, to chase a dream no one else can see but you. “Probably not as much as blowing off Cambridge to join a rock band.”

I laugh. “No, probably not.”

Once our glasses are empty, he refills them from the bottle chilling in ice. “Did you have a favorite place as a kid? Somewhere you could hide from your parents?”

I nod. “I loved spending time outdoors, exploring the woods and fields near our house. And there was this old oak tree I used to climb up and sit on one of the sturdy branches, sketching the landscape. I was always drawing—anything and everything. ”

His eyes light up. “You draw?”

I nod, my cheeks warming. “I do.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Swan. Can I see some of your work?”

“Maybe someday. I haven’t drawn much lately, though. Running the gallery keeps me pretty busy.”

He eyes me thoughtfully. “You should make time for it. It’s important to keep doing what you love.”

His words hit me with an unexpected force, and I smile. “I’ll have more time this summer. Henry’s going to camp next month at Jameson Ranch.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he goes there every year. He loves everything there, the horseback riding, the rock climbing, the archery. I waited for the year when he’d say he’s too old, but it never happened. Now, this is his last year.”

“Sounds like an amazing camp.”

I nod. “It really is. I’m glad he gets to enjoy it one last time before he graduates next year.”

“Does he have any plans after graduation?”

I chuckle, lightly teasing, “Hopefully, they don’t include ditching college to start a rock band.” I raise an eyebrow playfully at Killian, who feigns offense, his hand over his heart in mock hurt.

“I’m kidding. Honestly, I’d be proud of him no matter what he does after high school.”

He smiles, taking a sip of his wine.

“But to answer your question, he’s been talking about going to LA Film School.”

Killian raises his brows, his eyes lighting up like the stars that have begun to pepper the evening sky. “Film school? Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah. He’s always had a knack for storytelling.”

“I bet he’ll do amazing. And how do you feel about him moving away for school?”

“I’ll hate it,” I admit with a laugh. “But I want him to pursue his dreams. Besides, he won’t be too far.”

“He can always come back during breaks and summers,” Killian reassures me with a nod.

“Yeah, it’ll be an adjustment, but I’m sure he’ll be ready to get out on his own and not have to live with his mom anymore.”

He chuckles. “I’m sure he’ll miss you like crazy when he’s gone.”

The waiter arrives with our entrées—herb-crusted salmon for Killian and a ribeye steak for me.

As we take our first bites, the flavors burst on my tongue—rich and perfectly seasoned, a hum of contentment escaping my lips.

Killian watches me with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Delicious.”

We eat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, stealing glances between bites.

“So, Henry and film school,” Killian says, returning to our earlier conversation. “Do you think he knows what kind of films he wants to make?”

I take a sip of my wine, loving the fact he’s asking about Henry and not just me. And even though I easily got bored listening to Walsh go on about his furniture shop, I’d be happy if Killian only spoke about himself. I could listen to him talk all day. “He’s still figuring that out, but he loves sci-fi and fantasy.”

Killian nods and smiles. “Ah, my favorite genres.” He takes another bite of his fish. “Oh, and by the way, I Googled that Ghost scene you were telling me about.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“I just have one question.” He holds up a finger, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Do potters always stroke the mold like that when throwing?”

I almost choke on my wine and laugh. “Uh, no. I think they were going for a steamy scene without going all pornographic.”

He chuckles, his cheeks red. “I figured as much.”

Finally, we’re served crème brûlée for dessert. The top is perfectly caramelized, with a thin, crisp layer of sugar that cracks under the spoon to reveal the creamy custard underneath.

I take my first bite and let out a small moan. The combination of the crunchy caramel top and the smooth vanilla custard is heavenly. I feed him a bite, and the way his eyes roll back, the rough groan he makes, sends heat to my core. I have to squeeze my thighs together to curb the temptation to have him for my dessert. At least for now, while we’re in public.

When the bill is paid, there’s a knot of dread in my stomach at the thought our evening might be drawing to a close soon.

Killian moves closer to me, his voice low and husky. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” My stomach flutters with nerves at the prospect of what his question might be.

“Please, feel free to say no if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure here.” Hesitation flickers in his mesmerizing blue eyes, so I place my hand on his leg, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“I promise I’ll say no if I’m not up for it.”

“Would you want to come back to my hotel room? It’s just a little more private there…”

I pause, the final bite of the crème brûlée halfway to my lips as I turn my head to look at him, sincerity in his gaze. The air between us thickens, rich with unspoken possibilities, and something stirs inside me, a longing I’ve kept at bay, one that’s been restrained by caution and past pain. But Killian has a way of crumbling the walls I’ve built around myself.

I finish the bite of dessert, the spoon clinking against the porcelain as I set it down. I lean back, folding my arms. “Trying to get me alone, Jones?”

A rosy pink blush paints his cheeks. “Maybe I am.”

I can’t help but laugh as he gives me the same answer I gave him the other day when he asked me if I was flirting with him.

“And what are your intentions once you get me alone?”

He chuckles and wets his lips with his tongue, leaning closer. He wraps an arm around my shoulders, his voice dark, almost a whisper. “Well, I watched you eat that dessert…the way you licked your lips and made those sexy noises…the way you kissed me the other day…”—His gaze moves to my mouth, his eyes ablaze with desire, his thumb caressing my shoulder—“and I really want that wicked mouth of yours on mine again. But honestly, I’d be happy to simply continue chatting.” The easy grin fades, replaced by something far more telling—a seriousness that belies his usual charm. “So, my intentions are whatever you wish them to be, love.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Really?” I challenge, my teeth catching on my bottom lip in an attempt to stifle the smirk that threatens to break free. “Whatever I wish?” My efforts are futile, it curls the edges of my lips regardless. “Alright then, how about you perform a song and dance number on this table?”

He arches a brow. “That’s your wish?”

“That’s my wish.”

He gives a nonchalant shrug, his cerulean eyes dancing with amusement. He launches from his seat, and before I know it, he’s halfway on the table. I reach out and grab his arm to stop him, giggles bubbling up from my throat at the thought of him actually going through with it. “I was kidding.” As he settles back into his seat, I narrow my eyes at him. “I can’t believe you were actually going to do it.”

His head tilts back slightly, and those piercing blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Swan, you do realize you’re asking a rock star who’s used to outrageous requests and performing in public, right? You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to shock me.”

“Is that so?” I tease with a devilish smirk, placing my hand on his chest, feeling it beat under my palm.

He chuckles. “That is the most mischievous grin I’ve ever seen.”

My cheeks heat.

“What am I going to do with you, Swan?”

“Apparently, whatever I want you to do.” It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to be swept up like this—since I’ve let someone see the side of me that isn’t all business and pragmatism. Despite how flushed I am from all this flirtatious banter, I manage to make it out of the booth. I look over my shoulder. “You coming, Jones?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grabs his jacket and follows behind me.

When he catches up to me, I have to refrain from touching him until we get into his car. I can tell he’s just as tortured by the way he’s running a hand through his hair and looking over at me, a hunger sparking in those deep blue eyes.

Once we’re outside, the cool breeze sweeps around us, and I try to rub the goosebumps from my arms.

"Here, love.” Without missing a beat, Killian shrugs off his jacket and holds it open behind me, allowing me to slip my arms into the sleeves. He adjusts it on my shoulders and rubs my covered arms. The leather is warm from his body heat and smells faintly of his cologne, a comforting mix of spices and something uniquely him. "Can't have you freezing out here."

I pull the jacket closer around me, grateful for the warmth and the gesture. "Thanks, Killian." I smile at him. The jacket is a little big on me, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, but it's perfect. "Won't you be cold, though?"

He shakes his head, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Don't worry about me, Swan.” He wraps his arm around me and pulls me a little closer. “If I get cold, you’ll keep me warm, right?”

I roll my eyes and laugh, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Ever the charmer," I reply, leaning into him as we wait for the valet to retrieve Killian’s car.

As soon as we’re in, his hand quickly finds its way under the skirt of my dress and around my thigh, and my hand finds its way onto his shoulder. But there’s too much distance between us.

He brings me back to my car at Blair’s, and I follow him on the twenty-minute drive to Sunset Tower, which stands tall against the cityscape. We agreed it’s better to arrive separately in case paparazzi are lurking around. I wait a few moments in my Bug after he disappears inside, my heart pounding. I check my hair in the mirror and make sure there's no food in my teeth about four times while I gather the courage. I want this, I know I want this, I’m just hoping he won’t take one look at me without my clothes on and run away. Or worse, give me a pity fuck.

I shake away the doubts clouding my mind. Killian is not like that, and I know this. Unlatching the car door, I step out and head inside the hotel. I may not know him very well, but each time we talk, it’s so easy, so comfortable. We don’t have to force the conversation, it just flows naturally. We’re not two people with sixteen years between us, we’re just two people drawn to each other. And the more I get to know him, the more I see the kindness in his heart. The man behind the rockstar persona.

Once inside, I step into the elevator and press the button for his floor. As I ascend to the top, my heart flutters with excitement and nerves. I check my reflection on the reverse camera setting on my phone and take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. When the doors part, I step out and make my way down the corridor.

Tiny, Killian’s loyal bodyguard, stands watch at the end of the hallway, his hawk-like eyes scanning me briefly before he nods in recognition. Whether he knows what might transpire beyond the door to Killian’s hotel suite, he gives no indication.

Returning his nod, I continue down the hall—my heart pounding like a drum against my chest with every step closer to the suite number Killian had shared earlier. Taking a fortifying breath, I rap lightly on the polished wooden door.

Before I have time to talk myself out of this, it swings open and he’s standing before me, flashing one of his heart-melting grins.

“Hi, Swan.” He steps aside to let me in.

“Hi.” I manage a smile of my own, a thrill shooting up my spine as I enter his room, my stilettos clicking on the shiny hardwood floor.

He closes the door behind me, shutting out the rest of the world.

Finally, we’re alone again.

I’ve been waiting for this moment since he left my house. I couldn’t actually believe our kiss was a one-time thing as I was saying it out loud. I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore my feelings for this man.

“Would you like something to drink, love?”

I shake my head and slip off his jacket, throwing it over a chair, his eyes roaming over me from head to toe.

All I want is him.

My heart races as we gravitate toward each other, closing the distance between us.

On the way here, I had questioned whether we would just chat or make out once we got here, or whether I’d even make it here at all, but now that he’s standing here in front of me, looking like he wants to devour me, I’m powerless to resist him—and truthfully, I don’t want to.

Our eyes are locked, the air crackling with a raw, electric charge that’s been building all night. I reach up, my hands finding the nape of his neck, pulling him down toward me. Our lips meet, a soft brush at first that quickly ignites into something more urgent, more demanding. The kiss deepens, and I taste the hint of the wine and crème brûlée we shared. I cup his cheeks in my hands, our mouths moving together with a familiarity that belies the short time we’ve known each other.

He wraps his arms around me as I snake mine around the back of his neck. My breath catches in my throat as his palms glide over the fabric of my dress, mapping the contours of my body as if committing it to memory. I’m already moaning softly into his mouth, lost in the sensations of him, the warmth of his body pressing against mine, the stubble on his jaw scratching softly at my skin, and the way his hands roam across my back, tracing the curve of my spine.

We break the kiss briefly, both of us sucking the same air into our lungs before reclaiming each other’s lips. I lean into him, deepening the kiss—his tongue hot and soft on mine, eager but not too much. It’s a dance we’re engaged in, and every move he makes only draws me in deeper.

He turns me around with a gentle insistence, and I gulp in air, my heart pounding against my ribcage, erratic and wild. His hands slip under the hem of my dress, his fingers brushing against my thighs, teasing, promising, until they find the silk barrier of my panties.

A gasp escapes me, unbidden, as he dips his hand beneath the fabric, his touch bold and unapologetic against my bare nub. I reach a hand behind him, cradling the back of his head as he kisses my earlobe, his breaths hot and heavy against my skin. Holding on to him is all I can do to not melt completely under the deft movements of his fingers, each stroke unraveling me even more. I feel like a teenager all over again.

“Swan…” His voice is low and seductive in my ear, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cool air of the hotel room. “Gods, you’re soaked.”

I bite my bottom lip and close my eyes as I arch into him, seeking more of the exquisite touch, my body betraying its eagerness for his skilled caresses. “Killian.” His name is a whispered plea, a prayer, on my lips as his fingers explore with an artist’s finesse.

It’s surreal, being here with him in his hotel room. Out there, in the real world, I’m Emma Swan—pragmatic, collected, an art dealer, a mother. But here, under Killian’s masterful touch, I’m coming undone, my usual poise giving way to raw desire. He’s young, magnetic, a rockstar used to captivating crowds, yet here, it’s just us, and he plays me like the strums of his guitar—each note building to a crescendo only he can command. The world falls away, leaving only the here and now, the heat of his touch, the pounding of my heart and the insatiable hunger that builds with every passing second.

He dips his head, his breath hot against the nape of my neck as he unclasps the strap of my dress with his free hand, letting the top fall away. He reaches under my bra cup, his hand shaping my breast, his thumb toying with my nipple as he kisses my neck. I tremble, caught in a web of sensations spun by his deft movements. My moans fill the room, unrestrained and foreign, like the sounds belong to another woman entirely—one unshackled by past fears or reservations. It’s been so long since I’ve moaned like this. In fact, I don’t think I ever moaned like this with Neal, yet Killian’s able to coax the sounds out with only his fingers.

Both of my hands are reaching behind us, fisting his hair for purchase as I completely give in to this man. He finds a rhythm, a dance of fingertips against the most sensitive parts of me, driving me wild, pushing me toward a precipice I’m all too willing to tumble over. The edge looms closer with each stroke, and I cling to him, lost in the storm he’s conjured inside me.

“Killian!” I scream toward the heavens as I ride his fingers, my walls pulsing around them. And I’m there, crumbling to pieces, coming all over his hand, and I’m gasping for air, my fingers tightening in his hair, clinging to him as he holds me sturdy in his arms.

Holy fuck.

That was…

My brain is too much like mushy oatmeal to put together the words to describe it.

Killian just holds me for a moment as I catch my breath, waiting for my heart to slow.

Once I’m able to move again, I manage to turn around and wrap my arms around the back of his neck, wanting to kiss the smug grin off his face. His arms encircle me, and he lifts me with an ease that sends another jolt of desire through my veins. The world tilts and spins around me, but I’m anchored by his gaze, his eyes holding mine. As he carries me across the room, our lips crash together again, a messy, perfect collision, his heartbeat thundering against mine, a mirror of my own escalating pulse.

My head hits the pillow as he sets me down gently, our bodies and lips still fused. I work at the buttons of his shirt, craving the warmth of his skin against mine. The fabric parts beneath my touch, revealing the taut muscles that ripple on his torso. His hands are on me now, skimming over my sides, each brush of his fingertips like a match struck against my skin, igniting a fire within me I had long forgotten could burn so fiercely. He reaches for my dress, and my breath catches in my throat as the red fabric and black bra falls away, leaving me vulnerable under his heated gaze. With trembling hands, I help him shed the rest of his clothes, each piece discarded like layers of ourselves peeling away.

I lie back on my elbows, allowing him to slide off my panties—the last piece of fabric separating us. There’s a pang of self-awareness as I think about how much my body has changed since I got pregnant with Henry. Stretch marks map across my lower belly like silver rivers, my breasts are fuller now, no longer pert like they once were.

But when I catch Killian’s eyes, darken with desire, and his cock standing at full attention, hard and throbbing, any lingering uncertainty evaporates. His hungry gaze roams over every inch of me—the stretch marks, the fullness of my breasts, every scar and imperfection—as if they’re elements in an exquisite artwork he can’t wait to explore further. He wants me. All of me—the woman who carried a child within her womb—every curve, every scar, every part of me life has shaped.

My nipples are hard peeks under his gaze, begging for the warmth of his touch. His mouth. His tongue.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he lifts my foot and unbuckles the straps of my shoes one by one, his ocean blues not even focused on his task but roving up my naked curves instead, my center spread and bare to him, glistening with a hunger I haven’t felt in years.

Once my shoes are gone, he climbs onto the bed and settles between my thighs with a devilish glint, hiking my legs over his shoulders. He leans in, leaving soft kisses over my thighs and nub leaving me shivering in anticipation, my breath catching. He traces my slick folds with his lips, his breaths warm over my flushed skin, my heart like a jackhammer. Our eyes are locked in a steely gaze, but once he parts my thighs further apart, his grip bruising my skin in the most delicious way, and he slides his tongue through my slit, all bets are off. My elbows collapse underneath me, and my eyes are rolling to the back of my head, his tongue exploring with slow deliberate strokes, eliciting gasps and moans that echo through the quiet room.

For some reason, I’d thought he might be overeager, given his age, and not used to giving pleasure as much as receiving it, and maybe that was just my previous experiences. But, boy, was I wrong. Because, there’s reverence in each stroke and nibble, his mouth worshiping me, coaxing me closer to the brink with each flick of his tongue over my aching clit, delving into my depths as if he could find every secret I’ve ever kept hidden there.

“Killian!” I can’t help but cry out, the words ripped from my throat as electrifying heat consumes me. A shuddering “Yesss!” escapes, my thighs clamping around his head like a vice, involuntary while my hands become entangled in the dark tresses of his hair.

Even as waves of ecstasy begin to ebb, he continues his ministrations, languid licks that draw out the lingering tremors of my orgasm. His tongue moves with an unhurried grace, a contrast to the rapid beating of my heart.

Heat lingers on my skin, a delicious aftershock that trembles through me.

His lips start a blazing hot path from the apex of my thighs to my stomach, his mouth a brand, searing his claim on me. Every kiss imprinted on my skin burns brighter than the last, leaving no part of me untouched or undiscovered. His lips trace delicate patterns across my abdomen, pausing to dip into my navel before continuing their ascent.

The curve of each rib becomes a stepping stone as he climbs closer to my breasts, where he lingers, lavishing each contour and peak with his tongue. His kisses are equally soft and demanding around the areolas before he draws my nipples into his hot mouth, pleasure jolting through me.

By the time he reaches my lips, I’m a panting, trembling mess underneath him, our bare skin meeting, the contact sparking a fire that threatens to consume us both.

“God, everything about you is perfect,” he breathes, his voice completely wrecked. His words are exactly what a forty-year-old woman wants to hear about her naked body, but I know it’s not empty flattery. It’s the truth etched in the lines of his face, in the fire in his eyes, the way he holds my gaze when he says it. 

His erection presses against my thigh, hard and insistent, ready to claim me.

And God, do I want him to claim me. Every inch.

“Should I wear a condom?” 

Right. A condom—something I hadn’t even thought about. God, it’s been too long, I feel like a virgin all over again. 

“Do you have anything I should be aware of?” I counter, my voice surprisingly steady.

He shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine. “No, and you? Have you been with anyone since Neal?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m on the pill.” I glide my hand between us, wrapping my fingers around his stiff shaft, stroking softly, his smooth, velvety length easily sliding through my fist. “And I want to feel you inside me.”

He groans as he kisses me sweetly on the lips, a grin spreading across his face. “I want to feel you, too.”

With that settled, I place him at my entrance, and the connection sends sparks flying through me. After thirteen years of Neal and three years of nothing, Killian feels incredible inside me. No, incredible is a colossal understatement. And he’s not even fully inside me yet.

Our breaths, heavy and ragged, mingle as he eases into me, claiming territory with slow, tender strokes that belie his strength. My legs are wrapped around his back, my hands resting on his shoulder blades as I arch into him, every nerve-ending alight with fire.

He responds in kind, his hips a perfect counterpoint to mine, as if we’re two parts of a whole finally clicking into place. “Swan,” he whispers against my lips, and I shiver at the sound of my name wrapped in his accent, heavy with lust. “Bloody hell…you feel so damn good.” He captures my lips before I can respond, his tongue moving against mine with the rhythm of his hips, and I can taste myself on his tongue, which I’ve never had the pleasure of doing before. Neal always used mouthwash afterward before kissing me.

I lose myself in the sensations—the heat of his body, the weight of him, the taste of his kiss, the sound of our unified gasps filling the room. His size, the smoothness of his back, the firmness of his ass as I take both perfect globes in my hands, pulling him in deeper. It’s a heady combination, intoxicating, dizzying, and I drink it all in greedily.

“Killian...” His name spills from my lips as he draws me closer to the edge. There’s no holding back, no fear or doubt, only the boundless expanse of sensation he alone can evoke. My body gives in to the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatens to sweep me under, my fingernails clawing into his back.

Heat coils inside me, raw and all-consuming as Killian’s body drives into mine with a primal rhythm, his voice, rough like gravel, cutting through the haze of pleasure. “Let go, Emma.”

And I do. I let go, surrendering to the waves as they crash over me, and I happily drown in the bliss of it, my walls fluttering around his beautiful dick that has me coming undone.

He follows close behind, thrusting harder and faster, the crescendo building as he chases his impending release. His hips falter, movements growing erratic, his body shuddering. He dips his head, teeth grazing my skin, breath hot against my neck. His grip tightens around me, hands like steel bands, and I’m certain there will be marks—temporary souvenirs—imprinted on my skin I’ll probably admire in the mirror later.

“Emma…” My name is pure heaven as it tumbles from his lips, wrapped in a thick, broken accent as he pours his warmth inside me.

Pure heaven.

We reposition ourselves so he’s on his back and I’m beside him, boneless, draping an arm around his torso. My breath steadies, our bodies a tangle of limbs, the echo of his touch, his kiss, on every inch of my skin, his chest a relentless drumbeat against my ear. The sheets are twisted around our legs, our fingers are laced together as he presses a tender kiss against my forehead.

“Emma…you’re incredible.” His words vibrate against my skin, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back.

I look up at him, my gaze meeting those deep blue eyes that seem to hold galaxies within them. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He smiles, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “Your beauty,” he whispers huskily, “it’s not just in the way you look, Swan. It’s everything about you. It’s the very essence of you.” His touch is reverent, as though each word he utters is etched into my skin.

A warmth blooms in my chest at his words, at the admiration that laces each syllable. It’s as if every wall I’ve ever built has not only been scaled but completely dismantled by the tenderness of his gaze. He sees me, truly sees me—not just the polished exterior, but the tangled, knotted threads of my soul.

A teasing smile pulls at my lips. “Do you say that to all the women you’re with?”

He chuckles, his body shaking with the deep, hearty sound. “I would only say it if I meant it…so no, I don’t.”

I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips, taking in the jagged edge of his stubble, the warmth of his skin. His eyes lock with mine, a stormy blue that speaks volumes without a single word. My heart swells, full to bursting with an emotion I can neither name nor contain.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispers, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Or forever.”

I laugh. “I’ll stay tonight…but I’ll have to go back early tomorrow. Henry will be back home around noon.”

He nods, despite the disappointment flashing in his eyes. “Of course, love.”

Lying here naked, pressed against him, I allow myself to bask in the afterglow, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me into a state of serene bliss.

I don’t remember sex being so damn good before.

It’s never been that good.

Then it hits me. He’s the first, the only one who’s ever made me orgasm from sex alone. Sure, I’ve had orgasms but only from stimulation—a tongue, a finger or (mostly) a battery-operated friend. Never from penetration. I didn’t even think it was possible for me. And I’ve certainly never experienced multiple orgasms before tonight.

I always assumed I was the problem. That I was broken somehow.

But here I am, lying in Killian’s arms, fulfilled and sated in a way I never thought possible. It’s like he’s unlocked some secret part of me no one else could access before.

And maybe my history of being unsatisfied in bed is the reason I waited so long to be with someone else after Neal left.

Then again, if I had known it could be this good, I wouldn’t have waited.

But maybe it was Killian I was waiting for all along.

[melkyt]

I sometimes forget the dark urge is a shape shifter much like orin, but I had *a vision*.

(This is right after they find out Durge is a bhaalspawn. My durge is a tiefling)

So say Astarion is complaining about not being able to see himself. The entire party is chilling around the fire chatting.

Shadowheart gets a thoughtful look and mentions, "If you're a bhaalspawn, aren't you also shifter?"

Durge tenses, the camp falls silent. They spent a long time perfecting this look, and with how wonky their brain is, they have only changed shape once or twice when the itch got too much at being atatic. And even then, it was just in small ways that nobody but they would notice. They nod.

"Can you turn into one of us, soldier?" Karlach has that glow of excitement she gets when something new gets her attention.

Another nod. Halsin joins them with a quiet step.

Astarion leans in, his curiosity peaked. Durge only mentioned briefly that they are a bhaalspawn and that they will continue to resist so everyone they love is safe. The converstation ended at that. They would get nervous and squirmy anytime it was mentioned. The same can be said now. Their tail twitches back and forth. "I could. You won't like it. " They look at Astarion, who while hiding it well is the most interested.

"Aw, come on, let us see. Promise we won't judge. " Karlach nudges their tail with hers. "Unless you dont want to," she adds a little bit sheepish. "Nobody is forcing you, soldier."

Durge shakes their head "Thats not it, its well not for the faint of heart."

"We all saw Orin change, and we're fine." Shadowheart waves their concerns away.

"All right, who should I change into?" They dont need an answer, Astarion practically jumps to his feet at the idea.

"Astarion ofcourse, so he can shut ip about not seeing that oreatty little face of his" Karlach taps him on the shoulder with a chuckle.

Durge takes a swig from a bottle of booze, setting it back down on the ground, getting to their feet. "Stay back, I'm rusty and would rather not get goo on all of you." They stretch their entire body out. "Are you sure about this, Star?"

Astarion nods. "More then sure darling, always a pleasure to see your various talents." He grins.

Durge studies Astarion, not that they need to. They have spent countless nights memorizing every feature of the elf from every wrinkle, scar, and mark that makes the man beautiful in every way.

The power is slow to respond, far away. The more they resist the urge, the farther it gets, but with some concentration, they manage to reach for it. Their skin shimmers, taking on a sheen, their features becoming indisntict. There is a snap, and a wave washes over them as new features solidify. "Darling." They wave at Halsin in what they hope is a convincing enough *flirty Astarion gaze*

Everyone stares dumbfound at the transformation. After a moment Karlach laughs, a sound that is full fo joy. "Oh mah goodness, thats perfect!"

"I do not sound like that," Astarion scoffs. "Here, like this," he gestures, ready to teach the durge how to move the right way. "You have to exude sexiness if you look like me darling"

Karlach falls in laughter.

He approaches Halsin, who is trying to decide if he should be blushing or laughing. His face is red, so he is a bit of both. "This is, uuh..." He swallows as words fail him.

Durge smiles, some of the nervous energy they had about shifting in front of everyone dissipate.

(Later, when Astarion and Durge are alone, they have a heart to heart about it. Also, Halsin now has some energy to work off, huhu.)

[aparticularbandit]

Crossing Resident (I)

Summary: Chiaki knows Crossing probably better than anyone else alive, other than its makers, or she could, if she wanted. When Junko asks for help, it starts a relationship she didn't know to expect.

Prompted by @yabashiri.

Chapter Rating: G. Fic Rating: T.

AO3

next chapter

“Nanami-senpai.”

“Hm?”

Chiaki barely looks up from her Game Girl Advance.  She could play this game in her sleep – most of the moves aren’t randomized, and there’s only so many places the enemies can be, and she’s played the game so much that she doesn’t even think about any of this ever (because she’d never thought about it when she was playing it the first time and now it’s just all muscle memory) – but that doesn’t mean she wants to look away.  This game has good graphics – gorgeous graphics – and the soundtrack is enhanced by the sound of the water fountain behind her.  It’s very atmospheric.

“Do you play every game?”

Chiaki flinches.  Blinks twice.  Doesn’t stop playing her game, and doesn’t miss a beat in it.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, there are, like, hundreds of games that come out every year.  The big name pushy stuff, the big name good stuff, the indie games, the mobile games, all that gambling bullshit—”

As the list goes on, Chiaki considers that there’s no such thing as bullshit games and good games.  A lot of times what makes a good game is subjective.  Different gamers want different things, and one gamer’s Sonic Boom is another gamer’s Pokemon Red.  No one really wants to have that conversation, though.

When the girl finishes, Chiaki says, “I play the games I want to play.  Mostly retro games.  Chat gets mad that I don’t play shooters, but I don’t like them.”

A smile twitches at the corner of the other girl’s lips – Chiaki can see it reflected in her GGA screen – and she says, “How can she be the Ultimate Gamer if she’s not winning any competitions?  Like that’s how you measure that sort of thing.  It’s all bullshit.”

“Did you want to ask about a game in specific?”

“Yeah, uh.”  The girl sits next to her and then says, much more quietly, “Do you play Crossing?  I just started my own game, and I’m trying to get all the fruit trees.  And cosmos seeds, if you have them.  Or pansies.  They’re my favorites, but I got stuck with tulips and mums.  Which is shit luck because pansies are one of my birth month flowers, so I could have—”

Chiaki pauses her game and glances over to the other girl.  She’s familiar with her enough to recognize her once they’re sitting next to each other, but not so familiar that she could guess who she was from her voice alone.  “Enoshima-san,” she says, “why are you asking me?  Your fans would give you anything you want.  You just have to ask them.”

Junko sighs and clasps her hands together between her bare knees.  “I’ve got an island for them to visit,” she says.  “It’s all decked out and full of the most popular villagers.  I hold raffles to have fans come in and take a villager when they leave, and I go out and visit their islands, too, from time to time.”

It’s so boring, she seems to say, even though those words never leave her lips.

“I just….”  Junko sighs again, and her head tilts innocently enough to the side.  “I wanted something that was just for me, you know?  So I’ve got a second system and game and everything.  I’m starting it over from scratch, and I thought…maybe you’d help.”  She shrugs.  “But it’s fine if you don’t.  I can wait for the random flower seed drops at the store, and I’ll get the ones I want eventually.  Fruit will be harder, but if I get really desperate, I can swap some over from my original game.  It’s just—”

“Lonely,” Chiaki completes for her, gaze dropping to the GGA in her hands.

Out of the corner of her eye, Junko nods and hunches forward.  “Yeah.”

Chiaki presses her lips together and then nods.  “I’ll help.  But,” and here she pauses, careful not to meet Junko’s eyes as the other girl looks hopefully at her, “I want to visit your island instead of the other way around.  Okay?”

Junko beams.

[angstyaches]

If you're taking requests can you do an Autumn sickfic. One where she's confused, running fever and vomiting

This is going to be in two parts because I wanted to include Autumn at college and Autumn being cared for by Payton, but it was a bit impossible to make both happen at once!

CW: vague mentions of diarrhea, sickness, family issues, stubborn sickie, emeto, vomiting in public, embarrassment, confusion, crying.

___

“Morning, baby! You’re – are you still in bed?”

“Yeah. I think I’m going to take a sick day,” Autumn said with a sigh. She was curled up on her side, arm outstretched with the side of her phone braced against the mattress. The duvet was tucked under her chin, and would have been pulled all the way up to her cheekbones had she not known it would muffle her voice.

On the screen, Payton was wearing their headphones and walking beneath the low-reaching branches that lined the sidewalks in the nice parts of town. Autumn could see the pale, bright sky behind their head. Their one-sided bangs kept flopping heavily over their eye, no matter how many times they tried to tuck them away behind their ear.

“Aw,” Payton frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Just… stomach stuff,” Autumn shrugged, wriggling her shoulders a little deeper under the duvet. She debated saying more, but decided to leave it at that, unless they asked. Payton didn’t need to hear about Autumn’s unfortunate nocturnal toilet adventures first thing in the morning.

“Aw, your belly hurts?”

Autumn nodded, cheek nuzzling against her pillow. That wasn’t a lie; just an incomplete truth. Her guts were in absolute disarray for some reason or another, and her stomach was twisting into knots with what was either nausea or hunger.

If she could figure out which it was, she might have felt like she had a slightly better handle on the situation.

“I have to open and close today,” Payton sighed. “If I was getting off any earlier, I’d offer to come around –”

“That’s okay, baby,” Autumn smiled. She hoped the smile would cover up the fact that even if Payton had been free, she wouldn’t have wanted them to drop by anyway. Not here. She dropped the smile again. “But who the heck talked you into working such a long shift? That’s not fair.”

“It’s fine,” Payton smiled, and Autumn got the feeling that their smile was hiding almost as much as hers was.

“Who?” she asked again.

“Annie, but –”

“P.”

“I need the money anyway.” Payton shook their head. “And don’t change the subject. Are you sure you’re going to be okay? Your mum’s at home with you, right?”

“She is.” Another incomplete truth. Autumn’s mum being home didn’t necessarily equate to any great help. But there was water in the taps, and a blanket on her bed, and that was all she could really see herself needing.

She swallowed. “Payton, if Annie doesn’t stop power abusing you, I really think you should –”

“Baby!” Payton whined, their grin even wider now. When their emotions swelled, so did their grin. It should have frustrated Autumn to no end, but instead, the sight of their smiling face never failed to fill her with joy. “Stop trying to take care of me, and take care of yourself. Just for one day. One day! That’s all I’m asking.”

Autumn sighed.

“Well?”

“Alright,” she said, though she had every intention of broaching the subject again as soon as there was no good reason for Payton to stop her.

Payton had stopped walking. Autumn recognised the sliver of red brick façade over their shoulder. “I’m about to open up. I can keep you on chat while I’m counting up the registers –”

Autumn shook her head. “I don’t want you to make a mistake and get in trouble.”

Their cheek gave a grateful twitch. “Still looking out for me, I see, but I’ll let it go. Get some sleep, okay?”

Autumn planted a hand on her stomach under the duvet, palm circling over the dull, burbling ache. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Well, I’m going to.” With their free hand, Payton made a little megaphone next to their mouth. “Get some sleep!”

Autumn couldn’t resist a smile at that. “Really?”

“Love you, bye…” Payton blew a kiss towards the camera.

“Bye, baby, love you.” Autumn slid her hand from her belly so she could give a little wave.

“Okay, one more time – get some sleep!” Payton babbled directly before hanging up.

Autumn was still smiling to herself as she slid a little lower in bed, settling in, phone still in her hands. She needed to message her college friends and tell them she couldn’t make it to class or to rehearsal today. Then she needed to email her professors so that they knew she was sick, and not just dodging their lectures.

She needed to –

“Mmph,” Autumn winced, curling up a little tighter as a sharp pain jabbed at her stomach. She tucked her phone under her pillow and flung back the duvet, gently getting her feet to the floor and easing herself up as she had at least four times during the night.

She was really feeling the disruptions to her sleep on top of everything else; her head was spinning, her shoulders and back were spasming dully, and she had to put out a hand to stop herself careening sideways into her dresser.

And wow, did her stomach ache. She worked the heel of her hand into her belly as she opened her bedroom door and started across the landing to the bathroom.

“Autumn!”

Goosebumps rippled up her arms. She turned around to see that her mother was halfway up the stairs, hair pulled back, wearing an astonished expression.

“Why are you still in your pyjamas?” Autumn’s mother demanded, eyeing, in particular, the fluffy socks on her feet. Autumn generally kept it a secret that she wore socks to bed, since it was the kind of thing her parents said was only for old people.

“I actually…”

As she soaked in her mother’s expectant gaze, the thought of calling in sick and spending the day at home suddenly didn’t make Autumn feel relieved. It made her feel hot. Hotter than she’d already been feeling.

Now that she thought about it, she didn’t feel all too bad.

“I slept through my alarm,” she babbled in the rushed tone of someone without much time to spare for chitchat. “It’s fine, I just need to brush my teeth and get dressed, and I’ll be out of here.”

“What about breakfast? The most important meal of the day?”

Autumn swore she felt her stomach gurgle in protest just at the thought of food. “It’s okay, I’m meeting Leigh and Dixon before our first class.”

“For breakfast?”

Autumn hated lying. Hated it. “Mmhmm?”

Her mum looked up at the faded floral clock on the hallway wall. “Better get a move on, then, darling, or you’ll definitely be late.”

“Yeah, I know.” Autumn cleared her throat and hurried towards the bathroom.

___

“Two sandwiches today?” Dixon chuckled, ducking down into their usual spot on the floor outside the student theatre.

Autumn found herself smiling at him, enjoying the fact that she didn’t have to wonder whether he was food-shaming her or just curious. They ate lunch together a lot, so it was perfectly fine that he had noticed something was different.

“I ended up skipping breakfast this morning.” Autumn took a bite from her ham-and-cheese. She also had a chicken-and-stuffing, still in the packaging, sitting on the floor next to her leg.

Next to Dixon, Leigh nodded deeply. She’d already been given this same explanation, since she’d had the unfortunate privilege of listening to Autumn’s stomach growl throughout their morning classes. After a bout of nausea on the tram, Autumn had started feeling spectacularly better, and was starving by the time she was seated in her first lecture.

Leigh was currently jabbing at her usual salad with her usual bamboo fork. “Honestly, Autumn, you’re a fucking hero for lasting this long.”

Autumn took another mouthful of her sandwich, exactly how she imagined a hero would have taken the same bite.

“I would die without my breakfast,” Leigh murmured.

Dixon gave an exasperated laugh. “A smoothie is not breakfast.”

“Yes, it is, and we are not having this argument again.” Leigh leaned her shoulder into Dixon’s side, and the contact made him blush and look away from her. It was all Autumn could do not to punch each of them in the leg out of delighted frustration. Could they not just kiss and get it over with?

“Well, I didn’t mean to skip it,” she said with a shrug. “My stomach wasn’t feeling right when I got up.”

“Ah. Was your dinner spicy last night?” Dixon hid his mouth with his hand as he chewed and swallowed. “The day after eating anything spicy, I always wake up with a bad tummy.”

“Oh, charming,” Leigh cut in.

“What? All I said was –”

“Enough information, Dixon, we’re eating!”

As she chewed another mouthful of her sandwich, Autumn ventured a guilty glance at her phone. There were two messages from Payton, one of them a GIF she couldn’t view without opening it, one of them reading ‘hope you’re okay, baby x”. She still hadn’t told them that she’d gone to college, let alone that she was staying after classes to rehearse for DramSoc’s production of Beauty and the Beast. She had been put in the chorus this time, but if it hadn’t been for that, she wouldn’t have made friends with Dixon, and wouldn’t have gotten close with Leigh – the production’s Mrs. Potts – so Autumn couldn’t complain too much.

“Eleven minutes to two,” Dixon muttered, mouth full of food as he checked his watch.

“Shit.” Leigh shovelled a huge forkful of leaves and cranberries into her mouth, unfolded her legs, and reached for her backpack. “Come on, let’s eat and walk.”

Dixon let out a groan.

Leigh gave a shrug as she rocked onto the soles of her feet and glided up in a graceful squat. “Does either of you want Maeve to yell at you for being late?”

Autumn and Dixon shared a glance before getting to their feet.

___

Autumn winced as she leaned forward to tighten the laces of her left character shoe. She was a little bloated – though whether that was thanks to her stomach’s morning upset, or her skipped meal, or the extra sandwich she’d gulped down in about four bites whilst half-walking, half-running to the Drama Soc. theatre. She’d worn one of her floatier dresses today, meaning it didn’t push on her stomach at all, but she did regret wearing tights. It would have been better to have risked cold legs, rather than endure the elastic waistband that was trying to bite into her flesh.

She attempted to shimmy it into a comfier position as she straightened back up.

“All good?” Dixon asked softly from behind her, and she nodded without turning her head. She tugged at the collar of her blouse, feeling that same smothering wave of heat she’d gotten in the hallway that morning.

The backing track to Be Our Guest started up, and even though everyone in the wings had already been waiting for it, they still jolted to a deeper level of attention, Autumn included.

As she was stepping onto the stage, her character shoes might as well have been stilts; every movement felt like it might topple her. Her hurried lunch gurgled within the walls of her stomach, some of it feeling like it might have gotten stuck in her gullet en route. Sweat prickled the sides of her neck and she wished she’d had some more water before joining the others in the wings. The time-worn floorboards swirled and dipped beneath her as she moved, and seemed to drift up closer to her face every time she blinked.

She didn’t so much prance to her position on stage as she did totter, and the next girl down the row – Aimee – caught her in the ribs with an elbow as she turned on the spot. Entirely Autumn’s fault, of course, for missing her mark. Aimee didn’t even look at her, didn’t miss a beat.

Autumn teetered backwards a few steps, only stopping when she felt Dixon’s hands on her shoulders.

He gently spun her around, which wasn’t in the choreography. His face came into focus just for a second. “Autumn? Are you –?”

Autumn’s stilts – no, her character shoes – no, her actual legs gave out under her, and the stage lights seemed to flash right into the back of her skull, and her stomach sank like a stone, and then everything seemed to go quiet.

For about three seconds.

The first thing she heard was “is she okay?” from an indiscernible voice among the chorus.

And the next thing she heard was a harrowing retch that came from the back of her own throat. Shrieks and squeals broke out across the stage as the chorus disbanded.

Barely-digested chunks of sandwich – she really hadn’t chewed all that well – came gushing out of her, soaking her knees and dripping all around Dixon’s ankles. He wasn’t holding her by the shoulders anymore, and he’d taken a step back to avoid being headbutted in the stomach while Autumn gasped and gagged, but after that, he seemed to have frozen to the spot.

And the music cut out to angered shouts from Maeve. Probably wondering why her chorus had all retreated to the wings. “What? What’s happened, what’s going on?”

“Autumn,” Dixon murmured, “are you –?”

Whatever his question was, Autumn didn’t hear it over the ringing in her ears as her mouth stretched open again, and hot, thick vomit came shooting out of her. She could feel the muscular contractions all the way down past her belly button, as though her body couldn’t have possibly been trying harder to rid itself of its contents.

She wrapped her arms around her tummy, miserably wishing yet again that she wasn’t wearing those elasticated tights.

“Well, this is just bloody fucking fantastic,” Maeve was grumbling from the front of the stage, where she’d climbed up to inspect the damage. Autumn couldn’t even bear to glance up at her, choosing instead to keep her head down and at least try to keep all of her sick in one place.

“Shit!” That voice was a little more comforting than Maeve’s. Leigh. “Is she okay?”

“I-I-I don’t know, she just –” Dixon didn’t seem capable of providing any further information, so Leigh clicked her tongue at him and took hold of Autumn’s elbow. Her grip was a little rougher than Autumn was expecting, which startled a little whimper out of her. She was hit with the realisation that she’d been expecting – no, wanting – Payton’s gentle fingertips, their light touch. “Come on, let’s go to the toilet, yeah?”

Autumn tried to nod as Leigh coaxed her forward a few steps. Her throat clenched, her mouth shooting open again, her stomach seizing in a dry heave, and some of the chorus who had ducked back into the wings gasped in horror and stumbled even further back to let her through.

___

They were halfway to the ground floor bathroom of the student centre before Autumn realised that her own character shoes were soaked through with undigested chunks of ham and cheese and mayonnaise too, and the next turn of her stomach came from the realisation that she was going to have to let her parents know that she needed to buy new ones. Autumn made her own money, but not a lot of it, and most of it she contributed towards living expenses.

Oh, and she should probably replace Dixon’s too, since she –

“Leigh,” she groaned weakly, clutching her belly.

“One second, just one more second,” Leigh assured her, shoving open the swinging door to the bathroom and dashing towards the nearest stall with Autumn in tow.

Autumn fell upon the toilet seat with a gasp of relief so intense that it probably sounded like pleasure. She almost blushed, but there wasn’t enough blood left in her face for that.

"Fuck, you poor thing," Leigh exclaimed. Autumn could vaguely sense her pacing back and forth just outside the stall, occasionally nudging the door open a couple of inches to keep an eye on her.

Autumn was seeing stars and felt as though her throat had been wrung out like a sponge. Every splash that touched the toilet water sent her further into a slump, until she was barely sure that she'd even left bed this morning. Was this all a horrible dream? Surely she hadn't just puked her guts up in front of the entire Drama Society, right on the beautiful stage where stories played out so prettily...?

“Leigh! Uh... I’ve got Autumn’s bag,” Dixon’s voice called out.

“The hell are you doing?” Leigh asked gently, still lingering outside of Autumn's stall. “Just bring it here.”

“But…” Autumn couldn’t see his face, but she could imagine that Dixon had gone the colour of beetroot. “It’s the ladies’.”

“You’re adorable. Bring it here.”

Dixon grunted. “I can’t tell if you’re complimenting me or insulting me.”

“Let’s call it both.” Leigh began audibly fidgeting with the zips on Autumn’s bag.

“How are you doing, Autumn?” Dixon asked, and she couldn't help but think of the kind look he'd given her just before she'd vomited, and then the sight of his shoes dripping with her stomach contents.

Autumn had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing. “I-I’m sorry. Sorry about your shoes.”

“What…? No, no, don’t… I needed a new pair anyway. This was the sign I needed to take the leap.”

“Got it.”

“Her phone?”

“Yeah, but it’s locked.”

“Autumn, hon?” Dixon’s voice came a little closer to her again. “Can you unlock your phone?”

Autumn frowned, but stuck out her thumb to activate the screen. “Wh-why?” she croaked. When she tried to think of any possible reason they would need to access her phone, her thoughts became a hazy, black void. A bead of sweat cooled as it rolled down past the dimples in her spine, disappearing into the constricting waistband of her tights. She huffed. Wow, she wasn’t sure she’d ever sweat so much in her life.

“We’re just going to call… Well, who can we call for you?” Leigh asked. “Your mum? Is she free?”

“No! No.” Autumn shook her head, and a couple of tears came loose from her cheeks and landed on the toilet seat. A laugh bubbled up in her chest, which felt completely inappropriate, so she swallowed it back down.

“Then who?”

She sobbed quietly. Or, at least, she hoped it was quietly. “Payton,” she choked out, and it felt like a ball of acid had lodged high in her throat, slowly corroding the back of her head and eating into her thoughts and why, why was everything so dark all of a sudden.

“Payton,” she cried, lacing her fingers into her hair and shaking her head over the opening of the toilet bowl. “I just want Payton.”

[sabraeal]

Desert & Reward, Chapter 17

[Read on AO3]

“Now, now, Mister, no need for roughness,” Obi laughs as Sir shoves him out the closest door, the night sky unfurling above them. “I promise, I’m quite tame. Look, I haven’t even bit any hands tonight.”

If he leaves off just how many tempting morsels fluttered right in front of him, well— it’s nothing Sir hasn’t already guessed. By the hunted expression clinging to that chiseled jaw, it seems His Highness’s loyal hound has had more than a few temptations of his own.

Air hisses through Sir’s teeth, more a relief of pressure than a warning, the harsh line of his shoulders deflating from forbidding to fatigued. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked. What did you do to get on Kihal’s bad side?”

Truth be told, Obi’s never quite sliced that knot himself. He’d been wallpaper when she’d come that first time, a shadow that clung to Miss’s heels, and she’s been kind enough to tender him a few perfunctory ‘hellos,’ when their paths had crossed. But they’d gone to Yuris— twice, by his count; once to chase down the source of that perfume, and another just after she’d landed her title as countess— and each time she’d gotten her hackles up.

Not by any fault of his own, of course. Sure, he’d poked around a few places that not even Miss’s smiles could grant them entry, and he’d been more than a little popular with some of the local girls who didn’t mind a man with a little mystery and more than his fair share of scars— but that’d all been winks and words that went down as easy as the swill her father’s men had in their stills. No, what really seemed to get her goat was that despite her determination to dislike him, she never quite manage it.

Which is a bit more complicated an answer than Sir’s probably expecting to hear, so instead just he shrugs. “Today, or in general?”

Sir’s mouth thins— shame that Miss Kiki isn’t here to appreciate the way that sternness sharpens the lines of his face— hands hooking on his hips. Obi settles in; whatever lecture annoying the future Lady Laxdo has inspired, it’s sure to be a doozy. "You’re bearing up all right, aren’t you?”

It’s not until his mouth clicks shut that he realizes his jaw dropped at all. “C-come again, Mister?”

Sir grunts, agitated but— miraculously— not at him. “It’s all right if you aren’t, Obi. I know this isn’t what you’re used to when it comes to parties.”

The number of titles on his guest list could fill a library large enough to keep Miss entertained, but that’s hardly new. Between rubbing elbows with the royal family and her newfound position as the North’s darling, they’ve been invited to and ducked out early from all the Clarines’ most exclusive soirées. But that’s not what Sir is driving at.

“It’s a bit bigger than the stag night.” Twice as big at least, but the last thing Obi needs is Mister bringing math into the equation. “And that thing was already huge. Gotta say, sir, your little fireside chat and tipple didn’t set me up with the right sort of expectations.”

A wayward muscle in that impressive jaw twitches. “It wasn’t supposed to.”

“Maybe I should have gone to Miss Kiki’s,” he sighs wistfully. “That might have prepared me for being a lord. You know, since between the two of you, you’re really sort of the lady of the—”

“You could just say ‘I’m fine,’ you know,” Sir manages, strangled. “No need for…”

His hand waves, helpless, somehow managing to encompassing all of Obi at once, while also implying that his personality’s part of the problem.

“I appreciate the thought, Mister.” He digs his finger into the knot that’s been bugging him since they shoved him into this monkey suit, turning his smirk into a grimace. “But this isn’t my first fancy shindig, and something tells me it won’t be the last. I’ll survive.”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t,” he grunts, leaning a hip— well, thigh really— against the balustrade. “It’s just…it’s one thing to be at one of these parties and just be part of the…er…ambiance, I guess. And it’s a whole other thing altogether when what everyone’s looking at is you.”

His fingers clench a little tighter. “It’s not so bad.”

Sir’s gaze hardly wavers as he asks, “Is it?”

“Y-yeah.” The lie drags bile up after it, washing his mouth in its sour taste. “You know me, Mister, I live for attention.”

His arms fold, testing the limits of his coat seams. “That is what you like everyone to think.”

Haah, he should have known better than to try to pull one over on Sir. The men might have called him an honest fool when he’d still been just one of the Royal Circle’s knights— hell, Obi’d called him all that and worse during that whole fiasco after Sereg— but Mister had a way of seeing right to the quick of a man.

“I didn’t like it much either,” Mister admits. “Still don’t, really. But I’m more used to it now than I was back then. It was terrible when we got married— I thought a look might real and truly kill me if they got me at the right angle.”

“Unlike you, I didn’t run off and ruin His Majesty’s engagement party,” Obi drawls, giving his eyebrows a good waggle. “Really, Mister, how’s a man supposed to recover when a knight rides in to rescue a lady right in front of—”

“T-that’s not what I’m talking about,” Sir blusters, the tips of his ears a painful pink. “You’re just trying to change the subject.”

Obi’s mouth thins, an easy thing to twist up in a smile. “I appreciate the concern, I do, but you don’t have to worry about me, Big Guy. I know how to put on a show when I got to.”

“If you say so.” Sir claps him on the shoulder; a few years ago it might have made his teeth rattle, but after almost half a decade walking Wilant’s walls and being fortified by their hearty stews, he barely stumbles. “Just bear it for a little while longer. I’m sure Zen will find a way to get you out of this before…”

Sir’s mouth works, not to find a word but a grimace. Which is fine, really. Obi doesn’t need them, not when he’s been thinking it all this time— before she finds out.

“Right.” Even he can tells his smile doesn’t hang right on his mouth, but that’s not important, not when Mister’s the only one around to see. “Hate to have the young miss exposed to anything so…disagreeable. Not when she’s already having to put up with all this nonsense.”

“Obi.” Sir straightens, brows knitted up with concern. “That’s not what I—”

“Don’t worry, I know what you were trying to say, Mister.” Even if he was too kind to actually say it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I might go—”

“Why, is that—?” Earl Seiran waves from the garden path below, smile as large as Miss Kiki’s isn’t. “It is! My dear son and the man of the hour! Just who I wanted to see.”

“My l— sir,” Mister manages, flustered. “I didn’t see—? I mean, I didn’t know you had left the ballroom. Just a moment, I’ll—”

“No, no, dear boy. Just give me a moment!” His walking stick taps on the marble, casual rather than crucial. “We’ll come up to you.”

“We?” Sir echoes, and that’s when Obi sees it— the messy tangle of black that had faded into the garden’s shadows.

“Oh,” he mutters, mouth already tugging into a sneer. “Just who I wanted to see.”

*

“What a lovely party,” Seiran gushes as he draws near, delight evident in every click of his heels. “Truly, the wedding of the season, for all that it isn’t supposed to have happened. Or, I suppose, should have happened earlier. Ha!”

If a duke does not lower his head to a count, it only follows that a marquis won’t either, but Obi’s far too practiced at keeping his to risk any less than a nod. A deep one, almost deferential. The man who survived raising Miss Kiki doesn’t deserve any less. “You’re too kind, milord.”

“Nonsense!” The earl waves his hand, and for a moment, the similarity staggers him. He’s only met Kiki’s dad a handful of times, but each time it’s like that— brief flashes of a movement so familiar he could draw the angles of it with his eyes closed, but that smile instead of a scowl makes them as different as night and day. “If only we had such an excuse to celebrate more often.”

“Maybe you will soon enough, my lord.” The earl might brighten every balcony onto which he walks, but his companion casts a pall over the company keeps. And by the way Lugis’s mouth twists, wry and annoyed all at once, he knows. “You’ve already gained a son. Maybe he will be kind enough to oblige you with a few grandchildren to name.”

That snake ends the sentence too early, but his flash of teeth finishes it: if he can locate his dick well enough to use it.

Sir stiffens behind him, hand hovering just above his sword’s hilt. “Hisame…”

“An excellent point!” Seiran laughs, one well-manicured hand reaching to clap Big Guy on the shoulder. He withers noticeably. “Though I suppose my good-son would wish us to speak of this where he might not hear.”

Sir’s neck flushes so red Obi could swear he sees steam. “Or not at all.”

“Oh, come now. You may be too modest to suffer us speculating, but surely you cannot protest the process.” There’s times where Obi has wondered how a man as easy-going as the earl had could had a hand in honing a girl more to a dagger than a daughter. But right now, as the Mister’s eyes roll heavenward like losing consciousness might be a mercy, and all the man does is grin— well, he can see the shape of it.

“Just think of it.” That snake looks pretty amused for a guy who framed a man for murder and nearly toppled a whole country just to play fake fiancé. “If His Highness’s courtship proceeds as promised, then perhaps his own joyful occasions will not be much behind yours, Sir Mitsuhide.”

Sir doesn’t get wistful the way he used to— or at least, Obi hasn’t caught him going around hanging himself over balconies and heaving those world weary sighs. But something in him catches on joyful occasions and—

And it’s just Sir and him who know that’s not likely to happen. Seiran’s lord and lady might get up to whatever they like behind closed doors— and if he knows Kiki, she will— but there’s not likely to be any royal issue, not any time soon. Not from Zen, at least. He’ll find some way to put off his wedding, same way he used to put off popping the question, and in a few years and some creative paperwork, they’ll get their happy ending, just the way they were meant to.

Seiran might smile as he puts a hand on Obi’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze that makes this night almost feel real, that he is the man Miss wanted to see at the altar— but one glance at Sir’s grimace is enough to remind him that he’s just here to keep Master’s seat warm. A placeholder, until something better can be arranged.

“You boys should take more care with His Highness’s stag night, however,” Seiran instructs, suddenly stern. “All these little fêtes are fine and good— and I’m sure His Majesty will see to it that his brother has one becoming of his station— but it is all quite…sanitary is it not? For such an occasion, a man wishes to be out with his comrades, celebrating his nuptials with all the happy abandon—”

“I must thank you for traveling all this way, my lord,” Obi blurts out, receiving Sir’s grateful look with all the graciousness a knight taking a rescued maiden’s kiss. For all that he’d love to lord the knowledge of her father’s sowing of wild oats or what not, he doesn’t actually want to hear the details. At least right now, when the Big Guy’s two shades of red away from spontaneous combustion. “Can’t have been easy on such short notice.”

“No niceties for me, my lord?” that snake hums, so smug his forked tongue might well flicker through his lips. “Have I not traveled far enough?”

Obi’s smile bears more teeth than good will when he says, “I wasn’t aware it was that far from His Highness’s coattails to here.”

Sir snorts, loud enough Seiran spares him a curious glance before adding, “Not at all, dear boy. I had plenty of time to settle my business before starting my trek to the palace. Though I suppose were I north enough to get those early autumn squalls, three weeks might have been a far narrower window than I would have liked.”

“T-three?” Obi blinks, fingers numb at his side. “Three weeks?”

Three weeks. He’d known about this for three days. And by the way Sir starts to fidget under his stare, he might be the only one.

“I must say, it was quite the surprise to see Forzeno step up as your guardian.” Seiran laughs, shaking his head. “I was of the impression that man didn’t leave his lab for anything more than an opportunity to fund it. How did you even manage to meet?”

“Ah, well…” His fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder, the familiar flash of pain grounding him. “It’s  not much of a story. Turns out some of his rock collection showed some promise in cracking open a little conundrum they’d all been working on, and Miss convinced” — coerced, really, but who’s counting— “him to come give them a hand.”

The snake huffs out a laugh, one of his narrow eyebrows hitching a ride to his hairline. “And he adopted you for simply standing around?”

Lata probably would have, if it meant dodging a dukedom. Good thing the geezer didn’t think of it sooner. “That’s because His Majesty thought ‘messenger’ wasn’t a good enough title for one of his brother’s buddies. Slapped me with a ‘sir’ and let me loose up in the North. By the time Lata got his hands on me, I was biting the ankles of my betters.”

Seiran’s mouth slides into a sly curve. “I can see why that might have endeared you to a man like him.”

“Don’t know if I’d say endeared so much as enraged.” Or embarrassed, more likely, but that’s not something he’s going to admit to when Hisame Lugis is standing around, grinning like his knighthood is the funniest joke he’s ever told. “I thought I was doing just fine, but apparently I was ‘the Royal Circle’s greatest shame’ and I ‘can’t serve His Highness with that sort of sloppy dress.’ So then he decided he was my knightly mentor, and…”

He lifts a shoulder. That’s that, it says, or maybe, it is what it is.

It doesn’t seem like Earl Seiran hears it, though. “If you had needed for someone to vouch for you name, my boy, you might have told me!” His mouth pinches, the same way his daughter’s does when he calls her name. “I would have been happy to call you son.”

“Oh, er…” Obi coughs, searching for the politest way to say, I don’t think that sentiment would have been unanimous, sir. “That’s a…uh…generous offer, my lord, but, er…”

“You already have an heir,” Kiki deadpans, appearing from just behind her father’s shoulder. “Don’t get greedy.”

“Kiki, my dear,” he laughs, holding out his arm— one she summarily ignores, brushing past him stand next to Sir. “I always thought you would make a wonderful older sister.”

“Hear that, my lady,” Obi hums, leaning close enough for their elbows to nudge. Naturally, of course, not because she’d caught him aiming at her side. “I could have been your little brother.”

“You’re a year older than me,” she reminds him, right before latching onto him with her iron grip. “I hope you can forgive me, Father, for stealing him away.”

“Darling,” he sighs, “must you call me that? Surely ‘Daddy’ would be—?”

“No.”

“Papa?” he tries, undaunted. Kiki only sighs.

“What, no apologies for me, Lady Kiki?” The snake slithers closer, smirking when Sir stiffens— but he doesn’t dare slink a step further. “I was talking to the marquis as well.”

“When it comes to sorry behavior, you are so far in debt that an apology from me could only dig you deeper,” she warns him, not even a hint of humor. “I thought I might save you the inches.”

Had that advice fallen from Obi lips, no doubt they would have heard that snake’s rattle. But from Kiki, it only tilts his smile to a more rueful pitch. “How…considerate of you.”

“Why, I do believe I see your brother, Sir Hisame!” Seiran remarks, just too loud to be casual. “Shall I go pay my respects? I haven’t seen him since…”

Since Sir so publicly scuttled their engagement— and, almost as a side note, revealed that the snake himself had taken part in Touka Bergatt’s attempted coup. That even as he hobnobbed with His Majesty’s guests, he was still in that bastard’s pocket.

Lugis’s mouth widens, smile all teeth. “I’m sure he bears you no ill will, my lord. He knows a thing or two about having willful heirs of his own.”

“Quite,” Seiran chuckles. “Still, you’ll come with me, won’t you? Perhaps ease over this small bump in our relationship.”

Funny. If he committed treason, Obi hardly thinks they’d all wave it over as a small bump.

“Ah…” The snake’s on his back foot now, sly eyes rounding as the earl advances on him, seizing his arm. “I appreciate the invitation, my lord, but I’ve hardly spoken to Lord Obi—”

“As my daughter says, Lord Obi is being stolen away.” Lugis winces under the strength of Seiran’s grip. “Let us leave them to it.”

“But—”

“Come.” The earl doesn’t quite take the snake out for a drag across the veranda, but it’s close. “I am so looking forward to renewing your brother’s acquaintance, after all.”

*

Obi blinks, watching as they disappear into the ballroom, arm-in-arm. Or rather hand-on-arm, by the way Lugis is trying to dig in his heels.

“Huh,” he murmurs, casting a look the long way up to Mister’s stern mug. “I didn’t know your dad was so buddy-buddy with Sir Hiss-a-lot.”

“Earl Seiran is being circumspect,” Sir replies pointedly. “He may not like Sir Hisame, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be nice.”

“Hey, I’m nice to people all day long.” Obi presses a hand to his chest, scandalized. “And I don’t like half of them!”

Kiki snorts. “Doubtful.”

“I am!” Where he came from, being nice meant no one drew blood. A low bar, but after every day he’s stuck in this madhouse having to play lord, he’s starting to see the wisdom in it. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue, Miss Kiki. I guess I’ll just—”

A hand grips his shoulder, as strong as any shackle. It’s not Sir’s. “I wasn’t kidding about you being needed.”

“Me?” He turns to her, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“Of course. It’s dinner time, and you’re the groom.” She glares back at him like he’s stupid. “Don’t tell me you didn’t write a toast.”

His jaw drops. “Ah…”

“You.” She fixes him with a meaningful stare. “Are going to owe me.”