#Like there are SO MANY perfectly fine and healthy morphs out there

[kedreeva]

Sorry about the color mix up. I appreciate the reply and additional info! I guess bc I know nothing about peafowl (and the fact i dont breed any type of animal), I'm having a hard time understanding how being sterile would be unethical. I do somewhat get the shortened life span. I really would like to understand this, I just sometimes need stuff explained like I'm 5.

Up front, there's no "somewhat get" to a shortened lifespan being caused by a mutation in captive populations. If an animal is capable of living 20+ years (and some live 30+ or even 40+!) and some non-essential mutation is causing them to live 7-9 years, it's flat out absolutely unethical to breed that mutation, full stop, regardless of anything else going on. That's indicative of a MAJOR problem in their genetics. There's NO ethical reason to breed that because humans like how it looks. So, even without the sterility, these birds would 100% be unethical to produce.

The short answer on sterility is this: we don't know WHY they are sterile, but they shouldn't be, and that means something has gone wrong. When something goes wrong with an animal, and it's something genetic that can be passed on, the ONLY responsible and ethical thing for a breeder to do is to stop using that animal for breeding and closely monitor any already-produced offspring for signs of the problem, and likely not breed them, either.

The longer more complicated answer is this: sometimes it's possible to separate the problem from the aesthetic when it comes to morphs, like it was for cameo + blindness, but sometimes it's NOT, like it wasn't for spider + head wobble for ball pythons. In those instances, it's... difficult. Because you're LIKELY going to produce animals that suffer the same problem as their parent(s), in the attempt to separate the problem from the aesthetic, and sometimes that's ALL you're going to produce. As a breeder, it's your absolute responsibility to NOT release the offspring into the general population, where the problem may be replicated without control, and to keep or cull the affected individuals if the problem cannot be separated from the aesthetic, or AT BEST find them guaranteed pet-only homes that will NEVER breed them.

Sometimes the problem IS purely aesthetic or harmless, like it was for pied in peafowl, and sometimes it's not, like it was for vitiligo in peafowl. The problem comes when you ASSUME a mutation is the first, and treat it like the first when it's really the second. This has caused FAR reaching consequences in the peafowl community, and I'm sure in others, where now the autoimmune disease that first bronze had has been passed into genpop by folks who thought they were breeding a harmless new variation of pied. Hybrid animals are often sterile (not in peafowl though, hybrid cristatus-muticus birds are fertile) because of a mismatch in chromosome pairing numbers, and often that's harmless. So, in some cases sterility is not an issue because it's the expected result or is otherwise harmless... but in the case of peafowl, it's NOT an expected result and we don't know if it's caused by something harmless or not.

Some species, like mice and horses and cattle and dogs, genetic testing and DNA mapping done with millions of dollars has proven that while some stuff isn't purely aesthetic, it also doesn't cause harm to the animal in a way that affects quality of life or that can be adapted for in captive care. For example, in chickens, the frizzle gene causes curled feathers in single copy and an absence of feathers in double copy. This gene is considered ethical to produce IF the breeding is done responsibly by putting a single copy bird over a zero copy bird, which produces smooth coats and frizzle coats, but it is unethical to produce double frizzles (called "frazzles") because frazzles cannot thermoregulate, can easily sunburn, and easily suffer skin injury during normal chicken activity.

For peafowl, we have NO genetic testing. We do not have the genome mapped. As far as I know there's a research group working on it (mostly for green peafowl though, in conservation efforts), but that's not remotely finished or available to the public to test anything. We don't know where any of the morph mutations sit, or what is causing them or if they do anything beyond just change the color. Sometimes color mutations are the result of malfunctions in enzymes. For charcoal specifically, we don't know what the mutation does, besides what we can observe on the outside- the birds have half or less the lifespan of normal birds, poor feather quality, and the hens are sterile. Is the sterility harmless like it is in some hybrid animals, or is it actually a major organ failing? Is it the only major organ that fails due to this mutation, or is it just the first sign of their shortened lives? Is it some deficiency in something the birds need to be healthy? Does it hurt the bird? We don't know, but we do know the mutation and the problems (multiple, please do NOT forget that this is one OF MORE THAN ONE problems) can't be separated, and so until we do know why and whether it's harmless or not, the ONLY ethical response to seeing a problem in a major organ's function linked inextricably to a mutation in color is to not propagate that mutation. If someone wanted to fork over the millions it takes to sequence and map genomes and then determine exactly what is going on with peafowl, that would be nice and good, but I don't see that happening. When I win the lottery big, I'll be doing it, but til then we can only follow normal breeding guidelines

Also, to put this into perspective... peafowl mature sexually around 3 years old. They are chicks until the turn of the new year following their hatch. They are yearlings that year, and immature 2yo next year. They aren't actually considered fully grown until 6 years old, and should live another 14+ years. Charcoal birds die a 1-3 years after full maturity. Is it a coincidence that they fail to thrive shortly after full sexual maturity, or is it linked? Again, we don't know. We don't know if the sterility is fine or if it's just a symptom of something worse.

Even without the sterility, though, charcoal has enough issues it would be unethical. If it was JUST sterility, with no other deleterious effects, then maybe it would be different. But it's not.

[wren-of-the-woods]

Title: Rest My Head At Night Content

Prompt: watching over them as they sleep/waking up together

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Rating: T

Word Count: 6.6k

Five times Jaskier falls asleep before Geralt and Yennefer and one time they fall asleep before him. On AO3 here! @whataboutthebard

~

One

The first time it happened, Geralt was fairly sure the bard had been poisoned. 

In his defense, it was not unlikely. Geralt had only been traveling with him for a few months, but he already knew that Jaskier had a penchant for eating anything soft or crunchy-looking within a twenty-foot radius and a ridiculous talent for making enemies. He could just as easily have eaten the wrong berry as run afoul of an angry spouse when they were last in town. 

So, when Geralt turned around from where he had been sharpening his sword to see Jaskier passed out over a log on the other side of their camp, he was understandably panicked. His sword clattered to the ground as he scrambled off his own log and around the campfire to reach the bard. His hands flew over him, checking pulse and temperature as he scented for illness or injury and found—

Nothing. Jaskier was perfectly healthy.

“Mrph?” said Jaskier groggily. His eyes opened partway. He blinked a few times, then squinted up at Geralt. “Is something wrong?”

Geralt stared at him. Jaskier’s bleary squint morphed into an expression of concern. He sat up a little, as though getting ready to run if necessary.

“Geralt? What’s going on?”

“I…” Geralt trailed off, unable to figure out how to say ‘I thought you were dying and I panicked even though you’re apparently fine’ without sounding like an idiot. “Nothing.”

Suddenly, Geralt found himself the target of the Jaskier’s most potent ‘my feathers have been ruffled’ glare. “Nothing! Why on earth did you wake me up, then? I was having a perfectly wonderful nap. You ruined my good dreams, Geralt!” 

“Hmm,” Geralt apologized.

“Hmm,” Jaskier mimicked. He rolled his eyes with all the disdain of a middle-aged noblewoman hearing the latest gossip. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?” 

“Hmm.” 

“You’re insufferable. I’m going back to sleep.” 

With that, Jaskier slid off his log, rolled pointedly away from Geralt, and curled up on the ground with his head on a nearby bag. Geralt stared at him. Jaskier closed his eyes, refusing to even glance at Geralt. 

When Geralt did not move for another few moments, Jaskier cracked one eye open to glare behind him. 

“Go away. I’m sleeping.”

Geralt decided not to point out the obvious falsehood. He returned to his seat across the camp and retrieved his fallen sword. 

He tried to return to sharpening it, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to look away from Jaskier. Geralt’s heart was still beating a little too quickly, not quite recovered from his earlier scare. Across the camp, Jaskier’s breathing was regular. It had not quite regained the slow steadiness of sleep, but it was on its way there. His heartbeat was human-fast and familiar. His soft hair shone a little in the firelight, looking almost like fine strands of ruddy gold. His scent was calm. Jaskier was perfectly fine. He was simply… falling asleep. 

He was falling asleep. He had fallen asleep. Deep in the forest, utterly alone except for a grumpy and antisocial witcher titled the Butcher of Blaviken, Jaskier had fallen asleep. 

Geralt did not understand. 

Geralt was dangerous. This was a well-known, universally-acknowledged fact. Geralt was a machine built for death. Geralt did not have friends. Geralt had no mercy when he decided someone deserved to die. Geralt could easily kill a human with his bare hands. 

And yet Jaskier — fragile, human Jaskier, who was almost completely defenseless against any kind of physical threat, who was lying five yards away from him on the ground — was fast asleep. 

He smelled content. There was a faint smile on his face. He looked young and soft and somehow, impossibly, safe.

Jaskier had done many strange things since Geralt met him, but Geralt thought this may be the most bewildering yet. 

Slowly, Geralt returned to sharpening his sword. Jaskier did not react to the noise. He was already fast asleep. Geralt’s chest felt oddly warm.

Perhaps Jaskier’s oddness could be nice, once in a while. 

Two

After that, it kept happening. Jaskier would fall asleep well before Geralt most nights, when they traveled together. Slowly, tentatively, Geralt became used to it. It was just another entry on the long list of Jaskier’s peculiarities. Geralt didn’t mind — quite the opposite, though he would never admit it to Jaskier — so he simply let it happen. He never brought it up again after that first night, though he thought about it more than he would like to admit. 

Things between them settled into comfortable familiarity. Geralt knew what to expect from Jaskier. He knew where they stood. 

Then, about half a decade after Geralt met Jaskier, Geralt’s world was once again flipped on its head. 

The day started just like any other. Jaskier was with him, having just returned from a stint in Oxenfurt to see some friends, and was chattering away as usual. Geralt, who had spoiled Roach to his satisfaction when his last contract proved unusually lucrative due to some townsfolk singing Toss a Coin, was riding beside him and hiding his fondness as usual. He hadn’t expected Jaskier to join him when he set out, so it was a longer ride to the next town than Geralt would usually risk when accompanied by a human, but he wasn’t worried. The road stretched over gently rolling plains and farmlands. Jaskier should be fine. 

The wide, flat landscape seemed like much less of a blessing when Geralt finally noticed the storm making its way towards them. 

“Fuck,” he said, and Jaskier immediately stopped rambling to listen. The bard had little common sense of his own, so it was a blessing that he was smart enough to make use of Geralt’s from time to time.

“What is it?” 

“Storm’s coming.”

“Oh.” Jaskier frowned. He looked around them, saw the plains stretching out in every direction, and his frown deepened. “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to outrun it.”

They did not outrun it. 

They were still several hours away from the nearest town when the clouds broke over them. What started as a drizzle steadily turned into a downpour. The dusty road became more of a muddy line, and then, in low-lying places, a series of puddles. Both of them were thoroughly drenched, but Jaskier’s refusal to wear anything sensible for travel meant he had it even worse than Geralt. The bard’s walk turned into a trudge. He stopped talking after about an hour in the rain. After an hour and a half, Geralt caved and let Jaskier ride Roach. By the time they finally arrived at the village, Geralt was becoming concerned for the bard’s health. 

They acquired a room at the inn with relatively little trouble (it seemed that looking waterlogged and pathetic had a few benefits), but it was the only one left after the influx of other travelers seeking shelter from the rain. The innkeeper had apologized, but Geralt waved her off easily. He and Jaskier had shared before; anywhere warm was fine by him. 

When he and Jaskier opened the door to find only one bed in their room, Geralt wished he had made more of a fuss. 

Jaskier would have to take the bed, of course. Geralt wasn’t cruel enough to ignore his human constitution. The bard needed warmth and rest, both of which would be easier to come by in a real bed. Geralt would have liked to sleep in comfort, of course, but he would be fine without it. Jaskier needed it more. 

Once both of them had changed clothes and become marginally dryer, Geralt began unpacking his bedroll. It was at this point that his plan was interrupted.

“What are you doing?” asked Jaskier. It was the first thing he’d said at a volume louder than a mumble in over an hour. Geralt was relieved enough that he was talking to be unbothered by the way Jaskier looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Getting ready for bed. Obviously.”

“There is a perfectly functional bed right here, Geralt. I think. Unless you’ve noticed something with your fancy witcher senses. Are there bedbugs, Geralt? Or dried blood? Is it an illusion? Is there a monster under the bed? Is the bed the monster, Geralt? Geralt!” 

Geralt suppressed the urge to laugh. That would only encourage him. “Bed monsters aren’t real, Jaskier.”

“How would I know? I didn’t think giant, terrifying insect monsters were real either, and it ate my best doublet!”

“I told you to stay away.”

“Well, I— nevermind. Why are you trying to sleep on the floor?”

“You’re taking the bed.”

Jaskier blinked. “So?”

Geralt shot him a glare. “So I’m sleeping on the floor.”

“Are we not sharing?”

Geralt stopped. Slowly, he turned to look at Jaskier. “What?”

“Why aren’t we sharing the bed? There’s enough room. It’d be warmer.”

Geralt looked at the bed. There might be enough room for both of them, but not by much. They would certainly have to get in each others’ space. 

“You want to share the bed. With me.” Geralt felt like he had to check this. He was still reeling a little at the idea. 

“Yes, you idiot. That’s what I’ve been saying. Just for sleeping, of course.” 

“Of course,” Geralt echoed faintly.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone wanted to literally sleep with him. Quite possibly, it had been before the Trials. 

“So?” said Jaskier. 

“What?”

“Are you going to put that bedroll away?”

Geralt looked at the bedroll. He looked at Jaskier. There was no trace of hesitation anywhere in the bard’s body. He was tired, annoyed at Geralt, and a little confused, but there was no fear. There wasn’t even nervousness. If anything, Jaskier was impatient for Geralt to get in bed with him. 

It was one thing to be able to sleep in the vicinity of a mutated, monster-hunting freak. It was quite another thing to fall asleep in his arms.

Geralt was beginning to think he would never understand Jaskier. Perhaps he should simply accept it. 

Wordlessly, he began to repack the bedroll. 

“Thank you,” said Jaskier. He clambered under the covers, settling on the side of the bed closest to the wall, and held up the corner of the blanket in invitation. Once Geralt had the rest of the room settled to his satisfaction, he obeyed the unspoken request and climbed in next to him. 

Jaskier smiled and snuggled close the moment Geralt was lying down. There were a few seconds of slightly confused shuffling before they settled with Jaskier lying on his side, half on top of Geralt and clinging to him like an octopus, while Geralt’s arm wrapped around his shoulders to keep him steady. Jaskier was between Geralt and the wall; he couldn’t get out of the bed without clambering over Geralt. He was, for all intents and purposes, cornered. He seemed utterly unperturbed by this fact. 

“Goodnight,” said Jaskier. Geralt blew out the candle with a carefully-aimed Aard. Jaskier closed his eyes, snuggled closer to Geralt, and fell asleep within moments. 

Geralt looked at him. His face was slightly smushed where he was using Geralt’s chest as a pillow. His hair tickled Geralt’s nose a little. His exhales ruffled the hem of Geralt’s undershirt. In Geralt’s arms, he felt heavier and more solid than he appeared. He was very warm. His breathing was steady. 

It took Geralt a long time to fall asleep that night, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to mind. 

Three

Time passed, and Geralt grew more and more used to how Jaskier looked when he was asleep. He grew to know the way his face relaxed, all the energy and enthusiasm of the day slowly seeping out until what was left was an expression of peace. He grew to like the steady, comforting rhythm of his heartbeat and slow breathing. He grew to love the easy trust inherent in the gesture, the inherent certainty that Geralt would never hurt him. Sleep was perhaps the most powerful lowering of one’s guard, and Geralt was honored that Jaskier chose to do so around him so regularly.

Geralt knew how Jaskier looked when he slept. That was why looking at him, lying there and looking so small in the middle of Yennefer’s huge bed in Rinde, felt so deeply and inescapably wrong. 

Jaskier would never choose to lie neatly on his back like this, because he always slept on his side or on his stomach or in some strange, twisted shape resembling a mutated starfish. Jaskier would never lie still like this, because even in his sleep he was full of little noises and movements and life. Jaskier would never sleep in this bed without first getting to know its owner, because even he was not stupid enough to sleep in a place he did not believe was safe.

It was Geralt’s fault that Jaskier was here, injured and unconscious like a grotesque parody of what Geralt had feared was happening on that first day Jaskier fell asleep with him, all those years ago. Jaskier trusted Geralt with his life implicitly. Geralt had betrayed that trust. 

Jaskier was still, but not resting. Jaskier was quiet, but not because he wanted to be. Jaskier was defenseless, but not by choice. 

It was completely and utterly wrong.

Geralt could not do anything about it. He could not wake Jaskier and he could not heal him. All he could do to help was to aid this sorceress and hope against hope that she could do something.

It turned out, of course, that she could. Yennefer healed Jaskier and moved on to her various other schemes without a second thought. 

She was beautiful and powerful and near-indestructible, and Geralt was spellbound. 

Jaskier was confusing, but Geralt could understand Yennefer. Jaskier was ridiculous, but Geralt could take Yennefer seriously. Jaskier was terrifyingly fragile, but Yennefer was terrifyingly strong. 

Before Geralt knew it, he and Yennefer were bound together and the path of his life was permanently altered. 

Yennefer, it turned out, could also sleep near Geralt.

They slept together both literally and figuratively. Geralt grew to love the literal sense most of all. There was something indescribably beautiful about Yennefer when she let down her guard just enough to sleep, when she allowed Geralt farther past her walls than most people were ever allowed to get. Yennefer could easily kill someone before letting them see her vulnerabilities, and it would not surprise Geralt to know she had done so in the past. Any weaknesses she allowed Geralt to see were very thought-out, deliberate gestures of trust. The knowledge meant more to Geralt than he could express.

When Jaskier slept near Geralt, it made all sorts of complicated emotions tangle around Geralt’s heart. When Yennefer slept near Geralt, he simply felt happy and honored. 

It wasn’t that all his thoughts about her were in comparison to Jaskier: far from it. Being in her presence was an all-consuming experience, more beautiful and intoxicating than the finest wines. It was one of the many, many things he loved about her. 

When he did end up comparing her to Jaskier, though, his thoughts inevitably turned in that direction. Jaskier was charming and irritating and idiotically trusting. Yennefer was confident and powerful and beautifully calculating. Yennefer made more sense. Yennefer, for all her fiery danger, was so much easier for Geralt to love. 

Geralt and Jaskier still traveled together frequently. They could still go weeks or months together without running into Yennefer. Slowly, though, Geralt stopped letting Jaskier sleep so close to him. One room at an inn turned back into two, and two bedrolls beside each other became two bedrolls on opposite sides of a campfire. When Jaskier was asleep, Geralt couldn’t stop remembering his horrible stillness after Geralt hurt him. He couldn’t seeing Jaskier’s vulnerability as just another opportunity to fuck up. He couldn’t stop feeling that Jaskier’s trust was something to fear. 

Geralt and Jaskier slept apart from each other. Geralt and Yennefer slept together.

It was better for everyone that way.

Four

The first time Yennefer really noticed Jaskier sleeping, she didn’t have time to enjoy it. 

She’d seen him resting before, of course, but she never really paid attention then. For most of the years of their acquaintance, she had seen him as nothing more than an irritation. It wasn’t until the dragon hunt, or maybe even until she saw him again in Oxenfurt, that she realized how much the twit had come to mean to her. His ridiculousness was somehow the only sanity she’d encountered in months. 

When she felt herself unraveling in that Kaer Morhen laboratory, she found herself going to Jaskier without a second thought.

“I need your help,” she said, and at those words Jaskier came awake despite his grumblings. He followed her with his usual ridiculous chatter, grounding her as she talked through her thoughts and gave him the jasper. They went their separate ways, and then there was blood and danger and death and chaos in all its definitions. 

She didn’t think about the encounter much until later that night, alone for the first time in days.

She lay awake in one of Kaer Morhen’s drafty abandoned rooms, unable to convince herself that she was safe. She knew, logically, that she had her chaos back. There was very little that could harm her now, and even less that could also get past Geralt and the other witchers. The knowledge was not comforting. 

She could still feel the blood rushing from her wrist down her hands. She could still hear the screams: those of the dying witchers, those of Geralt and Ciri and Jaskier and even herself. She could still feel the keep shaking in wave after wave of Voleth Meir’s magic. 

Her thoughts returned to Jaskier, then. He had looked so peaceful in those brief seconds of sleep she managed to witness. It was oddly anachronistic, seeing him there in such unfamiliar surroundings and in the midst of all her panic. She was almost envious. For all his dramatics, Jaskier had a peculiar kind of resilience that few people could match. 

Right now, though, what she envied most was his ability to sleep. 

Jaskier had a big bottle of alcohol with him when he was asleep in the lab. Perhaps Yennefer should try it. 

She was seriously considering getting up in search of some sort of drink when, to her great surprise, there was a knock on the door to her room. 

Geralt was talking to Ciri. The other witchers were cleaning and grieving. It must be—

“Yennefer?” asked Jaskier from outside the room.

“What is it?” asked Yennefer.

“Oh, thank Melitele,” he said, ignoring the question. “I was beginning to think I would never find you in all these corridors. Do you think someone would come looking for me if I got lost or fell into some forgotten laboratory? I’d rather not have to find out. Can I come in? It’s cold out here. You’d think a keepful of witchers might try to repair the place a little.”

Yennefer opened the door. Jaskier blinked down at her in surprise. 

“Oh! Thank you.” He slid past her and into the room, then flopped down on her bed.

“What are you doing?” she asked. She hoped she didn’t sound as confused as she felt. 

“Visiting the most disagreeable witch of my acquaintance. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“I’m the only witch of your acquaintance.”

“Precisely.”

Yennefer huffed, then tried to return to her original question. “Why are you even awake?”

“I ran out of wine.”

“So you came to find me?”

“Geralt’s busy with that daughter of his. The other witchers don’t look like they want to be disturbed.” Jaskier’s charming facade broke for a moment. He looked startlingly vulnerable. “I… didn’t want to be alone.”

“Oh,” said Yennefer.

For a moment, there was silence. Yennefer felt oddly blindsided by the whole encounter. She decided to chalk it up to her exhaustion.

Jaskier sat up on his elbows and looked at her. “So? Are you coming?”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “Coming where?”

“To bed.”

“This is not the time, bard.”

“Not like that! I just want to sleep.” He paused, then made a face. “Dear Melitele. I’m starting to sound like Geralt.”

That startled a laugh out of Yennefer. “The old wives were right. Witchers are contagious.”

“Oh, gods, don’t make me think about it. He only pulls it off that whole brooding act because he’s so handsome. I’d just look stupid.”

“You already look stupid.”

“I— Shut up! Are you getting in bed or not?”

Yennefer probably should have refused. She probably should have kicked him out of her room and fallen asleep on her own. 

She did not. 

“Fine,” she said. “Shove over.” 

Jaskier obliged, and Yennefer climbed in next to him. She settled down on her back the way she had been before Jaskier arrived, so Jaskier had to lie on his side and curl around her in order to fit. He did not seem to mind this at all. He snuggled up close to her, throwing an arm around her waist and tucking his head against her neck. His breathing started to slow the moment he was settled. Yennefer could feel his exhales against her neck. 

Yennefer was suddenly struck by how long it had been since someone had held her like this. She wasn’t sure if she could remember the last time it happened. Even Geralt, when their relationship had been at its best, was never exactly the cuddling type. 

That would explain the warm, fluttering feeling in her chest. It was because she had this human contact after so long without it. It had nothing to do with the particular person involved. Obviously. 

Still, there were very few people she would allow to come this close to her. There were even fewer who would actually want to do so.

She didn’t know why Jaskier had suddenly become one of those people, but right now, she couldn’t quite bring herself to mind. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispered against her throat. Yennefer startled a little. She hadn’t realized he was still awake. 

“What for?” she whispered back. Somehow, in the darkness and quiet, she found herself without her usual defenses. She couldn’t summon the banter from earlier; she was left with nothing but earnestness. 

"For being here," said Jaskier simply. 

Yennefer thought of the blood running from her wrists in the battle. She thought of the pain of Voleth Meir. She thought of all the danger and pain she'd undergone in the last few weeks. Her eyes felt suspiciously moist.

For being here.

She didn't think anyone had ever said that to her.

"You're welcome," she whispered. Jaskier held her a little tighter. If her voice was a little shaky, he was kind enough not to mention it.

"Goodnight, Yennefer," he said. Within moments, his breathing had slowed to the deep evenness of sleep.

Yennefer stayed awake a little longer. She felt like she was savoring something, something precious that she might not experience again. Jaskier was a welcome warm in the cold keep. He snored a little. Yennefer, after making sure he was definitely asleep, ran a gentle hand through his hair. Jaskier snuffled a little and cuddled closer.

It was strange that the presence of this ridiculous, idiotic man could be so soothing.

She felt her heartbeat slow as she lay there, Jaskier's steady warmth against her side. Her eyes fell closed without her noticing. She shifted to press closer to Jaskier, and his arm around her tightened in response.

She fell asleep and slept soundly until dawn.

Five

Yennefer and Jaskier shared a bed more often than not, after that. Though they never discussed it, Yennefer could tell that they both slept better that way. They settled into a strange sort of routine. Yennefer spent her days with Geralt and Ciri, discussing strategy and magic and whatever else required their urgent attention. Jaskier spent his days off in the depths of the keep doing something or other: talking to the other witchers or composing, perhaps. No matter what they had been doing during the day, Yennefer and Jaskier met in Yennefer’s room about an hour after sunset. They didn’t talk about much of consequence; just having Jaskier’s company without pressure or expectation was enough to lighten Yennefer’s mood on its own. It was the only part of her day when she didn’t have to watch her every move for fear of upsetting the careful balance between her and the rest of the keep. She valued it more than she could say.

Sleeping better improved her mood, as well. She could feel herself slowly starting to recover from the peril and fear of the last few weeks. Jaskier looked better, too: he was gaining some lost weight, and the bags under his eyes had been significantly reduced. It was obvious that the rest was helping both of them.

Geralt, it seemed, was not so lucky. He was a little slower than usual and a little more irritable, though he did his best to hide it around Ciri. It was obvious to those who knew him that he was not sleeping well, but he did not say anything about it and Yennefer was not sure enough of where she stood with him to push it. 

This stalemate held until shortly after she, Ciri, Geralt, and Jaskier left Kaer Morhen for Aretuza.

They were about a day’s journey away from the keep, still deep in the Blue Mountains. Geralt had hoped to make it farther that day — apparently there was a particular cave he usually used for shelter when he was in the area — but Ciri had been so exhausted by the journey that no one had the heart to push forward. The place where they had ended up was unfortunately open, with no trees and few convenient boulders to shelter behind. They set their tents beside the largest of the boulders and hoped it would be enough.

It was not.

They started the night in two different tents, with Yennefer and Jaskier in one and Geralt and Ciri in another. Yennefer was not sure if Geralt chose the arrangement because it was most similar to how the four of them had slept in Kaer Morhen or because he didn’t trust Yennefer with Ciri, and she was not about to ask.

The wind began to pick up soon after everyone was settled. The tents went from standing still to trembling to shaking violently. The canvas was loud, flapping and rattling against the tent’s poles. Yennefer, who was on the windward side of the tent, was hit in the face a few times by said overexcited canvas.

“I think this tent wants to become a kite,” said Jaskier. “How strong are the poles?”

“Shut up,” said Yennefer, rolling over and attempting to pin some of the most energetic parts of the tent under her. She heard a rustling sound from Jaskier’s side of the tent and worried for a moment that something had broken before she turned to see Geralt poking his head through the tent’s door.

“Yen! Is there anything you can do about the wind? Ciri’s getting scared.”

“I’m a sorceress, not a weather deity!”

“Can you at least make the tents a little sturdier?”

“The more spells I cast, the easier it would be for another mage to track us.”

“None of us are going to get any sleep if the wind goes on like this,” Jaskier said, chiming in. “It would also be very unpleasant if a tent broke while we’re in it.”

“I can’t strengthen both tents without risking our safety,” said Yennefer, sitting up. As soon as she stopped weighing down the canvas, it billowed again and hit her in the back. She grimaced.

“Could you just strengthen one of them?” Geralt asked, reaching up to hold the tent’s poles steady when they threaten to bend too far.

“I’d rather not—”

“But I would rather not spend the night like this!” said Jaskier, looking at her pleadingly. “Especially not when Ciri is scared.”

It turned out that Yennefer was not as immune to Jaskier’s pleading eyes as she liked to believe she was.

“Fine. Go help Geralt and Ciri get their things in here.”

It took nearly half an hour of fumbling and rather panicked maneuvering in the dark, but eventually they managed to collapse the other tent and move it and its contents safely into the remaining one. Geralt checked on the horses while Yennefer carefully cast spells to reinforce the tent and shield it from the wind. By the time everyone was finally safe inside the tent, the flapping of canvas and creaking of poles had nearly been reduced to nothing. Yennefer couldn’t safely do anything about the cold and the whistling of the wind outside, but her efforts had been good enough if the way tension bled out of Jaskier and Ciri was anything to go by.

“Thank you, Yen,” said Geralt, stepping back inside and closing the tent’s door behind him. Even he sounded relieved.

“You’re welcome,” said Yennefer. She let out a breath, ready to go back to her bedroll and sleep for a very long time. She turned back to where she was sleeping earlier. It was now covered by supplies and the packed-up remains of the other tent.

She looked around. The small tent was very, very cramped. There was no way they were all going to be able to lay out their bedrolls.

Jaskier frowned, seeming to have come to the same conclusion. “Hold on. Where do we sleep?”

There was silence for a few long moments as everyone looked around them with expressions ranging from annoyance (Yennefer) to constipation (Geralt) to thoughtfulness (Jaskier). Ciri was the first one to speak.

“I guess we’ll just have to cuddle,” she said.

Jaskier shrugged. “Sure. Do you think we can find all the bedrolls?”

“Hold on,” said Geralt. “Are you sure about this?”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him. “Is the thought of sleeping near all of us really so repulsive to you?”

“I… No, but—”

“Can you think of an alternative?”

Geralt sighed. “No.”

“Then help us find the bedrolls.”

After a while of searching and trying to rearrange things within the tiny tent without hitting anyone else in the head, they managed to create a pile of bedding composed of bedrolls, blankets, and parts of the other tent in an area that was just barely big enough for the four of them to lie down. Ciri flopped down first, obviously exhausted, and began arranging the blankets to her satisfaction. Yennefer lay down next to her, and Jaskier curled around Yennefer. Geralt tried to lie down on Ciri’s other side. There was a crinkling noise as he almost crushed a nearby container of food and sat back up, grumbling.

Jaskier sighed and stood up again. Despite Yennefer’s very best efforts, she found herself missing the warmth of him the moment he was gone.

“You get settled,” he said to Geralt. “I’ll find a spot after.”

“You don’t have to—” Geralt tried to say. Jaskier interrupted him.

“Just do it. I’m marginally smaller and you’re exhausted.”

Geralt looked like he wanted to argue, but a glare from Jaskier quelled whatever argument he was going to make. He stepped over Ciri and Yennefer to take Jaskier’s place behind her. His body was warm against Yennefer’s back. She could feel the tension in his every muscle. She was not sure whether to be offended or sympathetic; she hoped his awkwardness was due to the strangeness of the situation and not the fact that he was forced to be close to her in particular. She pressed a little closer to him regardless. She did not feel like letting pride prevent her from enjoying his witchery warmth. 

After looking at the three of them in consideration for a moment, Jaskier climbed on top of them. After a few moments of awkward rearranging, he managed to settle himself across all three of them. His head was on Geralt’s chest, his torso across Yennefer’s stomach, and his legs tangled with Ciri’s. Yennefer spluttered a little. Ciri giggled.

“What are you doing?” asked Geralt. 

“This is the only way I can fit!” Jaskier said, the defensiveness of his words belied by the smile on his face. “Anything else would have me squashing our things.”

“So you’re squashing us instead?” asked Yennefer with a raised eyebrow, desperately trying to hide her own smile.

“Exactly!” said Jaskier.

“Oh, fine,” said Ciri. Yennefer couldn’t quite manage to hold back a laugh. 

Jaskier shifted around a bit until he seemed comfortable, giving a happy little sigh before going still. The warm weight of him over Yennefer’s torso was surprisingly comfortable. She could feel his chest move as he breathed, the pace of it slowing as he relaxed. Behind her, Geralt was slowly relaxing as well. There was something soothing about Jaskier when he was like this, half-asleep and warm and so trusting that it still took Yennefer’s breath away sometimes. There were very, very few humans who would dare to relax in the company of Geralt, Yennefer, or even Ciri. Jaskier’s blithe indifference to how dangerous they all were was like open sunlight after a week spent indoors: difficult to adjust to, but beautiful nonetheless. Something about his trust that he was safe made her feel safer, too. 

Within minutes, Jaskier was fast asleep, snoring slightly as he lay draped across the three of them. Yennefer twisted a little to look at Geralt and they shared a silent moment of fond commiseration. She was sure that Geralt was just as awed and amused by the bard as she was, even if he often refused to show it. The smile they shared made her feel almost as warm as the bard currently pursuing a new career as a blanket. It gave her hope that perhaps their relationship might not be as broken as she had thought.

Perhaps the wind storm hadn’t been such a bad thing, after all. 

Plus One

Jaskier put down his quill and straightened with a satisfied sigh. He lifted his arms to stretch with some reluctance, because it meant moving his hand from where it had been resting in Yennefer’s hair. He was sore from sitting in one place for so long, though, and sacrifices had to be made. 

After stretching thoroughly, he blinked around him at the room. He must have been composing longer than he’d thought. Darkness had fallen while he was lost in the world of paper and song; the room was now illuminated only by a single candle which Yennefer or Geralt must have lit while he was distracted. 

They were in a rather unremarkable room in a rather unremarkable inn. Ciri was off on a short expedition with Lambert, presumably to learn how to make explosives. The three of them had been told to wait in this town until their return and so, remarkably, they found themselves with several days of free time. Geralt had completed all the available contracts, Yennefer had done all the witch-ing she could do, and Jaskier had, scandalously, almost exhausted the town’s patience for his ballads. That was how they ended up here, spending a quiet evening in each others’ company.

He looked down at his lovers. Yennefer had been reading, curled up with her head in his lap, but was now fast asleep even though Jaskier had been moving around. Geralt was slumped against Jaskier’s side, his head on the bard’s shoulder, also asleep. He had been repairing the handle of a dagger which now rested on a side table next to the bed. He was, to Jaskier’s fond delight, snoring slightly. 

For a moment, Jaskier’s breath was stolen away by the sheer trust he was being given. Geralt and Yennefer were both deeply asleep, not simply dozing or meditating. Geralt’s dagger was within Jaskier’s reach; if he had wanted to, he could easily have taken it and slit one of their throats before even Geralt’s witcher-fast reflexes could catch him. There were very, very few people to whom Geralt would show such trust, and even fewer who Yennefer would permit to do so. Jaskier did not think the fact that he was one of these people would ever cease to fill him with awe. 

Geralt’s position could not be comfortable, though; even a witcher could get a sore neck sleeping like that. Reluctantly, Jaskier resigned himself to waking him up. He shifted to gently shake Geralt’s shoulder.

“Geralt, dear heart,” he whispered, “You can’t sleep like that.”

“Hmm,” Geralt complained, doing his best to hide his face in Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier had to take a moment to breathe simply to avoid passing away from sheer love and delight. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said fondly, poking Geralt gently in the shoulder. “Now lie down properly so we can sleep without ruining our backs.”

Geralt continued to grumble wordlessly but did as he was told, sitting up enough to remove his shirt and let Jaskier put his notebook on the side table and slide under the covers. 

“Wha’?” mumbled Yennefer, who had been disturbed by the movement. She shot a sleepy glare at Jaskier, looking rather like a disgruntled kitten. “Why’d you move?”

“To get under the blanket, love. Come join me.”

Yennefer’s disgruntled face was so similar to the one Geralt had made that Jaskier had to stifle a laugh, but she complied. She got under the covers and lay down right up against Jaskier’s side, then glared at him until he started to stroke her hair. 

Geralt returned from where he had been folding his shirt and storing his knife. He joined them by flopping down on top of Jaskier, eliciting a grunt from the bard at the sudden weight. They had learned, over the months, that the only reliable way to get Jaskier to sleep without moving about and inevitably elbowing someone in the face was to squash him. Jaskier certainly did not mind — the extra warmth and weight was soothing, and watching Geralt and Yennefer try to decide whose turn it was for bard-blanket duties was an unending source of amusement. 

Yennefer shifted so she was holding Geralt’s hand and Geralt hummed happily, burying his face once more in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier resumed stroking Yennefer’s hair and she made a sound of approval. If his lovers were cats, Jaskier thought, they would both be purring. The thought made him smile. 

“Stop being fond and go to sleep,” Yennefer grumbled, and Jaskier laughed. 

“Yes, milady,” he said. She made another approving sound and went still, her breathing already slowing. 

Jaskier could feel his own heart slowing as well, the warmth and trust of his two absurdly powerful lovers soothing him better than anything else ever could. On top of him, Geralt was once again beginning to snore. He thought he felt a little bit of drool on his throat. Instead of indignation, all he felt was fondness and awe at the vulnerability. He really was hopelessly in love. 

Geralt’s breath was warm and slow against him. Yennefer’s chest rose and fell steadily beside him. It was as though nothing existed outside of this bed, as though the whole of Jaskier’s world had been condensed to this tiny space of calm and contentment and home. 

Jaskier was asleep within moments, feeling warm, safe, and impossibly loved.

[mildkleptomaniac]

skin — jj maybank x kook!reader

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭:  “ Can you please do jj x kook!reader? She is very insecure about her body because her mom's always saying she needs to loose some weight and stuff like that. So she starts eating less and less, and JJ starts noticing it, so he questions her about it. Angst with fluff if possible please 🤧 love your writing! ᵃⁿᵈ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵘ ”

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: deals with weight, ED behaviors--read with caution pls.

𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: hello everyone! i hope y’all are doing well. i just want everyone to read this with caution since it is a heavy topic. i made this angst and hopefully fluffly! if anyone ever needs anyone to talk to, my messages are open. i’m always here for you.

As there were many lovely things about being a Kook, Y/N had to deal with one of the many downsides of being a teenage Kook. She had to shape and morph into the perfect daughter for the perfect Kook family. Her mother held such a high and pristine image and Y/N had to follow along, whether she wanted to or not. 

Years and years of her mother poking and prodding at Y/N’s skin lead to insecurities--many. She would spend nights staring in front of her mirror, looking at herself from all angles, but never feeling content at the sight in front of her. She pinched parts of her skin, noticing how the skin layers or jiggles with movements, the stretch marks around her upper thighs--she hated it all. 

No matter how often her boyfriend, JJ, would give compliments--she still didn’t feel as beautiful as he claimed to her to be. Y/N struggled to understand how he was dating her or how he even considered dating her. If Y/N’s own mother noticed her flaws, how couldn’t her boyfriend? 

Y/N would watch Kie and Sarah in jealousy, the way they confidently wore their bikinis around all the boys or even just wearing a bikini top as a top itself. She never noticed a flaw in their skin and weight. They perfectly fit into their Midsummer dresses too, an event she didn’t even want to attend in fear of people looking at her and judging her body. 

It wasn’t like Y/N was unfit. She would wake up every morning and work out for an hour. She would eat healthy and drink mostly water. No matter how hard she tried, she never saw results. Y/N would surf, ride her bike, go for jogs, go rock climbing once a week at a gym on the mainland, but yet to her mother’s eyes--she wasn’t fit at all. Her mother’s poisonous views infected her and now sees through clouded visions about her body. 

Y/N finished her bowl of pasta for dinner, her stomach hungry for more. She went to get a second bowl, but someone cleared their throat behind her. 

“Really? Another bowl? Carbs are the devil, y’know.” Her mother shook her head. Y/N stood by the stove, nodding her head. She didn’t bother making another bowl for dinner, but instead she cleaned her dishes and made her way up to her room. That was the night that officially started it all. 

Ever since that night, Y/N skipped breakfast, which led to skipping lunch. Now, she barely ate dinner, claiming she wasn’t feeling well. JJ didn’t notice at first when she would bring him over for family meals, but when she kept giving him her food without any of it being touched, it caught his attention. 

He didn’t say anything at first because it would’ve been a huge conclusion to assume. But he watched when Y/N hung out with the rest of the Pogues. She never touched any of the snacks Kie would bring onto the HMS Pogue, she stopped drinking alcohol, and she only drank water. 

JJ snuck through Y/N’s window one night and the sound of the window opening startled her. She gasped and turned around, facing the window before grabbing a blanket. JJ raised an eyebrow at his girlfriend’s strange behaviour. 

 “Hey babe, is everything okay?” He asked, shutting the window. 

She nodded her head, “Yea, everything’s fine. You just scared me.” 

“I told you I was coming over in an hour.” He walked towards his girlfriend and she hesitated as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“Yea, but you’re early. It’s only been like ten minutes.” She mumbled into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. She leaned into her boyfriend’s touch, enjoying his warmth. 

“I sent that an hour ago,” JJ trailed off. Y/N’s mind went quiet, she must’ve been staring at herself so long in the mirror. She wasn’t quite sure what she looked like at this point. The only thing she cared about was being skinny. She ignored the comment and JJ pulled her onto her bed, sitting Y/N on top of him. 

She smiled down at him and JJ pushed strands of her hair to the side. He noticed how weak her hair was looking, but didn’t make a comment. It wasn’t his goal to make her feel bad. But at the thought of her harming herself, his smile faltered. 

“What’s up, JJ?” She asked, her voice a bit worried. 

“Wanna go get something to eat? I got paid today and I can finally be your sugar daddy.” JJ leaned upwards on his elbows. Eating was the last thing Y/N wanted to do.  “We can go get your favorite food, you can order 

“Not really, but maybe you can save up your money for new work boots?” She suggested. 

“You bought me new work boots two weeks ago, Y/N. Don’t you remember?” He laughed, shaking his head. “But c’mon, we can have dinner on the docks? Make me feel like a full Kook.” His hands run up the side of her arm. She rolled her eyes at her boyfriend and his statement. 

“I just don’t feel hungry, okay?” She admitted, too harshly and suddenly. JJ raised an eyebrow at his girlfriend’s statement. 

“Do you not feel hungry or do you just not want to eat?” 

Y/N was taken back by his question. “What is that supposed to mean, JJ?” She pretended to be confused by his question, but she was slowly crumbling with his realization of what she had been putting herself through. 

“You know what that means, Y/N. I might not be the smartest dude around here, but I can tell that you’ve been acting differently lately.” Y/N got off of her boyfriend and pulled her knees to her chest. She didn’t say anything to his statement, her silence told more than she ever would. “I see the way you look at yourself in the mirror---and how you look at your food. Hell, you don’t even look at your food. You just push the plate aside and your parents don’t even blink an eye at what you’re doing to yourself. At first I just thought you were going on a diet or something--but you aren’t supposed to be so restricting with your food.” 

“You don’t understand…” She trailed off, her eyes began to water. 

“You’re right! I don’t get it. You’re my beautiful girlfriend, who deserves to eat. You deserve to love your body and every inch of you. I’ve been in love with you since the first day I saw you. I wish you could look at yourself in the mirror and see what I see.”

“That’s the point, JJ! I don’t want to see what I look like anymore! If I am not skinny enough for my mom, I’ll never be able to please them!” The tears started streaming down her face. “I don’t like what I see! I don’t think I’ll ever have the perfect body. I will never look like Sarah or Kiara. I will never be like those beautiful girls on the beach or the perfect daughter. But that is all that I want.” She sobbed. JJ sat up and pulled his hysterical girlfriend into his chest, stroking her back.

“Babe,” He soothed her and held her tightly, pressing his lips to the side of her head. “You’ve always looked flawless. Parents shouldn’t make comments on your weight as if it’s their body. I love all your curves, the way you feel in my arms, how you look when you’re running and swimming…” He trailed off. “God, I love holding your hand, squeezing your thighs, the feeling of your arms wrapped around my neck. But starving yourself isn’t the answer. We...we can think of something else for you if you want to keep losing weight--but you shouldn’t compare yourself to anyone else. You’re Y/N fucking L/N and you’re the hottest babe here. Pasta isn’t going to kill you if you enjoy some more food, you can drink all the soda you want--hell, I’ll eat 20 bags of candy with you. I wish you could see how many people look at you and just...admire you. Sometimes I feel like I have to beat some people up because they stare a bit too long…”

She wiped her face and JJ kept holding her. “Just know I am here for you and...I love you. Like a lot.” He tried not crying himself, the idea of Y/N hurting herself only ached more. “I’m here for you, always, and I’m never going to leave you.”

“I just want to be perfect,” She sighed. 

“Babe, you defy all laws and you are perfection--but your mom has a warped perception. I think you’re great, same with the rest of the Pogues.” 

She nodded her head and buried her head into the crook of his neck. “I know...I know this won’t change anything right away, but...I’m here to help you and we can do it together. We...we can eat meals together. I can try learning how to make your favorite meals. I...I’ll do anything to help you feel better.” JJ reassured his girlfriend. 

“I love you,” She sighed.

“I love you too….now….wanna let me be your sugar daddy tomorrow and we can get some dinner? Tonight we can cuddle...watch some movies. We can shower together or...rob a bank?” He suggested, a small smile forming on her face at his ideas. 

“Let’s rob a bank,”

“A’ite, but...let’s relax. Think of a game plan.” He leaned them both back, her head laying on his chest as he wrapped both of his arms around her. Shortly following, she fell asleep on his chest and JJ fell asleep with the one he loves in his arms. 

taglist: @abbyg217 @taylathornton @lemur46 @urdadsapussy​ @webmeupspiderdaddy​ @rosarosse​ @5sos-fic-recs​ @littlethingsinmymind​ @pogueslandia​ @mrs-cameron​ @starduststarkey​ @jjshoeobx29872​ @caswinchester2000​ @starksvixen​ @littlethingsinmymind​ @chocolate-chip-cookie1​ @newtpsd​ @rottenstyx​ @professional-busboy​ @hallecarey1​

[ask-whitepearl-and-steven]

You've probably been asked this question before, but...how do you deal with self-doubt/impostor syndrome as a creator? I'm no artist, but I channel my creative energy into being a writer, and I have a ton of ideas that I want to explore in my writing, but I fear that if I don't utilize those ideas to their absolute fullest, I'd be letting down hundreds of people who like to read my work. Do you have any advice? I'd love to hear it. P.S. I love your WD!Steven comic.

OH! Ha, yes, imposter syndrome. Let’s... let’s talk about that. 

For those that don’t know, imposter syndrome is the phenomenon many creative people go through where they doubt their own abilities. Especially if a creator has gotten a lot of attention for their work, they begin to succumb to the pressure of being “good enough” to have “deserved” their audience. 

To put it simply, you feel like you’re an imposter that has somehow fooled people into believing they’re in for a ‘good’ story, and you will inevitably disappoint everyone when they figure out you’re not as ‘awesome’ or as ‘talented’ as they’ve been led to believe. 

It is self-doubt in its purest form, it is the fear of doing well and the fear of doing poorly all rolled into one bitter, stress-inducing onigiri. 

Let’s discuss self-doubt. I’m going to describe 3 things specifically to keep in mind for this. 

1) The Horizon Goalpost

You may have already read this in my other post about unrealistic goals. 

Basically this boils down to: Don’t set unrealistic goals. 

Utilizing Your Ideas To The Fullest is a wholly unrealistic goal to have, to be honest. No single idea can ever be ‘fully’ utilized because the concept will be different for everyone. Everyone will have a different idea of what the perfect, plot will look like. People literally argue about how shows ‘should’ have ended all day and all night. 

Saying ‘I need to write this story perfectly otherwise it’s garbage!’ is the same as looking at the sun on the horizon and treating it like a finish line.

We know the sun isn’t AT the horizon, and it is impossible to arrive at the horizon in the first place because it only exists as the limit of our vision... your story is like that. You do have limits on how much potential you can see. But that doesn’t mean your goal should be to catch up to it. Take it one step at a time. Many people don’t even START their story, let alone finish it. Set achievable goals. 

2) The Man Behind The Curtain

The second fallacy of self-doubt is the idea that anyone is at all competent. 

It’s false. No one knows what the fuck they’re doing - you included. That’s just how the world is.

Look, I’ll give you an example. Maybe when you were little you would go to your local grocery store and think ‘wow, everything is organized and works so well! The cashiers do their thing, the self-check-out is working... everything is running like a well-oiled machine!’ 

Then you grow up, work in retail and realize that everything except the storefront is held together with chewing gum and cello-tape. No one is ever 100% adequate, at least one person is having a mental breakdown every day, and everything is five minutes away from collapsing like a house of cards - all the while customers are none the wiser. 

This holds true for practically EVERYONE and EVERYTHING.

Sure, we may our good days where we function relatively well. But this is not a held constant and on average, most of us are struggling to maintain the illusion of Everything Is Fine while simultaneously worrying that we’re the only ones that do this. 

On average, we are all incompetent. The people that succeeded are not always better - sometimes they were just lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. For many of them, that moment happened when they were born to wealthy parents. For some, it was just about utilizing their 6 degrees of separation right. 

The truth is, there are THOUSANDS of people who COULD have been Beyonce, or JK Rowling, or whoever. The popular are not inherently more talented. They just happened to have the spotlight on them. 

3) Schrodinger’s Fanbase

The third thing to keep in mind when you write, or draw, or compose, or CREATE - is that your audience is not a set auditorium of people. 

And statistically, the beginning of your story is always going to be the point at which you have the largest number of potential fans. 

When you START your story, you only have to worry about satisfying people about the premise. You get them hooked and they’re more or less appeased - because the rest of the story is in their expectations. It’s in their head, and they will make up whatever they need to keep them happy. At that point, your story is still 90% their story (or whatever they think your story will be). 

The further you go into your story, the more you will narrow down your fanbase. People who expected it to take a different turn in chapter 2 will drop off. Then people who wanted something specific to happen in chapter 3 (but it didn’t) will also leave. 

And you know what? THAT’S FINE. That’s the normal way stories go. You cannot appease everyone at the same time - you will always have people who will be dissatisfied with the way you decided to do things. 

The important bit is - that doesn’t mean you are a worse writer. It just means that your fanbase organically shifts and expands as necessary. Your story will speak to different people at different stages. Let them enjoy it or not enjoy it. You cannot force someone to like something - but you CAN form connections to those people that do like it! 

In other words - let the fanbase exist as its own separate ecosystem, and don’t depend on it. It will morph and evolve as you write, and you and your fans will find each other and drift away as necessary. 

I also encourage other people - fans specifically - to allow consider this approach! 

I know we all love to kvetch, and yeah, it’s good sometimes to let off steam... But I don’t think hyperfocusing on something you dislike is healthy. If a story doesn’t satisfy you, don’t waste time forming an anti-fandom for it. Don’t fuel more effort and time into something that makes you unhappy. Just... go find something that you DO enjoy! Give THAT your time and attention!

Anyway, that’s just the way I think about it. Maybe it’s because I’ve been around long enough to know that pretty much every author and artist suffers from self-doubt and it’d be silly to hold myself to unrealistic standards that no one else is able to meet?

Hope that helps!

[fernsplaysthings]

Another continuation of my YW x Crow fluff from here.

Definitely suggestive this time.

By the time Kestral had reached street level they were beginning to wonder if Roost was right and that this was an ill thought out idea. Yes, the conversation with the other two members of Fireteam Mayhem (and their nosey Ghosts) had been somewhat emotionally charged and had opened the floodgates on a rush of feelings that they weren’t exactly ready to approach in a measured way but they still felt the need to try and…

Kestral didn’t even know what they were going to say to him when they eventually found themself at the H.E.L.M. Not even just what words to use. They hadn’t exactly worked out what they were trying to convey. What needed addressing. Everything was fine as it was, right? They hadn’t felt as connected with another person as they did with Crow. Not since Artemis and Salome and that was lifetimes ago. He tugged on their heartstrings in all the best ways. They cared for him in ways that made their chest ache, their stomach flutter, and their brain go fuzzy.

Again, Roost wasn’t exactly incorrect when he’d suggested that perhaps those feelings ran a little deeper and in a different direction to how Kestral expressed them out loud but they couldn’t see themself throwing out the ‘L word’ on a whim either.

With enough drink they knew it could be a possibility that it’d just slip out by accident and ruin a perfectly good thing, but that could be avoided.

Did that mean it was true if they were more likely to say it while drunk?

Realising they’d now walked several times around the block to burn off their nervous butterflies and straighten out their thoughts Kestral stopped, hating the direction their mind had headed, and looked up towards the Tower. There would never be a good reason to keep guessing and speculating on these things while the solution was right there. Even if some of the fear was because somewhere deep down they were afraid of rejection. Even if a lot of the fear was because they knew that there’d always be the possibility they could hurt Crow in so many ways without even meaning to.

A little voice in the back of their head reminded them that they could trust the other Hunter with anything, this included, and that was exactly what they needed to get their feet working again to push them towards the Tower.

-----

Without their armour and weapons to hand, Kestral felt out of place in the H.E.L.M. It was a weird sense of vulnerability to walk through a place dedicated to battle, survival and strategy as a civilian when they’d usually be one of the larger presences at the wartable. Vulnerability was exactly why they were here though, and while admittedly of a different kind it did seem appropriate in a round and about way.

As expected Crow was in his shadowed alcove at the back of the main hall, perched on the bench nearby with Glint at his side chattering away brightly.

The sight brought a goofy grin to Kestral’s face as they approached, widening even more as the other Hunter looked up at the sound of footsteps and cleared the space between them in a couple of strides. Although he tried to hold back, to seem cool and collected as he stood before them, the softest look of adoration made itself clear on his face when he noted the other’s smile.

“You’re in a good mood,” chirped Glint, popping himself between the pair and looking from one to the other.

Crow pushed back his hood and rubbed at his neck, taming his expression enough that Glint probably wouldn’t tease him about it later, “It’s...nice to see you smiling.”

Their heart did something messy and fluffy at his awkwardness and for a moment that fuzzy feeling took over their thoughts enough to give them pause and cause Glint to take a longer, more concerned look at them.

“Sorry, just wanted to swing by and see you guys.”

“We’re glad you did! Aren’t we Crow?”

He’d gathered himself enough to nod, “Actually I was going to talk to you later anyway. Zavala’s got me doing some recon stuff.”

The fuzzy feeling subsided rapidly and their heart dropped, “Oh. Anything interesting?”

He shrugged, “I’m not really allowed to share the details. I’ll be off-world for a while though.”

It really shouldn’t have bothered them as much as it did. They were off on other planets and moons all the time and it’d never bothered them before. Not that they didn’t miss him before they got back or think about him during the quieter times but still…

“That’ll be Zavala’s way of looking out for you,” they sighed, that vulnerability seeping in deeper, making them want to tug their hoodie around them and hide, “It’ll be some good experience. Doing a bit of field work for the Vanguard and all that.”

Something about their body language had obviously given away their unease to the other Hunter even though they’d thought they’d hidden it particularly well. His gloved knuckles brushed over their cheek, pushing back the stray hair beside their face, fingertips running down their neck to rest his palm against their shoulder.

Despite the heaviness in their chest, the gesture still sparked a shiver across their skin.

“I didn’t want to head off without letting you know,” he added softly, “I know you do this all the time so it’s probably no big deal and...am I being stupid?”

Kestral’s chuckle was one of relief. It didn’t make up for the time they’d be apart - ugh, when did they get this sentimental? - but it was reassuring to know he felt similarly. They moved closer, looped their arms around his waist and looked up to meet him face to face. Crow rested his own arms over their shoulders, around their neck, instinctively returning the hold so he could lean down and press a chaste kiss to their lips.

“I’ll take that as a no?”

They laughed more confidently this time, “You’re not being stupid. I’ll miss you too. Always do.”

A mingling of concern and affection crossed his features and he pulled them in again to plant a firmer kiss against their forehead, only to tuck their head beneath his chin so he could rest his lips against their hair. It was sappy but there was something about being wrapped up in Crow, warm and safe, that put them at ease in a way they never thought they’d feel. It wasn’t often that the fabled Young Wolf felt protected, vulnerability be damned.

“Maybe we can spend some time together before you go?”

Eyes meeting again, Crow smiled, “You have something in mind?”

Kestral hesitated. No. No they didn’t. How did this work? What if it wasn’t fancy enough. What if it was too impersonal? Did they need to impress him?

“Wanna get takeout and spend an evening at mine watching movies?”

Oh no that was the worst idea. He was definitely going to…

“A quiet evening in, hm? I’d love to. I’ll bring snacks.”

Perhaps it was the heat that had engulfed their face or they way their heart was now light and fluttering but without thinking they stumbled over their tongue, words falling out, “You could stay the night too if you wanted…”

“Ooh.”

Glint’s teasing sound startled the pair, both realising that the Ghost hadn’t actually gone anywhere and the poor guy was front and centre to their awkward sappiness. Kestral’s opinion changed from ‘poor guy’ to ‘almost as bad as Roost’ when his shell flickered and his holographic eye morphed from smug to a cheeky wink. Crow didn’t seem to think too much of it, probably used to his Ghost by now, and rolled his eyes before settling his sights back on the Hunter in his arms.

“I’ll bring some snacks and a toothbrush then.”

-----

A movie and a half in Kestral started to wonder why they’d been so nervous about spending some time alone with Crow. Their takeout, a very large, very cheesy pizza, had arrived just as they’d started their first movie and Crow had made short work of scarfing back a healthy number of slices while immersed in some equally cheesy action flick Kestral had pulled out. They’d eventually settled back into each other, Crow reclined across the sofa with the smaller Hunter, their back to his chest, comfortably laid back between his legs. 

Somewhere during the second movie, something slower and a little more sappy, his hand had come to rest on Kestral’s bare stomach. A warm weight on warm skin but they’d still shivered when his fingers found the raised silvery line of a scar and traced it idly until Kestral eventually placed their hand over his to still it.

“Ok, that tickles.”

He laughed under his breath, sliding his palm upwards and feeling for other scars, “Do they all tickle? Or is this one just...new?”

“Not gunna lie, I don’t really remember. You get so many scars by being a Guardian.”

“Can I see them?”

Kestral paused, eyebrows raised in amusement, turning just enough to catch a glimpse of Crow’s face, “Excuse you. Are you asking me to undress?”

A deep purple flush rapidly covered the Awoken’s face even on noticing the playful smirk that the other Hunter was wearing openly. They’d turned further in his lap, lying chest to chest and looking up at him expectantly.

“I…” he swallowed hard, “I mean yes. I guess I am...If you want to.”

Kestral’s smirk turned shy, “You know you can’t unsee this if I do?”

“The only reason…” he leaned down, pressed a sweet lingering kiss to their lips, “That I’d want to unsee anything about you…” Kestral pressed up closer, deepening the kiss between his words, “Is so that I could see it again for the first time.”

He’d barely finished his sentence when Kestral had let out a soft breath, a slight hint of a whine, and snaked their arms up around his neck to tangle their hands in his hair, to kiss him with all the affection and warmth that his ridiculously romantic sentiment had sparked in them. Crow briefly forgot all about the scars and undressing and the shy awkwardness, and focused on not becoming completely overwhelmed by the flood of sensations. Heated lips, the gentle tug on his hair, sharing breath, the long line of contact between their bodies…

Gently cupping Kestral’s face he pulled back reluctantly, “Sec…”

“Was that OK?”

He grinned dreamily, running his thumbs over their reddened cheeks taking in the sight of saliva wet lips and eyes that seemed darker with their dilated pupils, “Yeah. ‘OK’ doesn’t cover it, actually. It was great. Really great, and we should definitely continue but…” he shuffled to sit up straighter across the sofa noticing Kestral’s attention drop downwards and a wolfish grin spring across their features when it returned to him, “That. And I’m not sure if I’ve done - I don’t remember if I’ve done this before and I’m not sure if that’s going to make it weird for you…”

“It’s not weird for me,” they replied quickly, “Crow it’s been ages since someone’s seen me as something other than a ferocious god slayer and too legendary for something as human as...as…” their mind reeled with words, the one they refused to say, ones too impersonal, some that just weren’t enough, “...as connection. As emotional and physical affection. Even before that. This though. I like this, even with all the weird bits. Especially the weird bits. I like you too. Kind of a lot.”

The Awoken simply stared at them with the most open look of adoration they were pretty sure they’d ever seen, completely silent.

“Shit. Too sappy?”

His response was to move his hands down around their waist, tug them to straddle his lap and kiss softly from their lips to their neck, smiling against their collarbone.

“It was very sappy. And I think, if we’re on the same train of thought, we should think about relocating to uh…” he looked up to see Kestral’s barely restrained smile, “To somewhere with a bit more space.”

“Bed?”

The second they said it, Crow lifted them, their legs wrapped around his waist, “I wasn’t going to say that but since you’ve suggested it…”

“Crow, you ass.”

“Bed it is.”

-----

Lola had seen some shit in her life but walking in to her friend’s apartment to see said friend, half naked in a shirt that did not belong to them, perched on the kitchen counter with a man that looked remarkably like the Prince of the Reef - not him anymore, it was Crow now - also half naked between their legs having an intimate conversation…

Well, it topped the list of things that made her lost for words.

It was only when the front door slammed behind her that the couple looked up, Kestral like a deer in headlights and Crow looking very proud of himself, that they noticed they had an unexpected visitor.

It took Lazarus launching himself into the side of Salome’s head to snap her back into the present, dazing himself in the process.

“Uh. Shit, Lola this is Crow. Crow, this is Salome, a good friend and part of my fireteam. This is a bad time, maybe you can…”

“Am I gunna have to start knocking?”

Kestral blinked a few times, “I...would like that. Yes, please do.”

“I cannot believe this is being turned into an actual love nest. Last thing I need seared into my brain is the image of my fireteam leader getting railed on the sofa.”

“Lola!”

“It wasn’t the sofa.”

Kestral’s head snapped back to Crow, face cheeks and ears all a deep red and slowly creeping onto their chest, “Don’t.”

Lola’s cackle drew their attention back again, “Ok, he can stay. I’ll catch up with you both when you’re not all loved up and shit.”

“Might be waiting a while,” muttered Crow, turning his gaze back to the other Hunter and running his knuckles lightly over their cheek.

Lola loudly faked some retching sounds as she left, slamming the door behind her.

[silly-jellyghoty]

A random though which turned out to be a lot longer than i have anticipated, but please bear with me. I swear that i have a punch line in mind.

So!

Ball pythons with the spider gene have wobbling issues and have a hard time to right themselves up when turned. That's what every python owner and breeder knows (or should know). I'm not a zoologist or a genetist or any other relevant -ist, but hear me out.

While playing around with my Artemis (a queen bee morph aka pastel + lesser + spider), i have noticed that the only time she wobbles is when she has her head and neck up above the substrate, but the moment she feels a touch in the wobbling area, she immediately stops wobbling and clings to whatever has touched her. If that means she is touching ground after being flipped up side own, she rights herself up. If that something is the side and then the ceiling of her terrarium, she scales it up (and then flops down when there's too little of her on the ground to keep the ballance), if it's my hand, she slithers along it as if it was ground, even if she is technically still up side down.

So it made me think.

What if the spider wobble isn't a mental issue in terms of a faulty brain activity, but rather it's connected to nerves responsible for detecting gravitation and body position (i'm sure those have a real scientifical name)? Maybe they are underdeveloped, maybe they are deformed, maybe entirely missing. I don't know. But if the snake isn't aware of what is up and what is down and if it isn't aware where exactly and in which position is the rest of its body, it would explain the wobble. After all, it's hard to keep steady if you can't fine tune your muscless due to lack of information usually provided by those sensors.

Since they lack this essential but often overlooked sense, spider gene pythons learned to compensate by using touch and sight. However unlike those position sensors which if i remember correctly from my long past biology classes are connected directly to muscle tissue, sight and touch needs to be processed in brain and only then send into muscles. The time delay may cause wobbles through compensation and overcompensation of the ballance (instead of instant muscle tension correction of non-spiders in comparision) back and forth so while in average the snake stays in more or less the same position (lurking to catch their prey), it can't keep perfectly still.

The corkscrewing may be a combination of this aspect and extreme stress, be it positive or negative. If the snake is scared, stressed, or overly excited from smelling food or an ovulating female or similar, their tiny brain may be simply so caught in the moment that it stops processing touch and sight stimuli and translating them into right muscle tension. As a result, instead of sticking to the ground or holding themselves in the S shape like before the strike, be it to hunt or to defend, muscles contract to create bends, but they are doing it wrong, resulting in a spiral shape aka corkscrew instead of that characteristic S.

Many rescue pythons come from owners who only had them in empty boxes with just water and substrate. These snakes often come in with stress issues, wobbling and corkscrewing hard as a result (for all understandable reasons) yet magically stop doing it or at least stop doing it as frequently as before, once they are placed in habitats with a proper enrichment. Also older snakes often "grow out" of severe wobbles they had as babies and juveniles (maybe because their brains are finally fully developed to process touch as their main muscle sense so to speak?) My guess is that it's exactly because of this enrichment, however not because they are green or made of wood*, but because of simply having many obstacles all around. Whenever a snake starts wobbling and it touches something, it is reminded - this is here, this is down, crawl now. It's easier to be aware of that when there are leaves and twigs all around, than when it's only the box, ground, and one water dish somewhere in the corner.

This could explain why spiders are found in nature instead of being extinct. After all, the spider gene wasn't a mutation developed and noticed in captivity, but caught wild and then selectively bred for the pattern. Snakes with this gene must then logically be able to feed, mate, and generally do snake stuff on their own without any help. The main reason why they can do this is probably that pythons with spider gene in nature are always surrounded by thousands of plants, roots, grass blades, and other stuff providing them with those oh so necessary subtle touches all year around. And while they may wobble a bit from time to time, their specific pattern is more than enough to compensate for their less successful hunts by making them quite invisible. Pros and cons of genetics.

Another advantage of the gene may also be directly connected to their lack of one vital sense. So the snake doesn't have any idea what is up or down but is pretty sure that touching stuff with belly does the trick, right? My theory is that because of this, they could be better climbers. After all, solid stuff is solid stuff, but while non-spiders tend to stick to the ground because they know that down is good, more or less, spiders would seem it as perfectly reasonable to crawl up branches. After all, solid is solid, crawl now. Again. Their pattern looks less than round and oval leaves in various stages of decay and more like a bunch of sticks throwing shade over a tree trunk. Perfect masking for climbing if you ask me.

Now for the punch line.

So i have deduced that instead of a snake variant of mental disability, spider gene (and possibly other wobble genes) can be rather a physical disability - an issue with registering gravity. Other than that, these ball pythons are perfectly normal and healthy snakes happily living their lives anywhere where they can climb and slither and cling to solid stuff regardless of whether the thing is actually the ground or not, right?

So. I propose an experiment for confirming this theory - get the spider python into space. Put that baby into a habitat made of sticks and pieces of plumbing and fake plants. They would be a perfect sample for whatever other experiments anyone would make with them. Royal pythons don't drink. As long as their humidity is right and their food juicy, they get enough water as is, so there is no need for unpractical water dishes in space. They also don't care about there not being any "up" unlike mice and was that a chicken once? A duckling? You know what i mean. You don't even need to feed them for months if they are nice and chubby prior leaving the Earth, they would be just fine in their little space hides through the whole duration of the mission.

So i say - space snakes

*) don't take this as me dismissing enrichments, i am not. They are useful and fun and keep your animals safe and healthy, plus also they look great as a display

[alolowrites]

Cuddling Through the Seasons

Summary: Fatgum’s cuddles never go out of season

Author’s Note: This is my third story for the @bnhabookclub​’s Hero Camp Bingo event. This was also a request from @bnha-homeroom​ (sorry it took so long!) 

The prompt used was Cuddles and this is my first story for Fatgum. Hopefully I’ll do more stories for this guy because he’s deserves the best. 

Enjoy!

Word Count: 1.6K+

Spring

High in the sky rests the glorious bright sun. It’s golden rays shine through the vibrant pink flowers blooming on every tree, emphasizing their natural beauty. Two birds playfully chase each other in between the branches, their lovely chirps in harmony with the soothing sounds of the gentle stream below—Mother Nature is simply a lady with many hidden talents.

Although the grass maintains a healthy green coat, it too is covered by fresh cherry blossom petals blown off the trees—it adds a beautiful pop to the land. Few people arrive and wander through the peaceful park. Some snap a couple of pictures on their phones, their bodies bent in odd angles to capture that perfect Instagram-worthy shot. Others silently take in the whole scenery with their eyes and save the mental image deep in their memory jar—that’s how you are enjoying today with Taishiro.

Both of you sit under a tree that is different from the others; it’s branches are abundant, and some hang charmingly over the water. A quick wind blows through the park, tugging the delicate petals until one slowly falls to the stream. Everything is serene, almost like an abstract landscape painting on display at an art museum.

Closing your eyes, you sink in deeper into Taishiro’s plump chest. A relaxed sigh escapes his lips as you enjoy your massive pillow. His large arms wrap around you like a snuggly safety belt—they are protective and warm. Your fingers affectionately glide up and down his sweater to the beat of the stream. You hum, “Everything is so beautiful.”

Taishiro leans back on the thick tree trunk and glances at you; he cheekily grins, “That’s ‘cause you’re here, darlin’. The cherry blossoms are a nice touch, though.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re such a cheesy guy, you know that?”

“Yeah, but that’s what you love ‘bout me.”

“That is very true,” you playfully tap his arm, smirking up at him. Another cherry blossom falls and lands on top of your head. Taishiro raises on hand to carefully pluck it off your hair and holds it high against the sunlight. The flower is so soft and just the right shade of pink. He thinks it’s perfect, just like you.

Taishiro shows the sakura petal to you, “Here’s a little present.”

Your heart swells, a tiny blush dusting your cheeks as you reach for the flower. You take a whiff of the sweet aroma and lean back against your living pillow. Squeezing the hero’s hand, you look up to flash him a faint smile, “Thank you.”

You never let go of the cherry blossom petal.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Summer

Far in the distance lies the vast calm sea. Ocean waves creep steadily toward the fine white sand, kissing the land hello before returning outward. Light puffy clouds float along the peaceful cerulean sky, morphing into different images at the hands of your wild imagination. It’s a fun way to pass the time and relax the mind.

You inhale the fresh, natural air—it smells like freedom. The city’s chaotic and bustling streets are an afterthought. The prying eyes of paparazzi and other media hounds are thousands of miles away from your paradise home. The avalanche stress tied with Taishiro’s hero lifestyle vanishes when the two of you step on the warm sand.

“Whatcha’ thinkin’ about, darlin’?” His voice is loud but soothing at the same time. You feel the gigantic teddy bear stand behind you. It wasn’t long until Taishiro traps you into his loving embrace, giving you a quick squeeze. Your toes wiggle into the smooth sand as a sharp wind whistles by; the waves hear it and crash against the shoreline.

“How a place like this,” you nod toward the dancing water, “somehow exists. It’s almost as if I’m dreaming—” You yelp at the slight pinch, and Taishiro roars with laughter. You crane your neck up to glare at him, “What was that for?”

“Well you’re not dreamin’, that’s for sure.” You elbow into his stomach knowing entirely well it did not phase him at all. Taishiro retaliates by hugging you harder, enjoying the delightful squeals ringing into the semi-deserted beach. Other tourists linger around, but the land is so spacious that you barely see them. It’s easy to think you two are alone with all the privacy in the world, an idea that doesn’t exist back at home—a small price to pay while being a pro hero.

In a way, Taishiro is glad this moment is not a dream. It won’t fade away once he wakes up, but will stay in his memory for a long time. Just as you calm down, a mischievous grin crosses the hero’s lips, and his grip tightens around your waist. You had a bad feeling about this and clenched his hands, “Hey…what are you doing—”

“Hold on!”

“Don’t you dare!”

Your words fall on deaf ears as he effortlessly carries you in his arms and charges toward the sea that is waiting to greet you both.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Autumn

Bright yellow lanterns glow above the narrow streets, gently swaying back and forth without a care in the world. Luscious pampas grass decorate the roofs, the creamy-white feathery plumes waving hello to everyone passing through the area. A chubby hand reaches upward; the baby is determined to grab the mesmerizing fluffy grass until something else catches their eye.

An elegant pyramid of tsukimi dango neatly sits on a black plate. There are fifteen white dumplings, each perfectly round and white as the precious moon gleaming tonight. A crowd grows around the delicious display, making it nearly impossible to squeeze through the sardine bodies. Fortunately, the group departs when they see Fatgum approaching with his hearty smile, and you follow closely behind—sometimes being a hero has its perks.

Taishiro greets everyone until a middle-aged man freaks out from his stall, “It’s an honor to meet you, Fatgum! Thank you for keeping our streets safe!”

“It’s no problem really—”

“Please take these dumplings! They’re on the house!”

Taishiro gives you a side-glance, and you shrug. Who were you to deny some free food, especially if they are those moon-like dumplings? You grab the plate from the man’s trembling hands and bow. The hero safely guides you away from the crowd and spots an empty grass field. Plopping down, you dramatically groan, “That was so much walking!”

“Sorry, darlin’! Guess I got a lil carried away,” he chuckles while scratching his forehead. Taishiro takes a seat behind you.  

“I think that’s an understatement, but,” you gleefully raise the plate that barely reached his eyes, “we got free dumplings!”

“They do look good,” Taishiro hums and takes one round treat. You plop the tsukimi dango in your mouth, the rice flavor surprisingly strong, yet pleasing to your tastebuds—it’s a chewy delight. The pyramid crumbles in seconds, and you scoot back to rest your head against the gentle giant; out of instinct, he cradles you in his arms.

A chilly air blows by and makes you shiver despite wearing a cashmere sweater. Taishiro notices and shifts his posture to shield you from the cold—a small act that melts your heart every time. You gaze at the luminous moon until your eyes struggle to stay awake; it doesn’t help that Taishiro feels like all toasty like a fleece blanket.  

It definitely was all that walking, and you yawn before dozing off in his arms.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Winter

Snow showers rain down on your quiet neighborhood. The bare tree branches scoff at the fluffy cotton balls falling from the sky; they barely weighed more than a feather. An hour later, the branches are slouching under the heavyweight and weeping for mercy—but the snow never stops.  

A thin white blanket hides the dull, gray streets and vibrant decorations flourish to their heart’s content. Tiny bells chime once Jack Frost blows a chilly wind down the sidewalks. Thick garlands covered in elegant ribbons stretch for miles on some apartment balconies. And others hung colorful Christmas lights that flicker to a very jolly tune.

In a way, the snow ties everything together to bring out the pleasant holiday mood—it’s simply magical. Two pairs of footsteps, one small like a mouse and the other the size of a giant, imprint themselves on the powdery sidewalk. You waddle toward the apartment with arms bundled around yourself; you’re craving for something warm. Any minute longer outside and your legs will permanently turn into icicles.

“O-open t-the do-or, p-please,” you chatter through your teeth while bouncing nonstop. Taishiro chuckles and you glare at him, making his grin widen more. You barge in once he unlocks the door and dust off the snow on your coat. Hasty footsteps rush to the kitchen so you could warm the teapot as quickly as possible.  

Taishiro shakes his head—you quickly get cold. He relaxes on the couch, not bothering to change out of his Santa costume; if anything, the clothes are comfortable and roomy. You wander into the living room and shiver up a storm. A gloved hand beckons for you, “Come over here, darlin’.”  

Shuffling toward the mellow hero, he pulls you on top of him. Without hesitation, his arm wraps around you to keep you steady. One ear sits above his chest, and you focus on the faint sound of his heartbeat. Not even the Santa costume could mask Taishiro’s alluring honeydew scent, which drives you crazy. You contently sigh, “You made so many kids smile today, hun.”

“I’m glad,” he answers while stroking your hair, “Those kids at the hospital deserve all the happiness in the world, ya’ know?”

“Yeah…” A finger lazily draws out imaginary lines along Taishiro’s red velvet coat. An involuntary shiver runs down his spine. Only your charming touches could make him react like this, and he savors them all. You raise your head and squirm closer to the hero’s face. With loving eyes, you whisper, “You make a fantastic Santa Claus.”

“Fantastic enough to get a kiss from Mrs. Claus?”

“Sure,” you giggle and pull down his fake white beard. As you plant a sweet kiss on his lips, you decide that you no longer needed that nice hot cup of tea.

Third prompt is crossed off. Which one will be next? Stay tune! Thank you for reading!

Previous prompt: Betrayal

Hero Camp Bingo Masterlist

[thejustmaiden]

I’m honestly hoping with the current movement of #saveourchildren and the lgbtq community calling out pedos will give the sequel backlash if Rin is the mother. Also I hope none of those shippers are a part of the movement because than it’s just hypocrisy at it’s finest. I’m honored praying sunrise gets the backlash if they decide to do that, especially since it’s 2020, NORMAL and SANE people will be shocked. I’m pretty sure everyone’s sick of the “it’s normal in Japan.” People want change.

Hey, nonnie! I'm not sure if you're the same person who sent me the previous anon ask about what Jaken's VA sent during the livestream or not. I'm assuming that because I received them almost back-to-back, but maybe I wrong. Whatever it may be, happy to have you. 😊

It would be hypocritical in many ways, yes, but at the same time many Sessrin shippers say they would never condone acts like child grooming and the such in real life. I really believe them for the most part, too.

So where does that leave us? Well, what it all really comes down to is at what point do we start acknowledging the spaces both fiction and real life occupy and the (in)direct impact they're capable of having on each other.

In my opinion, Sessrin shippers refuse to accept their correlation- whether that be due to denial, lack of awareness, or a bit of both. Regardless, it's safe to say they simply don't take how linked these two are as seriously as antis do.

As has become a habit of mine in recent blogs/asks lol, I'd like to refer you to a great write-up by boycottyashahime. Read their thoughts on this very subject here. They always put it better than me anyway. Here's a preview excerpt:

"Predators have and continue to use fictional relationships to convince their victims that the abuse they experience is perfectly fine. I think that it would behoove the SessRin community to make sure that those in their midst who are young and vulnerable know the warning signs, understand when an older person may be trying to take advantage of them, and encourage drawing a clear line between the fictional ship and real relationships."

Sessrin shippers would respond to this by saying that shipping a fictional pairing- yes, even if it has harmful implications- isn't actually bad since it's not real and therefore can't be viewed in a negative light. A common misconception of theirs is that antis can't separate real life from fiction. Let me break down why these two reasonings lack support and are basically justifications:

1) Inuyasha is aimed at a young audience, and at no point in this series should a teenager watching be subjected to controversial dynamics closely reminiscent of pedophilia or child grooming. Period.

2) Most of us who have a problem with it CAN in fact differentiate between real life and fiction so please stop missing the point, be it intentionally or not.

The main issue we have is why are we exposing young minds to a heavy topic they are not mature enough to handle yet. Whether you agree or not, it's common knowledge that Sessrin raises a lot of red flags. Antis aren't overreacting because of dumb shipping wars or anything trivial like that. What we're reacting to is the typical Sessrin shipper's response to this pairing. Ship it if you want, but please don't tell us how we should frame our opinions according to your "historically accurate" portrayal, especially if it morphs the truth into something unrecognizable in order to fit your narrative.

Here's an example to give you a better idea of what I mean:

Let's say my favorite animal is the koala bear and yours is the kangaroo. Both are marsupials, right? Both lovable, but one is friendly and the other can be quite dangerous. Now imagine you trying to suggest a kangaroo is as friendly as a koala- so essentially something it's not. Shouldn't I correct you? Sure, you can love the kangaroo (Sessrin in this case) all you want, but shouldn't we stick to the facts presented to us? Accurate identification is the key to appropriate representation! (Say it with me! I like alliteration and rhyming, what can I say? lol) This way there isn't any confusion and we can help prevent our young ones from misinterpreting potentially threatening situations. By attempting to pass the kangaroo off in a category among docile species like the koala (aka healthy ships), you risk putting others in harm's way. Who's to say a child won't take your word for it and just run up to a kangaroo someday and get gravely injured (aka they've now exposed themselves to a real life predator). All this could've been avoided from the get-go if a certain group of people didn't refuse to admit that the kangaroo is indeed dangerous no matter how much they wish it wasn't. Trying to convince us that a kangaroo can be like a koala or something it's not is never going to happen. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that either so there's no need to get defensive. The kangaroo can still survive and thrive and so can your ship, but just in a different environment/genre.

(Did that analogy work? xD)

And nobody as far as I've witnessed (with the exception of maybe one or two occasions) has straight-up called Sessrin shippers pedophiles. Pedo apologists, perhaps, but those two aren't one in the same. Petty and ugly name-calling on the other hand? Well, that's taking place on both sides so you can't really use that against antis.

People do want change! Not only am I tired of Sessrin fans speaking on behalf of an entire country regarding the popularity of a ship despite a strong presence of antis there, nonnie, I'm sick of those same fans telling us we don't have a right to be critical of the content we consume. "If you don't like it, then stop watching."

Since when did it become wrong to demand we do better and improve in areas? It's only normal we care and expect our entertainment to be aligned with our real life morals, because how else do you think fans relate to characters? Of course fiction can push the boundaries as is its nature, but like with everything else in life there are limits. After all, the stories we make up are but reflections of the human experience and we're taught that there are some lines you must never cross.

I'd like to end this off by saying that I hope you're right, nonnie, and that Sunrise and everyone else involved in this sequel receive all the backlash they deserve if they decide to go through with Sessrin. It's possible that movements like Save Our Children can help people who are struggling to understand why making this ship canon is problematic. On top of that, it can help them re-evaluate their values and put them in better perspective in regard to this pairing's close connection to serious acts of abuse like child grooming.

Maybe this whole time we've just been underestimating Sunrise and Rumiko's ability for profound and consistent storytelling. *knocks on wood* All along maybe we had nothing to worry about, who knows? Don't break my heart, readers, and just let me be the half-glass full kinda gal I've always been. It ain't over till it's over. 🤗

Edit: I recently discovered that a right-wing conspiracy pro-Trump group by the name of QAnon is trying to hijack the Save Our Children movement as their own. As much as I support anything that brings more light to children's issues, I do not support Trump, this terrorist organization, and their conspiracy theories.

[krizaland]

Z,,, Zim x insecure reader

As someone who’s always insecure, I really needed to write this. Thank you so much for your request!

Be warned: There is mentions of body image issues and low self esteem ahead.  I’ll admit I maaay have gotten a bit too personal in a few parts.

Here’s the song I used btw

You and Zim have been dating for over three months! It was a long and painful learning curve but you and Zim worked through it! Now you and Zim were a happy couple!

However, despite being a healthy couple, there were still bumps in the road.

While most problems could be worked out, there was one thing you and Zim could never agree on:

The way you looked.

You’ve always felt less attractive than your peers. Whenever you looked in a mirror, all you could see were your countless imperfections.

You found yourself spending countless hours glaring at yourself, thinking of all the things you wished you could change about yourself.

“I wish my belly was flatter.”

“I wish my face was prettier”

“I look like an ugly blob!”

Those awful thoughts echoed in your mind as you pinched and pulled at your skin.

Eventually, you would leave the mirror and carry on with your day.

However, your internal insults didn’t stop there.

“I laugh too loud.”

“I talk too much.”

“Oh god! I hope I’m not making anyone uncomfortable! God why am I so stupid?!”

Most days, your internal struggles were bearable but there were somedays were your thoughts would get so bad you would burst into tears.

Zim, on the other hand, thought you were the most beautiful creature in the universe!

Zim had been to countless planets, and have seen countless stars but nothing compared to you!

Your face was so beautiful, Zim found himself getting lost in your eyes.

Zim couldn’t care less about how flat your belly was! Your body was so soft and warm, he could cuddle it forever!

Zim thought your laugh was amazing and unique! In fact, he loved your laughter so much that he would do just about anything to hear it again!

Zim was in awe of how many things you knew about! He could listen to you talk for hours! Your voice was more lovely than any song he’s ever heard.

You were amazing in every conceivable way! There was no other being who could ever compare to you!

Imagine his horror when he heard you insult yourself out loud!

You had just finished up in the restroom and had caught a glimpse of your face on the way out.

You sighed as you glared at your reflection.

Countless flaws and a pathetic expression was all you could see staring back at you.

“God, I’m so fucking ugly,” You groaned as you pulled at your face, “How could Zim possibly love someone this hideous-”

“Y/N?!”

You let out a squeak as the sound of Zim’s offended shriek woke you from your thoughts.

“Gah! Don’t worry I’ll come out now!”

And with that you trotted back to the couch, where a very angry Zim was waiting for you.

“I’m so sorry I took so long I-”

“You think that’s what I’m upset about?!” Zim growled as he folded his arms.

“W-Well I-”

Realizing he was making you nervous, Zim took a deep breath and softened his features.

“Y/N, why did you say such terrible things about yourself?”

You jerked your head back in shock!

“I-I’m sorry?”

“Y/N, you don’t need to apologize! Well..at least not to me anyway….But you heard me! Why did  you day such HORRIBLE things about yourself?!” Zim demanded.

“I….Well….I mean…It’s kinda true, like there are people out there who are so much prettier than me and I-”

“LIES!!! THERE IS NONE MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN YOU!!! YOU ARE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BEING IN THE GALAXY! ANYONE WHO SAYS OTHERWISE IS TOO DUMB TO SEE IT!” Zim interjected as he snapped a finger in your face.

A bright blush spread across your cheeks as you backed away from Zim’s finger.

“Zim, that’s really sweet but-”

“BUT NOTHING! YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL! WHO DARED TO FILL YOUR AMAZING HEAD WITH SUCH FILTHY LIES!!” Zim roared as he stood up on the couch.

“No one! I’ve felt this way about myself for like, a long time!” You spluttered.

“Eh?! Well do you need your eyes checked?” Zim asked as he scratched his head.

“No I-”

“Then quit it! Why can’t you see that you’re amazing?! YOU are the only one who can make Zim smile! YOU are the only one who is always on my AMAZING mind! YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WORTHY OF ZIM’S LOVE!” Zim declared dramatically as he pointed to you again.

Your eyes were as wide as saucers as you face glowed bright red.

“Ok, perhaps an…Earth song might help you understand…”Zim sighed as he rubbed his temples.

“Wait- What?!”

“I know the perfect song to sing too!” Zim chirped as he clapped his hands.

“COMPUTER! Cue romantic Earth karaoke song number 2011!”

“NOW PLAYING EARTH KARAOKE SONG NUMBER 2011!”

Zim cleared his throat as the music began.

“Oh your eyes, your eyes, make the stars look like they’re not shinning. Your hands, your hands, fit with mine perfectly without you trying. You’re so beautiful…And I’ll tell you everyday….” Zim pulled out a remote and pressed a button

BEEP!

The couch sank into the floor as the ground shook for a moment.

FWEE!

SQUEAK!

POP!

The floor morphed into a large, brightly colored stage!

Zim landed on his feet and continued to sing.

“Yeah, I know, I know, when I complement you, you don’t believe me. And it’s so, it’s so sad that to think that you don’t see what I see. But any time you ask me if you look ok, I’ll say”

BEEP!

The base was engulfed in colorful lights as a picture of your face appeared on Zim’s TV.

“When I see your face, There’s not a thing that I would change! Because you’re amazing, Just the way you are!”

“And when you smile,” The monitor switched to show a picture of you smiling, “The whole world stops and stares for awhile! Cause, you are amazing! Just the way you are!”

You opened your mouth to speak but no words could come out. All you could do was stare at Zim with your mouth agape.

“Yeah! Your lips, your lips, I could kiss them all day if you’d let me! Your laugh your laugh, you hate it but I think it’s so sexy! You’re so beautiful….And I’ll tell you everyday!” Zim sang as he changed the picture on the monitor.

You let out a gasp as you covered your mouth!

On the monitor was a picture of you on prom night!

You were in your finest formal attire, you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel like royalty that night.

“Oh, you know, you know, you know, I’d never ask you to change. If perfect’s what you’re searching for then just stay the same. So don’t even bother asking if you look ok, you know I’ll say!”

Another picture of you appeared on the monitor, this time it was picture of the last selfie you sent him.

You had discovered the flower crown filter and you thought it was cute!

“When I see your face, There’s not a thing that I would change! Because you’re amazing, Just the way you are!”

“And when you smile”  The monitor switched to show a picture of you laughing, “The whole world stops and stares for awhile! Cause, you are amazing! Just the way you are!”

“The way you are… The way you are….”

ZWIP!

Stairs jutted out from the stage and Zim strutted towards you.

Before you knew what was happening, Zim took you by the hand and led you up on stage!

“Y/N you’re amazing, just the way you are!” Zim’s eyelids lowered as he took your hands in his.

Tears of joy spilled down your cheeks as Zim gazed into your eyes.

“When I see your face, there’s not a thing that I would change,” Zim gently dried your tears, “Cause you’re amazing…Just the way you are.”

You let out a chuckle as you leaned into Zim’s touch.

“And when you smile, the whole world stops and stares for awhile,” Zim’s voice was a soft whisper as he tilted your head to look at him, “Because you’re amazing, just the way you are.”

“Do you understand now, Y/N? You’re perfect,” Zim gently caressed your cheek, “You’re perfect in every way.”

More tears poured down your cheeks and trickled down Zim’s hand.

“Y/N? Are you alright? I wasn’t too strong was I?” Zim yelped as he tried to dry your tears..

“Yes, I’m fine Zim. You weren’t too strong at all. I just…..Wow….Do you….Do you really mean all that?” You sniffled.

Zim’s face twisted for a moment before he crashed his lips onto yours.

You let out a muffled squeak as Zim’s tongue begged for entry.

Your eyelids fluttered shut as you granted Zim access to your mouth.

The moment the gates opened, Zim’s tongue charged into your mouth and immediately begun to wrestle with yours.

A growly moan rumbled from Zim’s throat as he tasted every corner of your mouth.

You begun to moan as well as you savored the feeling of Zim’s lips on yours.

Eventually, you and Zim were forced to part for air.

Zim gazed into your eyes and licked his lips.

“Do you believe me now?”

[starlightinhumanform]

Breaking Point

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Ships: Loceit (could be interpreted as platonic or romantic)

Summary: Sometimes being a light side just does’t cut it. After a particularly aggravating argument, Logan begins… changing. (Logan centric angst fic with guest appearances of most of the others,,,, but mostly Janus).

Warnings: Negativity/Coldness/Miscommunications Throughout, Mild Language Throughout, Some Mentions of Injury/Illness Used as Metaphors

Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

A/N: This was written for the wonderful Spring Fling event here on tumblr! It was so much fun and I can’t wait to participate again! I know I’ve been very inactive lately and I’m very sorry for that (mental illness can be a real kicker lmao), but I’m trying to get back into my groove of writing and posting!! Stay safe and healthy. I love you all 🖤✨

Ao3 Link   Fic Masterpost    Fic Request Info

Logan was not a stranger to emotion. Despite popular belief, he experienced them like any other side. The difference was his ability to tamp them down, keep them from clouding his logic; it was an ability he prided himself on. Sure, sometimes his anger got the better of him when the others were being far too ridiculous. But for the most part, he was clean, calculated, cool.

Right now, though, his head was pounding. Virgil was shouting hoarsely and Roman was yelling back even louder. Patton just whimpered, trying to get the two to stop fighting but failing miserably as he flinched back from both of their raised voices. Thomas stood in the middle of it all with glazed eyes.

And Logan, what was he doing? Standing to the side. Being completely useless, it seemed. He pressed his fingers against his temples and tried to massage away the pain. His efforts once again failed and he turned his attention back to the situation.

Thomas had to choose whether or not to go to a Broadway audition and wanted to consult with his sides to get their opinions on the opportunity. Unfortunately his plan had backfired and now the choice was even less clear. It was a debate, they were trying to make a decision— Logan should have been leading the entire thing. Instead, he had been shoved to the side as Virgil and Roman turned the discussion into a fight.

“It’s too big of a risk! If Thomas fails at this, he may never audition again. Think about how that would hurt Patton. Think about how it could ruin his whole career,” Virgil hissed.

Roman answered too clearly, over-pronouncing his words as he spat them out like they tasted as bitter as his tone, “You’re suffocating me. You’re keeping Thomas from achieving his dreams. Your worries are simply too much. If anything is going to ruin his career, it’s going to be you.”

Virgil raised his eyebrows and gave a cold laugh, “Oh, I’m sorry? I thought we agreed it was my job to protect Thomas? So why don’t you just back the hell up and remember your place.”

“My place? And where exactly would that be?”

“Safety comes before your stupid fantasies.”

“This isn’t even about safety! This is about you being a coward!”

The room went quiet. Quiet, not calm. It was like the moments of silent after a lightning strike when everyone holds their breath, waiting for the roar of thunder. Logan needed to interject before things got even worse and this was his best opportunity to do so.

He cleared his throat, “If you two would like to pause this illogical arguing for a moment, I would like to make a few points.”

All eyes turned on him. He was nearly taken aback by the amount of anger in both Virgil and Roman’s gazes, suddenly turned on him instead of each other. It burned against his skin as they both glared at him. Patton tried to give him a smile but it was far weaker than usual. Thomas’ eyes were the worst— dazed from all the yelling, confused and torn apart from his aspects disagreeing so violently. Logan felt like he had failed; failed them all, but especially Thomas. It was his job to keep order, to weigh the pros and cons, to unravel problems, to make things clear. And when the others needed him the most, he had let it all fall into the hands’ of chaos.

“I just think there are better ways to make this decision. You two have been yelling each other for over half an hour and it’s gotten nowhere.”

“Yeah, because he refuses to admit that he’s wrong!” Roman interrupted.

Logan gritted his teeth, “Please try to restrain yourself from talking over me.”

Virgil was the one to break in this time, “Logan, maybe this isn’t the type of argument that you belong in.”

“Not the- not the type of argument I belong in?” Logan could almost laugh, “This is the exact sort of discussion I need to be included in because otherwise we end up in a mess like this!”

“Logan,” Virgil growled, “I don’t think you’re understanding what’s going on here. This is an issue me and Roman need to settle. No matter what that means.”

“No matter what that means?? Are you even listening to yourself? That’s the sort of talking that causes disaster!”

“No, Virgil’s right about one thing,” Logan turned his attention to Roman as he was interrupted once again, “This is between the two of us. Don’t get yourself involved.”

“If I don’t get involved, you’re going to tear Thomas apart trying to get your ways!” Logan could feel his temper slipping away from him just as his control of the situation was slipping through his fingers. These idiots had their heads so far up their asses, they couldn’t even see the damage they were doing to everyone else.

“Logan!” Roman snapped his name to get his attention, “Maybe you should just go.”

He scoffed, “Go? You really think you can solve this problem by yourselves?”

“Go.”

Logan glanced at the stairwell where Virgil had snarled a singular syllable at him, “Excuse me?”

“He said to go,” Roman was glaring at him, “And, in this case, I agree with him.”

Logan’s mouth fell open. It was ridiculous. They needed him, but apparently they just couldn’t see it. They needed him, but they didn’t want him. He shook his head. A laugh was rising up his throat but he couldn’t figure out what was so funny.

He looked around the room, “You really want me to go? Fine then.”

Thomas and Patton both seemed distressed but said nothing to stop him. Roman and Virgil didn’t have to say anything; the anger boiling behind both of their stares communicated plenty.

And that was all he needed. Logan sunk out of the room without another word.

He reached the mindspace in a matter of seconds, appearing in the dining room. The laugh that had been trapped in his throat bubbled over and crashed to the floor as it morphed into a cry. He clapped a hand over his mouth as giggles mixed with sobs and spilled past his fingers, filling the quiet room with hiccuping whimpers. It was just too much for him to wrap his mind around. His beautiful, perfect mind. And somehow they had managed to reduced it to this— a wreck, an absolute mess, emotions crashing into each other and spilling over onto his face so he could do little more than grip the back of a chair until his knuckles were white and he couldn’t even see through the ocean in his eyes.

His skin felt hot as the tears rolled over his cheekbones and directly onto the floor. He was not a stranger to emotion, but this— whatever the hell “this” was— felt brand new. New like new boots, the type that leave your skin blistered and red and raw. His body was shaking and his stomach turned and he was sure that if he sobbed any harder he might start retching.

He felt so vulnerable; he was a scar that had been scratched at so many times it had finally ripped open and started bleeding again.

Logan was angry. Angrier than he had been in years. He just wanted to help. Why couldn’t they see that? Why wouldn’t they let him help? But more importantly, why couldn’t he help? Was he useless? Was he a tool that had no purpose, tossed aside by the others like a spare screw that didn’t fit anywhere?

“Logan?”

His head shot up, back straightening and squaring up in under a second. Janus was standing on the other side of the room like he had frozen in the middle of his movements. His eyebrows were woven together in what seemed like concern.

“You don’t look ok?” His expression was a painting of confusion.

Logan rubbed at his eyes from beneath his glasses, “I- I assure you, I’m perfectly fine.”

Janus just laughed, silky and self-satisfied as always but maybe a little softer than usual, “Lying’s kind of my thing, remember, Logan? You look... great.”

Logan let his head hang, not even trying to keep up appearances now that Janus had called him out. He glared at the other side from over the rim of his glasses, “Can I help you? Or are you done ridiculing me?”

Janus took a couple hesitant steps forward, tilting his head to the side like he was absolutely fascinated by Logan. He began speaking slowly but it was obvious from his intense stare that his focus was very far from the words leaving his mouth, “Ridiculing? Oh dear, no, that was not my intention. What’s the matter? Something must be incredibly wrong to have put you in such a state.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Logan snarled, “Am I not allowed to act as irrationally as the rest of you? Is sanity expected only of me? Maybe I’m tired of it! Do you understand how exhausting it is to carry the weight of responsibility with no one to lend a hand? In fact you all fight against me, pushing me downhill and spiraling Thomas further and further away from stability. Well, maybe I’m tired of it. Maybe I’m so damn tired of yelling until my voice is hoarse, just because I’m trying to look out for the well being of everyone else only to be discounted because ‘it’s not fun’ or because I couldn’t possibly understand, being the cold and unfeeling robot that I am. I am sick of it!”

“Logan, I’m going to need you to calm down.”

Logan blinked back into the present.

Janus was standing in front of him, hands raised to hold Logan’s face. Logan was startled to find his cheeks damp once again with tears beneath Janus’ quivering fingers. Janus was staring at him with a combination of fascination and terror.

“Logan do you know what’s happening?” Janus’ voice shook nearly as hard as his hands as he drew them back to his chest.

Logan could feel his forehead crease as he stared back at Janus, “What do you mean?”

Janus laughed but it had lost its honeyed qualities; just a humorless, sharp exhale, “Look around you.”

He raised his head at Janus’ cue, taking in the room around him. A glass that had left on the table was now broken into pieces. The glass of picture frames hung on the wall now lay shattered on the carpet. Items scattered on shelfs throughout had tipped over or rolled onto the floor.

Logan’s mouth fell open, “Did I— How— What— Did I do that?”

Janus nodded his head slowly like he wasn’t sure to believe it either, “The whole mindspace started shaking.”

“What does this mean?” Logan reached out slowly to pick up a shard of the glass. His hands trembled as he studied the piece, turning it between his fingers as if he could find an answer in its angular edges.

“Well, sometimes when a dark side is distressed enough, they can negatively affect the environment around them,” Janus had been speaking in slow, almost broken segments as if he had been constructing the sentence word by word, choosing carefully and cautiously. Now, though, he started rushing his words out like they burned his tongue, “You know, like the screaming thing Remus does or when Virgil makes the whole room go dark, that sort of thing.”

“Wait. Janus, you said ‘dark side.’ And don’t try to lie to me, I have a perfect memory and I know what you said.”

Janus winced and tried for a smile, “Yes, well...”

Logan arched one of his eyebrows, “You are aware that I’m not a dark side, yes? And unlike Virgil, I was never once in my existence a dark side.”

“No, no I know that,” He clasped and unclasped his hands together serval times as if the awkward movement could fill the even more awkward silence, “I’m implying that you might be becoming one?”

“Oh, please,” Logan scoffed, “Is that even possible? And how have I even done anything to deserve the title of being ‘dark’?”

Janus mirrored Logan’s raised brow, “Oh, and I’ve earned such a label? The point is, you’re starting to act more and more like us. Whether or not any of us are actually deserve that title is a debate for another day.”

Logan studied the face in front of him. Janus was a master of deception— of course he was— but in this moment he seemed completely open, completely genuine. And if Janus was being honest... well, that could be a bad thing.

He opened his mouth to speak but the words were slow to come to his tongue, “So, assuming this hypothetical you’ve proposed, how could this happen? How is such a shift even a possibility?”

Janus gave another humorless laugh but at least he didn’t sound terrified this time, “I really don’t have the answer to that one.”

Logan stared done at the floor, eyes roaming the pattern of the carpet but his mind incredibly far away. Was that possible? Could a side go “bad”? More importantly, could he go bad? Was he bad? Had he failed Thomas so much, hurt the others so much, provided so little use yet so much ill-will that—

“If anyone has the answers, it’s going to be you.”

Janus’ voice broke through Logan’s thoughts, “What?”

Janus pulled out two chairs from underneath the table and faced them towards each other. He took a seat in one and pointed at the other, “Something is obviously wrong. Tell me what’s going on.”

Logan stumbled into the chair, stunned by the commanding note in Janus’ tone. He sat down and stared blankly across at the other side, unsure of where to even start. He pursed his lips for a moment, “Why does it matter?”

“Because you knocked my favourite mug off of its shelf and I need answers,” Janus rolled his eyes, “If what I think is happening is happening, that’s a huge change that could affect everyone— including Thomas. Now stop avoiding the question.”

Logan glared down at his hands gripping each other in his lap. His vocabulary had abandoned him. This simply was not a familiar situation to him. He shared facts, advice, outside information; but feelings, his subjective truth? That stayed locked away.

“Let’s start with why you’re crying, ok?” Janus’ voice was gentle but his question was still very clearly an instruction.

Logan jerked his head up as he realized there were tears running down his face. Again. He cursed under his breath as he rubbed them away, “I don’t even know. I guess I’m just not used to doing this, this sharing of emotions.”

Janus nodded, “And why aren’t you with the others? It sounds like there’s quite an argument going on up there. You usually jump right into the fray.”

“I don’t know,” Logan pinched his nose and tried to ignore the burning ache in his chest. It was strange, the emotion so raw and intense that it had the effect of a physical wound. It was like the tissue of his rib cage was being torn apart, “I tried to join in, to try and add at least a little reason to the discussion... but they refused to listen.”

“Logan, have they ever listened you about anything?”

He let his head fall back down to avoid looking at Janus, “Not really. I can’t help but think I’ve failed Thomas.”

Janus placed his hand on Logan’s shoulder, “No, no that’s not what I meant. I just wanted to know if the others took your advice.”

Logan raised his gaze to make eye contact with Janus, “Well, sometimes.”

“But do you have to work to get them to even hear you?”

Logan laughed, “Oh, yeah.”

“And to they ever listen to you about you? Do they even ask?”

“Why would they?” Logan paused, “Wait, should they?”

Janus stared at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, pity swimming in his eyes, “I think I see the problem. I think your negative interactions with the others is causing you to turn into a dark side. It’s almost like a defense mechanism or something.”

“But my interactions with the others haven’t been negative. They can be frustrating, yes, but they’re the closest things to friends that I would ever have. At the very least, they are my companions. Right?”

Janus grimaced, “From what you were saying about ten seconds ago, their treatment of you hasn’t exactly been positive. I’m not say they’re not your friends, just that... maybe they don’t act like it as much as they should. They don’t seem value you or what you have to say.”

“But I need them to,” Logan spoke slowly, deep in thought, “How else am I supposed to help Thomas, to fulfill my purpose?”

Janus said nothing and Logan continued he train of thought, “I guess it makes perfect sense for me to do what’s necessary to be heard. I can’t protect Thomas from their violent irrationality if they don’t listen to me. I guess this is just the natural course of action.”

Janus seemed hesitant as he nodded, “I mean... yes, I guess so.”

“Besides—,” Logan shrugged, “—maybe being a dark side isn’t so bad.”

“What do you mean?”

Logan smirked, “Sometimes you need to raise your voice to be heard; if I need to scare the others a little to cut through the chaos, then so be it. And it seems that I’ve been given the perfect tool to do so.”

“Logan, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea... ”

But Janus’ voice was already fading away as Logan rose back into the argument. He had been ignored for the last time. Never again would he be brushed to the side for being the cold outcast. They would listen to him— whether they liked it or not.

Logan was not a stranger to emotion. And right now, he was smiling. Grinning, in fact— ear to ear, power flickering in his eyes. He was the voice of reason and no longer would he be an accessory to their foolishness.

If you want to be added to my Sanders Sides fic taglist, just send an ask or reply to this post :p 

~ @phan-fander @abi-beehive @fandomfan315 @cas-is-a-hunter @reggieleigh07 @endless-rain-of-words @vicdehart @im-actually-ok @softnic @catolicabuena @icequeenoriginal ~

[amyscascadingtabs]

when i’m feeling alone, you remind me of home

Three different years, three different Christmasses, and three different reasons Jake's awake all too early in the morning on December 25th.

(or, did anyone say CHRISTMAS FLUFF???)

read on ao3

december 25th, 2014.

06.08 a.m.

“Oh my god, have you been here all night?”

Jake's not sure whether Amy’s about to laugh at him or tell him off about how he needs to take better care of himself. From the incredulous look on her face, like she can’t believe her eyes when he nods at her from behind his desk, it could be either.

“Jake, that’s insane. Have you ever heard of, I don't know, sleeping during the night?”

(It's the second alternative.)

 He has heard of sleep, and he’ll confess the thought of his bed with its good mattress lump and too-soft pillows is more tempting now than when he first considered going home about eight hours ago, but he also just drank a can of artificially blue energy drink and might never sleep again. All the better - it’ll give him more time to catch his arch-nemesis, who sent him yet another rant about omelets yesterday that left Jake none the wiser and all the more frustrated.

 “I’m trying to get a trail on Doug Judy,” he shrugs in response to Amy. “You think a person can disappear into thin air?”

“I’ll go with no on that one.”

Jake groans. “I swear that’s what he’s done. It’s infuriating.”

“I’m sorry he got away,” Amy tilts her head to the side with sympathy, “but I promise you’ll catch him. Just go home and get some sleep.”

“You go home and get some sleep.”

“I have! I’m just stopping by to get a couple of hours of work done before I have to go back to my brother’s place.”

“Why are you going to your brother’s place -” He makes note of the red and green stripes on her knitted sweater and her red bauble earrings. “Oh, right. Christmas.”

 Never one for family-centered holidays or one with a particular skill for keeping track of time, Jake could have sworn the occasion wasn’t happening for another few days at least, but Amy nods. Her earrings sway with the movement.

“So you’re working on Christmas?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re working on Christmas,” she retorts simply.

“Yeah, but I don’t celebrate it. You like being with your family.” Jake snaps his computer shut and leans over his desk instead, hands clasped together and chin resting on them. “What’s the mysterious deal here? Has there been a juicy scandal in the Santiago family? Please spill.”

Amy sighs, her cheeks turning a shade of pink he recognizes from the last time Captain Holt complimented her work on a case in front of the bullpen. “There’s nothing juicy. I just needed some time away from my brothers if I’m going to survive today.”

“I thought you liked your brothers?”

“I have seven brothers, Jake, and I like all of them. Except for David. Perfect David,” she says, screwing up her face like it pains her to say the name. “David is planning to take the Sergeant’s exam this year. David is looking at buying a house. David’s proposing to his girlfriend. Aren’t you thinking of getting married to your boyfriend, Amy? Oh, that’s right - you two broke up! Such a shame. You two made an adorable couple!”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “Sure. Ouch.”

She starts writing on her computer, fingers tapping over the keyboard with speed and only stopping for brief moments when she looks out the window like she’s taking a break to think. Jake decides to give her a moment alone and dives back into his own poorly structured document of barely existent and equally far-fetched leads. He doubts he’s writing anything coherent at this point, but the thought of Doug Judy out there taunts him too much to allow himself to stop.

 He feels guilty whenever Amy mentions her breakup with Teddy. It’s been three weeks since the most catastrophic double-date in history, and most of the time, they’re cool, but then there are moments where he’ll mention Sophia and notice how Amy’s eyes will turn away and her expression will morph into a smile so different from her natural one. He can’t decipher what it means, or if it’s nothing and his mind’s playing tricks on him from when he had a little bit of a crush on her. It’s not like it would matter, he reminds himself. He’s with someone, he’s happy, and Amy’s over him anyway.

It doesn't stop him from wishing he could read her thoughts sometimes.

 “Are you having dinner with your mom tonight?” Amy asks, jolting him back to reality. The tapping of her fingers against the keyboard has slowed down, and the tension that radiated from her before seems milder. Jake thinks he can note the hint of a smile on her lips.

“How do you know I’m having dinner with my mom?”

“You told me last year?”

His memory flashes back to a late-night, dead-end stakeout last December. “Right. Right, yeah, I am - Sophia’s away visiting family, so.”

Either Amy's smile turns more wistful, forced, or he’s imagining it. “That sounds nice. Are you planning to get any sleep before then?”

“Sleep is for the weak,” he tries joking, but because his body is cruel, moving his face triggers a massive yawn that makes Amy giggle.

“Actually, sleep deprivation is linked to a weaker immune system, higher risk of cardiovascular diseases and trouble with concentration,” she lists, ignoring his eye-roll. “Seriously, Jake. Go home and rest, then come back with a clear head tomorrow.”

“Nah,” he shrugs. “Just need more coffee.”

“I pity your doctor.” Amy shakes her head. “But hey, it’s Christmas - if you promise me you’ll go home and sleep after, coffee’s my treat.”

“Really?”

“Consider it my Christmas gift for you. “ She’s out of her seat and taking on her coat before he’s even had a shot to ask why he’s willingly going outside in the cold when there’s perfectly acceptable, free coffee in the break room. Then again, he’s not one to say no to a surprise. Especially not when the words on his computer are getting blurrier by the second, and he’s lost nearly all faith in his own skills as a Detective thanks to the failed capture of Doug Judy three days ago. Caffeine will help him stay awake; maybe long enough to come up with at least one more idea. Something - anything - and he’ll let himself go home. As soon as he’s made progress, he’ll rest.

 “Gingerbread lattes. Sickly sweet, so suits you perfectly.” He gives Amy a quizzical look as she puts down the red and white Starbucks cup in front of him. She blushes. “I mean, because you eat what I believe is a dangerous amount of sugar. Nothing else.”

Jake grins. “That difficult to hide your crush on me, huh?”

“I don’t have a crush on you. If you’d like to give me a Christmas gift, I’d very much appreciate you quitting bringing that up.”

“Uh-uh, it’s a no-can-do.” He unscrews the lid from his cup, licking up the sweet foam. “This is great, though. Thanks, Amy.”

“You’re welcome. Merry Christmas,” she says, and he thinks he sees a glint of that shy, covert smile again. “For what it’s worth, I really think you’ll catch him. I believe in you. Just get some sleep first.”

“Merry Christmas.” He lifts his cup like he’s making a toast. “I believe you can survive Christmas lunch with your family. Maybe even without strangling anyone.”

Amy snorts. “Now that would be a Christmas miracle.”

“So would Doug Judy surfacing again be at this point.”

She holds up her own takeaway cup, touching it to his. “Cheers to Christmas miracles, then.”

“Cheers,” he laughs.

 In the corner of his eye, he sees his phone light up with a Merry Christmas-text from Sophia. He can’t fully explain the guilt that follows when he waits a few minutes to reply, or why he’s struck with a sudden desire to tell Amy another joke first so he can make her laugh again, but it's probably just sleep-deprivation.

 ~

 december 25th, 2017.

05.33 a.m.

Jake wakes up not knowing how to breathe.

It’s not happening as often anymore - not nearly as frequently as it did during his first weeks home - but often enough for it to no longer surprise him. The dreams before he wakes up are almost indistinguishable from each other, always another version of Romero’s gang having him backed into a corner with their shivs pointed at him. Melanie Hawkins is watching the whole thing go down from the other side of the cell, her laugh nefarious and causing his blood to freeze to ice. In every dream, he screams for help, but no one ever comes to save him.

 It’s fine, he tries to tell himself, forcing in air through his mouth. His chest hurts, his heartbeat’s far over the healthy bpm and a sense of instinctive dread is pooling in his stomach, but he’s fine. He’s home.

He listens for the sound of cars driving past outside her window, a trick he’s learned after too many of these nights, and reaches out his right hand to touch his nightstand. A second wave of fear floods him when he realizes he can't hear a single car, and when he reaches out his hand, all he feels is a wall that doesn't belong to his bedroom.

He sits up so quickly it makes him dizzy. He doesn't remember where he is, and can't distinguish the room in its encapsulating darkness, but if he's back in prison or Romero or Hawkins have somehow manifested in his real life, he's all too aware he doesn’t have anything to fight with except his bare, trembling, hands.

This is where you die, a voice in his head wheezes, and his lungs feel tighter. This is where it ends.

 The sound of another person’s breathing sharpens his focus. It could be someone from Romero’s gang standing behind him, breathing down his neck, but the only thing he feels is droplets of sweat trickling down his back. It could be Hawkins, standing somewhere in the room watching him, but this breathing seems too slow and peaceful. Nervously, he looks to the side, and even in the darkness of this room, he recognizes the silhouette of his fiancée sleeping next to him in bed.

The puzzle pieces seem to fall into place, mitigating the waves of panic as they go. He’s not at home, because he’s with the Santiagos, celebrating Christmas upstate with his in-laws-to-be and their many kids and grandkids. He and Amy drove here yesterday, celebrated Nochebuena with all her family, and they’re staying for Christmas dinner today.

Everything’s fine, he tells himself instead, and finds that he’s able to force his breath into the pattern Amy taught him after one of his first attacks. In, out. You’re not in prison. Inhale. You’re okay. Exhale. Repeat until it works.

 As his eyes become more and more used to the darkness, he’s able to make out the contours of Amy’s face. She’s on her side facing him, her hair draped across the pillow and her hands holding onto her part of the blanket. It doesn’t seem like he’s managed to wake her up. She’s fast asleep, and Jake pats himself on the shoulder for having learned to ride out the panic attacks on his own. It’s bad enough that he can’t sleep; he’s wrecked with guilt when it affects her, too.

He presses a kiss to her forehead. The corners of her mouth twitch into a small smile, and the aching in his chest is replaced by a comfortable warmth.

He’s careful not to try and disturb her when he gets out of the bed they’re sharing, finding a hoodie and a pair of pajama pants he’s thrown on a nearby chair, and sneaks outside.

 The snow shocks him. He’s used to a gray, rainy Brooklyn during December, a polar opposite to the Winter Wonderland surrounding their rented cabin. It's still a couple of hours away from daylight, but the porch lighting and bright snow are enough to make him feel safe. He scrapes clean a spot on the edge of the porch and sits down.

The air is cold in his lungs, but it’s the refreshing kind of cold, the kind that feels healthy and makes you realize how polluted the air you breathe on a daily basis is. It’s far from the signature prison smell of mildew and fear, far from the stuffy atmosphere in the courtroom during their trials, far from any of the memories that haunt him during nightmares and nocturnal panic attacks.

He’s safe. He’s free. He’s okay.

He grabs a handful of snow, squeezing it and feeling it shape after his palm. If someone had asked him during a night he laid awake in his cell, whether he thought he’d ever see snow again as a free man, Jake’s not sure what his reply would’ve been. There were a lot of things he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to experience, but here he is, living them. He forms the snow to an imperfect snowball, then throws it against a tree. It gives him an odd, childish sense of having achieved something, so he does it again.

 “Having a snowball fight with yourself, are you?”

He turns around to see Amy standing in the door opening. She’s in pajamas, bathrobe, and her winter coat, but despite her Michelin-man-like appearance, she still looks like she’s shivering when she sits down next to him, handing him one of two steaming mugs of coffee.

“I just needed to get some fresh air. Sorry, I tried not to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I only noticed when the bed got cold. You’re an excellent source of heat.”

“Where would you be without me?”

“I’d be colder,” she states simply. “And sadder. Worse in every possible way. But you know that. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Yeah. Let’s not.” He takes a sip from his mug. The coffee burns the roof of his mouth, but he can tell his cup has been doused with the perfect amount of sugar, so he keeps drinking. “What time is it?”

“Nearly six. I bet all the kids will wake up soon, and the quiet in this house will turn into chaos as everyone’s opening their gifts and trying to capture reactions and thanking each other,” she laughs. “Get ready for the annual Santiago Christmas chaos.”

“I’m excited,” he says with full honesty. If he had to think of a good opposite for prison, a crowded living room of families with children opening gifts on Christmas morning is a strong contender, and it’s made even stronger by the fact that he’ll have Amy by his side for it. “Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Merry Christmas.” Her face is cold, but her lips are warm from the coffee when she kisses him. “Now do you think we can go back in and snuggle under our comforter until we actually have to get up?”

 Jake doesn’t know if he’ll ever be free of the nightmares, but he knows that for as long as he’s laying forehead to forehead with Amy Santiago, pretending to complain when she rubs her ice-cold feet against his, tickling her as revenge just so he can make her laugh, they seem further and further away from reality.

 ~

 december 25th, 2020.

05.17 a.m.

 Although she's only been born for a mere five weeks, Jake’s already certain his daughter is a flat-out genius. For example, even though it's her first time celebrating, she's got one of the staples of Christmas celebrations down to a T; she's waking up far earlier than should be allowed.

 “She's way too excited about her presents to sleep,” he suggests with a yawn as the infant’s crying wakes them up for a third time that night. “Truly my daughter.”

“More like she's hungry and wanting attention,” Amy mumbles as she reaches for the nursing pillow, trying to find a comfortable position for both her and baby. “Still your daughter, then.”

“Guilty as charged,” he says, and in the low shine of the table lamp on her nightstand, he can see her rolling her eyes at him. Leah’s grunting in complaint as Amy takes a few seconds to unhook the strap of her nursing bra, bordering dangerously close to a cry when she can't seem to figure it out, but then it works. The sound of Leah's content suckling fills the room, bringing with it a novel feeling of peace they've come to know in the last weeks.

When she's crying, their hearts are shattering. When she's happy, they're floating on air. And because their daughter is barely a month old, they're on a constant rollercoaster between the two absolutes.

 “You can go back to sleep if you want,” Amy offers, not for the first time that night. “I’ve got this under -” She yawns. “Control.”

“I know.” He could, and considering the low total amount of sleep he's gotten this week, he probably should, but he has another idea. “This is nice, though.” Leah’s pajamas has reindeer heads on the feet, and he holds them in his hand. “I can’t believe it’s her first Christmas.”

“I think you’re more excited than she is,” Amy laughs. “We’ll see what she thinks about it after the two-hour car-ride to my brother’s place.” “She’ll sleep through it. You’ll worry.”

She grimaces, stroking her fingers over the tiny hand Leah is holding on her chest. “Touché.”

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Merry Christmas.” Amy stifles yet another yawn. “You don’t mind getting up with her while I close my eyes for just a little bit longer, do you? Or else I might actually fall asleep in the middle of Christmas dinner.”

“No, of course not.” Jake doesn’t tell her he was hoping she’d ask. He can’t risk ruining the surprise he came up with at work two days ago. For someone so sleep-deprived he almost took Charles’ lunchbox from the precinct fridge two days ago and was about to start chewing before Terry stopped him, he feels it’s some of his finest idea-work.

Leah finishes eating and Amy burps her, handing her over to Jake like she’s the most precious of goods - which, to be fair, is accurate. Their daughter finds her favorite spot with her head on his shoulder near immediately and he gets out of bed almost as fast, only stopping to give his wife a kiss on the cheek before leaving their bedroom.

 Even a year ago, he would have laughed in the face of whoever had told him he’d ever willingly wake up at 5.30. He would have called them insane if they’d suggested it would become the routine it has, or that he would like it. Every morning when he gets up for work, he’ll wake up extra early and take Leah for a couple of hours, giving Amy some undisturbed sleep and himself some quality time with his daughter. She is, without exception, in her happiest mood in the mornings. Sometimes she’ll give him what sort of resembles a smile if he makes a funny enough face, or she’ll wave her hands when he sings to her. Jake can’t imagine a better way to start his day - if he has to spend a whole workday away from her, at least he gets these moments first.

 He’s not going to work today, but he still has plans for their morning together. It’s the first-ever Christmas they’re celebrating as parents, which he figures calls for a more luxurious breakfast than their usual coffee and toast, and Amy may have suggested no big gifts this year, but she didn’t say anything about ones addressed from their daughter - loophole. She insisted they’d get a tree, though, so now there’s an over-the-top decorated fake tree in the corner of their living room with a whole of three Baby’s First Christmas-ornaments. Two of them were gifted by Charles. As was five other gifts, and he only stopped because Amy made him.

 “This is the Christmas tree,” Jake tells his daughter as he shows it to her for the one-hundredth time, only for the way her eyes light up when she gets close enough to see the lights and baubles. “It’s not real, because your mom’s allergic to those, but it looks pretty nice, right?” Leah coos. “Yeah, I know. We’re being extra this Christmas. It’s all for you, you know.”

“But it’s what you deserve,” he adds, kissing the top of her head and breathing in the baby scent he just can't get enough of. “Even though you’ll never remember this. I guess it’s mostly for us. But you’re a great excuse.”

She whimpers like she understands and is offended by what he’s saying, and he laughs at the timing.

“Don’t worry. It’s been fun. You’re going to have amazing Christmasses. I’m kind of jealous, actually.”

He sits down with her in the armchair placed in front of the three, putting his feet on the footstool so Leah can lay against his knees. “I never liked celebrating holidays much, because my dad was either drunk or just wouldn’t show up, so me and my mom were alone for most of them, which sucked.” Jake pouts his lip, and Leah moves her head in a way he decides to interpret as nodding. “You’re never going to have that. You’ll have gifts and people everywhere, a billion cousins to play with and food for days because your grandmother is an amazing cook. You’ll love it. I sort of feel like I’m getting revenge for all of my failed holidays by making sure yours are perfect.” He rubs his nose against hers in an eskimo kiss. She makes a noise that is not quite a laugh but leaning towards it, like she’s trying to figure the motions out. “I guess you could say we’re discovering the traditions together, huh?”

 The beauty of being an adult is you can make a new family with new traditions, a memory of Holt’s words from a Thanksgiving seven years ago comes to mind. Jake’s always considered the squad his family, and he’s made traditions with Amy in their years together, but he’s never been this excited about them before. He’s already humming to himself when he plays the Taylor Swift Christmas album on his phone, putting Leah in the baby bouncer and pushing it so it moves by itself. He googles the recipe and narrates his actions to her as he goes, mixing eggs with sugar and melting butter and stopping every now and then to bounce her seat again. He takes an involuntary break to change his daughter’s outfit, finding an even more festive one he couldn’t stop himself from purchasing when he walked past it in the store last week. It’s a baby Santa suit, complete with hat and all, and he takes about twenty-or-so pictures of her in it before remembering what he was doing before.

 It takes twice as long as the recipe suggests, but eventually, Jake’s looking at two plates of saffron french toast that’s only a little burnt, matching Super-Mom and Super-Dad mugs - also gifted to them by Charles - filled with an attempt at a gingerbread latte that he’s sure will taste decent with enough whipped cream, and the Christmas gift addressed from Leah is imperfectly wrapped sitting next to Amy’s plate. It might well be one of the proudest moments of his life, and he gives himself a mental pat on the back for being such a natural talent at the whole festive traditions-thing.

 He contemplates singing as they enter the bedroom. The idea falls flat, because he doesn’t know any Christmas songs well enough to avoid completely butchering them, and the act of balancing a baby, a gift and a coffee cup without dropping either is enough of a challenge, but he does manage some humming as they go to wake up Amy.

 He wonders if she’s heard them, because she sits up in bed way too fast for someone who just woke up, but she’s smiling at them with a glee that seems to erase all traces of exhaustion when he sits down on the side of the bed, handing her the coffee.

“You dressed her as Santa,” she laughs, tickling Leah’s belly with her free hand. “Oh my god, she looks so cute.”

“Bought the outfit myself,” he grins. “Merry First Christmas as a mother, babe.”

“I’m loving it. I thought we said no gifts, though?”

“It’s not from me, it’s from Leah. Loophole!” Jake half expects his wife to roll her eyes at him, but she simply grins wider.

“She might have one for you, too.”

“Oh, Lee. You shouldn’t have!” He shakes his head at his daughter, getting a confused look in return. “You’re too nice to us.”

“Well, she does keep us up all night.”

“True, true. She’s lucky she’s the cutest.” He kisses his daughter’s cheeks not for the first time that day. “She might have fixed another little surprise for you out in the kitchen. Well, her and I. Mostly me. But she was very supportive!”

This time Amy does roll her eyes at him, but affectionately, before putting down the coffee on her nightstand and reaching over to kiss him.

“Merry First Christmas as a dad, Jake.”

 He still considers himself a beginner in the area of Christmas traditions, but as he and Amy take turns eating their French toast and unwrapping their Leah-themed gifts while the other one bounces a suddenly fussy baby in their arms and Taylor Swift’s Christmas album keeps playing on a loop in the background, he’s certain he’ll be able to learn.

He’ll do anything for the two people who are already his greatest gift of all.

[gossamerandshadow]

Mira Adler: Aloysius

Past the statues, past the works of grand art, past the vault of ancient and powerful weapons, past the maps, past the scrolls, past the rooms and rooms full of shelves and shelves of countless books, there is a window. Which is strange, considering that there is nothing outside these walls. But it would be stranger still if it wasn’t there. After all, the mistress of the Savoir would feel it incomplete without a window. A tall window, filtering grey light through the patter of raindrops against the broad panes of glass. A window set far into the wall between towering bookshelves. A window with a plush, comfortable window seat, a warm blanket, and a small table just beside, which is the perfect size for a tray with a teapot, cup, and a little bowl each of milk and sugar.

The window doesn’t actually look out onto anything. That would be impossible - there is nothing outside the Savoir to look out onto, save the void itself. But, if one does not look too close, the effect is quite convincing. The window looks out over a blanket of swirling grey, as if it were on a high floor of a skyscraper on a cloudy day. The mist moves in the way a cloud might, with occasional gaps that seem to peer out over the grey expanse of a wet cityscape when the mist parts. There is no cityscape - not really. The fractal patterns of grey blocks are a convincing illusion, though.

Mira had passed truly countless hours here, curled up under the blanket with her tea and one of the many books she’d stolen from one of the many Gossamer worlds she’d visited. But today, Mira isn’t reading. Today, in place of the dusty tome usually found in her lap, there is a sleek grey laptop. Instead of the music that normally filtered, muted, through the aisles of books from a large brass gramophone, she wears a pair of headphones, and the only sound outside of that comes from the continuous sound of the rain on the window is the occasional short giggle from the woman herself. She reaches out to refill her teacup, only to find the pot empty, and shrugs, returning her attention to the video on her computer.

“Shall I fetch you more tea, Ms Adler?”

Mira jumps, knocking her laptop into the window, and presses a hand over her chest. “You weren’t there a second ago?!” It comes out like a question, though it was meant as an accusation, and she looks up at Aloysius irritably, as if he’d startled her on purpose rather than it simply being an accident of her being unable to hear his approach.

Aloysius is a tall man, towering above most humans with a height that easily surpasses two meters. Though his hair is greying, he otherwise bears one of those faces that make it infuriatingly difficult to guess his age - he might be in his early 30s and simply greying prematurely, or he might be well into his eighties and simply keeps himself healthy and spry. Not that it matters, really, since he’s not human at all. And, despite being a veritable font of information on the Stair and its Lords, that is one thing he refuses to explain further to Mira. 

He arches one elegant eyebrow at her. His expression remains perfectly polite, perfectly neutral, but there’s a telling sparkle of amusement in his blue eyes which make it clear that he’s taking pleasure in Mira’s reaction. “My apologies, Ms Adler. I shall endeavour to stomp my feet when I approach next time, so as to avoid another such incident.”

Mira narrows her grey eyes, carefully inspecting his expression. After a moment, she leans back against the window and crosses her arms, flashing a grin up at him. “No you won’t. But that’s fine, my fault. But anyway, what was it you asked?”

“If you would like more tea.”

There is something in his manner that she simply can’t ignore. He is so very stiff and formal most of the time, and he is so tall and given what she had been watching all afternoon, the comparison was simply too easy. Besides, she’s always eager for a new way to tease the keeper of the Savoir. “If you please, Lurch.”

Aloysius blinks, confused by the nickname, sharp gaze snapping from her to the screen and back again. He doesn’t respond further, beyond a tiny shrug, and collects the tray, gliding off with it in such a way that left Mira feeling somewhat less surprised that he’d snuck up on her so effectively.

--------

The Door opens with its telltale creak. Mira pauses on the threshold, considering whether or not she should fix it - it is in her power. Hell, it requires nothing more than an errant thought. But she doesn’t. The creak is the same, every time she opens the Door, and it reminds her that she is home. That she has a home. With that warm thought on her mind, she closes the door behind her and sheds her coat, her clothing morphing quickly from leather armor to a set of comfortable pink pajamas. “Oh Luuuuuuurch!”

Aloysius appears from around a corner, his usual polite smile replaced with a pointedly blank expression. His voice, lower and more gravelly than usual, with a tenor that sounds almost bored. “You rang?”

Words cannot possibly express Mira’s delight.

--------

[theprodigypenguin]

👀💚

A Slyther-heart, my first one!!! In honor of it, I’ll show you a WIP I was writing called “The Malfoy Lie”. Cursed Child Compliant and taking place the summer after Scorpius and Albus’ fourth year and all that mess with Delphini. It was my attempt to write about Drastoria, Scorbus, and explore Draco’s character and his relationship with Scorpius as well as his parents. NO this is NOT Dr@rry, I need that to be understood. I did intend to explore Harry and Draco slowly becoming legitimate friends, but there is NO ROMANCE. We good? Alright:

The Malfoy family was decidedly not sentimental or nostalgic. They didn’t normally dwell on memories, maybe because there were very few worth remembering, but ever since Scorpius had been born, some, at least, the majority in fact, had started to hold memories more closely.

The relationship between Draco and his parents was notably strained, and had been since he announced his intentions to marry Astoria; no, in fact, his relationship had been strained long before that. Back when they decided to open their home up to a monster. Lucius insisted, Lucius didn’t give his wife and son a choice in the matter, bowing and backing away as a dark form cloaked in black drifted across the floor like a phantom.

“Yes, this will do,” Draco remembered the voice perfectly, soft and silky and horrible. “An absolutely abysmal disgrace of a home, Lucius… but it will do.”

No surprise that he would insult the house Draco’s father was so proud of. A mansion, a manor, that had been in the Malfoy family for generations, millennia even for all he knew of it.

When he was small he used to love his home. It was big, the interior was like its own little town. He had vague memories of playing hide and seek with his mother, remembered she lost interest when he got a bit older so he made the house elf play with him instead, remembered he stopped once he started school. A lot stopped once he’d started school in fact.

Draco started to hate his home after his fifth year, when his father was arrested and sent to Azkaban. It became lonely, Draco remembered how scared he was, how he tried to look brave, how his mother cried with hands shaking, but placed a face of steel on her face, not letting anyone break through.

The memories of that time were contorted and poisoned into nightmares, sitting alone in his room hugging his knees to his chest, feeling like a child at seventeen and trying to remember how to breathe as he heard the screams of muggle borns enduring the torture of the Dark Lord.

Horrible, the laughter of his aunt, it contorted to something not as high pitched, morphed into a different voice, and the shrieking screams lowered in octave, into something distinctly male, distinctly familiar.

Delphini.

Scorpius. 

She was hurting him.

Draco woke with a start, jerking and gasping in the burning air around him, hands sweeping the bed unconsciously searching for Astoria, though he knew she wasn’t there. His night clothes were damp with sweat, his entire body shaking as he shoved away the covers and grabbed his wand from the bedside table, storming from the room and towards his son’s.

He tried to be as quiet as he could, hands shaking as he cracked open the door and slipped halfway inside, whispering lumos to light up the room in a dim glow, his heartbeat slowly starting to settle.

Scorpius was in bed, curled up and hugging his pillow, no creases to his face, peaceful. Draco leaned his back against the doorframe and drank in the air until his lungs had stopped hurting. Scorpius was fine, he was safe.

Draco wandered to the bed and reached down, pulling the covers higher over his son and sweeping his hair back, watching him burrow his face deeper into his pillow and murmur something incoherent. He was fine.

Draco, though, was not.

He ended up wandering the halls in a state of disturbed nostalgia, his night clothes sweat heavy and cold, drying in the hours he wandered and making him feel heavy and disgusting.

In the past when he had these kinds of nightmares, Astoria would be there to cradle his head and play with his hair, kissing his temple and promising he was safe, and so was Scorpius, and so was she. She was gone now, though. There was no one to help him through his nightmares, he certainly couldn’t expect his son to do anything about it. That was hardly his responsibility.

When Scorpius woke up that morning, Draco was in the drawing room at the mantle, staring somewhat blankly at the painting hanging above it, at the memorabilia and knick knacks sitting on the mantle, wand still in his hand and eyes heavy. He could see a different painting there, a hallucination from the past, one that Lucius and Bellatrix had hung, a profile of that… monster. He felt something sour in his mouth.

“Dad?” He jumped at least a foot in the air and spun around to look at Scorpius, who seemed puzzled, mostly awake with his hair a mess; it was getting longer, Draco realized. “You okay?”

Draco just blinked, but his son stayed in his place standing there, then nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Scorpius further questioned, and Draco felt a little bit of that pain lift.

He was so good, Scorpius was, so kind hearted. He was just like his mother.

Draco gave a nod, not wanting Scorpius to waste time worrying for him. “Hungry?”

“Oh, yea,” Scorpius answered, still looking very puzzled, and Draco put a hand on his shoulder in passing.

“Go sit down before me, I’ll join you in a bit.”

“Take your time,” Scorpius said. “I have a book to keep me company.” He grinned proudly, and it was contagious enough to bring a small, equally proud smile to Draco’s lips.

It was a task to wash away the nightmare from the previous night, more than once Draco had his face in his hands and something beastly in his throat, a scream he barely contained by reminding himself it was fine, Scorpius was safe, healthy, happy, sleeping peacefully and currently eating his fill.

When Draco stepped into the dining room, he felt a little more like himself, though he didn’t bother to do more with his hair than tie it away from his face, he was too tired to do much else with it.

Scorpius was sitting at one side of the table at the far end, closest to the window. He was leaning over the table eating with a fork held clumsily in his left hand, right hand holding open his book. He kept missing his mouth when he attempted to maneuver the forkful of food into it, stabbing himself in the cheek and chin but not appearing too terribly bothered by it.

Draco smiled, waving his wand to open the curtains further and bask morning light over Scorpius, who looked up and smiled in greeting.

“You look a little better,” he said, and Draco arched an eyebrow as he took a seat at the head of the table just next to Scorpius.

It was a huge table, meant for banquets, but most of it was never utilized. So many meals, Draco remembered either eating alone, or down the table from his parents, and feeling so isolated from them. He didn’t want Scorpius to feel that way, so he and Astoria made it a point to always sit close to their son.

With the light coming in from behind Scorpius, there was a white glow around him, particularly against his hair. He looked almost out of place, something so perfect stuck in a house so cursed.

“Did I not before?” Draco asked, taking a cup that seemed to fill quickly with black coffee; he didn’t particularly enjoy it, but he needed the caffeine.

Scorpius just shrugged, closing his book and taking his fork in his right hand. “You just looked really tired. Did you sleep last night?”

“No,” Draco lied with a straight face. “I was finishing a crossword puzzle.”

Scorpius made a face. “You were not!”

Draco had to grin, looking at the window when there was a tap. Scorpius was on his feet before Draco, opening the window and letting the owl swoop into the room, landing on the table with a small bundle of post that Draco accepted as Scorpius sat back down and offered the large owl pieces of his sausage, pouring water into a small goblet for the bird to have.

Draco flipped through the mail, brandishing the first letter into the air. “Something for you,” he said, and Scorpius lit up. 

“Really? Who from?”

But honestly who else could it have been from? Scorpius eagerly accepted the letter with a grin that seemed to light up the entire room, and Draco went back to the mail in his hands. There were several things addressed to him aside from the Daily Prophet that he was half dreading to go through. Some of the handwriting he recognized without opening, and he held three of the letters with a tight look on his face.

Why would three former schoolmates be writing to him, after having a falling out with each of them and getting cut off from them all for more than fifteen years? He set them down to go through later, feeling very suspicious, and lifted the letter that was clearly from his mother.

He already knew what it would be about when he got it open, Narcissa saying she and Lucius would be stopping by to see them. Draco couldn’t imagine why they would need to, even when she explained she’d heard from an acquaintance that Scorpius had gotten into some trouble at school and they were going to stop in to see what happened. That was literally the last thing Draco wanted, and he was half ready to tell them not to come.

For the first time since the delegation at the Ministry discussing Delphini and the strict hold on her existence, prohibiting the Prophet from disclosing little more than her being a dark witch, Draco was grateful. At first he was furious with the Ministry, and Hermione, for withholding information that could both warn the wizarding community of the presence of a new, powerful dark witch, and successfully stamp out the rumors that Scorpius was Voldemort’s son.

Now, though, he was glad. His parents didn’t need to know Voldemort had a child. Who knows what they would say or do? His father especially. Sometimes Draco got the aching suspicion that he was still hoping for redemption in the eyes of an evil wizard, to be brought back up to the height he was at before his arrest. Lucius was old now, and desperate. Draco worried about what he might do to get what he wanted. He didn’t want that man around Scorpius.

“Dad!” Scorpius was practically glowing. “Albus invited me over for the weekend! Can I? Please? He said they got an extra pass into the Scamander Center! The wizard zoo! We went there with mum once, ages ago, you remember? Can I go?”

Draco stared at him for a minute. In the past, whenever Ginny had written asking if Scorpius wanted to stay over with Albus, he’d bitterly told her no, because he didn’t trust her, he didn’t trust any of them, he was just too protective. Now… he was even more protective, especially after the events of the previous school year, but… if Narcissa and Lucius were really going to show up…

“Sure.” Scorpius absolutely glowed. “Write to him and let him know, finish eating first, I don’t want you going there already hungry, and prepare an overnight bag.”

“Yes, sir!” Scorpius spun and jumped up, scrambling over to a table near the window that held a menagerie of items like quills, ink wells, paper, books, and cups.

He quickly scribbled down a reply and enclosed it before writing Albus’ name on it and giving it to the owl, who flapped its wings experimentally and puffed its chest proudly before swooping out the window.

He then dropped back into his seat and started to eat, a bit too fast. Draco told him to slow down, but of course he didn’t, hiccuping and laughing into his cup as Draco chuckled with him. Seeing Scorpius so excited made him feel a little lighter, even though he knew he’d have to deal with his parents, and the letters from his old peers, as soon as Scorpius was safely out of the house.

Draco figured if they were quick enough, they could be at the Potter’s before his parents showed up, and how gleeful it would be to make them wait. Maybe Draco would linger and talk with Ginny and Harry, just to make them wait longer. He could almost see the affronted scowl on his father’s face when he’d returned. It made him feel quite happy.

Not as happy as Scorpius of course, who was bouncing on his heels as he scrambled around getting ready, throwing clothes into his bag, taking the fastest shower in history before hopping on one foot down the hall trying to yank on his shoe, tripping halfway to his room and falling on his face.

“Calm down, Albus isn’t going anywhere,” Draco said through a huge grin, but Scorpius just scrambled to his feet with wide eyes.

“I know!”

They were so close. Narcissa’s letter hadn’t given a time for when they’d be showing up, but Draco would only assume noon. No doubt his father couldn’t be bothered to come any sooner, not for something as unimportant as his own grandson. That’s what Draco had hoped for at least.

Until they got to the fireplace, Scorpius still bouncing in place as Draco reached for the floo powder on the mantle. “You told them we’d be coming by floo?”

“Yes!”

“Good, faster this way anyway,” but before he could even touch the powder, the fireplace erupted in green fire.

Draco backed away rapidly and stood in front of Scorpius, face twisted in irritation as his mother stepped out first. Her age was apparent in the lines of her face, but she wore it well, hair so neat and pinned up with silver clips, dressed pristinely and holding a small black hand purse. Lucius came next, exiting the fireplace with a single hand dusting ash from the shoulder of his black coat.

Draco felt himself steel in absolute indignation, keeping one arm down to keep Scorpius behind him, and Lucius tipped his head in both greeting and question.

“You won’t even greet your parents, Draco?”

“What’s the point in that? I know who you are, not like I’ve never seen you before.”

Scorpius gave a barely audible noise, something like a squeak, one hand clinging to the back of Draco’s coat. He wasn’t surprised. For all intensive purposes, Lucius Malfoy frightened him; and that was something Draco had never tolerated. 

He could never stand up to his father on his own before, but with the most important person in his life hiding behind him, Draco never felt braver.

“You’ll have to wait if you want to talk. We were just about to go out.”

“Out? When we’ve just arrived?” Lucius walked forward, still moving with a haunting elegance despite his age, sitting down on one of the couches and pointing to the one across from him with his walking stick. “Take a seat.”

“I’ll have to decline,” Draco said stiffly, his eyes set in a glare. “I’m taking Scorpius to a friend’s house. If you’re still here when I get back, I’d be happy to talk, but until then-”

"Sit down, Draco,” Lucius ordered in that familiar tone, and Draco knew if he wasn’t careful, this could end badly.

He didn’t want Scorpius exposed to this.

“… fine,” Draco relented, reaching back to wrap an arm around Scorpius, who was as stiff as a board, but had a brave look of defiance on his face that Draco felt extremely proud of.

He and Scorpius took the couch across from Narcissa and Lucius, and the coffee table separating them wasn’t nearly enough. Draco kept himself sitting as straight as he could, arms folded and hand lingering near the pocket of his coat where his wand was tucked away.

Scorpius was keeping the same posture, bag at his feet and hands clenched in his lap as he stared at the table top. For a long moment there was only silence. Draco was prepared to sit there until Harry realized they were late and came to investigate. Lucius would leave immediately if Harry Potter showed up; but not long after, Lucius finally spoke.

“Not even going to offer us a drink?”

“No,” Draco answered, and Lucius’ eye twitched a little. “Say what you want to say and get out.”

“Don’t be like that, Draco,” Narcissa chided him. “Did you not read my letter? We’re here for Scorpius.”

Scorpius glanced up through his eyelashes but didn’t raise his head as Draco spoke. “I read it. I just don’t care.”

“We were worried-”

"What did you hear? And from who?” Draco demanded.

Lucius was the one to answer him. “An old friend at the Daily Prophet,” he explained in a haughty voice, like he thought having newspaper friends made him so high and mighty. “He mentioned there being a bit of trouble at the school because of Scorpius and that…. Potter boy.”

Scorpius cringed, his face contorting in something like anger that he desperately hid by keeping his head bowed low, face shadowed. Draco was unsurprised. Of course he’d get angry that Lucius was spitting Albus’ name around like it was poison.

“What of it?”

“We only know vague details. One of the boys got hurt?” Narcissa asked this in a rather gentle voice, glancing at Scorpius, and Draco had to thank everything in existence she had a soft spot for her grandson, despite how he hadn’t been raised ‘correctly’.

“Albus broke his arm,” Draco answered.

“We heard someone was killed,” Lucius said, and Scorpius seemed to shiver. “It was left from the papers, the details of his death. A freak accident on the Quidditch pitch. Craig Bowker Junior.”

“That has nothing to do with Scorpius or Albus, and nothing to do with you.”

“Of course.” Lucius’ hands flexed around his walking stick. “It isn’t like Scorpius is our grandson or anything of the sort.”

“Since when did you care, father?”

“Do not patronize me,” Lucius snapped, but Draco had long since stopped caring about the bitterness in his tone. “I’m asking what happened out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Funny, I wasn’t aware you had one.”

By now, Astoria would be laughing so hard she’d be snorting, half trying to get Draco to stop riling his father up and half goading him on. Lucius’ face was growing redder and redder as his eyes bugged, even Narcissa looked utterly taken aback by Draco’s shortness and clear disinterest in discussing the situation. 

It was none of their business in the first place. He didn’t trust them enough to tell them the details, he would never risk his son like that, and… how truly sad it was that he didn’t think he could trust them.

“Al and I got into some trouble before we got to school,” Scorpius’ voice took Draco by surprise, and he turned to gape at him, and the look his son gave him. “It’s fine.”

“Scor-”

"Albus was trying to do something good, his heart was in the right place. The only thing that went wrong was who we trusted. We were manipulated by a witch who was falsely masquerading as the niece of an old wizard that Mister Potter knew from years ago.”

“Is that so?” Lucius eyed him with a deadly look in his cold eyes, Draco quickly put an arm around Scorpius and glared back at his father. “And you were foolish enough to follow along with her?”

That had Draco bristling, but Scorpius just twisted his fingers together. “She seemed genuinely nice at first. She helped us, she… even helped me with Albus, when we got in kind of a fight. We just… were too distracted.”

“She killed that boy?” Narcissa assessed easily, and Draco nodded to her. “What happened to her? Did she hurt Scorpius?”

Draco inhaled sharply, Scorpius winced and rubbed at his wrists; there was a slight discoloration around them, scarring left over from Delphini’s bindings. Draco didn’t have to answer his mother as she covered her mouth with a hand, but Lucius just squinted.

“Where is she now?”

“Where do you think?” Draco asked. “Azkaban, and she’ll stay there.”

“No trial?”

“She’s awaiting trial, but she killed a student, kidnapped two more, and tortured Scorpius. She utilized two of the three forbidden curses, either one would have set her down for Azkaban, and she used two. What more proof do you need to convict her?”

“What was her reasoning for manipulating the boys?” Lucius asked, and Draco started to feel increasingly confused, suspicious, on edge, at all the questions.

“What did you say your friend’s name was? The one at the Prophet?”

“You’re not going to answer me?”

“I-it was from a prophecy.” Scorpius looked at Draco anxiously. “Something her… her step father told her.”

“That’s enough.” Draco met his eye. “You don’t have to say anymore. No, I’m asking you not to. No more. They don’t need to know. It’s none of their business.”

Scorpius actually seemed to relax, nodding slowly, and Lucius scoffed. “Is our grandson’s health not our business, Draco?”

“You don’t give a damn about his health, or mine.” Draco stood up. “We’re done here, feel free to leave any time. I’m bringing Scorpius to his friend’s house.”

“Friend. That Potter.” Lucius spit the name again. “What a disgrace you are-”

“Lucius!”

“-allowing your son to fraternize with the likes of them.” Lucius got to his feet. "It’s Potter’s fault our family is in shambles, don’t forget.”

“No, father.” Draco looked him dead in the eye. “Our family is in shambles because you were stupid enough to welcome a murderer into our home and our lives. You’re the one who soiled the Malfoy name, father, by disgracing it with dark magic. Me, a disgrace for trying to fix the mess you made. I revel in that disgrace.”

Draco supposed he should have seen the hit coming, but it happened so suddenly, half of him was distracted by the burst of green from the fireplace that he only noticed because his head had been forced in that direction when Lucius swung the back of his hand and the silver snake head of the end of his walking stick straight into Draco’s face.

A ring rose in his ears and a burn spread across his cheek as he staggered, somehow managing to stay stubbornly on his feet as Scorpius yelled for him, jumping up to grab his arm to help him stay standing. Draco had his wand in his hand and pointed at Lucius an instant later, and was dizzily stunned at what he saw.

Narcissa on her feet with her own wand in hand, the tip stuck under Lucius’ chin and digging into his throat, eyes wild. Lucius had both his hands held out in a type of submissive manner, there was blood on the silver snake head topping his walking stick, and Draco could feel it on his cheek.

What really took him by surprise was Harry Potter, standing at the end of the coffee table with his wand out, pointed at Lucius, eyes wide in both shock and fury. Perfect timing as usual, to see Lucius sucker punching his own son. Brilliant, really.

“How dare you.” Narcissa hissed, very much like a snake, and Lucius stared down at her across the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t look scared though, he looked annoyed and inconvenienced, cold eyes snapping to Draco, then Harry, then back again to his son.

“This isn’t the end of the discussion,” he said simply, taking a step back to alleviate the pressure of the wand digging into his neck. “There’s much of the situation you don’t understand, Draco. For your sake, and your son’s, I recommend reassessing what side you’re really on.”

“I’m on whatever side you aren’t,” Draco snapped. “Get out.”

Lucius glared, then looked at his wife, who sneered in anger, something told Draco they would be having a chat later. Then Lucius disapparated with a pop. Narcissa slowly lowered her wand, so did Draco, returning it to the pocket in his coat before lifting the same hand to tentatively touch his cheek.

“What exactly did I walk in on?” Harry asked suddenly, and Narcissa turned to glance at him, then at Draco.

“Family reunion,” Draco said bitterly, turning to Scorpius, who was shaking furiously. 

He had a look of anger on his face, fear in his watery eyes, clinging to Draco with both hands, staring at the spot where his grandfather had been just moments ago.

“I’m sorry, Scorpius. I wanted you out of the house before they showed up.”

“Dad… dad your face.” Scorpius shook, his voice trembled, Draco tried to keep his cheek covered so Scorpius wouldn’t see.

“Just a scratch, can’t really feel it.” He looked over at Harry, who was watching him closely. "We’re late then, are we?”

“… Albus was getting anxious,” Harry admitted slowly. “Suppose he had a right…”

“I had it settled.”

“Of course.”

“Dad.”

“I’m fine Scorpius.”

“But-”

“You know what that man is like.”

“I’m sorry.”

“This was hardly your fault.” Draco wrapped an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close into a hug, hiding Scorpius’ face against his shoulder and pulling his hand from his face to squint at the blood before covering his cheek again.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, speaking to Harry, who had a wince on his face. “Would you mind taking him ahead? If your invitation still stands.”

Harry nodded. “It does. Albus is excited about it. This is the first time you’ve written back actually accepting a day out for them.”

“I like to think I’ve grown a bit more on that level this past year. The last thing I want to do is keep two good friends apart.” He arched an eyebrow and Harry rolled his eyes up in a sigh, turning.

"Come on, Scorpius.”

“But- dad-”

“I’ll stop by later,” Draco offered when Scorpius pulled back, running his hand into his blond hair to ruffle it. “After I’ve fixed myself up.”

“Do you want to come now?” Harry asked. “Ginny wouldn’t mind helping.”

“No, I think I still have some things to do here.” He glanced at his mother, who met his gaze with a painful one of her own. "I’ll come by floo later.”

“Fine.”

Scorpius still looked like he wanted to protest, torn between staying with Draco and going to see his friend. To alleviate the panic on his face, Draco squeezed his shoulder, shrugging.

“You have to admit, Scorp, that was pretty brave of your old man.” Scorpius’ lips twitched a little. “Think your mum would be proud of me?”

This made him smile, thankfully, and nod. “Yea, and mad you riled him enough to hit you. She’d probably call you an idiot.”

"That’s true.” He slid his hand down to Scorpius’ back and lead him towards the fireplace, picking up his son’s bag and handing it to him. "I’ll see you in a couple of hours, go enjoy yourself.”

“Okay…”

“No worrying about me.”

“Okay…”

Draco met Harry’s eye again, and in a few moments both he and his son were gone in a flare of green fire. When he turned to his mother, she had a strained look on her face, swallowing thickly and opening her mouth.

“Draco-”

“Wasn’t your doing.”

“No… we need to talk.”

“What about?”

“Your cousin,” Draco didn’t know what she was talking about, until she continued slowly, her voice low, like she was afraid Harry might still be around to hear her. “Delphini.”

[ghostbustermelanieking]

phantom weights chapter six

one, two, three, four, five

season 11, post my struggle iv. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: In the wake of their second encounter, Mulder, Scully, and Jackson reconnect (both by accident and on purpose.)

---

Mulder barely left Scully's side after the trip to the beach. They were both hyper aware of her approaching due date, and she knew how deeply Mulder had been wounded by what Jackson said. Knew how terrified he was of not being there for her, of missing the birth of his child again. He was nervous, and she was nervous, and while the constant attention felt a little stifling at times, she felt a bit relieved because of it. She wanted him to be there; she didn't know if she could do this without him. Every day felt like a tick on the clock, getting closer and closer to the day they'd be parents again. It was terrifying and exciting all at once. 

(They didn't hear from Jackson after they got home. They hadn't expected to, but it still hurt. Every single minute of it hurt.)

There was nothing left to do, it seemed, in the baby's room, but Scully still felt like it was unfinished. She still spent a lot of time in there, when she had the energy, checking through the things they'd bought, the security of the crib, or folding and refolding the clothes and the baby blanket Tara had mailed from Germany. She felt restless, impatient and ready for the next part to begin. She wanted the baby to be here and be safe; she couldn't stand the fear that something bad would come from all of this. That the baby wouldn't be okay. She was uncomfortable and sick of pregnancy, of course, but she also just wanted a guarantee that this wouldn't end badly. She wanted to meet her daughter (because she really did think it might be a daughter), and she wanted to do it right now. 

Mulder kept urging her to relax, to lie down. Kept offering to fold things for her, or get her things. She kept refusing. It wasn't about getting it done, it was about distractions. She sensed he was thinking similarly. He fussed over her most of the time, and when she waved him off, he turned to books, to extensive research on some cryptid or another, to outlining his novel (which he'd written in odd, well written chunks since they'd been fired). But he always turned back to fussing with a mix of determined love and worry. It was annoying and endearing all at once, and she loved him desperately for it. It was hard not to burst into tears every time she remembered the first pregnancy, and how little he'd been there, and how devoted he was now. (It was hard not to burst into tears when remembering William at all.) 

Despite everything, despite the hurtful but completely justifiable things that Jackson had said, she still missed him desperately. Missed her son, her angry, furious son. Her grieving son who read books about black holes and created fictional monsters, who could create images with his mind and had killed men in self defense, who had lunch with her and asked questions about their past and made jokes with them, who asked about his sibling in perhaps the gentlest voice she'd heard from him. He was her baby, and she loved getting to know him, loved their odd little interactions (awkward as they may have been), and she missed him. Even though she was upset with him for the things he'd said to Mulder. (She deserved all of those things, but not Mulder. It was her fault, not his; he hadn't wanted to leave.) She missed him and she wanted him to come back. She'd told herself about a million times that teenagers were supposed to fight with their parents, supposed to say cruel and angry things—God knows that she had. She wasn't resentful. She wanted him to come home, and she was terrified that he never would. 

And so she found distractions. It wasn't hard to get lost in other worries on top of the ones about Jackson's, with her due date so soon. She had weekly doctor appointments to check on her progress, and everything had been good so far. Aside from the expected discomforts and pains that came from the third trimester, she felt fine; no signs that made her nerves and anxiety worse. But that didn't do much to reassure her. She was still terrified. 

They had a C-section scheduled. It wasn't exactly Scully's favorite option, considering the recovery, but considering the alternatives and risks involved, it seemed to be the safest option. And considering how the last birth had gone, she liked the reassurance that she would give birth in a hospital, with anesthesia and doctors and no cultists come to watch her give birth or threaten to take the baby. (She'd had many nightmares about that.) And Mulder, who'd sworn again and again that he wouldn't leave them. (He still felt so guilty about that. He'd apologized a thousand times, starting with the night William had been born, the three of them sitting together on the helicopter. He had promised multiple times that he would be with her, stay with her, wouldn't leave her side.) They had things planned, and she knew no matter what that she'd be in a hospital and Mulder would be with her ("You're getting to a hospital if I have to fight my way through a horde of zombies or something," he'd joked earlier, and she said, "Let's not plan on that, please"), but the scheduled part was unpredictable. As a doctor, she knew that better than anyone. She also knew the risks of the baby coming earlier. 

Two weeks out from her due date, she started to feel contractions. She assumed at first that they were just Braxton Hicks, but they didn't go away. It wasn't a surprise when her water finally broke; she had known that the baby was coming soon for a few days. She had felt her coming, known she was ready. 

---

Mulder was nervous on the way out to the car and trying his damndest not to show it. Scully had seen the panic flash across his eyes when she announced, in a voice so steady that it scared her (How the hell could she be calm at a time like this? Was she in shock?), that she was in labor. Panic that had morphed into something like gentle excitement, but panic that hadn't quite faded. He'd gone to her first, engulfing her in his arms, and then to the packed bag, and then to the car keys, fumbling with the both of them in one hand so he could keep the other on her back. He dropped the keys three times on the way to the car, apologizing every time. He kissed her forehead several times as he helped her into the car seat, smoothing her hair away from her face. "It's going to be okay," he told her, and she wasn't sure whether or not he believed it. But still, he smiled at her softly before rounding the car to get into the driver's seat. 

She gasped as another contraction hit, breathing the way they had practiced in Lamaze through her teeth. "It's okay," Mulder said again as he started the car, and she shut her eyes and hoped that it would be. She didn't feel calm anymore. 

"Mulder," she whispered as they began the long drive up the driveway, "is it too soon? Do you think it's too soon?"

She didn't think he knew the answer, but he reached for her hand anyway and let her squeeze tight. "I think it'll be okay," he said softly. "I-I think that she just couldn't wait to meet you."

She gasped out a brief little laugh, her eyes squeezing shut as she huffed out breaths. She could feel her heart pounding. As Mulder stopped the car to open the gate, she put a hand to her stomach and thought fiercely, It's going to be okay, baby. It's going to be okay. 

---

The hospital was a short drive, luckily, and so they got there in good time, though Mulder felt as if it lasted forever. He was terrified and trying not to let Scully see it, remembering the trauma of the last time, the dank house in Georgia, Scully's franticness and refusal to let anyone touch William, everything he'd missed. He wanted more than anything to meet the baby, for her to be here, but he was terrified of losing them, Scully or the baby or both of them. He couldn't shake the fear. 

Scully seized his arm as soon as he came around to get her out of the car, fingers clenched tight, and didn't let go. Not when they got into the emergency room, not when she lowered herself into a wheelchair, him trying to steady her as she went. She let go only briefly, while she changed into a hospital gown and climbed into the hospital bed, and then she grasped for him again. He took her hand, didn't complain when she squeezed so hard that the bones ached. He hated that he wasn't there before to let her crush his hand, hated that he would ever think of leaving her and his son alone like that. He loathed himself for it nearly every day. 

“Don't leave us,” Scully hissed like she'd read his mind, her voice breaking off in a whimper, and Mulder rubbed a quivering thumb over the top of her hand, kissed the back of it. “I won't, I won't,” he promised, pressing his cheek to the side of her head, and he meant it. He would never. Not for a second. 

She turned her head, pressing her face into his arm, and he held tight. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much, Mulder. No matter what happens…”

“I know  I love you, too,” he whispered back, stroking her hair with the flat of his thumb, his arms around her shoulders. He wouldn't let anything happen to her, to either of them. “It's gonna be okay, Scully," he whispered, and she nodded, jaw clenched to keep her chin from trembling. He wouldn't leave her. He stood beside the bed and held her hand in his. 

---

The doctor, the same friend of Scully's who'd originally confirmed the pregnancy, seemed optimistic. "There are still risks involved, of course, but I see no reason why things shouldn't run smoothly, and the two of you shouldn't be perfectly healthy," she said reassuringly. "I think, considering how far along you are, that it'd be better to go with a natural birth rather than a C-section."

Scully, breathing through clenched teeth, nodded. "How far along am I?" 

"About seven centimeters, and moving quickly," said the doctor. 

She nodded in understanding. She was still clutching tight to Mulder's hand. Mulder, who was sitting beside her, his face white with nervousness. "I… I want my husband with me," she said, stern even through her pained breaths. "The whole time."

The doctor looked surprised. "Of course, Dana."

She shut her eyes with relief. She felt Mulder lift her hand and kiss her knuckles. 

She didn't know that she could do this. She'd done it before, but she didn't know that she could do it again. She kept thinking about how things went last time, giving birth without Mulder, with all those people there, and she'd lost them both and found them again, but she was so scared it would happen again. 

But then there was Mulder's voice in her ear, telling her it was going to be okay. He was talking about their daughter, telling Scully that she was coming, and she was going to be perfect, and he couldn't wait to meet her. And the doctor seemed optimistic—not overly optimistic, but still optimistic, and Scully trusted her. She trusted her judgement. 

And then there was her daughter. Her baby, who she already felt like she knew. She could feel her, she knew she was ready. And she had the tiniest feeling—a lingering hope strengthening gradually—that it was all going to be okay. She already knew that her daughter was a fighter. 

---

Jackson had been having nightmares, irregularly but frequently, since that night at the beach house. 

It wasn't an abnormal thing to happen, certainly—he had been having nightmares for months now—but they were always a little bit different now. He usually dreamed of the gunshots and his parents' blank eyes, his mother's last desperate scream. Of the people he'd killed, and the people he couldn't save, and the fucking bullet landing right between his eyes. Now it was all of that, but it was mixed with the screen door slamming behind him at that house in Delaware and hearing Mulder and Dana trying not to cry. It was seeing that shock and hurt on their faces. It was hearing a gunshot and finding them, bloody and limp on the floor of that kitchen beside his parents, their eyes staring accusingly at him, and he knew it was his fault, and that they thought he hated him. It was dreaming that, after everything, they did take the baby. 

He didn't hate Mulder and Scully. He didn't. But he also hadn't been exactly lying when he said all of those things. A part of him meant it. He hadn't planned to say it that way—it was the kind of thing that you never, ever say out loud; even an asshole like him knew that—but it wasn't as if it had come out of nowhere. It was the things he'd been thinking since he was a kid, since he had that seizure and those shared visions when he was fifteen, since he found out Dana was pregnant again. It was every hurt feeling and resentful thought he'd ever had towards Ginger spilling over his lips, and he hadn't, he hadn't meant to hurt them. Not like that. It was every fight he'd ever had with his parents but worse, and he'd done it to save them, but what if it didn't work? What if it didn't fucking work? He had nightmares about them dead on the living room floor and woke up shaking. 

It didn't help that he had almost no distractions. He'd cut off the streaming services and the WiFi in an attempt to be practical, and without cable, all he had to watch were mindless DVDs. He could go to the library and use the free WiFi, but he felt too paranoid in public, his skin crawling, constantly glancing over his shoulder. He started taking out books from the library—in big stacks, the way he'd done when he was a kid—but that didn't work, either. It was too quiet to read; the silence was deafening and shook him to the core. He didn't have any real friends; he'd distanced himself from his weed-smoking buddies, and he knew there wasn't much substance in those relationships, anyway. They didn't know a thing about him, and they didn't care to find out. And he couldn't get close; he couldn't expose them to the danger that Mulder and Dana were in. (Had been in. He didn't know anymore.) He didn't have Sarah, and he didn't have anyone else. Not his parents, not his other family. Not even his awkward birth parents. All he could do was disappear into himself, and his suffocating memories and nightmares. 

Weirdly enough, driving was one of the things that helped. It wasn't magic or some shit like that, but it was monotonous and focused enough that Jackson could be in a state of unthinking. And so he drove, as much as he could afford it. Circled Richmond and back again. Drove up and down the East Coast when he had a few days off. Ran when he couldn't drive, but it wasn't quite the same. There was something freeing about driving, taking the road back piece by piece. Running without actually running, having the power to get away. He drove like he did in the months after leaving Norfolk, pedal to the metal, gazing over his shoulder with a lazy defiance. 

He got a record four days off one weekend in September, and by way of celebration, he took off to the north, tearing through the giant-ass state of Virginia, speeding past DC, and heading up to New England. Part of him wanted to see how far he could go, and part of him just wanted to stay on the road as long as possible. It was still hot as hell, too hot for fucking September, and he kept the windows down, the air blowing through the car and mussing his unbrushed hair. He needed a haircut. He could still his mother's soft voice, her lilting Midwest accent in his head: You need a haircut, honey. Chiding, tugging at his bangs gently. Kissing him on the head when he wouldn't swat her away. He wished he had never, ever swatted her away, and it hurt to remember, and he tried not to. But they kept slipping in, his parents. Everyone did: he saw signs for New York and thought of the trip there that he and Sarah wanted to take after graduation, saw signs for Atlantic City and remembered the stupidly soft t-shirt Bri bought him when she went on vacation there. Thought of his Aunt Ursula in Pennsylvania, where she lived, and his family's trip to Cape Cod one summer. Heard his father critique his driving, heard his mother sing along to songs on the radio. 

Mulder and Ginger were at the back of his mind, too. He didn't look for them anymore, didn't try to hear them—he hadn't let himself since that night, no sense in driving the knife in fucking harder, Jesus Christ—but sometimes he got scraps. Little involuntary scraps of thought, of their voices in his head: Mulder humming while he cooked dinner, or Scully folding baby clothes in quivering hands, or Mulder's hand feeling the baby kick, or Scully in his room in the middle of the night, holding that bunny with a tentative sort of embarrassment… 

He always, always pushed it away. He had to, he was done, it was for their own good, and if he felt too guilty, he might go back… 

But he couldn't control when it came. That was one thing he couldn't do. 

That was why he heard it, that night. The night he was parked out in some sprawling field in Maine, lying on the hood of his car and looking at the stars. He was hovering on the edge of sleep and thinking he was fucking insane if he fell asleep out here, when he felt it wash over him like a wave, overtaking him. Fear. And it wasn't his. 

It was so strong, it made him shoot up, slipping awkwardly down the slope of the car hood, his heart pounding. It was fear, and it wasn't his, but it was someone close to him, and so he reached out, because he had to know what it was. 

The words bulleted through his brain, so hard he slipped and fell off the car, landing on his butt in the grass. Mulder's voice, tight and desperate: Please, please, please don't do this. 

"Mulder?" Jackson blurted involuntarily, before he remembered that Mulder couldn't hear him. His chest was tight, his heart pounding; his head ached like someone was driving a fucking spike through it. (What was it, what the fuck was happening, had they come for Mulder? Had what he'd said done fucking nothing to protect them?) He blinked, spots across his vision, his forehead throbbing, and tried again silently: Mulder? 

He could feel the fear, could practically feel the pounding of Mulder's heart. Could feel the tears in Mulder's eyes, or maybe that was his own; the emotions were pouring through him, so powerful it nearly pinned him to the ground. His head felt like it was splitting in two. He heard a wrenched, muted, Oh, god. 

Mulder! Jackson thought, desperately, his fingers digging hard into the grass and dirt. He couldn't breathe, his chest was weighed down, he was gasping like a fish. Mulder, it's Jackson. It's… it's your son. Shit. Fucking hell. He shut his eyes. 

Who are they what are they doing here… what if they're here for her what if it goes like last time, fuck, I can't do this, I can't lose her… 

Was it Dana? Jackson was biting his lip, and he didn't know it until he felt the tang of blood in his mouth, and he gasped. What is it, what's wrong with Dana? he tried, but Mulder couldn't hear. 

The thoughts came flooding through, in a muddled mess: She's in pain and I can't help her, oh god I can't help, Scully I'm so sorry, I'm going to stay right with you the whole time I swear but what if it's not enough… Fuck fuck I can't do this, what if something goes wrong, but I don't want her to know I'm upset, but Jesus Christ if I lose them… I love them so much… who are they are they nurses… if anyone lays a fucking hand on my wife or my daughter… oh god is she okay is she okay Scully please please don't leave me… 

A sharp pain hit Jackson, and he rolled abruptly on his side. "Fuck," he hissed out through his teeth, and he was reaching out again: Mulder? Mulder? Dana, are you there? Tears were wet on his face, and he couldn't breathe. The baby was coming, he knew that immediately. But what the fuck was going on? Were they in danger, was someone coming for them or the baby? Was Dana dying, was the baby dying? Were they okay? Were they okay, were they okay? Had he fucking failed again? He didn't meant to hurt them this way, but he had, and oh god, if they died now, they'd never know… 

He dug his fingers into the ground and tried again, his silent voice pleading as tears dried on his face. Dana? Mulder? Are you there? Are you there? His head fell forward, his cheek against the grass. Ginger? he tried, and he felt like a child again. It's… it's William. Jackson  Are you there?  

Silence. Only silence. He reached and couldn't find them. Couldn't find his sister. Maybe it was a coincidence, a fluke, he couldn't always find people. But maybe it wasn't. 

---

Their daughter was born in a heartbeat moment. One second she wasn't there, and the next she was. 

Scully didn't remember much from the moments after—fatigued and feeling faint with pain—but there was one thing she'd never forget: the sound of her daughter's first healthy cry. The image of the tiny baby being held up before her. She would hold onto it for as long as she lived.

"It's a girl," the nurse said cheerfully. You were right, Mulder, Scully tried to say, but her lips were numb. Her head was lolled back against the pillow, but she didn't take her eyes off her daughter. She lifted her arms, limp, to reach for her. 

The nurse lay her, her wriggling daughter, onto Scully's chest. The weight was welcome. She was so small, and Scully loved her immediately. 

"Oh, honey," Mulder whispered, his voice breaking. He reached down with a trembling hand to cup the back of their daughter's head. "Honey."

Scully had a gentle hand on her daughter's back. She leaned down to press her lips to her dark, downy head, whispering, "Hi. Hi, baby." 

The baby was wailing, her tiny hands grasping for purchase, her eyes big and blue, like her mother's, like Missy's. Like Emily's, and like William's when he'd been little. She met her daughter's eyes as she stroked the top of her head, and she could feel the weight of it bearing on her chest, cinching it tight. She kissed her baby's hair again and whispered, "Hi, Lily." 

She hadn't dared to call her that out loud yet, but she'd known for a while now. Ever since Jackson had suggested it. That had been her silent name for a long time now.

Mulder was crouched beside them, his hand on Scully's shoulder and his eyes on Lily. Scully raised her chin to look at him, and he nodded immediately, in total, silent agreement. He smiled, shaky through his tears. 

He'd been crying since her labor started, in fear or in empathy or probably both. He'd clutched at her hand almost as hard as she'd clutched his. He'd tensed every time someone new entered the room, his arms protective around her shoulder. At one point, she'd heard him whisper, "Please, Scully, please…" when she'd cried out. He was as afraid as she'd been. 

Now, he accepted the nurse's offer to cut the cord with shaking hands. Scully lay woozily back against the pillows as the nurses gave Lily to her father, swallowed up in his arms. The thought came to her involuntarily: Mulder holding William for the first time. That same look of awe on his face. Her eyes filled with tears. She reached for them and felt Lily's little hand curl around her finger. 

---

Jackson woke up curled up on the field. No long limp or in pain, the energy leaking back into him. He felt hungover, but awake. Awake and sure of what he had to do. 

He stumbled jelly-like, almost without thinking about it, to the door of his car and yanked it open. Climbed in immediately and started it. 

He had to get to Farrs Corner. He had to make sure they were okay, if he wasn't already too late.

---

The day before, he'd been so fucking scared. So scared he honestly couldn't believe it now, with his daughter nestled cozily in his arms and his wife sleeping beside him. But he had been. Seeing Scully in pain like that, remembering how badly it had gone before and the potential for it to go badly now… Every cry of pain had cut him to the core, made him feel helpless; every nurse coming in and out of the room had seemed like someone sent to hurt them, to take Scully and Lily away from him. He hadn't known what to do, how to help, how to make sure he'd never have to live a day without either of them. He knew now that the fears were irrational, but it had all seemed so real. After everything with William, he couldn't imagine going through that again. 

But Scully was okay. She was exhausted, and still in pain, but she was okay, and she was going to be okay. She was asleep now, propped up on pillows, her hair spread across the pillow. And he was holding their daughter, curled up against his chest. Skin to skin, the nurses had suggested. He was keeping her warm. 

She was tiny with a shock of dark hair and the lightest dusting of freckles. Mulder thought she looked like Samantha when she was born, the same dark hair and the shape of her nose. But her eyes were as blue as Scully's, and she had her mother's freckles, and she was here, and whole, and she and Scully were both fine. They were both fine, and Mulder officially wanted to never leave either of them ever again.

He held their daughter, his hand cupping her small head. She yawned, a quiet sound, and he stroked her forehead with one finger, gently. He ran the finger down her arm, and she grabbed onto it with her entire hand, her own tiny fingers. Tears welled involuntarily in his eyes, and he leaned forward to press a light kiss to her forehead. “Hey, kiddo,” he whispered, so only she could hear. “Hey, baby. You made it. You're here.”

Lily looked up at him with a touch of—he swore it—curiosity in her eyes, and he grinned. “I'm your dad,” he said softly. "I'm your dad."

---

They headed home with the baby by the next night. Scully knew she could've stayed at least an extra day, but the birth had gone smoothly, considering the risks. She and the baby were in good health. And besides that, she had stayed in the hospital way too many times for her own liking; she was content not to stay as a patient a minute longer than she needed to. There was the argument that she and Mulder could rest while the baby was taken care of, but she knew that they were both nervous about the possibility of people coming for her. They'd feel better if they were the ones taking care of her, if they could keep her in sight; neither of them preferred letting strangers take care of her. It seemed exceedingly better to just head back home. 

The act of it was a little overwhelming for them both, Scully could tell. Last time, it had just been her and her mother, flying back from Georgia, her anxiety heightened and fueling into a refusal to let William out of her sight. She'd missed Mulder horribly throughout the whole trip, her only comfort being his promise that he would come and see them as soon as they'd gotten home. He hadn't been there to bring William home for the first time. 

Now they were both here, and it wasn't as scary as it had been before—she had to keep reminding herself that everything was fine to their knowledge, that they encountered anyone dangerous so far—but it still felt monumental. Mulder drove as carefully as he had on the way to the hospital, his hands steadier on the wheel, looking over his shoulder in increments at the baby. Scully was sitting in the back with Lily, an absent hand on the edge of the car seat. She couldn't take her eyes off of her, didn't want to. She thought she could spend the rest of her life like this, just sitting with her daughter.

She was so small and quiet; Scully knew it had only been a day, but she thought that Lily might be the quietest baby she had ever seen. She didn't look much like William did when he was this age, and the thought didn't hurt Scully as much as it once would have. She had hair, for one thing, dark downy hair, and she was littler than William had been. She was restless, kicking at the blanket Mulder wrapped her in with her little socked feet. Scully thought she looked a little like the old black and white pictures she’d seen of her mother as an infant, but Mulder insisted she looked like Samantha. (They'd been bickering mildly about who Lily looked like since yesterday; they were both saying she looked like the other. But it was easy to see the face of loved ones in their daughter; she understood the impulse as well as anything. They'd both lost so many people. But she did look like Mulder. Scully could see him in her face.) 

Lily was quiet on the drive home, focused on trying to jam her fist in her mouth. "She's almost got it," Mulder said with a sort of quiet, amused affection, looking at them in the rearview mirror. 

Scully chuckled. "This one is on you," she told him seriously, nudging Lily's fist open with the tip of one finger. "All these years of sticking random evidence in your mouth…"

Lily yawned, kicking her feet again. "I'll tell her not to eat the random white specks on the ground," Mulder said, looking over his shoulder as they stopped at a light and smiling. 

Mulder was in love with the baby as much as she was, maybe even to a greater extent. He'd kept his promise: he hadn't left their side in the hospital, either of theirs. While Scully slept in the hospital, exhausted, he had crept to the nursery to look at their daughter through the window before bringing her back to the room to do skin-to-skin at the nurse's direction. “I didn't want to leave her alone,” he'd said as they left the hospital. “I didn't want to leave either of you alone.” The sight of the two of them together was enough to make Scully cry, remembering what little time they'd all spent together the first time. She could still see him in the back of her mind, seventeen years younger and trying to rock William back to sleep. 

(Thinking of William—Jackson—made her wince, involuntarily, because the things he'd said were still solidly lodged in her mind. You kept me around for about nine months before you got tired of me and gave me up for adoption. You never came looking for me. It stung, made her chest tighten and clench like a vice. She missed him so much, and she wanted to tell him she was sorry, but the memories still hurt like hell. She felt the need to reassure Lily and promise her that she would never, ever do that to her, but she felt like it was a betrayal of her son. She blinked back tears rapidly and leaned down to press a kiss to her daughter's forehead.)

Mulder carried Lily into the house. Scully insisted; she wanted him to experience every single moment he had missed out on. 

--- 

Jackson drove all day to get back to Farrs Corner. He bought a supply of Monster energy drinks and snacks that he piled in the passenger seat so he could drive through without stopping. He had to get there, he had to get there. He pissed on the side of the road to save time, blinked blearily at the road and held onto the steering wheel hard. There wasn't any choice. All he could hope for was that he wouldn't be too late this time, that he wouldn't be such a fuck-up. That he could give his sister the life he never had. 

New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut. New York, New Jersey, Philadelphia. He kept reaching out, searching for Dana and Mulder, and finding nothing. His mind was racing with insane scenarios, with the images from his nightmares. He kept seeing his parents, hearing the rustle of the body bags as they were zipped up, and seeing Mulder and Scully in their face, and it was too hard. He pounded the steering wheel with his palms, he blasted the radio at full volume, he screamed under the pounding sound of the radio. He was so fucking frustrated, he should've bought a plane ticket but he had no money. He drove and drove and drove. Maryland, and finally Virginia. The sun had sunk low below the horizon, and Jackson felt half-dead. But he couldn't stop. He could not stop. 

 He kept hearing Mulder's frightened voice in his head. Kept replaying that night in the beach, the way Mulder had yanked back like he had slapped him, the way Scully had insisted, "That's not true." They'd both been crying when he'd left, and now they'd never know… He'd had a fight with his parents the day before they died, and they'd been okay right before, he didn't think his parents were still mad at him when it happened. But he'd always hate himself for not apologizing. He'd said a lot of horrible things to them, told him he hated them, and he hadn't, he hadn't, but he'd never be able to tell them. And he didn't know what the hell he wanted to tell them, but he wanted the chance to do it. He couldn't let them die or get hurt because of him. He had a sister, he had two sisters, and one of them was gone, but he might have the chance to help one of them. He might still be able to save his baby sister. 

He drove, foot hard on the gas. He drove to their house, because he wasn't sure where else they would be. If nothing else, it was a place to start, a place to possibly reestablish a connection so he could find them somewhere else. 

It took longer than he would've liked to reach their stupid little country house, following those winding, remote roads. Or maybe it was just because he'd been driving all day. He hated their gate, hated that he had to get out and drag it out of the way, and the fact that it was closed sent a flurry of questions through his mind. (Were there assassins just kind enough to close the gate after themselves so that no one would guess they'd been here? This indicated that Mulder and Dana maybe hadn't left in a hurry. But he still didn't know whether or not there was danger from assassins or abductors, or just from a medical issue; they could've gone to the hospital and been followed there. He still had no idea.) He followed the driveway to the end, where he found their car parked neatly adjacent to the porch. 

Jackson's breath faltered as it whooshed out of him, as he stepped on the brake and threw the car into Park. What the fuck? What the fuck was going on? He could feel the energy, the fight leaching out of him in one fell swoop; he was exhausted, but he couldn't stop now. He fumbled for the door handle and found it, stumbled outside, his feet slipping on the grass. As he shut the door behind him, he heard a baby crying. 

He ran up the steps before faltering at the door, his mind racing. Had he been wrong? Was nothing wrong at all, were they perfectly okay? He wasn't sure anymore, but he knew he had to know, and so he reached for the door handle and yanked it open. 

Dana was sitting on the couch, cradling what kinda looked like a bundle of blankets, rocking back and forth and shushing quietly. But when Jackson shoved the screen open and it hit the opposite wall with a cacophonous bang, she tensed, her head shooting him and one hand pressing protectively over the bundle. No, not a fucking bundle; the baby. His sister, still crying, possibly startled at the loud sound. Dana's eyes were wide, like she was afraid, but she seemed to relax at the sight of him, only a little bit. "Jackson?" she asked, and her voice was full of disbelief. 

He nodded. He was stiff and frozen, taking the situation in. Dana looked fine. She was pale and clearly tired, bags under her eyes, but she looked just fine. She'd loosened her grip on the baby, stopped shielding her head, and Jackson could see her a little better. The baby looked fine, too, red-faced and wailing with a shock of dark hair. Dana's eyes darted down to her, and she began rocking back and forth again, shushing her. "I'm sorry…" she said to Jackson, not looking at him. "We're still a work in progress here."

Jackson's mind was still faltering; he wasn't exactly sure what the hell was going on. His heart was thudding dully, he couldn't catch his breath. He could still hear the echoes of Mulder's panic bouncing around his skull, but now he was wondering if maybe he'd heard wrong. People had gotten in his head before and manipulated him, that smoking fucker had for most of his life… Was it really possible that they could both be okay?

"This is Lily," Dana said suddenly. The baby's wails had subsided a bit, turned mostly to sniffling, and Dana held her close. "Your sister," she added quietly, like she might regret it. 

It hit him suddenly, almost took his breath away: they'd used his name. The name he suggested. His sister.

He was trembling, and he took a step inside the house, letting the screen door whap shut behind him. He bunched his hands into fists, took a breath and blurted, "You're okay? Y-you and the baby, you're…" He couldn't finish. He was still seeing the nightmare images, he still didn't know what had happened. 

"We're just fine," Ginger said, and she smiled absently when she said it. Lily had gone quiet, chewing on her hand with her head lolling against her mother's shoulder. "It was an easier birth than I expected… She's a little early, but she's a strong one. She's gonna be fine."

"A-and Mulder?" he managed. "Mulder's okay?"

She nodded, her forehead furrowing with confusion. "He's just fine… Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked, and then winced, as if she hadn't meant to say that. 

Jackson nodded. He was suddenly exhausted, almost faint. "I… I drove a lot today," he said pathetically. 

Worry immediately passed over her face, and she said, "Sit down. Get some rest, okay?" He went for the chair, sinking into it like a rock in water. "I… If you don't mind holding the baby, I can get you something to drink…"

"No," he said quickly, and he didn't know if it was because he didn't want to hold the baby or because he didn't think that Dana should be doing a damn thing for him, considering. "No, you… don't need to get anything for me. I'm okay." He admittedly didn't know shit about giving birth, or anything remotely related, but he at least knew that it hurt like hell. Dana probably needed to rest. 

She looked like she didn't believe him, but the baby started to fuss again, and she started to shush her again, rocking her. "It's okay," she whispered, and the words hit Jackson like a ton of bricks. He wasn't sure he believed her, but she still said it again, soothing the baby: "It's okay."

Jackson heard a familiar clomping on the stairs, and Mulder was appearing with a blanket and a plastic tube of something. "I've got the—" he began, and then stopped in his tracks when he saw Jackson. Silent for a moment, and then he was saying, "Hi, Jack," somehow too quickly and too slow all at once. 

"Hi, Mulder," Jackson replied huskily, looking down at his dirty sneakers. He was suddenly horrible embarrassed, feeling like a fucking idiot. He'd come running all this way for nothing, when he was probably the last person they wanted to see, and he could be putting them in more fucking danger by being here. The baby, too. Lily. And all because he'd misheard some of Mulder's anxiety or something. Had Mulder even known that he could hear him? Had he wanted him to come? He didn't know how to ask these things. 

"I—" Mulder faltered, his breath shaky. "It's really good to see you, Jackson," he said, his voice breaking a little. "Really good."

They hadn't thought he would come back, he realized. And he hadn't meant to.

Dana broke the silence. "I think someone needs a change," she said, breaking off into a yawn. 

"Here, I've got her." Jackson looked up in time to see Mulder scooping up Lily, whispering, "There's my girl." The baby was still crying, her little face turning red. "You should go get some sleep, honey," he said softly, holding the baby against his shoulder. "You're exhausted."

Dana yawned, getting to her feet. "I'm sure I'll be up in a couple of hours," she said softly. "I… I'm sorry things are so hectic, Jackson… It might be kind of noisy tonight, but, uh, make yourself comfortable… I think there's some lasagna left on the kitchen…" She picked up the plastic tube and the blanket that Mulder had left on the table. 

"That's okay," Jackson said, wishing he was anywhere else at the moment. "Uh, sleep well."

Dana retreated to the stairs, Mulder on her tail, whispering and humming to the baby. His sister. Fuck. 

Jackson let his head fall forward into his hands. He had no idea what the hell to do next; he barely even knew how to move. 

---

Everything since they’d left Jackson in the living room seemed foggy. Scully could barely remembering walking upstairs, showering, changing clothes. She’d fed Lily in bed, exhaustion tugging at her like a tether, and now she and Mulder were lying with Lily on a blanket between them. She was asleep, her fist in her mouth, lying on her back. Scully knew she should probably be in her own crib, but she felt the same need that Mulder did to keep her close. She wanted them to be together. She was so sleepy, but she caught Lily’s wayward foot in her hand and held it gently. “We should probably put her down in a minute,” she murmured.

“Okay,” Mulder whispered. His hand was on Lily’s stomach, feeling the rise and fall; he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. “I’ll put her down in a minute.”

Scully shut her eyes, rubbing a thumb over the fine top of the baby’s foot, feeling each of her toes. Ten years doing work in the pediatric ward, and she was still marveling over her baby, the fact that she'd brought a real person into the world. She kissed the top of Lily's foot, and a memory came unbidden of her doing the very same thing, with William. 

“And maybe… maybe we should go check on Jackson,” she mumbled, unable to forget their son, the erratic way he’d acted when he’d arrived, the way he’d said he’d driven a lot. She was worried about him. She'd been worried for months.

“I’ll take care of it, honey,” Mulder whispered, reaching out to cup the side of his face.  His palms were pleasantly warm. “You sleep.”

She murmured her assent and felt his thumb moving against her cheek. She stroked the bottom of Lily’s foot through her sock. She was thinking about the moment that Jackson had burst through the door, the emotions swirling in his eyes—something like fear. She was remembering the moment she’d slipped up and called him sweetie, the way she’d mentally chided herself: Don’t, don’t push him, he doesn’t see you as his mother, you’re not really his mother… But a part of her always would be. She was replaying their conversation in her head, and all of a sudden, she just knew. She said, “He’s not going to be there in the morning, is he.” It wasn't a question. She knew it would happen; she was trying to find a way to make peace with it.

Mulder took an unsteady breath in time with the baby. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I wish I did.”

Her hand moved to rest over Mulder’s, on top of Lily’s stomach, soothed by the rise and fall, and she took a sharp breath of her own. “I… I’ve missed him so much,” she whispered. “So, so much.”

“I know.” Mulder leaned forward, just a little, and she could feel him kiss her forehead. “So have I.”

There didn’t seem to be any more to say after that. She was really so tired, and she didn’t know if her son would be there in the morning, and she didn’t want him to leave, but she couldn’t ask him to stay. Mulder took her hand and squeezed it close before letting go, and she could hear him getting to his feet. She managed to open her eyes long enough to kiss her daughter good night—whispered I love you so much—and then she was out, sleeping like the dead until the baby’s cries would wake her up again.

---

Jackson fell asleep without really meaning to. He’d just gone to the kitchen to get some of the lasagna that Dana had mentioned and gone upstairs for some privacy. The next thing he knew, he was waking up on top of the covers with a greasy fork stuck to the comforter and leaving bright orange stains behind. It was dark outside, very early in the morning. He had a phantom memory of the baby crying, but the house was silent now.

He sat up immediately, gathering his bowl and his fork and leaving them on the bedside table. One thing was apparent, and that was that he needed to go right now. Now, while they were asleep, and no later. He had no idea what the hell he’d heard from Mulder, but he figured that it must’ve been a misunderstanding, or an overreaction, or maybe both. But they didn’t seem to be in danger. And there was always the possibility that he himself was putting them in danger by being here. Mulder and Dana and the kid. He’d figure it all out later, but at the moment, he needed to go. He needed space to think, to breathe. 

He stepped on the floor, realizing that he still had his shoes on, and found his keys in his pocket. For a brief moment, it seemed as if his phone was missing, but he found that tangled in the comforter where he’d mussed it up. He grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket. After a brief mental checklist, he figured he didn’t have anything in the house. He slipped out of the room, his shoes creaking softly on the floorboards, and headed for the stairs. 

His foot had just hit the top step when he felt it: the tiniest little nudge in his mind. A push, the push back of another mind. It was a bit of an unfamiliar feeling, but recognizable; he’d felt it before with Ginger, when he could hear her, when she could hear him back. He didn't feel that a lot. And that was when he knew.

Jackson turned away from the stairs, drawing closer to a door. Mulder and Dana’s bedroom. It was as if the force was drawing him in, like a magnetic field he was following, and he didn’t completely understand it, but he would follow it anyway. He went to the door and paused, just outside. Directly adjacent to the door was the crib, close to what seemed to be Dana’s side of the bed. The baby—his sister—was awake, and surprisingly silent. She lay on her back, limbs askew, and she seemed to be looking up at him. 

He could hear Mulder and Dana's steady, sleeping breaths, and he felt weird enough standing in their room while they were asleep; he didn't want to wake them up. And so he tried it silently, wanting to know whether or not she could hear: Hey, kid. 

She made no physical indications that she heard; she kind of looked like a living potato at the moment. A cute potato, but still a potato. But Jackson felt the push again, like she had no words to respond, but the presence was still there. 

He smiled, almost involuntarily. I guess… I'm your brother, he added silently. I'm Jackson. 

The baby blinked slowly, like she understood. She had Dana's eyes, a brilliant blue. Jackson didn't know how to feel about that. 

I'm sorry, kid, he was thinking before he could stop himself. I'm really sorry. I… I'm going to try to make life easier for you than it was for me, but I can't make any promises. I'm sorry about that. 

She kicked her feet absently, up and down in the air. He reached down to touch her little fist, and she grabbed his finger. Stronger than he would've expected. He grinned again, without even thinking about it. He always wanted a little sister. 

I've got to go now, he told her silently. I do. But… I'll be back someday. He meant that. He did. He didn't know when or how, but he'd come back. And in the meantime, he added, you're in a pretty good place. They're good people. They… they'll take care of you. He knew that was true, too. Lily's fingers tightened around his. He whispered, unthinking, "They'll take good care of you."

He didn't know if they could hear. He didn't know whether or not he wanted them to. 

He touched the back of Lily's hand before slipping his finger out. Night, kid, he thought, and exited the room as quietly as he could manage. 

When he stepped into the hall, he heard a long creak, and looked behind him to see the door swinging mostly closed. It could've been the wind, or hinges, or even a ghost, if he was being indulgent. But he suspected that someone else was to blame for it. 

He slipped downstairs, keys in hand, ready to bolt for the door. But something made him pause. Pause, in the messy kitchen, and go for a notepad on the kitchen counter. He'd been such a fucking asshole he could hardly believe it; the least he could do was leave a goddamn note. He didn't owe his birth parents much, but he owed them this. Just this. Reassurance that he was okay.

He wrote in a scribbled, messy hand and left the note on the kitchen table before slipping out the door.

Hey,

I had to go. I have things I have to do, and besides, you deserve this time with the kid. I hope you guys have a good time together. She's a sweet kid. 

I'm sorry I dropped in like that, and I'm sorry to leave while you're asleep. I'm sorry for everything else, too. I really am. Thanks for all you've done for me. 

I'll try to come by soon. 

— Jackson

[aleapoffaithfiction]

XI.

"I know you think I'm crazy. Maybe that's because I am. About life, about this moment, about you." ― Crystal Woods

“Fine as hell. She fine as hell. Hungry as hell, but fine as hell nonetheless.” I nearly choked as I dropped the po’ boy back onto the plate in front of me and stuck up my finger for both Odell and his iPhone camera to see. The crispy shrimp were flavored and fried to perfection, and Chef Pierre certainly didn’t hold back from piling them into the buttered toasted French roll. With the shrimp is shredded and lightly cooked crunchy cabbage, sliced tomatoes, and a drizzled remoulade sauce that nearly made me melt onto the floor.

It’s not even noon yet and I’m already eating a heavy ass lunch. Actually, I’ve been overindulging ever since we arrived here last night and have no intention on stopping until we’re back in the northeast. My stomach has morphed into a bottomless pit that is willing and ready to withhold any dish offered and the man who brought me here seems to want to do nothing more than leave me with a swiftly gained ten pounds lingering around my waistline and thighs.

“Now if I go home looking pregnant, don’t try to deny me because I’m absolutely going to blame it on you.” For breakfast, we indulged on freshly made beignets drenched in powdered sugar. While I had coffee, he settled for hot chocolate and we sat outdoors in the midst of the cool Baton Rouge air on a plush deep beige sectional on the back patio of the four-bedroom, six-bathroom contemporary highland home we’re residing in for the next two days.

With only our teeth brushed, we lazy lounged around in our nightclothes with nothing on our feet. Rather than the television being on, we used one another as sources of information and I was able to understand why Baton Rouge and New Orleans made and raised him. Though he spent some time living in both Georgia and Texas, Louisiana is home. He’s a 504 boy to the core.

“How they say that shit? Something about cushion for the pushing.” The silly little smirk dancing along his flawless lips was enough to make me launch my plastic fork in his direction. His mouth knows no boundaries sometimes.

“More cushion for the pushing? That?”

“Yeah, that baby. No complaints over here. I told you that you have to get the complete NOLA experience and food is a major part of that. I know you’ve been down here once before, but I know you ain’t eat like this.” I didn’t. Celeste’s selective eating limited everyone’s opportunity to explore the different spices and textures of New Orleans’ famous dishes and I mentally complained about it the entire time. The morning I wandered off to find coffee and breakfast while in the midst of a brutal hangover was the first and only time that I was able to have a dish that I felt was worth the trip and the irony in that is, it’s the same morning that I saw him.

“You’re still recording? I look crazy when I eat. Turn it off.” Like the professional athlete that he is, he was able to dodge my attempt to grab his phone out of his hands and he jogged to the opposite side of the cool grey marbled kitchen island. Its width kept him out of my reach.

“You fine though.”

“Turn it off.”

“Tell me I’m your favorite person ever first.”

“Get out of here.” I don’t have on make-up; not even a smidge of concealer. I know my eyes look like they’re shot to hell. I’m absolutely going to pay him back for this.

“Say it.”

“You’re my favorite person ever.”

“And that I’m the best boyfriend ever.” Boyfriend?

“Beckham.”

“Say it.”

“You’re my boyfriend?”

“I’d like to think so, but you tell me. Am I your boyfriend?”

Suddenly the delectable sandwich in front of me no longer mattered and neither did the fact that his camera was still creating a memory of my every reaction and response to his words.

I’ve been single for four years. Two years ago, I found myself in a silent embarrassment over the reality of it. I’m certainly within the years of my life where I’m supposed to be actively either anticipating or seeking out some sort of companionship and yet, I found a comfort zone in keeping that particular slate as clean as possible. Sure, my lower region suffered in a cry for pleasure that went beyond anything that I could do on my own, but there was a peace of mind that I clung to and could no longer sacrifice after Shamel begrudgingly sucked the life out of me.

I needed a decent amount of time to evaluate the failures of and within that relationship and to mentally regroup. The emotional turmoil took me to a dark place and men were not something I viewed in a positive light, so how could I ever accept one into my life? If anything, any man interested would have become a passionate punching bag; paying for the mistakes of the man prior to him.

Some months back, I don’t want to say that I gave up hope because I wasn’t hoping for anything in particular, but everything about being with someone felt completely irrelevant to the place that I’m at in my life. I closed the gap that I once had to nurture that particular type of connection while being in the midst of the height of my professional career. Despite the pressure from family, the distasteful questions about a husband and children I get when interviewed by other media outlets, and the ignorant talk about my fertility clock ticking away along with my childbearing years, none of it seemed to matter.

I found solace in the comfort of my home and couldn’t bear the thought of anything or anyone coming in to deliberately invade that space with their own desires, requirements, and opinions that I need to appease all for the sake of having them. I built a bubble around myself for self-preservation outside of my Edgewater personal space and like a vicious tornado, a Louisiana bred freak of nature athlete came blitzing into my life and overran every bubble, wall, and defense mechanism I spent a ridiculous amount of time perfectly creating. Like Ernes Kanter, I became a defensive liability to my damn self and I haven’t been able to block anything he’s ardently done or sent my way.

If anything, I’ve clung to every rush of excitement and the moments filled with wonder about just how much he’d impress me next. I’ve cherished feeling like a young school girl in Brooklyn blushing from across the room at the most mindless act my crush would do all for the sake of garnering the attention of others. I’ve found myself enthralled in a new world that interestingly intertwines with mine in a numinous beauty that I’ve never experienced before. It’s the first time I’ve ever undeniably wanted someone; flaws and all.

The unknown will always be fearsome but nothing amazing ever comes without either believing in what could possibly be a major failure or taking a risk that you’ve never taken before.

“I’d like to think so.” His naturally arched eyebrows arose in an elated surprise at the response he’d been given and he leaned his upper frame over the counter in a draw to be closer to me.

“So, say it.”

“You’re the best boyfriend ever.”

Our smirks were in unison as he leaned his torso over the island top in anticipation for me to do the same. He’d finally obliged me and stop recording, but not before getting my response about him being the best ever. Our lips softly met, sealing the deal we’d made in order for me to get what I wanted but most of all, because I’d given him what he wanted twice over. I nearly became unbalanced at the sudden rush of shudders fluttering through my frame in a raging response to him. To kiss him is to be inebriated in a manner that no man-made drug is capable of achieving. It’s a trip that I can’t get enough of and want to be stoned by endlessly.

“Now if Larenz Tate comes and tries to scoop me up, I might have to say things differently.” And with that he sucked his teeth.

“Man, forget you and your shrimpy ass breath.”

“As if your breath doesn’t smell the same way.”

“Come on and finish eating that. We’re going out.”

“In the daylight?” As my backside met the seat once again, both of his adorably almond shaped eyes lowered in confusion at the question. We’ve never gone anywhere in the daylight. Actually, we’ve never been anywhere together in the first place. It’s not realistic. Our nighttime meet ups at either his place or my place already come with risks that neither one of us are ready to explain if we’re caught beyond the few people on his end who do know that we spend time together. It’s not even a we factor; it’s all me. The consequences would be beyond anything he or I could explain.

“You trust me, right?”

“I do trust you.”

“Then you trust that I’ll protect you and that I do have your best interests in my mind and heart. So yeah, we’re going out in the daylight. I got us.”

“O, what are we doing?” It’s a question filled with so many wonders about who we are for one another and where we’re going with all of this. I’m not even ready to comprehend what we’ve done by adding titles into this mix.

“It won’t always be this way baby. Finish up. I’m going to get our jackets and your bag from upstairs.”

When I was left alone, I had one last bite of the sandwich and discarded the rest. If I eat another bite, the top button on my jeans will eventually pop off due to the pressure of my outlandishly full belly. I’m not eating another bite today. Nothing. If do have anything, it’ll be a salad for dinner. Maybe some fruit too, or yogurt. I don’t know. It’ll be something healthy. I’m not about to allow him to walk around flourishing with his washboard abs while I can barely contain a lower belly pudge. I’ve already slacked off with my gym attendance, so I at least need to be disciplined about what I’m putting in my mouth.

“This bag?” The black Alexander Wang bag he held up is one I’ve had for a while and it’s the one I take with me whenever I’m traveling everywhere. It has this versatility to be able to serve as a bag that I can randomly throw everything into and carry with me wherever, but it’s stylish enough to throw on for a nice afternoon outing with friends…or rather my man, this particular time.

“Yes, that one.” Although it’s in the lower seventies and certainly a comfortable enough temperature for me to be able to be outdoors with just this long-sleeved Thrasher shirt, he insisted on me wearing my leather jacket because the temperature’s going to drop at some point this evening. Even if it does, it’ll never feel like the freezing temperatures we deal with up North.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“The French Quarter.”

“Are we seeing someone there?” He’s spoken about more than enough people that he’s either related to or good friends with for there to be a reunion of more than fifty people back at the house if he made a couple of phone calls. Like most people do when they return home, I’m sure he’s going to want to make his rounds to show some love to those that he knows. If not everyone, then his parents and siblings. Maybe they’ll be at the game tonight.

“You’ll see. I think you’re going to like this.”

He offered nothing else as we slid into the backseat of the awaiting vehicle.

Our arrival into the crown jewel of New Orleans didn’t go without the driver taking the scenic route and allowing me to marvel at the sights of the historic neighborhood. There’s something so chic about the vintage and antique restaurants and stores being perfectly blended in with the modernized boutiques. Everything about it is like a timeless portrait that you cannot stop analyzing.

The vibe is so unique and rich with culture. It’s almost unbelievable that people are actually from here. Just from looking around, it feels like a place that you’re only supposed to travel to and unreservedly experience so that you’ll have marvelous stories to go back home and tell your folks. It’s fitting for the handsomeness alongside me to be from here. Its vibrancy is everything that he is.

“What is this place?”

“Preservation Hall. We’re actually about three blocks away from the Mississippi River.” On the outside, the building blends in to the point of nearly being unremarkable. If I were randomly walking along the streets alone, I surely would have bypassed it without a thought or concern.

“Wow. This place is super old-fashioned.” Its interior is tatty and weathered but in a manner that makes it look like something out of a timepiece style of film. I’d say maybe as far back as the late 1700s or maybe the early eighteen. The portraits of musicians donning the walls and the instruments resting alongside the chairs on the opposite of the room is a dead giveaway of this being somewhere performances are put on.

“This place is legendary. It used to be a private residence in 1750 and then it turned into a tavern, an inn, a photography studio, and I think an art gallery as well. The doors were closed for a while after that and they reopened it in 1961 to serve as a sanctuary to preserve New Orleans jazz because the popularity of it pretty much died out when modernized jazz and rock and roll took over. So, this place is a safe haven where musicians and people gather to celebrate and remember the old New Orleans.”

I find it interesting that there’s no bar. I like the idea of people being completely sober while getting lost into the beauty of the music or maybe they all pile in after having gotten drunk elsewhere and spend their time cutting up on the tattered floors. There are only cushions on the floor and benches for people to sit on. I don’t even think there’s a bathroom. This little hole in a wall sanctuary is the embodiment of an intimate setting.

“What time do the doors open? What time does people usually come?”

“No one’s coming. I told you I got us.” He withdrew my jacket from my shoulders as older men began to trickle out of a backroom and make their way to their desire positions before us. “I told you I wanted you to experience the goodness of my home.”

“Odell, thanks for dropping by and bringing your little lady with you.”

“Aye, you know it ain’t nothing Charlie. Thanks for having us.”

“You know I’m Saints pride till the end, but I still root for you because you’re home grown pride. Get back strong, son.” He nodded in respect to the elderly man and saluted him for the post injury encouragement.

“Appreciate it. I’m working on it, sir.”

“Little lady, he told us to give you the soul of the city and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. You just sit back and enjoy. It’d be even nicer if you danced too.”

“I’m excited.” And I am.

The perks of my career have allowed to me walk along backstage areas to take in the intimate moments of some of the world’s most famous musicians and I’ve either stood in their designated V.I.P areas or in the sound booths to take in small or grand scale productions. I’ve witnessed some come ups too. I was in attendance at Drake’s first performance at New York’s famous S.O.B.s as he was buzzing on the heels of his So Far Gone mixtape.

I was there seven years ago to hear J. Cole perform cuts off of The Warm Up for his first ever performance. Friday Night Lights released November of the same year. I’ve seen Hov more times than I can count. The Watch the Throne Tour is still one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. Rihanna. Beyoncé. Celine Dion. Mary J. Blige. Outkast. There are too many to name. Last year, I saw and rocked out to the Bad Boy Reunion Tour twice and yet absolutely none of the performances I’ve seen over the years were quite like this.

The raw authenticity of the music filling the space felt like the jazz radiated right out of the depths of their bones as they played it with grit and pride. What started out as the shimmying of my shoulders and my hand slapping into my thigh, turned into me standing up on my heel clad feet and freely dancing around the room with my arms loosely swinging in the air to the medley of the trumpet while my hips grooved with the bass drum. My lover left the current dance crazes outside and instead opted to take ahold of my hips to be just as uninhibited as I felt, as he twirled me around and laughed at the dizziness, we danced ourselves into.

If the hall had been filled with patrons, it wouldn’t have mattered. I could only bask in him and the captivating aura radiating from his striking frame. My own roared in a yearning for him to do things to my body that no other man has ever done before. My inner thighs tingled in a call for his fingers to graze them. My seeping center throbbed in a plea to be filled with the company of him. The electrifying turned sensual jazz told the narrative of my body and I can only hope he’ll analyze and immerse himself inside of my story soon enough.

“After that, you gotta eat some crawfish.”

“If you feed me one more time….” We worked up enough of a sweat to need the air conditioning turned on the coolest setting in the SUV. Though I danced off the breakfast and early lunch we had, I don’t need anything else right now.

“You’re definitely eating some tomorrow. You’re not getting out of that.”

“Those things are ugly.”

“So are shrimp and fish, but you eat it.”

“No, crawfish are uglier.”

“Uglier than shrimp with the heads on them? You lying your ass off. Now those shits are ugly. We’re going to have a boil right outside by the pool tomorrow. It’s already in the works. You gon’ love it, watch.” I readjusted the Off-White cap I randomly picked up from the numerous accessories he had laying on the dresser and rolled my eyes.

“I’ll try one.”

“And then you’ll try another and another and next thing you know, you’ll be sitting right beside me going in. I’m not even worried about it.” And he isn’t. He’s been assured in me loving the renowned NOLA boil since he first spoke about it a while back.

“Is this Newman?”

“Yeah, baby.” I don’t know if it’s just me, but his accent seemed to instantly thicken as soon as we’ve stepped off of the plane and it’s been an oxymoron of pleasuring torture ever since. “Baby” seems to be sticking as my pet name, but it’s the manner in which he says it that melts every part of me.

Once the vehicle came to a halt, we were out within minutes and making our way to the football field that birthed what would be the beginning of his legendary football legacy in Louisiana. In the research I did on him prior to the rant, I learned of just how well he had done for himself here. He was a three-year starter and was awarded the titles of All-District, All-Metro, and All-State twice. In 2010, he was named District Offensive MVP, AA State Offensive MVP, and was both the offensive and team MVP for the Newman football team. He also played in the All-American Bowl in January of the following year at the invitation of the United States Army. His college recruitment had been over a two-year campaign and he had full ride scholarship offers from twenty different colleges. Miami and LSU were his top choices and we’re all well aware of the home pride choice that he made when it was all said and done.

“The alma mater of both you and Eli.”

“Yeah, his brothers too. They all wore the number eighteen. Cooper’s kids are students here now.”

As his eyes panned around the field, I observed him quietly reliving the nostalgia of his time here. The entire coaching staff has raved about him every chance they’ve been given to do so. It’s always a comical time whenever the Giants play the Saints because as much as people want the Saints to take the victory, they’re just as excited and looking forward to seeing him get out there and put on one hell of a performance.

“Nelson Stewart said that you were the most hardworking and explosive player that he’s ever coached. He called you the popular guy because people loved t0 be around you and also said that your energy rubbed off on your teammates.”

“Coach Stewart is one of my favorite people in general. He’s always been a stand-up guy and still looks out for me till this day. He’s sometimes a voice a reason for me whenever I’ve had an off game or a poor judgement call in sideline behavior.”

“It’s one thing that he said that was interesting to me and now that I’ve gotten to know you, I understand it so much more and know it to be true. He said that you don’t like the spotlight.” He doesn’t. All he has is a passion for winning. He’s not the guy that feels like the game winning play needs to run through him. He’s not watching the stats and obsessed with making sure his outshines anyone else in the league.

He’s not the guy who arrogantly talks down on teammates and opponents during press conferences or post-game interviews. He’d rather just win with his team while being allowed to be himself in the midst of it. It’s easier said than done, though. None of that stops him from being viewed as the most polarizing player in the NFL.

“I don’t. I just want to win. That’s why I play. I play for the love of it and to win championships. The additional accolades are cool, but I’m not really chasing any of that. I don’t need a bunch of ESPYs or MVP awards. If they think I deserve them then that’s fine, but I’m focused on nothing more than earning those Vince Lombardi trophies.”

“Can I ask you something? I don’t want you to think I’m turning on my journalist cap or anything like that, though.” He lightly snickered and used his large palm to grip my thigh in encouragement to proceed. As we sat in the bleachers, a custodian walked along the field tending to the grass. His age was a clear sign that he didn’t care too much about who either of us are or what we’re doing here.

“You can ask me anything.”

“Is that something you miss about your days here? The lack of a spotlight?”

“For sure. When you’re entering the draft, there this surreal excitement about the possibility to go pro. You don’t think about or care about everything that it entails before you get there. The goal is just to get there. Now that I’m there, I know now more than ever how much of a business it is. Sometimes it feels like it’s more about the business side of things than the sport itself. That can be frustrating. Then there’s the media and you know that I don’t have the best relationship with that side, no matter how much I try to keep my composure when I’m asked antagonizing questions or having the past thrown in my face even if the moment doesn’t call for it. It’s why I view you and a few others as a breath of fresh air. You don’t do that.”

“Journalism and the media itself have shifted due to the internet. Clickbait now holds a major importance in the way that the information gets out there. I hate it, believe me. Going viral is a thing now. The internet rehashes shit, daily. Social media journalism is the worst of the worst because nine times out of ten, it’s bullshit and it circulates faster than the truth does. I just try to put myself into the shoes of others and I know that I wouldn’t want to be misunderstood or deliberately have my genuine emotions ignored all for the sake of entertaining others. Regardless of the perks and millions that comes with being a professional athlete; you all are human beings. I think a lot of people look at the luxuries of your lives and have this unfair viewpoint that you don’t deserved to be humanized.”

“I think so too. It’s super crazy to hear people say things like I’m entitled or how they have the right to rip me to shreds because they’re season ticket holders or some shit. I don’t want to sound ungrateful because I’m not. My family is well taken care of because of the fans. I get to utilize what I was born to do because of them. I have to give them some credit for you coming into my life as well. So, I’m grateful, thankful, humbled. All of that. I just want to feel a bit more carefree again.”

“I get it. That’s fair and deserved.”

“You always get it. That’s why everyone in the sports world loves you. They gon’ have to fall back though.” His facial expression is what sparked my laughter. It was quite playful but his tone was not. Though it flatters me that I’m beloved amongst those that I report on day after day, I don’t take anything beyond professional talk seriously. The flirting doesn’t mean much of anything to me because men will be men. Luckily, nothing has been said or done that falls along the lines of sexual harassment. God willing, it’ll remain that way.

“Let me ask you this though. Did you start running through girls here or at LSU?” It was his turn to laugh and he did so with the typical male reaction when they’re getting ready to lie or downplay their behavior; with widen eyes and his head jerked back.

“Running through girls? I never ran through girls.”

“My mental lie detector test is going nuts right now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really didn’t run through girls like you think I did.”

“Pretty boy athlete? Yeah fucking right.”

“Pretty boy? Oh, so you think I’m cute?” The silly little smirk on his gorgeous face prompted me to roll my eyes.

“Don’t switch the subject.”

“I really wasn’t bad as you think I was. I had fun but it wasn’t that much fun. I didn’t want too much of that distracting me from my long-term goals.”

“Oh, so you waited until you were in the NFL to do it?”

“What? No.” Why do people laugh when they lie? At this point, I can’t even refrain some laughing.

“Yeah, okay. I will say, you do stay pretty lowkey with your shit. You’re not as caught out there like a lot of the other ones.”

“I’m not that bad. I promise I’m not. I guess I can see why it would seem like I am, but I wouldn’t really say that I’ve been out here tossing myself around heavily. I haven’t committed myself to anyone in quite some time though, so that’s left the window open for flings and some meaningless sex from time to time, but there is no crazy number for me to tell or brag about.”

“What if I want to know the number?”

“I’d tell you. You want to know?” Yet again, his hand squeezed my thigh and he followed with a caress to soothe what didn’t cause me any discomfort in the first place.

“No.” His past is his past. What is knowing that number supposed to do for me at this point? What is it supposed to mean?

“It’s been a minute for me in that particular area, though. I’m talking about maybe since late spring.” Late spring? Okay, I definitely wasn’t expecting to hear that.  

“It’s been a minute for me too.”

“How long of a minute if you don’t mind me asking?” And this is where the embarrassment comes in. I usually do my best to avoid admitting this because it turns an unnecessarily amount of attention on me and then comes the snide and sometimes condescending pity that I don’t need.

“It’s been four years since I’ve been with a man in any type of way; romantically and sexually.” Silence took over. When his eyes washed over me, there was no pity within them but rather an innocent curiosity. He wasn’t sure if he should proceed or not.

“Did he hurt you badly?”

“I don’t really look at it as hurt. I didn’t love him enough for that. I wanted to though and I tried to. More than anything, he tried to break me down from the inside out and there were parts of me that fed into it. Then there was the resistant side of me that fought back and it turned the time that I was with him into pure exhaustion mentally and even physically. He was draining.” If anything, I’ve gotten spoiled with how normal things have been within my home. I regretted when I allowed him to move in with me just two days later and that feeling never left. My posh little apartment turned into my personal hell. I dreaded being and sleeping there.

“When did you decide to leave?”

“All of our fights were verbal, but they were vicious. I knew at some point they were going to become physical and that I needed to get out there. He never really had a possessive and obsessive state of mind for the most part. We broke up to make up plenty of times. There just came a point when I was like fuck this, I’m over this shit and I’m never looking back. I know this is going to sound so doormat like, but I hoped that he was cheating on me. I had my suspicions that he was anyway but I never really went seeking. I wanted him to have fallen for someone else, so he wouldn’t give a shit about me telling him it’s over and putting his ass out of my apartment. He didn’t leave without a fight but he left. There were those few calls for forgiveness but he eventually stopped.” And I changed the locks, so that he couldn’t pop up on me since I never asked for my keys back.

“How did you two meet?”

“Through Celeste. I needed a new physical trainer and she raved about him. She had been working out at the gym he owns for quite some time and she swore up and down he was the perfect guy for me. To appease her, I didn’t resist her matchmaking bullshit.” And I should have because every guy she tries to send my way usually has something about him that doesn’t mesh well with my personality. Her desperation to be able to take the credit for having found my life partner is so damn maddening.

“So, did you make the choice not to date or no one caught your interest?”

“A bit of both. Initially, I need a break from it. After that break, it was a whatever type of thing. As you said, no one drew my interest. So, it just became me and Bob.”

“Who is Bob?” His frown of confusion caused me to raw in laughter. “You don’t have any pets.”

I do have pets. Eris and Mowgli are my babies. He just doesn’t know it yet.

“Bob is in my nightstand draw. It’s all black and has five different vibrating settings on it.”

That’s something that I only share when I’ve had a few drinks in me and my initiate life is in the middle of the floor for discussion. I don’t know where I found the comfort to blurt that out to him so comfortably but now that I have, not only is it hilarious but it’s nice to know how comfortable I’ve become with him. In the midst of what we’re building together despite any hesitance I’ve had, he’s genuinely my homie just as much.

“That’s interesting.” His eyes were still widened and his mouth was still slightly agape at the revelation. I know married women who still partake in self pleasure, so he’s not even about to burst my bubble over me making sure I’m handling the urges I do have.

“Uhm.” With another squeeze of my thigh, he normalized his face and stood to his feet. As his hand met the back of his neck, our eyes met and we instantly laughed at the flustered facial expression he wore. I didn’t intend to evoke that out of him, but it’s hilarious to see it.

“We have to get back to change for the game.”

“Change? What’s wrong with what I have on?”

“You’re not decked out in LSU colors, that’s what’s wrong.”

“Oh gosh. I am an NYU Violet. No Tigers gear for me.”

“An NYU what? NYU isn’t known for shit other than academics.”

“Excuse me? I’ll have you know that our fencing team is division one and has won thirty national championships.”

That may have been the funniest statement I’ve ever said to him. He laughed the entire walk back to the car and just about halfway back to the house. He even took it upon himself to make matters worse by Googling my alma mater’s sports history and rubbing in my face just how terrible all but the men’s cross country and women’s golf team is. Both our women’s and men’s fencing teams haven’t won titles since the seventies. What was I thinking bringing that up?

Because his laughter is so loveable, I even embarrassingly mentioned how I once considered joining the fencing team even though I didn’t have a lick of experience. That revelation was what brought the tears to his eyes. I’m pretty damn athletic. Well, I used to be. I would have picked up the basics quite easily. Mastered it? Now, I don’t know about that.

There was no way I’d be able to be along the sidelines with him nor would I be able to discreetly sit among the thousands of spectators celebrating their state team, so he set it up for me to enjoy the game in a Tiger Den Suite. I mentally prepared myself to be alone in here, but that wasn’t the case when I stepped inside. Instead, I was left to enjoy the company of mother and his three siblings.

The same Air Force 1 collaboration he gifted to the entire team, were donning all of our feet and his as well; well one of them. In the pictures that we took before he left out to go and stir up the crowd with his presence, we looked like a corny high school couple who deliberately matched our attire so that people would know we were together. While the photos will be nothing we can ever share, they’ll serve as nice keepsakes to be able to look back on at some point down the line.

In being here with his family, it’s a small reminder of the things that I’ve missed from my own. The manner in which Heather supports her children’s every endeavor is commendable. He no longer plays for this team and yet she’s still here dressed in their colors with his name running across the top of her back in pride for the legacy her oldest child left out there on the team’s home field. I’m willing to bet no matter what profession he chose for his life; she’d be just as prideful about it.

I’m not sure what my mother wants from me. I can’t even begin to pinpoint what I can do to make her proud and I’ve grown tired of trying to figure out what it could be beyond allowing her to control my decisions. She’s expressed that I should already know that she’s proud and if she weren’t, I’d surely hear it about it. I’d like her actions to match that. Whether she’s interested in what I like or not, it’s about the sacrifice for the sake of showing your children that they’re supported. If I’m blessed with kids, I intend to do that to the fullest extent.

“You and my brother are cute.”

“Huh?” I nearly choked on the half and half iced tea and lemonade I’ve been drinking. My eyes shifted over in Jasmyne’s direction. Though Sonny isn’t biologically her brother, it doesn’t stop her from treating him as if he is. He’s been on her lap the entire time we’ve been here.

“You two are cute.”

“Are we?” I asked such a dumbass question because I truly don’t know what to say. Do I confirm it? Do I deny him and downplay it all? How can I?

“Yeah. I can’t believe you like him. You’re so cool and my brother is not. Mom and I still don’t know how he pulled it off.” Our giggles were low and yet infectious. Her words were spoken like a true younger sibling. Both she and Kordell have no issue with teasing him and purposefully ganging up on him together. At some point, they’re going to teach Sonny, who views O as the best thing since sliced bread, to do the same thing.

“You two are hilarious.”

“If only I can tell my friends that he’s taken. I’d love to see the disappointment on their faces but most of all, it’ll make them stop talking about him. It’s so annoying.”

“Jazzy, you can’t…”

“I know, I know.” She cut me off. “I wouldn’t do that. He already spoke to me about it. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I don’t tell his business.” And here he and I are, putting people into positions to keep the secrecy of our connection secure. They’ll have to watch what they do and say in front of others for the sake of protecting something that they’re not technically apart of. It’s not fair when you really take a step back and think about it.

“He spoke to you?”

“Yeah, to all of us. He just said that you guys want to be private.” He made it sound so simple.

“But you know that you can reach out to me at any time for anything, right?”

“I can?” In an instant, her eyes lit up.

“Of course. Call or text me whenever.”

“Will do.”

Though I wasn’t alongside him, I could see and even feel the joy radiating from Beckham’s body as he engaged the crowd from the sidelines of the field. He hails Death Valley as the greatest place he’s ever played the game of football in and it shows tonight. Even with the medical boot on his foot, he’s been in and out of the crowd, dancing along to the sound of the band and taking selfies in different sections filled with students. He’d even gotten the band to perform a song and chant that’s been banned from all collegiate sporting events as his mother explained it. I’m sure whatever disciplinary actions or fine that are to follow due to his request will be properly paid for. It’s the least he can do. 

“So, what did you think?”

The city became ours. Inside of a blacked-out BMW with a playlist filled with songs R&B songs that were birthed in the nineties, we cruised the streets of the now simmered down city after a victorious win in Tiger Stadium.

“I see what you mean when you mention the energy being unmatched. There’s something different about it. I’m not sure what it is, but I get it.”

“I feel like the energy in Death Valley still surpasses any Saints game at the Superdome.”

“You’re biased.”

“So, what.”

“I’m not knocking it country boy. You can be biased.”

“Country boy? Oh, you got jokes Brooklyn girl? Or should I call you B? Son?”

“I love your accent though, it’s super cute.” He sucked his teeth at my teasing.

“You sounding super tough like Remy Ma is cute too.”

“First of all, Remy’s from Castle Hill. That’s in the Bronx. I’m from Brooklyn. Get that shit right, don’t be disrespectful.”

“See? Aggressive.”

“Shut up!” We both were amused. I don’t know why people think New Yorkers sound aggressive. It’s not even that. We don’t have time for the bullshit and our tones will let you know. That’s all.

“What’s this, your get laid playlist?” Ginuwine’s “Stingy” had been playing for a little under a minute and I’ve been fighting all of my urges to sing along to it. If I were in my car, I would have been having my own karaoke session going on.

“Nah. I usually have on trap music to get me amped up before the games but after them, I’ll throw on things that are more mellow. So, this is my chilling out playlist. Why? You don’t like it?”

“I love it.”

As soon as he brought the car to a full stop at a red light, he removed his seatbelt and leaned over to intertwine our lips. His addicting taste ignited the rage of fluttering that awakens within my core any time a part of him touches me. The grip his hand held on my inner thigh only further pre-worsened whatever salacious dream that I am sure to have when I close my eyes tonight or rather, this morning.

“Don’t start nothing you can’t finish.” My warning sounded foolish. If anything, I should be telling myself that.

“I’ll make you throw that Bob shit out. Try me.” His minty breath slithered up my nose as his lips wrapped around my bottom one. The seat of my panties dampened in an instant.

Shit.

[gyeommark]

inflection point . epilogue

Chanyeol x Reader x Sehun Fake Relationsip!AU, University!AU 9.8k words

Warnings: Just angst, really. Maybe a bit of strong language, you know the drill

A/N: So this is the epilogue. A bit of a look onto the character’s future, inspired a little bit by pcychedelic’s ‘All We’ve Got is Tonight’ . A hint of angst as usual, lots of flashbacks that are written in italics. Could be read as a One-Shot, I believe, but it would be quite a messy one, ANYHOW... Thank you for reading and pls, ignore my typos and everything 😗

It was something about this place. It always felt like it was either the best or the worst decision you had ever made. You were constantly torn between leaving and never coming back or staying rooted in place and embracing the city that took you in and sheltered you.

It was a twisted situation.

You felt this way when you first started college and throughout your years as a student, things never really changed. Yes, sometimes you felt more inclined towards one side of the scale but you never stepped down from it.

It was either yes or no, black and white, there was no in between. The feeling always lingered in the back of your head even if you tried to ignore the pounding coming from somewhere in your nape.

Mostly, it was happiness. After everything had settled onto its rightful place –sort of–, you had found yourself falling into quite the happy life. Cloud 9, almost.

Almost was the key word.

That was the thing about being in a relationship with someone who was more than just your lover; he was your best friend and, somehow, he also managed to play the part of your annoying therapist that kept you level-headed when you started to lose yourself in either anxiety or excitement.

The bad moments, even when still present, of course, weren’t enough as to eclipse the good ones and you jumped to label yourself as the dumb, oblivious one without anyone having to force you to, or on the other hand, labeling you themselves.

It was obvious, how much of a good fit Sehun was to you. You had been too dumb and distracted with someone else to notice it at first, but he was good. Too good, sometimes. As if you two were cut by the same knife, but not quite.

It was scary at times, but you tried not to dwell on your similarities and just enjoyed them whenever you could and also used them to your own advantage if needed be.

Sehun wasn’t your other half and you weren’t his’, either. You were two wholes that complimented each other perfectly fine. Sometimes, you thought, if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t have boobs, you could’ve sworn he could easily pass as yourself. An even prettier version of you and you were okay with that, honestly.

He knew you all too well for anyone’s good. He had a key to both your heart and mind, to come in and out whenever he so desired. Even if annoying, you welcomed him with open arms and a warm cup of tea –something you would never, in a thousand years, tell him about–.

Sehun was cocky enough as it was. He didn’t need yet another invitation to flaunt the fact that he knew you better than you knew yourself. And that worked for you because you also knew him quite well, much to his dismay.

It was like seeing your reflection on someone else’s body and learning to love yourself because of that. Because you loved him, you had learned to love yourself, little by little.

But love, you had learned, whether it was self-love or towards another person, had an expiration date, unfortunately. Much like everything, it seemed to only last for a set period of time before it went bad or, in your case –as much as it pained to admit it– disappeared.

You hadn’t figured out the pattern yet, of how long love could last before fading away or morphing into something unhealthy, but you knew it did, eventually, and even when you looked back on it, your heart still hurt.

So, being here was the definition, the pictorial description of bittersweet.

Coming back wasn’t a mistake but it was the scariest thing you had to face. Second scariest, actually. The first one was leaving, five years ago. You scoffed. Of course it had to be that way, you thought.

You left with a broken heart and you considered –hoped, as a matter of fact– that maybe, next time you’d be here things would’ve changed… Maybe you would’ve healed completely, forget about everything and start anew but alas, things didn’t change all that much; not at all, indeed. Your heart still pounded with difficulty; it was still broken. Weak repairs that time had done on it came undone by the mere sight of the city that built you up to who you were today.

And, still, in its trembling state, your heart still loved him. The remainders of your heart still shook in place because of him and you still had his name engraved on every centimeter of your body. Tattooed onto your skin with invisible ink, ink only you and him knew was there. Ink produced by the love and partnership you two had shared and built over the years.

Oh Sehun taught you both love and with love came disgrace, unfortunately. You prayed, to whoever was listening at the time, that it wasn’t the case, but you knew, in the end, it would be.

The end. That’s it. Everything has an end and you knew that, you just didn’t want to accept it. Not when it involved Sehun, at least.

You sighed, pulling your oversized blazer tighter over your body before crossing your arms over your chest. Your eyes scanned the constantly moving band with a hint of desperation as you bit your lip, trying to remain calm; trying to ignore the hoards of frantic people running around, some of them pushing you away to get a hold of their luggage.

It had been years and life still hated you. It hated you because it had given you no option but to love him, in spite of everything. Even if it was as a lover, as a best friend, as someone who broke your heart… As someone whose heart you broke, as well, most likely. You laughed dryly to yourself. Life was a bitch, that’s something you already had learned all too well and this was your punishment for trying to fight back.

As soon as you had gotten off the plane and breathed in the air of the city that had been home to you for so many years; as soon as you set foot on its ground, it had been as if the years gone by had never existed at all. You were still hopelessly in love and your heart still ached because of it and life was mocking you, laughing at you for caring, pointing fingers at you for being so naïve as to believe you’d ever get what you wanted, for good, at least.

The vibration of your cellphone from inside your pocket interrupted your lame sorrowful thoughts, pulling you back down to reality in a rather harsh way. It was the way things worked in your life, you had come to realize; if they happened too subtly then they didn’t happen at all. You had to be pushed and pulled with brute force because you were too blind to notice little hints and too stubborn to accept them even when they were too obvious but inconvenient. They had to hurt and drive you crazy and you were aware it wasn’t healthy of you, but that’s the way it was and you were trying hard to change it.

At least, that’s what you told yourself everyday. You were trying, you really were.

“Hello, stranger”. His groggy voice warmly said through the speaker. A corner of your mouth shot upwards in reflex. “What a better way to wake up than to hear your voice. You already here?”

Of course you smiled, you couldn’t help yourself. He still had that effect on you because he was still him. And you were still you and you both still had a piece of the other’s heart, regardless of the circumstance.

“If you’re barely waking up at noon then you have some unresolved problems going on. Especially for a twenty-eight year old man who has a job, Chanyeol”. You heard him groan yet laugh, a weird mixture of sounds and emotions. You were being annoying yet he couldn’t help but snicker at your words. “Yes, Chanyeol. I’m waiting for my luggage so hurry up because I’m really hungry”.

“On my way, ma’am”. Chanyeol chuckled before the line went dead.

This was just one example of how twisted your relationship had gotten over the years and, honestly, it was most definitely on the mellow side of examples.

If it was already twisted eight years ago, now it was an indecipherable mess. No one would dare try to solve it, not even you two. Yet, somehow, it had become your safety net and when everything had crumbled down, Chanyeol was the only one person that came to mind when you thought of someone who could possibly help you heal.

*

You felt split in two and you were scared. Scared because you were feeling this was a bad omen. You had had the feeling for weeks but you were in too deep into denial… But this, right now, not having even an ounce of emotion was the final straw.

You had to accept it and you had to do it now.

A goodbye.

It was as if your body knew before you, that the end was nearing. That it was unavoidable. That the flame had died down enough as to question its liability.

That you had to let Sehun go.

Your body had the hunch for weeks and you were too dumb to acknowledge it. Maybe you should’ve paid attention to the fact that most of the time you weren’t feeling anything, at all. No frustration when you were late, no anger because someone cut you off on the line to get coffee. No sadness when you saw a stray puppy, no happiness when someone congratulated you at the office and treated you with a pastry.

You should’ve listened to and accepted the signs before now, so it would’ve been easier but you didn’t and nothing really assured you that if you did, it would’ve been easier. Maybe it would’ve turned out the other way around. Ripping it like a Band-Aid had never been the way you rolled, but torturing yourself over a single event wasn’t something you were fond of, either.

A thump. That was it; that was all you could feel. A thump given by your heart the moment your eyes laid on his figure when you came back home from work and saw him either staring out the window or hunched over the counter as he prepared coffee. A thump, a single flip and then it died down again, leaving a ghostly feeling behind, making you question if you still had a working heart or not.

Was it a happy one? Was it sad? Was it melancholic in advance, missing him even before he was gone in the first place? You weren’t sure.

At the moment, you knew you should’ve felt frustrated, angry as you threw your bag onto the couch and slipped off your shoes. You should’ve been frustrated because he wasn’t saying anything. You should’ve been angry that he was so adamant on keeping his phone out of your view. But you weren’t; you weren’t frustrated or sad or angry. You just were.

You just existed as you tried to accept that this was it and that it was okay; that this was how life worked most of the time and that you weren’t the only one that ever thought of finding the one to lose them some time later; maybe months, maybe years, but eventually, anyways.

You tried to give yourself a pat on the back or smack yourself out of the miserable state but you couldn’t because you couldn’t even move as you saw him. Still, almost petrified as he looked out the window with his hands tucked on the pockets of his pants.

“You can go if you want to”. Your voice was merely a whisper but you knew he had heard you loud and clear, he always did even when he pretended he didn’t. You also didn’t have to say much, he knew you didn’t just mean the apartment, Sehun knew what you were talking about, probably knew what you were feeling better than you knew yourself.

Maybe Sehun could feel your uncertainty and heartbreak for weeks on end and the thought made you feel apologetic.

Sehun knew what you were thinking and you were thankful for that. You loved him for that but it was probably too late to remind him of the fact.

“I’m not sure if I want to”. He muttered, turning his head so he could look at you from over his shoulder. You didn’t want to dwell on the strange glimmer that covered his eyes and snuck from behind the longer, darker strands of hair that fell over his forehead, because you didn’t want to break down in front of him, because of him. He had had enough of seeing you in that state and you’ve had enough of feeling that way but it was unavoidable.

“If there’s any doubt then we both have to leave”. You forced out a smile even if it wasn’t sincere. Your voice was shaking because you were acting against your will and your heart but you’d rather end on good –great, even– terms than to let things go down hill and spiral onto something you’d rather not remember at all.

You were letting Sehun go even if you didn’t want to but you didn’t want to force him to be with you when he clearly didn’t feel comfortable anymore. A shiver ran up and down your spine.

*

You had your fair share of forcing people into situations just to get what you wanted. You’ve experienced enough crises due to your selfishness and you knew, even when you wanted to hold him and feel his arms engulf you and pull you in onto his torso as he buried his nose in your hair, even when you wanted that more than anything, you weren’t going to force him to stay.

You loved Sehun and you knew you’d love him always and that was mainly why you had let him go. Because you wanted his happiness more than your own, you always had. He had deserved more since before you were a thing, and you knew, yet he seemed to finally have realized that you had been right since all those years ago, when you talked on your rooftop.

You knew he had finally realized that when he left with tears rimming his eyes but you tried really hard not to dwell on that, even when your heart broke out from its numb shell and sent waves of sharp, unbearable pain to your whole body.

Is that how it feels? To lose it all? Like it burns you to the core and then it leaves you to freeze over memories that you can never have back and you can’t run, can’t hide, can’t do anything about it than to go back to the places and times where you were the happiest as your heart continued to freeze even more and your charcoal bones shivered with melancholy.

You probably deserved it but even after a few weeks, you wanted someone to hold you and put you back together. You didn’t know if you had lost one too many pieces of yourself for good now. Maybe you’d never be whole again because Sehun was a huge part of you and he was gone. And with him gone, you felt like a stranger in your own body.

As broken as you were, you wanted someone to tell you it would be fine, even if they didn’t mean it. Even if their words were empty and meaningless. You just wanted to hear them and you knew it was risqué but there was no one else who could’ve comforted you better.

No one in this world was as warm as him. And you were too dumb and heartbroken to think things through in a better, more careful manner.

*

You knocked on his door with a shaky hand. It could’ve gone two ways. One was he opened the door and thought you were here to ask him to come back and apologize for not fighting for him and the other was, his best friend opened the door and he comforted you like you needed to be comforted.

“Hey…” Chanyeol greeted you that afternoon, when you finally got out of bed after almost three weeks and mustered up both the strength and courage to leave your comfort zone. He greeted you with a knowing smile and understanding, welcoming eyes as he engulfed you in a hug. Dumb of you to think he wouldn’t know.

You sighed, not really capable of speaking up. Your throat was too dry and you were beyond weak. A part of you grew sadder when Sehun didn’t open the door but you knew it was a good thing, sort of, the beginning of closure.

Chanyeol’s embrace was the temporary shelter you were looking for.

*

You didn’t know what you expected by coming here. You didn’t even remember the exact moment you decided to accept the invitation and bought your plane ticket. It’s as if your mind was sparing you the doubt and embarrassment of reappearing into your friends’ lives after being away for so long.

Did you expect things would magically change and everything to be as it was? With all the guys acting as nothing happened between you and Sehun, as if you didn’t break each other’s hearts? As if you didn’t basically push him to walk away? As if he didn’t hide things from you and grew cold towards you? As if you didn’t give up on your relationship?

Hopefully, yes, but you knew better than that. You weren’t quite sure on the details, Chanyeol always tiptoed around the subject more carefully and discretely than the others; if he could avoid talking about or mentioning Sehun, he definitely would and you were sure it’d be the same with you when he was with Sehun. You weren’t sure but you knew the generalities of it all because, at times, someone would let something slip.

Like the time you were having dinner and some drinks with Chanyeol, Baekhyun and Junmyeon.

*

Somehow Sehun had come up to conversation. You tried to keep your smile frozen on your face, tried to not make it obvious that it still stung, hearing his name. Baekhyun was laughing, maybe he had one too many drinks for the night, maybe he didn’t mean it when he said Sehun had been with her. You smiled because drunken Baekhyun was a funny sight but you also smiled to hide the consuming, burning sensation that originated on your -mostly- empty chest.

Chanyeol knew it hurt. Even if it hurt him as well, he knew you were hurting more than anyone, more than ever, probably. Chanyeol knew you were in constant pain, even if you tried to hide it from him, even if he tried to fix you. Chanyeol knew; that’s why he kicked Baekhyun on his shin and squeezed your knee gently. Because he knew.

*

You had gotten closer to the rest of Chanyeol and Sehun’s friends due to your relationship. You weren’t wary because you knew it’d happen eventually and you appreciated having more people around. Just like you became close to Jongin and Minseok, with time you grew closer with the rest, especially Baekhyun and Kyungsoo.

Baekhyun was like a burning ray of sunshine. Much like Chanyeol but even louder than him, which could be overwhelming at times but it helped you when you were feeling blue. Kyungsoo was the friend you could vent to whenever Chanyeol wasn’t around or you felt your feelings were too much for Chanyeol to handle, especially with your past… and your present, at the moment, for all that mattered.

You didn’t want to burden Chanyeol or make him think like he wasn’t doing a good job on rebuilding you, but you still had some common sense left in you and you wouldn’t want to talk about Sehun to Chanyeol all that often. You didn’t want to hurt him again.

*

You had made your intentions clear since the beginning. You knew it wasn’t smart, but you needed the escape. It had taken you two long enough to fall back into place for you to ruin everything on the first chance you got, due to Sehun of all reasons.

You had chosen Sehun over Chanyeol. You had broken Chanyeol’s heart over your unexpected love towards Sehun and now you were here. Muffling your weeps and cries with Chanyeol’s soft black sweatshirt.

Chanyeol held you tight against his chest whenever you needed to let some tears fall. Even when you felt rather content during the day, at the end, when night fell upon you, your heart remained empty and your tears were too many to hold back. Your chest didn’t burn with pain anymore but crying became a part of you, a reflex, like breathing. You cried in reflex, due to his absence and it hurt but you knew that it would stop eventually.

You’d never stop missing him, you’d never stop loving him, you just hoped you’d stop crying soon.

“Thank you for coming”. You said after clearing your throat, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you sat cross-legged on top of your bed, where you had been lying, wrapped in Chanyeol’s embrace. He watched you closely as you straightened up and tucked your hair behind your ears, sniffling from time to time.

His hand flew to your back, rubbing soothing circles against you, trying to comfort you and relax you.

“I’ve told you over and over. I’m always here whenever you need me”. And so, the guilt came back again, for dragging him into this, unwillingly, without another hidden meaning; just you being broken, just you being lonely. Just you needing comfort from someone you knew loved you, because the one you loved was gone.

“It’s selfish of me to ask you this but… Would you stay? Because I need you, Chanyeol. I really do”. You turned over your shoulder, trying not to think that you were mirroring Sehun’s stance on the day that he left. Trying not to let your mind wander back to him. Your eyes filled with tears once more as you met Chanyeol’s warm, almond orbs.

Chanyeol smiled at you, a soft, tender smile as his hand travelled up to your shoulder and he found support in you to sit up as well, resting his head on your other shoulder as he squeezed you gently. You looked down at him, he looked so soft and pure with this longer hair becoming fluffier and curlier as it kept growing out, and there you were, once more, taking advantage of his beautiful soul.

“As long as you need me to. For whatever you need me or want me to. I’m here”. He murmured and you smiled an empty smile. You laid your hand on your knee, open for him to grab and so he did and he intertwined your fingers without a second thought.

Chanyeol didn’t leave your side since that day. For whatever you wanted, which was kind of uncalled for but you two were humans. Young humans with physical needs and so he was there all the time, whenever you called. You had explained that you couldn’t do it, –a relationship with him, that is– not at the moment. Not when the memories of Sehun still lingered raw and fresh on your memory.

Chanyeol was okay, he understood that neither of you were ready to be in a relationship but he still put his body and soul at your mercy until the day you left and he was okay with that, too. Because Chanyeol was an angel.

*

Chanyeol picked you up shortly after; surprising you with how fast he got there and making you scold him for driving so recklessly.

“You said you were very hungry so I sped”. He shrugged as he took your luggage from you and carelessly threw it onto the back seat of his SUV before holding the door open for you to get in. You huffed.

“You know how hungry it’ll make me when you get into an accident for driving like that?” You complained, now fully seated. He laughed out loud, smacking the door shut and walking around with a smile plastered on his face.

The conversation was light, almost non-existent after that. You were too distracted by the view. Remembering the streets and spotting a few familiar people, mostly the owners or employees of the places you frequented.

“Do you want to drop off your bags first or do you want to grab something to eat first?” Chanyeol asked as he lowered the music’s volume, looking at you intermittently from the corner of his eye. You scoffed.

“I’d rather not carry my shit-ton of luggage around, thank you very much”. Chanyeol laughed again, squeezing your hand for a split second before continuing to drive.

It dawned on you, once he parked his car in front of the oh-so-familiar building, what he meant when he said ‘drop off your bags’. Your breathing hitched and you felt your hands sweating; everything around you was suddenly spinning. You were scared to see him once more, then again, you didn’t think Chanyeol would be so fool.

When he noticed the look of despair taking over your eyes, he put a hand over your knee, patting you a couple times to get your attention. You could feel your brow furrowing, your jaw tensing up, you could feel every muscle of your body trying to hold back the urge to sprint away and yet you were still frozen in place. So you looked at him with a terrified expression that you were positive looked quite insane and, honestly, quite unpleasant.

“He moved out a couple months ago, it’s okay”. Chanyeol said, a forced smile taking over his lips. It’s as if he read your mind, then again, Sehun was the main topic of most of the conversations you two had, especially on the first years after the ‘event’. As you liked to call it.

And there it was; your heart flipping once more. At the mention of him. At the thought and memories of him. At a simple ‘what if’. What if he was there, what if you saw him again? What if he saw you again? What if he wasn’t alone?

What if you couldn’t handle it?

Being back there was bittersweet. It looked basically the same as you remembered it; still quite messy but not as much. Less dirty dishes, that was for sure.

You knew taking a look around was harmless yet you were also aware of the feelings it was going to stir within you. Chanyeol huffed as he took your bags somewhere else, letting you alone in the living room as you contemplated on whether or not to walk down the long hall that you knew would take you to his bedroom.

Former bedroom.

Of course you gave in, when it came to anything Sehun related, you always gave in and it felt strange. It felt strange to feel how your heart pounded with a constant rhythm. Every step you took meant a strong beat that resonated all through your body and made your ears ring.

Your hand trembled as you grabbed the handle and pushed it open hesitantly. You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe by some sort of magic trick he’d be there, waiting for you, but of course he wasn’t so you felt stupid; stupid and empty, just like his room.

Walls were still painted light gray giving it an eerie ambiance, the only piece of furniture left was a worn out nightstand. It stung to see his absence materialize onto the empty room and you imagined that’s what it probably looked inside your heart, with him gone, the only difference would be that the walls inside of you were filled with pictures of him.

How sappy you had become. You scoffed, turning around on your heels, ready to leave.

“Still having a thing for snooping around?” Chanyeol chuckled with eyebrows raised, as he stood right in front of you. You wondered for how long he’d been there, witnessing how your eyes filled with tears by the view of an empty space. You scoffed, again, pushing past him.

It was such a weird time of your life. To attend one of your friends’ wedding. You never thought you’d see the day, then again there was no way of stopping the aging process, let alone life itself and, out of everyone, you always thought of Minseok as the one who would have a more stable, exemplary life.

Minseok had met Mina shortly after you and Sehun started going out –officially– and had become inseparable ever since. You envied them now, in a good way, of course; their relationship sailed smoothly since the beginning. No drama whatsoever. Two years in and they were already living together and as happy as you had ever seen them.

Mina was a sweet girl, smart beyond belief and a bit shy but not as much as to make it awkward. You knew she was a great fit for Minseok and you gave them your unnecessary blessing because you knew they were going to be endgame.

You smiled when you received the immaculate invitation on the mail. Leave it to Minseok to actually send in perfectly designed invitations through mail and to have them arrive on perfect time.

The location was a country club, composed of a lot of bungalows and a main, rustic looking building; another perfect fit for them.

You stood alone at the front door, way before the rest of the guests were supposed to arrive, still wearing your sweats and loose shirt although you already had your hair and makeup in perfect place.

“I’m glad you could make it. I declare myself guilty for thinking you might decline at the last minute”. You heard Minseok chuckle from somewhere to your left. You turned with widened eyes. You had missed him a lot, as well. You had missed everyone, actually, more than you would ever admit.

“I would never”. You laughed, giving him a hug and letting the memories of your college years fill your mind.

“We both know that’s a lie, you’ve turned down your fair share of invitations to come back, but okay, I’ll let it slip this time”. He patted your back as he let you go. You rolled your eyes at him as you tucked your hands in your pockets.

“I can’t come back every time Jongin has a showcase or a master class, I’m not rich, nor have I enough time off available”. Your heart clenched. Those weren’t the only reasons why you had declined to come back but of course they had played a part.

“We miss you a lot, it’s not the same without you. Your bickering really did wonders for the atmosphere around here”. Minseok chuckled. You knew his usage of the first-person plural didn’t include him but your heart wasn’t entirely aware; it was still hopeful.

You cleared your throat, trying to get rid of the heaviness that started to spread to all of your body, originating in your chest.

“Groom shouldn’t be late, that’s the bride’s job. Go on, get ready for the start of rest of your life”. You smiled at him, crooking your head to the side and admiring how his face lit up when you said those words. Minseok truly was a blessing. He smiled widely at you before going back to where he came from.

You sighed as you made your way back to your designated bungalow to finish getting ready, both physically and mentally because God knows, you’d need all the mental and emotional preparation you could get.

Maybe he’d turn down the invitation. Maybe he was busy, maybe he found out you were coming and decided to spare everyone the awkwardness.

Maybe. But you were sure he wouldn’t, because he was an ass but he loved his friends more than anything in the universe and you had to accept that you would get to see him again, from afar, most likely, to say goodbye again.

The ceremony had been beautiful, extremely well-planned, of course. It made you smile, to see how they glowed almost literally. It made you happy but not enough, so that remaining space within you that still felt miserable was quickly filled with alcohol and food.

You watched from the sidelines, leaning against the bar with yet another Gin and Tonic in hand as everyone clapped once the couple’s first dance was over. You smiled for a fleeting second before downing the rest of your beverage and signaling the poor bartender to serve you another one with a twirl of your empty glass.

You hoped Minseok had warned him about the crazy, alcoholic friend he had coming over, otherwise he was probably going to judge you for the rest of his life. It’s not like you weren’t okay with that, anyways.

“Going hard on the alcohol, I see”. Chanyeol said as he walked up to you with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled over his elbows and his hands tucked in the pockets of his black dress pants. The man, apparently, couldn’t stand to wear a full suit, including a tie, for over an hour. You scoffed at him, rolling your eyes as you dismissed him with your hand.

“I thought this…”. You said as you signaled to the space between your two bodies with your index finger. “…was a judgment free zone. Besides, go big or go home and since I can’t go home, I have to go big. It’s the rules”. You shrugged, mocking an innocent expression. It was his turn to roll his eyes.

“You are home”. Chanyeol added once he got a drink of his own and handed you yours, which the bartender had given to him, as well.

You scoffed, taking the glass from his grasp. You didn’t want to show how much those three simple words had affected you, so you just proceeded to drink again.

A few minutes in silence felt like an eternity, especially because your mind kept wandering off to the fact that you haven’t seen Sehun yet and your heart ached a little bit. The alcohol was helping you with your inner pain but, still, it wasn’t a remedy.

Chanyeol’s hand suddenly appeared in front of your body, extended towards you as he smiled with an inviting aura.

“Let’s lay off the alcohol for a little bit and have a dance. You need a distraction or else, I fear you might explode. I swear I can see smoke coming out of your head”. You sighed, closing your eyes shut but taking his hand, nonetheless.

He led you to the dance floor, where many guests were dancing already. You smiled when you passed the table where Jongin was sitting and he shot you a bright smile of his own, the kind that made his eyes wrinkle and made him look like an excited little kid. You had missed him, too.

Chanyeol twirled you in place when you were at the dance floor, grabbing you by the waist with his right hand and supporting your own with his left one. Something about the moment felt weirdly intimate.

*

You woke up feeling sore and with a crushing doubt. Whatever had happened the night before, you weren’t quite sure. The amount of alcohol you had consumed was way above your tolerance levels and yet you still went along with it. You were too old to handle the hangover now.

Your head pounded as you stretched your limbs and sat on the edge of your bed, rubbing your temple. A sudden movement from the other side of your bed made your breathing hitch.

God, no. You thought, as flashes of the previous night appeared in your mind. You had made a mistake.

“Good morning”. The holder of the deep voice said, only confirming your suspicions. You hissed, struggling to cover yourself with the crumbled up sheets.

“Chanyeol… Tell me we didn’t…” You stuttered, too scared to look at him so you stayed frozen in place as your eyes locked themselves on a picture frame that laid unbothered and immovable on your desktop.

“I could tell you we didn’t but that would be a lie”. He said, clearing his throat. You felt the bed dip, indicating that he had gotten up. Still too scared to look at him, you just heard him shuffle and get out of your room. You rushed to put on some clothes before running out of your bedroom, still pretty much sporting your bed hair but who cared anyways, there were far more important things.

Like the fact that you had slept with Chanyeol in a drunken night out and –pretty much unconsciously– used him as a rebound.

He looked at you with round eyes, indicating surprise when you stormed out of your room into the living room.

“Chanyeol, I- I didn’t mean… It wasn’t my intention, I don’t really remember much, I-” You stuttered nonsense, still trying to avoid eye contact with him. He laughed loudly at you as he walked over to wrap his arms around you in a tight, reassuring hug.

“It’s okay. I can be your rebound whoever many times you want me to, I can keep my feelings at bay. Actually, after seeing you drooling and snoring at night, I think I might’ve fallen out of love”. He chuckled as he patted your back before letting you go and exiting your apartment.

*

After a song or two, you weren’t sure, Chanyeol stopped the swaying and looked at you in the eye, taking you out of your trance.

“How are we holding up?” You were taken aback by the question. Whether he meant you and him, together or just you with your emotional breakdowns, you weren’t sure. You blinked rapidly before laughing awkwardly and stepping away.

And then something, or rather someone appeared in your peripheral and you wanted to melt into a puddle so the tears that you knew were bound to show up wouldn’t be noticeable. Even if it was through the corner of your eye, even if it was in a crowded room with people dancing in the space between you, even then, you knew it was him.

You felt his presence in your soul and his stare made your bones shake. Slowly but surely, you turned your head in his direction to confirm that you weren’t crazy, to confirm that it wasn’t the alcohol making you see things that weren’t there.

But he was there. Looking at you intently with his dark, piercing eyes and he looked exactly as you remembered him. His hair was longer, parted in the middle, giving him an even more mysterious aura than he already had. You shivered, tearing your eyes away from him slowly.

You stumbled a little bit and made your way onto the bar again, this time asking for a shot instead. You needed something stronger. You hissed, slamming down the small glass onto the counter. Chanyeol sat on one of the stools, still looking in Sehun’s direction with a smile that was either angry or knowing, you weren’t quite sure.

The song shifted right when you turned around as well. As if by not seeing him would mean that he was going to disappear. As much as it hurt, you didn’t want him to disappear. Even if you didn’t talk or go near him, you’d feel fine by just seeing him from afar again. To make sure that he was doing okay.

The soft piano melody resounded through the room and the couples who were dancing stood closer together, engulfing each other on their partner’s arms. The gentle, melodic voice sent shivers through your spine again.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Chanyeol asked. You looked at him with a crooked eyebrow, trying to ignore the sharp pain that the mere fact of ending your stare down with Sehun ignited in you.

You gulped before clearing your throat. Sehun’s presence was like dry cinnamon sticking to your throat walls. It was bad yet it gave you some sort of rush.

It was the Sehun effect. It was back. You didn’t want it to be back but at the same time you didn’t want it to go away again.

“Would I be standing here, nervous mess and all, if I had?” You replied sarcastically, knowing very well how much Chanyeol loved those types of replies from you. Especially on serious occasions. “Besides… Even if there was something to talk about –which there is not–, that wouldn’t mean I’d be willing to talk to him. Not now at least. Maybe in another five years”.

You rolled your eyes, avoiding Chanyeol’s judgmental face. You knew you sounded conceited and quite immature for almost a thirty-year-old. But heartbreak made you sourer than you already were and unforeseen scenarios only worsened the situation.

“Don’t think I enjoy being a therapist. Quite honestly, I think we both know how much I despise the fact that you pulled me into that position and I don’t intend on giving you advice on this. So let’s just have another dance and hopefully that will make you lose the frown for at least three minutes... For Minseok’s and Mina’s sake”.

You scoffed but still followed him back to the dance floor, this time avoiding every form of contact with him until you stood back in place.

“I always told you that I’d understand if you didn’t want to talk about it… Or be around me, for that matter. I never forced you to be there for me, I just needed… someone”. You said in a weak voice as you started swaying to the rhythm of the music again.

“And I knew that everything was just because you were heartbroken; you also knew how I felt towards you. How did you expect me to react when I saw you hurting? I couldn’t even help you fully because no one really knew why you two broke up, in the first place. I wanted to get you out of that state and then you suddenly disappeared”.

It was a good thing that you were resting your head on his shoulder, so he wouldn’t see how guilty you were feeling. You had been awful to Chanyeol all along, from the beginning to the end and he was still there.

In one of the turns Chanyeol took, you saw Sehun was now sitting with Jongin, Baekhyun and the rest, eyes still glued to you two as you danced your sorrows away. You clenched your free hand onto a fist but relaxed immediately when you saw him laughing sincerely with his group of friends.

Chanyeol was right. No one ever knew why you two broke up because life changed in an ordinary moment and you didn’t want to burden your group of friends with your relationship issues and now you knew, Sehun thought the same thing because he, also, didn’t tell anyone.

Bottled up feelings were amazing, weren’t they?

“I need a moment”. You said, actually, more like whispered, to Chanyeol. You patted his back as you exited the room and went out to get some fresh air. You hugged yourself when a chilly breeze hit you. The sun was setting, the birds were chirping and you could hear some sort of creek running in the distance; everything seemed so serene around you and yet there you were, just being your usual, wrecked self.

After walking around for ten minutes or so, you came across a couple swings. You sat down, letting out a breath you didn’t know were holding as you contemplated the pink-toned sunset before you.

You rested your head against the swing’s chain, careful not to get your hair tangled on it and you let your eyes close, starting to doze off as you felt the alcohol diluting in your bloodstream, slowly.

“So, you came…”. His hoarse voice made your eyes shot back open again. Your heartbeat was erratic; you fisted the fabric of your dress. You would’ve jumped from the swing but you didn’t have enough strength to do so.

Sehun walked around the swings to take a seat on the empty one besides you. You watched him silently but still quite surprised.

“So did you”. You replied once he was settled down. You watched him as he looked up at the sky. The peach toned light hitting his face perfectly, in ways you had forgotten it was possible. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he gulped.

“It’s Minseok’s wedding, I wouldn’t miss it”. He raised an eyebrow as he looked back at you. You scoffed, trying to mask your nervousness.

“Ditto”. You laughed dryly, looking back at the –now darker– sky. Maybe appearing calm as you contemplated the clouds would make it seem like you weren’t basically dying inside, like you weren’t fighting back the urge to hold his hand, to hug him, to tell him that you missed him.

He smiled at your response, you couldn’t help but smirk, as well.

Silence, a dear old friend, came back to settle upon you two. You wondered if he could read you like a book still. You wondered if he was able to sense how tense you were, how anxious yet relaxed, at the same time. You wondered if he was feeling the same way.

“I heard you became an Editor in Chief, congratulations”. He said, smiling with pursed lips. You looked at him again with a puzzled expression. Everyone had tried to guard you from whatever Sehun was doing with is life, yet apparently, it hadn’t been like that with him. “Must be hectic”.

You laughed dryly, looking down at your hands and at how they were still clenching your dress.

“Thanks. Nothing I can’t handle, though”. You said, trying to sound proud and confident. Failed attempt, probably.

“I know that”. Sehun said, starting to sway on the swing slightly. You watched him, careless of if it appeared creepy. You wanted to memorize him again. Not that you had forgotten about him, not in the slightest, you just wanted to refresh your memory. Pin point the freckles on his face and neck in case you wouldn’t see him again after today.

“You and Chanyeol seem to have gotten even closer, how’s that working out?” And there it was. You had been expecting him to bring up the subject, ever since you caught him staring at you two on the dance floor and you felt his eyes follow you around when you talked to Chanyeol. Sehun wasn’t blind but he also wasn’t aware.

“He’s a good friend”. You said, voice monotone. Sehun stopped swaying to turn his head to look at you, a frown taking over his forehead. “What? Did you expect me to tell you we were together? Newsflash, I don’t feel that way towards him anymore, in case you forgot”.

Assuming things was one of the reasons why the relationship ended and there you were again. As if it hadn’t ruined you and gave you unbearable discomfort for years on end. Sehun and you locked eyes. He was confused and you were dumbfounded and that stirred fury within you, reason why you blurted out an unnecessary question.

“How’s Sunhee?” You raised your eyebrows at him. At that point, whether tears rimmed your eyes or not, you didn’t care.

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t talked to her in years”. Sehun said, voice deeper than usual as his eyes bore onto yours. You turned your head around, drying the single tear that was rolling down your cheek with the back of your hand.

“Hey, lovebirds! It’s picture time!” At the sound of Baekhyun’s yelling, you both turned your heads over your shoulders, seeing the overly excited, probably too-drunk-to-function friend of yours, waving his arms at you.

You sighed, getting up and smoothing down your dress.  “Let’s go”. You muttered, trying to pretend you didn’t say anything before Baekhyun’s interruption.

Sehun trailed closely behind you, so close you could feel his bodily heat warming up your exposed back. Everyone was already waiting for you in one of the room’s balconies, with the couple standing in the middle. They were all laughing and cracking jokes and, God did you miss them.

Chanyeol stood on the further end, smiling at you; this time you knew it was a knowing, caring smile. You were thankful for Chanyeol.

Sehun stood closely next to you.

“Just like the old times” Jongin said, half laughing as you all stood up straight for the photo to be taken. You smiled as well.

“Scoot in closer together!” The photographer yelled, making hand gestures. Your heart skipped a beat when you felt Sehun’s hand on your shoulder, you couldn’t help but look up at him when he did so. A flash took you out of your trance, making you face forward and smile to the camera.

After a few more shots were taken everyone scattered again. Jongin dragged Sehun and the rest to the dance floor; he was eager to show off his dance moves and have fun with his friends, just like old times.

You took that as your cue to escape to your small bungalow.

As soon as you changed out of your dress and laid on bed, your body caved to tiredness, both mental and physical and you fell asleep.

Hours passed, you weren’t sure how many. The sky outside was still pretty dark, the music had stopped at some point, so you assumed it was well into the night and yet, now you felt unable to fall back asleep. You poured yourself a glass of water before adventuring back out. Your feet dragged you to the set of swings from before.

As if your body wanted to relieve the few minutes you had spent with him before. You stopped on your tracks when you saw a figure already sitting at the swings. You laughed dryly, rolling your eyes but you thought, fuck it and you made your way to him.

“Having trouble sleeping as well?” He muttered when you stopped next to him. You shrugged, even when you weren’t sure if he could see you.

“I’ve gotten used to not getting much sleep”. You muttered, taking a seat on the unoccupied swing.

Sehun looked at you with a crooked eyebrow and a smug smirk.

“Still a terrible liar”. You scoffed, not taking your eyes off of him.

The sound of birds chirping had been replaced by the crickets; giving the atmosphere a calmer, gentler, more melancholic feeling. Ironically suitable for your company.

Silence wasn’t uncomfortable, yet it wasn’t the most pleasant. It was filled with sadness, regret and feelings you couldn’t put into words. You wanted to have him back in your life, yes, it didn’t matter if it wasn’t as a lover. You missed your best friend more than anything. You missed his sarcasm and his brutal honesty but you didn’t know how to say that.

How could you fix something that you weren’t sure why it broke in the first place? You knew the trust had been damaged, you knew you probably pushed him away with your behavior so how were you supposed to apologize for that? For not trusting him? For shutting him out?

“I’m sorry”. His words made you jump. “I’m sorry for hurting you and for not telling you about what happened. I was terrified that you might hate me and probably kill me in my sleep”. Sehun laughed emotionlessly. What a dumbass. “Didn’t realize it made things worse, I just didn’t want to make you feel hurt. I guess I sort of forgot that you were extremely good at reading people and have like a sixth sense of sorts”. He huffed. You rolled your eyes.

“Because hiding that you were talking to an ex-girlfriend that had expressed her disgust towards me so fervently and denying it when I asked you about it was the way to go”. You said. You couldn’t help the venom that spilt with every word you pronounced; it still hurt yet it also hurt that you reacted so childishly about it.

“I know I fucked up. I know it probably looked very twisted, I know I should’ve told you about her brother being a friend of mine and the situations he was involved in. I should’ve explained instead of keeping it all to myself. But I thought you knew I would never cheat on you, let alone with her”.

Sehun rested his elbows on his knees, head turned to your direction as he scanned your face for whatever hint of emotion you might show.

“I’m sorry for not letting you explain and for assuming things. What made me mad wasn’t the possibility of you finding someone else, it was the feeling that the trust we had was destroyed; that my best friend was gone”. You felt your throat tightening little by little as you spoke; as you remembered the things that led you to your break up.

The uncertainty, the silence. Sehun coming to bed late at night without letting you know. The secrets. His sassy, sarcastic persona disappearing as time went by.

The crickets’ chirping grew louder, as did so the water on the stream. It felt unreal, to be there, confessing your wrong doings to each other after five years of not meeting, of not talking, of not knowing anything about the other and yet him always lingering at the back of your mind. A reminder that you had lost the one you loved the most because of a tantrum, most likely.

The moon shined brightly up in the sky and it had a calming effect on you. It was either the moon or Sehun, or maybe the combination of the two. After a few minutes in relative silence, Sehun cleared his throat, sighing after doing so.

“Seeing you with Chanyeol made me realize how much I miss you… Not that I didn’t miss you before, of course, but... It killed me a little bit, not going to lie. Seeing you dancing with him, talking to him, laughing and rolling your eyes at what he said. I miss that, all of that... So, I guess, what I’m trying to say is: I miss you more than you think and I love you more than I did before, if that’s even possible…”

Everything in you, every centimeter of your skin, every cell in your body went numb. He was still reading your mind; he still had a key to your heart. Sehun, whether he realized it or not, was still able to feel what you were feeling. His head hung low, as he looked intently at his hands rather than looking at you in the eye.

You gulped with difficulty. You felt your heart expand and beat stronger than before, on the verge of exploding. Hearing him say those words was like you reading your own thoughts out loud.

“And if you don’t hate me or won’t kill me while I sleep, I would like to be with you again, if you take me. I want to be the one who makes you smile and roll your eyes when I say something stupid. I want you to kiss me to get me shut up, or the other way around. I want to hug you when you actually want to punch me instead and I want to be the one that buys you your morning latte with two extra shots every morning just so I get to see your frown turn into a smile... If you let me. If you forgive me for being such an oblivious idiot”.

He raised his head to look at you again, a hint of a sad smile threatening to appear on his face.

If you jumped onto his arms, would it seem desperate?

You stood up, instead, feeling his eyes follow your every movement closely. You put a hand on his shoulder as you looked down at him, probably with stars in your eyes.

“We’re both oblivious idiots”. He smiled brightly at you. “Pull that move on me again and I will kill you in your sleep”. You tried to sound threatening but it was useless as the smile on your face was too big to pull it off.

-

“Do you really have to leave so soon?” Jongin pouted as they all walked you to the airport. You had insisted they shouldn’t come because you knew they all had things to do but, as usual, no one really listened to what you had to say.

“I have things to take care of on the other side of the country, Jongin”. You sighed, pulling your bag over your head to secure it in place.

“It’s not our fault you decided to flee to a city that’s so far away, is it?” Jongin huffed, acting like a little boy. You laughed, seeing how Sehun cleared his throat before unceremoniously shoving Jongin away with more force than necessary and then pretending he didn’t almost kill the poor man.

You laughed at them, still acting like younglings.

“Let us know when you land”. Chanyeol said with a smile from where he was standing behind Minseok. You nodded, also with a smile. You waved them goodbye as you started to make your way to security.

You were almost there when you felt a hand hold onto yours. You turned around with a confused frown.

“It’s not like old times if you don’t take this nuisance with you”. Sehun smiled proudly at you while pointing at himself with his index finger, as if he had made some groundbreaking comment or discovery of sorts.

“This nuisance is probably going to annoy the shit out of the airplane crew and have it crash somewhere”. You raised your eyebrows at him but still, continued to go through security with him sticking right behind you.

“Well, for the record, you’re the only one that thinks I’m annoying to point where people would kill themselves to get rid of me… But, if that happens, at least we would’ve lived and died together”.

You let out a laugh due to his twisted logic as you proceeded to put on your jacket and your shoes again as you were now done with security check.

“What a privilege”. You scoffed, rolling your eyes at him as you waited for him to be done.

“It’d be my pleasure to die by your side, knowing that you love me, at least a little bit”. He raised his eyebrows at you and you rolled your eyes once more as you extended your hand for him to take.

He did and he didn’t let go.