#Link Between Personality and Handwriting

[forensicfield]

Handwriting And Personality

The technique of #handwriting can reveal an individual's #personality traits through #graphology. Features such as baseline, slant, and pressure can provide insights into #emotional state and #psychological condition. Authored by Madhurima Chatterjee

Continue reading Handwriting And Personality

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So��� Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[rottenpumpkin13]

Out Of Context Shit Heard On The SOLDIER Floor #7

Genesis: SEPHIROTH, STOP MEOWING AT ME.

Kunsel: Any loser twink can be a fem-boy, but it takes a real badass to be a fem-man.

Sephiroth: Did I "yee-haw" with joy, or did it convey depression?

Zack, holding up Cloud: BEHOLD.

Sephiroth, stealing a fry from Angeal's plate: A most generous offering. You will be spared. Angeal: FROM? Sephiroth: You will be spared.

Genesis, wearing sunglasses and holding a cappuccino: So there I was, gelato on my breasts—

Cloud: Aww, that's such a cute Halloween decoration. *pointing at Genesis sobbing in the corner*

Angeal: Who put a hotdog in the candy bowl?? Zack, in the background: Halloweenie.

Sephiroth: I could've sworn "motherfucker" was a compliment.

Angeal: IF YOU EAT THAT WEEK-OLD SUSHI PLATTER, YOUR INTESTINES WILL BECOME RADIOACTIVE.

Sephiroth: Zack, can I enjoy this steak dinner without you explaining A/B/O to me?

Lazard: I think we ALL need to beat our fathers with shovels, Sephiroth, you're not special.

Zack: NO! THAT'S MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT BANANA!

Genesis: He manspreads to assert dominance, I manspread to create a barrier between myself and heteronormativity. We are not the same.

Sephiroth: I just sent Angeal an email describing my feelings for him. If he doesn't reply, I'll show up at his apartment and superglue myself to the door.

Zack: Give me a pen, paper, and three Adderall, and I'll write something better than Loveless in one hour.

Kunsel: Everyone is subjected to failure, but at least I'm not Roche, who thought the plural of ninja was ninji.

Sephiroth: I have exactly three crayons on my person right now, and they're all stolen from Zack.

Angeal, chewing with his mouth full: Don't make psycho-sexual comments in front of my cheeseburger.

Zack, narrating what he's seeing: 🎶 Look at Angeal 🎶 beating Sephiroth with a frozen chicken because he forgot to take it out the freezer. 🎶

Sephiroth: Please refrain from analyzing my deep-seated fear of abandonment linked to my mother's absence and its impact on my emotional regulation, it's seven in the morning and I still haven't had coffee.

Cloud: I'm about two mental breakdowns away from resorting to gang affiliation.

Genesis: COUNTER SPELL! *flicks his wrist* TRAUMA!

Roche: I often have nightmares about Sephiroth attacking me with a spork.

Sephiroth, in the presence of a spider: I feel anti-at peace.

Zack: Dear diary, today I committed tax evasion, and felt great. Tomorrow I'll try embezzlement and eventually vandalism!

Sephiroth: Can you read this death threat note and check if my handwriting is recognizable?

Zack and Genesis: *Loudly arguing over who gets to be the ring bearer at Sephiroth and Angeal's wedding*

Angeal, laying on the floor: Good luck trying to find my will to live, gang.

Genesis: I'm flashing you a tit to maintain our friendship.

Sephiroth: If I had a gil for every time someone compared me to a cat, I'd have enough to purchase that expensive human cat bed that has been on my wishlist for ages.

Roche: Is my discount wig a joke to you, Zackary?

Cloud, placing an "I miss you" letter from his mother in Sephiroth's line of view: Yeah, that's right. Fuck you.

Lazard: Someone pinned a death threat on my office door written in glitter gel pen.

Genesis, flirting: I own an air-fryer.

Angeal: T-shirt that says "I survived Zack's power point presentation on aliens that included a photo of Sephiroth on the fourth slide"

Roche: Cloud Strife's evil twin…Grass Peace.

Sephiroth: *Showing Zack pictures of baby cows while Zack sobs into his burger*

Genesis: PUT. MASAMUNE. DOWN. No one is stealing your crayons.

Sephiroth: Genesis, I feel inspired to compliment your ass.

Lazard: Take a good, hard look at Sephiroth wearing flip-flops and tell me I shouldn't be stressed.

Sephiroth: A most efficient weapon to add to my arsenal *wielding an entire streetlamp*

Zack, talking to Angeal: My insecure trooper and faceless info guy, versus your 6'7 cat and walking red flag.

Kunsel: Is the cure to male loneliness *incomprehensible screeching* ?

[it-was-summer]

Come In With The Rain (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hey y'all, I'm so sorry for the late posting. I know that I don't have a new chapter of 'Video Killed the Radio Star' out yet, but stay with me here. This is part one (of two) of my 500 followers post! I want to thank everyone for reading and being so sweet throughout the years. I really hope you all like this first part! The second part will probably be posted sometime this upcoming week. AND IT WILL BE 18+. I'm estimating sometime between Thursday and Saturday. Again, this is not proofread because I never learn. Love you all- Em <3

Link to the Ao3: Come In With The Rain

You are on Part One! -> Part Two

Yee olde masterlist

WARNING: Slow burn ahh fanfiction, emotional cheating, an accusation of emotional cheating, couple fighting, sex mentioned, alcohol mentions, drunk reader at one point, light cursing, babygirl Spencer Reid, suggestion BLINK AND YOU MISS IT SUGGESTION that Reid is Bi, reader is referred to as a woman, she/her/hers pronouns at some parts, and mention of feeling like a burden. AND probably something else, idk.

Plot: Spencer Reid becomes friends with you after bumping into you at a grocery store. Instantly enamored with you he develops a crush. A crush, apparently destined to fail, because why wouldn't you have a boyfriend?

Word Count: 10,365 (That's correct... 24 PAGES)

 Day One 

Almost everyone could agree that Spencer’s job was incredibly arduous. If not arduous, it was strenuous, formidable, occasionally crushing, onerous; the list goes on. Overall, his job –despite all its pitfalls– was something he loved. There was one thing he was starting to hate more than anything, though: he couldn’t seem to keep all his groceries from going bad after a week of back-to-back cases. 

Spencer narrows his eyes at his messy handwriting, looking back and forth between the paper in his hands and the cans in front of him. He just couldn’t find the can that he was looking for. Penelope had loaned him her recipe a few weeks back, and despite his disastrous efforts in the kitchen, he was determined to give it a shot. His mother never taught him how to cook –not that he blamed her, of course– so it was truly an area in which he simply lacked a lot of skill. Given his eidetic memory, he didn’t really need a list, but Penelope said this brand was best for her recipe when they talked last week. He didn’t want to risk it, so he wrote it down. 

He turned his head side-to-side, looking for a nearby worker, but found none. The only person in this aisle was him. He frowned a little before the sound of a sigh passing behind him made him jump. He quickly looked over his shoulder to see a woman standing behind him, staring at a list in hand. He couldn’t help but wonder when you had gotten there and how long you had been standing behind him before your sigh alerted Spencer to the presence of another life form in this aisle. 

Your head tilted slowly, your eyes met his, and Spencer felt his mouth drying. He wasn’t charming around beautiful women like Derek; most of all, he hadn’t expected to run into one at the grocery store. Your eyes stayed on Spencer for a second before they moved towards the cans in front of them. Spencer felt like a warmth had just been pulled away from him in the absence of your gaze. 

He shuffles out of your eyeline as you scan the cans with a soft smile. “Thank you,” your voice was light and airy, carrying a softness that Spencer wasn’t used to hearing. Your body is closer to his as you walk toward the cans and carefully reach up on your tiptoes to grab a can of sauce on the highest shelf. 

Spencer gets the idea stupidly slow: He should get it for you. He clears his throat and maneuvers his body to avoid touching the beautiful stranger beside him. He slides the sauce can off the shelf and hands it to you. 

He’s greeted with a dazzling smile, dimples on your cheeks, and eyes shining bright under the fluorescent lights of the grocery store. “Thank you,” you repeat before you stare at him expectantly. 

Spencer can’t help but feel like his IQ is taking slashes as he stares at that smile, “Spencer,” 

You gave him a gentle nod as you walked the sauce over to your cart, “Nice to meet you, Spencer. I’m Y/N.” You say as you look over your shoulder at him, hair falling into your face. For the first time in a long time, Spencer can feel the ends of his fingers twitching with anticipation at the idea of offering to brush the hair out of your face for you. He gives you a soft smile instead, his eyes trailing back to the list in his hands in an attempt to stop himself from staring. 

Your voice near him almost makes him let out a yelp of surprise as you say, “Are you looking for something? I don’t work here, but I cook a lot.” You say matter-of-factly, suggesting that your cooking hobby somehow made you an expert in the grocery store layout. 

Spencer felt like handing you his list and following you around like a puppy dog for the rest of his grocery shopping if it meant you’d keep standing this close to him. “Yeah, uhm, this brand of chili beans.” 

“Oh, you haven’t looked low enough.” You barely even glance at his list before bending your knees and crouching down to the lower shelf to grab it. You look up from the ground, holding the can of beans for him to take with a bright smile before you say, “You’re so tall you must have forgotten about the lower shelves.” A laugh escapes your lips as Spencer carefully grabs the can from your hand. 

You stand up with a gentle sigh. He can tell that you’re about to say something else when a man’s voice interrupts you. Your eyes grow brighter at the sound, and your head quickly turns toward the sound at the far left end of the aisle. “I got the cheese.” As he approaches, the man shoots the shredded cheese into the cart with a grin. 

You mouth a soft ‘yay’ as the man’s arm quickly wraps around your waist. “Josh, this is Spencer. I was just helping him look for a can of beans. Spencer, this is Josh.” 

Spencer feels his lips draw into a tight-lipped smile as he waves his free hand, “Nice to meet you,” He says with a slight nod. 

“She’s always talking to strangers, I swear. Stop making friends everywhere you go, you little angel.”  Josh says as he pinches your side, earning a melodious laugh from you. Spencer feels a little nauseous.

“Hey, gross.” You chuckle lightly as you pull Josh’s hand off your side, “Anyways, it was nice to meet you, Spencer. See you around.” You grab the handle of your cart with a beautiful smile before rolling the cart out of the aisle with Josh in tow. 

Spencer watches you until you take a right and disappear from his view, and now he can only look at the can of beans in his hand. He sighs at his luck, smiling a little with amusement at the fact that you have a boyfriend. His short interaction made it clear to him that you were easy to get along with. Beautiful, kind, easygoing, of course, you had a boyfriend. 

Spencer silently resigned himself to the fact that he would probably never see you or Josh again as he continued with his unneeded list.

Now, he felt like the fabled gods of fate were laughing down at him as he made the last trip to his car. He was closing the trunk of his car when he heard a familiar voice yell out his name from across the parking lot. “Spencer!” You yelled with bags in hand, panting lightly as you approached him with a light jog. “How funny is this?” 

A sarcastically bitter voice was in his head. Only the Ancient Greeks would find this funny. “Do you live in this building?” he asked as his eyes scanned the parking lot for Josh. His shoulders relaxed as he realized that it was just you. 

“Yeah, third floor.” You say as you readjust the bags in your hands. Spencer gave you an amused smile as he slid his last two bags on one arm, extending his free arm toward you. 

“Need some help?” He offers in a soft voice. You give him a grateful look as you nod, handing him a slightly heavy bag. Typically, you wouldn’t have accepted help from a perfect stranger, but almost everything about Spencer screamed non-threatening, so you let yourself be a little trusting. 

“Can’t believe that we’re neighbors. I'm glad I talked to you at the store; I made a neighbor friend!” Your speaking speed almost matches his when he is going on his excited ramblings. 

Spencer pushes a door open with his back, holding it open for you with his foot as he laughs. “I guess it's plausible, being that the grocery store is as close as it is.” He’s quick to move to the next door, repeating the motion. 

You smile gently as Spencer opens another door for you, this one leading the two of you to the stairwell. “Oh, you’re probably one of those people who doesn’t believe in fate, aren’t you, Spencer?” 

“I would have to say that I absolutely fall within the twenty-nine percent of Americans who do not believe in fate. Nothing is predetermined.” 

“Maybe you’re predetermined to believe that,” Is your quick remark as you walk in front of him on the stairs. 

“Not likely,” 

“So, what? You’re a cynic?” 

Spencer smiles wide at the question, “How does my not believing in fate make me a cynic?” 

You grin, tossing a skeptical look over your shoulder, before speaking again. “Not believing in fate is such a cynical thing to do,” 

“And what does that make you?” 

“Stupid and optimistically in love.” 

Spencer shakes his head, his eyes glancing at the door that leads to the second floor, but he continues to follow you up another flight of stairs without complaint. “I would label myself as a realist.” And a profiler, but he was careful to leave that part out. The cases over the years proved one thing to him: nothing was predetermined. There was an opportunity for change everywhere. 

“Okay, Mr. Realist, what about luck?” You asked as the two of you approached the door marked for floor three. 

He thought for a moment as you held the door open for him, “Maybe,” was all he could say as the memory of when he was struggling with his aim came to mind: killing an UnSub with a shot to the head when he had been aiming for his leg. 

“So you do believe in fate.” You turned your body to walk backward down the hallway with a satisfied, winning smile as you looked at him before slowing to a stop in front of your apartment door. 

“Fate and luck are not the same thing. Luck is usually used to describe an outcome; it’s a notion. It’s circumstantial.  Fate defies logic, science really.” He said as he handed you your bag carefully. His eyes glanced at the number on your door: thirty-seven. “You live with your boyfriend?” Spencer asks before he can stop himself, silently screaming at himself for being a creep. 

The question barely phases you as you reach into your pocket, searching for your keys. “Yeah, moved in six months ago.” 

“Oh, that’s nice.” Spencer hated small talk. Actually, he secretly hated the fact that the first person he found attractive, after months of failed dates, was taken. He also hated that you were living a floor above him for six months, and he hadn’t known about it– hadn’t known about you. Above all, he hated that he enjoyed your company already, especially having only known you for more than a few hours at best. “How long have the two of you been together?” 

“A year and eleven months,” you answer with a soft smile, your eyes giving way to soft emotion as you open your door. “What floor do you live on again?” 

Spencer wants to say that you never asked, but he didn’t want to seem rude. He was sure you couldn’t be rude if you tried, that sweet smile of yours not capable of the act. “Second floor,” he answers as he readjusts his bags timidly. 

With a soft gasp, you set down a bag or two, “Oh! I’m sorry.” You apologize softly as you look up at him, your eyes beautiful and tender. Spencer can’t remember if he is mad when he looks into those eyes. 

Spencer let out a meek and barely audible “It’s okay,” He decides it truly is.

You bite your bottom lip and smile at him, “Well, thanks for your help, Spencer. I really appreciated it. Come up some time and say hi!” As you beam at him, you move a stray hair out of your face. 

Spencer nods slowly, swallowing thickly, and manages a soft smile. His feet move his body back to the stairwell slowly. “Okay, I’ll do that.” 

Day Forty-Two 

You’re laughing over something Josh said. Spencer doesn’t really get it, but you seem to think it is the funniest joke you’ve ever heard. Punchlines usually went over his head, but he was always happy to nod along with a smile on his face. 

Spencer honestly didn’t want to come up and visit you and Josh a month ago. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment. Perhaps he just didn’t have it in himself to stay away from your electric personality—why he visited you and Josh three Saturdays ago was still a mystery to him.

As Josh walks away with a smug smile, you turn to Spencer. He watches as you lean towards him, eyes tracking Josh until he’s out of sight. Your amused smile falls from your face as you whisper a soft, “Did you get that?” 

Spencer is taken aback at the question. You laughed at Josh’s joke; how did you not get it? Why did you laugh so hard if you didn’t get it? He wonders until he’s whispering that same question to you, “If you didn’t get it, why did you laugh?” 

You smile a little cheekily and only slightly embarrassed, “I didn’t want him to know I didn’t find it funny. Sometimes, he falls short of witty humor.” 

Spencer smiles at that, shaking his head as he stares over at the area where Josh disappeared. “Why don’t you just tell him that you didn’t find it funny?” 

“Because,” Your voice sounds offended, but the amused look in your eyes tells him differently, “I’m his girlfriend of two years, and I’m nice. Unlike some people.” You give him a side-eyed glare, making Spencer gasp in mock defense. 

“I’m nice!” He hisses out in a defensive whisper. He briefly falters at your incredulous look before slowly nodding in defeat, “Okay, I’m a little mean sometimes.” 

You smile again and face him, your hands moving as you talk, “Which is funny because you’re perfectly nice when you’re around me.” 

Spencer didn’t have an answer to that one either. After being friendly with the couple for a little over a month, he just could not be friends with Josh. His jokes flew over Spencer’s head, he talked over you (and sometimes him), and he never seemed to take your interests seriously. 

Last Monday after work, you called Spencer, asking him if he wanted to go to the movies with you to see a tragic Italian film. He was quick to say yes, partially because of the excellent movie selection and because he wanted to be around you more. 

When he asked why Josh wasn’t joining them, you simply said that it wasn’t Josh’s thing. That didn’t sit right with him, but he let it go. Then, the day after, you called him again, asking him if he’d be willing to go with you to one of those paint-and-sip places around town that weekend. 

His answer was another resounding yes, and he didn’t even drink. Then the question came again during the class, and you responded with the same thing– it wasn’t Josh’s thing. 

Josh’s thing was going off to work all day and then coming home to ignore you for a good two hours before dinner. Then he was all yours again. At least, that’s what Spencer saw. He understood that everyone needed their alone time and that he was being a little petty and a little jealous toward Josh. 

He wanted to be the bigger person, honestly. It was just so hard when your boyfriend made it so easy for Spencer to hate him. He’d never say that to you, of course. You looked at Josh like he had hung the moon yesterday and then created the stars today. You never missed a chance to talk about Josh around… well, anyone—the precursor to Spencer’s current dilemma. 

Deep down inside, he knew that his inappropriate crush on you couldn’t possibly get worse. So he thought, What’s the harm in becoming close friends with you? If anything, it was likely that seeing more of your personality would pull his rose-colored glasses off his face and force him to see you in a normal, less love-sick light. After all, he had gotten over his embarrassing crush on JJ and saw her almost daily at work.

When Josh walks back into the room, he’s on his phone. He barely glances up from the text as he speaks to you, “Hey, babe, would it be okay with you if I head out for the night?” 

Your eyebrows furrow with confusion, “But Spencer is here, and we were going to finish the movie, remember?” 

“Right, but I already know what happens. I mean, it’s a tragedy, right? Spencer and you always have more fun together doing your nerd stuff. No offense, Spencer. The guys just want me to go out with them.” 

A realization dawns on your face as you realize he’s not asking so much as telling you he’s leaving. You nod slowly, letting Josh kiss your forehead before he grabs his keys and leaves. You look over at Spencer, who is trying to be polite by not watching the scene, looking down at the television remote with a deep interest. 

You smile slowly, sadly, and turn your body a little on the couch facing the television. The rest of the night is spent in your living room with Spencer, sitting next to each other and watching a movie before ending with your head on his shoulder and the soft tone of someone saying they “Liked the movie.” 

Day Ninety-Three

You could feel something starting to slip. It was a familiar feeling; something in the ground was shaking. It shook you, at least. You always noticed it first—a crack in the ship's hull.  You were always the first to address it, too. 

With Josh, it used to be customary for him to apologize for any indiscretion and try to fix the damage. But false promises are like duct tape in the ship’s hull, slipping and sliding against wet wood, water pouring in until the whole ship goes down. 

It wasn’t always like this. Him coming home and ignoring you for hours, only to acknowledge you late into the evening. It was relatively new to your relationship. Well, if you consider nine months new. By now, you could only label it as consistent. Before you lived with your loving boyfriend, he would carve out time in the evenings just to talk with you for hours or take you on dates that sometimes lasted for days on the weekends. 

You knew that living together would take some of that away– everyone deserved to have their private time, and you weren’t going to start demanding day-long dates anytime soon. You just missed the effort he used to put in, the time when he would make days for the two of you– hours for just the two of you. 

A year ago, Josh would have jumped to see that weird new Hungarian horror movie with subtitles for you if you had asked. He would have attempted to stay awake during it, hold your hand during the parts that scared you, something lovely. 

The first crack started when you moved in with him. One evening, you had gotten home from work early and occupied the living room for a few hours, watching some random French movie that had been recommended to you by your best friend. She didn’t like this kind of thing but knew you did, so you were grateful that she had thought of you. 

When he came home from work a little later than usual, he saw you on the couch with a plate of pasta, watching the movie intently. You turned your head towards the door and smiled wide at him. “Hey! I made spaghetti, grab a plate and watch this movie with me? I’ll restart it.” Your hands were already reaching for the remote when a heavy, annoyed sigh cut through the air. You looked over at him again and gave him a gentle, empathic smile, “Hey… did you have a hard day? We don’t have to watch anything we could–”

“Have you ever thought that maybe I don’t want to do anything with you right after I get off work?” Josh hissed out as he threw his keys onto the wooden kitchen table. 

You felt your head reel back a little at the question, and you laughed a little, pushing yourself up to sit on your knees on the couch. “I’m sorry?” 

“Have you ever thought I might want to come home after work and not talk to you for a few hours? I mean, I thought that after living here for two months, you would have caught on, but clearly you haven’t. I come home, and you’re right there, ready to talk. Prepared to force me to sit down and watch some… foreign language film that has some profound meaning that you’ll blabber about for thirty minutes before bed tonight.” 

You blinked a little at his harsh words, which were unlike him. He never seemed annoyed by your passions, hobbies, or ramblings. In fact, he always seemed to encourage them. You tried your best to give him a genuine smile, “Love, you’ve had a long day. Let’s just take a second and get some food in you, and then we can d–” 

“You’re not getting it,” he laughed bitterly, a sound that caused a sick knot to grow in your throat. “Sometimes, I’m tired of it being we, we, we, we. I’m always doing things with you: Cooking with you, reading with you, watching movies with you, sleeping with you, going on dates with you. Ever since you moved in, it's like it's always an ‘us’ task or a ‘we’ task.” His voice was rising in volume, and you felt your breathing becoming shaky. “I feel like you're always on top of me. It’s suffocating! Maybe I just want to be alone for a few hours. Maybe I don’t want to watch your stupid, fucking, symbolic foreign films.” 

“I... I didn’t know that’s how you felt.” You breathed out as you slowly turned the television off and got up with your plate. You wanted him to apologize, you wanted him to soften those brown eyes and start telling you that he didn’t mean it. You wanted him to tell you that work was brutal that day, and he had accidentally lashed out at you. But he just stared at you, panting a little. “I’ll leave you alone some more. I, uhm, I’ll watch this alone in our room.” 

And that was that. You had convinced yourself that you were a problem. You were too clingy, always in his space, always trying to force him to like your hobbies, always trying to share too much of yourself with him, always too much. So you decided that maybe what you wanted to do wasn’t his thing anymore. 

Besides, you had plenty of friends that liked the same things as you did… maybe. Molly didn’t like foreign films, but Alex enjoyed them enough. Molly did like to paint, but her schedule always conflicted with yours. Sabrina was also a fan of painting but had moved to Boston last month. The list of her friends with crazy work schedules could go on and on, as could the list of friends who moved. You had thought about reaching out to some of them, but Josh’s words rattled you to your core, and suddenly, you felt like a burden for wanting to spend time with your loved ones. 

Then, after six months of living with Josh, you met a man in a grocery store—a tall, hazel-eyed, intelligent man. Spencer Reid was unlike any man you had ever met in your life, a rare friend. He was transparent, often going into long, passionate tangents that always had you learning something new. So when he randomly mentioned a foreign film he wanted to see that weekend in one of your conversations, you felt comfortable asking him to come to the movies with you.

Then again, to the paint-and-sip place where the two of you failed to partake in any wine and managed to paint two terrible renditions of sunflowers. Spencer Reid was becoming a friend that you didn’t think you’d burden. Your other friends were quick to explain that you weren’t too much. Still, maybe it was because he had helped you carry your groceries up to the apartment the first day you met him or the way he was so happy to listen to your stories and thoughts. Something about Spencer Reid made you believe him when he said that you weren’t a burden. 

And he was nice to be around. Then, there was the pesky fact of Spencer being attractive. At first, it was more of a passing thought. The way he wore his glasses late at night, how his hair fell to one side, the way his fingers were so gentle with books. He was a good-looking man in a nerdy way. Mix that with sweet, caring, and accomplished; he was a threat. 

A threat to anyone but your loving boyfriend of two years. Sabrina was laughing over something you had said over the phone, her giggles rising in volume as she tried to speak between them, “He’s a.” Giggling. “An adonis of th–” Cackling. “The mind!” She managed before asking, “What does that even mean?” 

“It means he’s a very smart-minded, attractive person.” 

“Oh, so you’re like… crushing on the hot mind guy and fighting with Josh. Got it.” 

“I’m not fighting with Josh, and we talked about it last month. We’re okay now.” 

“Still ignoring you when he comes home?” 

You pause before you let out a slow sigh, “Yeah.” 

“What’s his record?” 

“Four hours and fifteen minutes. He said he will try to be more attentive throughout the week, but he just keeps…” You trail off. You can imagine Sabrina shaking her head on the other side of the line. 

“What about the weekends?” 

“Going out with his friends more, he visited his mom’s last weekend. Nary a date night in sight, not since our second anniversary at least, and that was..” 

“Yeah..” There was rustling, chips maybe, on her side of the line. “Maybe he’s planning something big. Maybe a trip? I don’t know, maybe you should bring it up again.” 

You nod a little, your hands typing away gently on your work computer. “Maybe. The last time I mentioned missing our date nights, he just said, ‘We have dinner dates every night at home.’ That was an incredible feeling.” 

“Something about weaponized ignorance is coming to mind.” 

“Don’t,” 

“Josh has been lacking in good boyfriend points since that stunt with the cake on your birthday,” 

“He got a little icing on my nose!” 

“Don’t,” She dragged out the ‘t’ sound, “Care! The disrespect! Your dress! Ugh, I’m going to get worked up. Talk to me about Dr. Genius.” 

“What about him?” 

“Does he ever, maybe, do something you wish Josh would start doing?” 

You laugh, “What? No…” 

“So you don’t wish that Josh would know the symbolism behind The Red Shoes and go into how… what did he say?” 

“That art was worth dying for, and that Hans Christian Andersen's original story surrounded a sense of morality and religious–” 

“Ah, Ah, Ah, so you don’t want Josh to know that?” 

“He doesn’t need to know that,” your fingers falter in their typing, “Two people can have similar interests and not be in love.” 

“Right, it just seems like lately, you’ve been…” You hate the awkward silence that follows Sabrina before she carefully speaks again, “Maybe replacing Josh with Spencer in your hobbies. I know Josh lashed out and was wrong, too, but this Spencer guy… he clicks with you– your hobbies, at least. And your witty humor, too. It seems he matches your intellectualism and your passion for learning,  exceeds it even, but Josh is steps below you. Josh, he… just always seems so tolerant of your hobbies.” 

“So what are you saying?” 

“Nothing,” a voice calls her name, “Look, I gotta go. Josh is great, and I’m just being silly. Maybe I just have a grudge against him or something. I love you.” 

“I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” You reply quickly before she ends the call. 

You shake your head a little at her words, still swimming in your mind as you go back to charting something on your computer. What did that even mean? Josh is steps below you. He wasn’t dumb. He just lacked… that dry humor you had with Spencer sometimes. A quick, witty remark that had one of you smiling in seconds. Besides, that notion was ridiculous, given you had only known Spencer for three months. Josh made up for it in love… and you did love him. 

All couples went through rough patches, but you were sure that if you raised your concerns again with Josh, things would change. You nod a little at the thought as you sigh, shifting in your chair slightly as you readied yourself to be engulfed in your work. 

Day One Hundred and Forty-Six 

Spencer could feel the bass of some pop song thumping in his chest. It had been a pleasant and slow week at the BAU. While he would have loved to go home and sit down with some book of his choosing, he allowed Penelope and Derek to convince him to go out with them. 

The bar wasn’t too far from his apartment complex, so he didn’t mind. Penelope was twirling her drink's tiny umbrella between her fingers as she pointed towards a pretty red-head dancing in a dark green dress. “What about her?” 

They have been playing this game for ten minutes now. By they, he means Garcia and Morgan. The game is ‘Who does Spencer find pretty at the bar?’ 

“Babygirl, you have a great eye,” Derek says as he points the woman out to Spencer, but before he can say anything else, Spencer decides they’ve played this game past the point of amusement. 

“Why can’t we accept that I don’t feel like talking to anyone tonight, again?” 

Penelope frowned a little, giving Spencer a pleading look. “You said that the last time we took you to the bar, you were willing to participate next time. It’s next time, Reid.” 

Spencer remembers the conversation and groans softly as he sips on his water. He hated disappointing them with his lack of effortless charm. It had improved through the years, but he still struggled to find the right words to say in front of someone he found attractive. 

“Come on, Pretty Boy. Are you going to back out of your promise?” Derek’s voice is teasing as he smiles at Spencer. Spencer can’t help but feel a sense of newfound obligation. He knew what was holding him back and hated himself for it. 

His inappropriate crush on you had grown to be near debilitating, and even though Spencer had told himself that it’d never happen, he kept holding out hope that one day it would. He had gone on dates in the near five months he had known you, but he always ended up comparing his dates to you. They never laughed as sweet as you. They came up with the same academically related jokes you did. They never– they just weren’t you, simple as that. 

“Fine, but someone else. She’s pretty, but I think that girl is her girlfriend.” He pleaded softly, watching as a taller brunette woman spun around the pretty redhead to the beat. 

Penelope clapped and set down her drink, “This next one has to be perfect.” 

“Pretty boy’s future bride,”

Spencer felt his cheeks flush at that, and he nudged Derek with a nervous laugh. Penelope was still scanning the crowd. The bar wasn’t empty or devoid of beautiful women or men for her to choose from, but no one screamed Spencer Reid material. Derek was scanning the crowd with her, always happy to see her passionate about something, even if it was Reid’s love life. 

A gasp slipped past Penelope’s lips as she grabbed Derek’s arm tight, her index pointing toward someone by the speakers. Derek’s eyes landed on who she was pointing at, and he smiled wide, nodding quickly, “Future Mrs. Reid material,” 

Spencer can barely see where they are pointing as he tries to look toward the area that Garcia is pointing at. Then he sees her. It’s you, and his heart drops. He wants to tell his friends he knows that isn’t ‘Future Mrs. Reid’ at all, but Derek and Penelope are already pushing him into the crowd. He glares back at them and stubbles with his footing for a second before walking toward you. 

You’re wearing a beautiful black dress, hugging your curves. In the flashing lights, Spencer thinks that you’re shining. Your hips sway lightly to the beat as you stand near the speakers, alone. 

Spencer gently taps you on your shoulder, and when you turn around, you have a glare on your face before you see it's him. He almost laughs at how you gasp and loudly scream, “Spencer!” Your hands fly out to his shoulders, shaking him gently as you giggle. “Hi!” You’re so drunk. 

Spencer is sure that Penelope and Derek are watching the scene unfold with confused expressions as he laughs softly, your hands on his shoulders gently shaking his body side-to-side. “Hey, where’s Josh?” He yells over the music. 

“Getting drinks!” You yell back in an excited tone. 

He smiles wide and shakes his head a little; he usually doesn’t find drunk people endearing. But right now, in the flashing lights of the bar, your rosy-cheek face and tipsy giddiness have him feeling a little more enamored than usual. 

“Who are you here with?” You ask loudly, your hands falling away from his shoulders. 

“Uh, my friends, coworkers!” he replies as he stands beside you to point out the confused-looking pair staring at them. 

“Can I say hi?” He could tell that your friendly disposition continued even when intoxicated, and he found himself adoring the consistency. He nods gently, and you’re smiling so much. Spencer wonders how someone could be so excited about meeting someone else’s friends. 

He leads you over, your fingers grabbing the back of his button-up as he carefully leads you through the crowd. The gentle pull of your fingers gripping his shirt makes his cheeks burn as he stops in front of Derek and Penelope. “Y/N, Derek, and Penelope. Penelope and Derek, Y/N.” 

You let go of the back of his button-up quickly as you extend a giddy hand, “Hi, I haven’t met any friends of Spencer's yet.” 

Derek looks amused as he shakes your hand, his eyes flicking between you and Spencer, “How do you know the boy genius?” 

“I found him looking lost in the grocery store. We’re neighbors! Well, almost,” You let go of Derek’s hand to point towards the roof, “I’m on top of him.” 

Spencer can feel the breath knocked out of his lungs as he quickly corrects you, “She lives on the floor above me.” He explains before either of them can make a joke. 

Penelope matches your happy attitude as she shakes your hand, “We had no idea that Spencer had a friend in his apartment complex! How long have the two of you been friends?” 

“Almost five months,” You say with a little giggle, leaning toward Penelope slightly. “Spencer comes over to discuss movies with me or books, or we went to a poetry reading last weekend.” 

“He comes over often, huh?” Derek’s voice asks playfully, and you nod quickly. 

“The mothership is always beckoning,” You joke, laughing harder than you should at your own joke. 

Penelope slowly drops your hand, tilting her head, and her flower earrings sway slightly. “And... your roommate is okay with that?” she asks carefully, and Spencer wants to ask why she doesn’t simply ask if you have a boyfriend. 

“Oh, no. Josh doesn’t care. He’s my boyfriend of two years. Nothing can break that security, I’m sure.” You look towards the bar for him and catch his eye. You wave high and wide for him, and he smiles, shaking his head at you as he waits for the drinks.

“So, Pretty Boy here is just a friend.” 

You giggle a little at the nickname and try to cover your smile with your hand, looking at Spencer. “Pretty Boy?” You giggle out. Spencer frowns a little and goes to defend himself, but you’re already nodding, “He is a pretty boy. That’s fitting.” Then, he feels like his body is on fire. 

Derek is about to say something when Josh slides behind you with two drinks. “Always with Spencer,” he teases softly, kissing your cheek before handing you your drink. 

“Josh, these are Spencer’s friends, Penelope and Derek.” You say, taking the drink and happily taking a small sip. 

Josh holds out his hand for them to shake, a charming smile on his face, “I thought Spencer’s only friend was my girlfriend.” 

Penelope doesn’t laugh, but she still manages a polite smile and shakes his hand before Derek does the same thing. Spencer fidgets a little, still beside you. You turn your head up toward him, and you mouth a soft, ‘He’s drunk’ as a way to excuse Josh’s behavior. 

However, recently, Josh has been acting like that sober. He would demand to join the two of you at the movies while complaining about the movie selection. He’d sit between the two of you if the opportunity arose, which wasn’t strange. What was weird was how he’d become more physically affectionate with you in front of Spencer. Spencer hated that– hated looking at it.

Josh quickly grabs your shoulders and says, “We should let you all get back to your night.” It sounds like a suggestion, but he’s already leading you away. You gasp as he guides you away from the three of them, and you quickly smile, wave, and yell out a quick, ‘It was nice to meet you’ before you walk further away with Josh. 

Penelope sips on her drink as a way to stop herself from talking, but Derek breaks the silence first. “So he’s jealous of you.” 

Spencer wants to deny it, but even he can’t deny the facts. “Not at first, but now… I don’t know if I’m not nice enough or if I did something, but yeah, lately, he’s been like that.” 

Penelope sighed and looked toward where you and Josh had walked off to, “She seems sweet,” 

“Yeah, Reid’s head over heels for her too.” 

“Wait, Spencer, are you?” 

His cheeks are flushed, and he’s shaking his head a little, a lame attempt to try and hide his feelings. Derek lays it on thick, “Come on, he doesn’t let just anyone touch him. Did you see how he looked at her when he approached her earlier? Like a lovesick dog with a bone in his mouth.” 

Spencer raises his hands and scoffs, “Okay, I’m working on it, alright. She’s just easy to be around. I’m getting over it.” 

Penelope is swooning over the information, “A forbidden romance,” 

“Her gatekeeper boyfriend and you, the pretty boy genius from downstairs,” Derek adds. 

Spencer sighs, annoyed with their teasing, “Alright, let’s drop it.” The pair gives him a look, and he adds a soft, “Please.” Seeing their friend’s annoyance didn’t usually deter them, but the way he shifted from one foot to the other as he begged them to stop had Penelope and Derek sharing a look before letting all their silent jokes go. Spencer was grateful that evening had returned to normal, his nervous thoughts slowly slipping away with easy conversation. 

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Three 

You’re sure Josh is mad at you for something. You just can't get it out of him. A few weeks ago, he had been nothing but sincere. Soft again, sweet again, him from a little over a year ago. It was beautiful, and it felt like he had finally listened. It felt like he had come back around and somehow repaired the hull. 

Then he started ignoring you again. You had been careful, so careful, not to suffocate him like he mentioned. You make sure that you go out with Spencer on weekends. You distance yourself just enough for Josh to miss spending time with you. Spending time with Spencer was also good for you; he helps keep your spirits high.

He kept you feeling lighter than air. He would text you sometimes on cases with the team when he was out of town. Little reminders, little jokes, and sometimes… It felt nice. You didn’t know how to describe it. Thrilling, calming, extraordinary, and tumultuous all that once. It confused you, pulled at the heartstrings, softly tugging at something deep within you. It unsettled you and made you ache when you looked at Josh in bed next to you. 

But his sweetness distracted you. Erased longing and replaced it with familiar love. You knew his steps, and he knew yours. 

And now, he was angry with you. You didn’t want to ask, and you didn’t want to be a pest to the man you loved. You hoped he would just come right out and say it. You hoped that his cup of secret rage would overflow and spill over.

The sound of heavy footsteps disrupts your stagnant reading. Your eyes kept reading the same sentence. Every time you tried to continue with the following sentence, you found yourself unable to do so. You set the book face down on the bed and smiled a little at Josh as he stood in the doorway. It was Friday night, and Spencer was on a case. Molly was busy, Christina was busy, and everyone was busy. So you stayed home, attempting to read. 

He was drunk, no drunk didn’t even cover it. He looked like death, pale with red eyes and muttering incoherent things to himself. “Josh… are you okay?” Your smile quickly faded, and you moved to the edge of the bed, watching him sway against the door frame. 

He didn’t answer and just laughed a little, which turned into a groan and then a sigh. You push yourself off the bed and walk to him, reaching up a hand to cup his cheek, but before your fingers can touch him, he smacks your hands away with a deep frown. “Josh!” You gasp as you pull your hand away, rubbing at the slightly pink skin. 

“Not right,” he mutters, and you shake your head as you try to understand what he’s talking about. 

“What’s not right? Josh, are you okay?”

He stumbles as he pushes past you, his shoulder roughly bumping into yours as he sits on the bed. You stay by the door. “This. Us, not right anymore.” He roughly puts it together. 

You can feel your heart fall to the pit of your stomach as you turn around to face him, “What are you talking about?” 

“Not right anymore,” his drunk hands are dramatically waving between the two of you, “You’re not,” he motions to his chest lamely, “Here anymore.” 

You can feel the tears threatening to rise in your eyes, your breathing becoming fast as you shake your head. “I’m here, you’re here.” You point your index into your chest, just above your heart. “What are you saying?” 

“Not here,” He repeats loudly. 

“I am here!” you yell back as you walk to him. “I don’t know what happened tonight, but we can discuss it, Josh. We can fix things.” You can feel the weight of the world crashing down on your chest, its weight making it difficult to breathe clearly. 

“No,” 

You’re quick to talk over him, “Yes, we can,” 

“No, we can’t,”

“Whatever it is, it’s okay, we can–” 

“No–” 

“It’s okay, I won’t be mad–”

“I’m in love with someone else,” He yells, his spit hitting your cheek. Your hands twitch slightly at the feeling, but you can’t move. All you can do is stare at him with a gaping mouth, opening and closing repeatedly like a fish. You couldn’t form the words, and your mind was blank. “Don’t give me that.” 

You feel like someone else’s voice is speaking, “Give you what? Shock? Disgust? You’re in love with someone else. How else am I supposed to react? Do you want me to be happy? Oh, Josh, I’m so happy for you and your mistress! I’m so glad that you’re fucking her and me at the same time! I’m so happy, so happy!” 

“I’m not fucking Estelle, she and I,” 

“Your coworker, are fucking you kidding me?” 

“Oh, shut up with the pity party!” He looks sober suddenly, his face red and twisted with rage as he stands up from the bed. Your footing slips a little before you catch yourself walking back from him. “You think these past six months I’ve enjoyed having him over here all the time? Giggling with you in the living room over some intellectual private joke that I don’t get, o-or how about when you disappear with him every weekend you can? Introducing you to his friends in bars, going to movies with you, you didn’t try hiding it from me!” 

“Him? Who are you talking about?” Then it dawned on you, and Josh could tell from how your back straightened and how you looked at him with unsure eyes. “Spencer? You think I’m cheating on you with Spencer?” 

“Not physically, but yes.” 

“Josh, what are you even saying right now? I made a friend who likes the same things I do. I mean… a year ago, you told me that I was suffocating. You told me that you didn’t enjoy my hobbies. Did you just expect me to stop them? How did I cheat on you? Spencer and I we’ve never–”

“It doesn’t matter if you’ve never fucked, or-or kissed him! Emotionally, you gave up on us. You’re only emotionally available for him. He gets you, all your jokes, your kindness, everything. He has it all. You’re always running into his arms!”  

“Running into his arms? Josh, you push me to him. I don’t love Spencer; we are just friends. He’s there for me because he is my friend! What are you going to say now? Th-that I forced you to Estelle, who, by the way, I saw last month at that Holiday party for the office. Are you going to tell me that me being by your side all while having a friend with the same interest as me was too much for you?” You can barely breathe. 

“You know it's more than that, don’t play victim. I can see the way you look at him. You used to look at me like that, and then six months ago, you met him. You didn’t even try.” 

“I didn’t try.” You repeat back before you’re scoffing a little, pacing the room quickly. “You shut me out. You stopped talking to me for months. If anyone has the right to play the victim here, it’s me. I don’t see you for hours. We had the day off for our second anniversary, and you didn’t talk to me until noon. When I moved in with you, did you even want me to be a person? Or did you want a perfectly still doll, interesting only when you want her to be interesting, talkative only when you want to listen, ready for the taking when it was good for you? Go ahead, treat me like a fucking doll.” 

Josh is shaking his head now, his breathing ragged as he slowly runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t,” He pauses, his eyes looking at a photo of the two of you from two years ago framed on the bedside table. “It doesn’t matter anymore? I don’t love you anymore. You can make me the villain. I don’t care. I want you out.” 

You swallow hard at his words and laugh a little, “Where am I supposed to go?” 

“I,” He looks at you, and you see how tired he looks. The part of you that still loves him feels crushed; the other just feels angry. “My name is on the lease. Find somewhere else to sleep tonight. I’ll let you pack a bag, but I want you,” he motions towards the apartment, and you assume he means your presence in the apartment and your things. “Gone.” And he doesn’t let you say anything back, walking out into the living room. 

You stand still; you feel frozen. You don’t know if you want to start crying, start packing, or just call people to see if you can crash at theirs. That feeling, the feeling that he planted in you rises inside you. You’ll be a burden, suffocating, and miserable. But you need a place to sleep for the night. 

Your shaky hands reach for your phone on the bed, randomly calling people. Alex is out of town, you know. Christina just moved and doesn’t even have a couch yet. You call Molly, but she doesn’t answer. You wish you lived in Boston so you could call Sabrina, but that’s unrealistic. You keep scrolling through the contacts and try to think.

As you reach the next contact, your fingers falter, and your mouth feels dry. You hesitate multiple times before hitting the call button. You wait with bated breath as you bring your phone to your ear. 

Ring. 

You should hang up. This is a bad idea. 

Ring. 

Doesn’t this just prove Josh’s point? 

Ring. 

You don’t even know if he’s back in town or when he’ll be back. You should hang up before he answers; call someone else. 

The third ring is cut short as Spencer picks up the phone. Your hands shake as he says a gentle, tired, “Hello?” 

“He-hey.. Uh, are you still in Illinois?” 

“No, we’re an hour out. Are you okay? You sound like you’re upset.” 

You lick your lips quickly as you debate, telling him everything: the fight, how Josh is kicking you out. Instead, you settle for, “I just need a place to crash for the night, and I know it's a big ask, and you’re getting home from a case, but–” 

“Yes, yeah, you can stay at mine.” You let out a slow breath and nod a little, a sense of temporary relief settling over you. 

“Thank you, thank you so much. I… I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be at yours in an hour?” 

“See you soon,” Spencer says before you hang up the phone. You get to work as fast as you can, grabbing luggage from the closet and packing like a mad woman. Anything you can fit into the case, you carefully fold or roll up and stuff inside. 

An hour comes around, and you’re packed enough for a week at the very least. You grab the only thing on the bed that’s yours, a dark green blanket, before slowly rolling the suitcase into the living room. Suddenly, it feels like you’re not in your body anymore, watching the scene from the ceiling. 

Josh turns, a phone against his ear, and you only catch the ends of an ‘I love you’ before he hangs up. He draws his lips in a tight line before asking, “Where you headed?” 

You feel like he knows the answer, “Spencer’s.” 

His lips turn upwards, and he laughs; he laughs so hard that he’s gripping his side. “Ye-Yeah, that's right. Prove me right. Run straight to Doctor Reid. Fucking rich.” He snips at you as you finally feel the tears start to well up in your eyes. “You know what let him have my sloppy seconds.” 

You gasp softly, the comment like a punch in the gut. “Have fun fucking her in our bed. Make sure to put the pictures face down before you give her the most underwhelming four minutes of her life. I’ll be back tomorrow to start packing.” You say as you start stepping through the front door, slamming it behind you. You’re panting lightly in the empty hallway, your mind numb as tears stream down your face. You don’t remember lugging your stuff to the second floor or getting to Spencer’s door. 

The only thing you remember is the sound of your name and gentle hands grabbing your chin and tilting your head up with care. You remember sobbing, hyperventilating out the events of the past evening to him as he helps you inside. And the eventual call of sleep that reaches you on Spencer’s couch. 

Day One Hundred and Ninety

Spencer could hear the soft sounds of your computer playing something in the living room. Last Friday… Well, technically, early Saturday morning, you had your head on your knees outside his apartment door. The sound of sobs had him dropping his dirty go-bag and grabbing your chin to soothe you. 

He listened to everything: how Josh thought that you were emotionally cheating on him with Spencer, how Josh had fallen in love with a coworker, and how he kicked you out. You said you would have stayed, but the lease was in his name. It was a stupid decision of the past catching up with you– your words, not Spencer’s. 

You had told him that it would only be for one night, but Spencer wasn’t going to make you couch surf all week. He insisted that you stay with him until you found an apartment. He let you stuff your boxes of things in his study and was happy to do it. 

The worst part about this arrangement was seeing you like this, seeing you so heartbroken. You went to work a little later than him, came home later than him, ate, slept, and repeated the cycle. He kept catching you with a dissociative look on your face. Too scared to ask you if you were okay, he would awkwardly attempt to cheer you up with your shared hobbies. But that only worked for so long until you were ending the night with that numb look on your face again. 

He lays in bed, wondering if he should go into the living room to check on you. He barely thinks it through before he throws his covers off and slips out of bed. He has plaid pajama pants on with an old CalTech shirt, and when he walks into the living room, he can see you pause what you’re watching on your computer and smile at him. 

“Hey,” you whisper, even though it's just the two of you in the apartment. 

“Hey,” Spencer whispers back before sighing and walking toward the back of the couch. “Can’t sleep?” 

You look up at him before returning to the dimly lit computer screen, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” His quick reply has you nodding a little. You shift a little, pushing yourself up to make room on the couch for him. He takes the unspoken invitation and sits down next to you.”What are we watching?” 

You lick your lips nervously, “Romcom. When Harry Met Sally.”  

Spencer glances at you before he admits, “Never seen it.” 

You gasp softly, and that playful light returns in your eyes for a second. He hasn’t seen that light in a week. “Spencer Reid, you haven’t lived.” 

Spencer takes the opportunity to joke around with you, making a buzzer sound with his mouth. “Wrong. I’ve been alive for many years.” 

This gets a weak smile from you, but still a smile nonetheless. “You want to watch it with me? I know it's late, but… maybe it’ll lure you to sleep if you find it boring.” 

Spencer grins, glancing at the clock to see how late it is. He shakes his head a little, “Maybe we could just talk for a second? I’ve barely seen you this week.” He suggests. You’re quick to nod, shutting your laptop. You lean back on the sofa and bring your legs up to sit crisscrossed. He watches you. Your eyes are no longer red or puffy, but the skin on your cheeks still seems pale, lacking their natural rosiness. 

“I found a great apartment, but I can’t move in until the end of this month.” You break the silence first, hands folding awkwardly in your lap. 

Spencer nods, resisting the urge to hold one of your hands as he speaks. “That’s fine, and I’m not kicking you out anytime soon. You’re stuck with me for three more weeks.” 

You chuckle a little at that, “Ever the gentleman,” You say softly, but your eyes don’t have that light anymore. You seem distracted, your eyes lingering on him briefly before staring at your hands. “Spencer,” 

“Yeah?” 

“What do you do when everything feels like too much?” 

Your voice cracks softly as you ask the question, and Spencer is scared you’ll start crying again. He always feels useless whenever you cry, a genius without answers. He swallows the nervous lump in his throat: “I read, or sometimes I force myself to go out. Whenever I’m overwhelmed, I end up at the public library. Or sometimes, if I have the day, I go to the Smithsonian. But... it’s been a while.” 

You seem to perk up a little at the mention of the Smithsonian, and you give him a playfully little side glance, “Air and Space?” You guess with a small smile. 

He smiles and shrugs, “Sometimes,” he returns the playful sideways glance. “Portrait Gallery?” 

You’re laughing a little as you nod. Spencer feels relieved to hear its soft melody. “Portrait Gallery.” You confirm your pick with a soft sigh. 

Spencer lets warm silence spread for a second, his eyes occasionally flickering over to your serene expression. “What about you? What do you do when you’re overwhelmed?” 

Your eyes meet his as he asks the question, and for a second, you seem a little surprised that he is asking you anything. He wonders if you expected him to keep talking or ignore the tension in the air around you. 

“Well, reading is lovely. Museums, movies,” you pause for a second, and your expression softens. “Music. I love music when I’m feeling overwhelmed, sad, or happy. It’s a universal fix, music.” 

“What kind of music?” He has heard you talk about music before, how you didn’t understand people who hated it. Music helped him escape to childhood memories, the good ones at least. He wondered if it had the same effect on you. 

“Everything. Pop, country, indie, anything that moves me. I like classical too, but only sometimes.” 

“Why only sometimes?” 

“I like it in ballets, plays, movies. I like the visual representation that accompanies it.” Your eyes leave his slowly, “Like a music box with a ballerina inside.” 

Spencer finds that this version of you, the melancholy version, is blunt. You don’t people-please or avoid questions; instead, you would directly state something. He liked how you directly stated your musical likes and how honest they were. He finds himself wanting every version of yourself that you have shown him lately, and he feels a little guilty for it. 

A soft gasp from your lips stops him from overthinking, “Oh shoot,” You mutter as you pull out your phone, looking at the calendar before you curse softly. 

“What’s wrong?’ 

“I, uhm,” You swallow hard and set your phone down, “I just remembered that Josh and I were going to celebrate our third anniversary a little early this year. Our second wasn’t the best, and he promised we would do something I wanted to do. We had tickets to see Swan Lake.” You chew on your bottom lip slowly, getting lost in the thought before you say, “That’s next month. I gotta cancel.” 

Spencer can see how you slump at the thought and how sad it makes you to cancel the plans. He feels himself saying the words before he can even process them: “I can go with you.” 

You turn to him with a soft laugh of disbelief, “What?” 

“We could go together. Make the most of it. I mean, I like Swan Lake.” 

“Spencer, it would be wrong to spend what would be my third anniversary with you. I mean–”

“It wouldn’t be the exact day. You said it was a couple of months early, so it would just be us…going to see Swan Lake. Just friends, seeing a ballet, and getting dinner or something. A night on the town. Something to keep your mind off things,” 

He hopes you’ll agree to the offer, his heart beating loudly in his chest as you stare into his eyes. Your eyes dart back and forth, rapidly looking into his eyes and then at his face. The silence is killing him, a knife in his back as he tries his best to breathe normally. 

Then you’re giving him a slow smile, a little shy at first, before you beam at the suggestion, “Okay,” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, let’s go to the ballet together. I mean, I would do it with or without Josh anyway. Now I’ll be able to go with someone who will actually enjoy it, even better.” Your eyes meet his hazel ones again, and you place a tentative hand over his. “Thank you, Spence.” Your voice is sincere, and Spencer feels his body relax when you touch him. 

“I can’t think of a better way to spend my evening two months from now.” He whispers in the air between you before he slips his hand away from yours and stands. He yawns softly, “Now… let’s get some sleep.” 

You nod, a small smile still on your face as you lay on the couch. “Night.” You whisper as you close your eyes. 

Spencer stands and stares down at you a little longer than he should before he takes a step toward his bedroom. “Goodnight,” he says as he walks into his bedroom. He’s thinking about your genuine smile for another hour before he even closes his eyes.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[dfortrafalgar]

Special Delivery

(Sanji x Fem!Reader- Offscreen)

Sanji reaches out to Zeff for the first time in years.

I wrote this many, many months ago now, and it was the first fic i posted anonymously on AO3. I got a few requests after it was originally posted to write a second part, which I eventually did!

You can read Part 2 here! Original AO3 link

(I figured I should let my blog breathe a little in between the really heavy and emotional Law fic im writing, and what better way to cool down than some sanji fluff <3)

A sharp squawk awoke Red-Leg Zeff from his daze. With a grumpy expression and a low grunt, he peered towards the direction of the sound.

A messenger coo was seated on the railing of the Baratie's upper deck next to where Zeff stood slouched over with his forearms leaning against the wooden support. It cocked its head to the side as if it was deconstructing Zeff's appearance before reaching into its pouch and procuring a parchment envelope. Zeff found it strange. Messenger coos only usually delivered the newspapers or the latest bounty reports, very rarely were they put in charge of personalized letters. It must have been paid off by whoever wanted this delivered.

The gruff man took the parchment from the beak of the bird and watched as it took back off into the air, leaving a few molted white feathers behind in its wake. He looked at the envelope.

All it said on the front, in very elegant handwriting, was "Captain Zeff." He flipped the paper around, revealing a wax stamp holding the opening down, which he peeled off with a calloused thumb.

Tucked neatly inside the envelope was a white piece of paper, tri-folded over itself. Zeff slipped the paper out, unfolding it to reveal the written contents of the letter. The penmanship was impeccable, and the ink was very sleek. He knew immediately it was from Sanji, not many other pirates had handwriting as good as his. He had completely lost track of how many years it had been since the curly-browed boy left with that ragtag group of pirates to sail to the Grand Line, but Zeff had every single one of his bounty posters. He'd never admit it, but they were tacked up on the wall of his sleeping quarters. Every time Sanji's bounty increased, Zeff felt pride swell in his heart.

"How are you doing, you old geezer. It's been a little too long since we've had any contact, so I thought I'd write to you just to see how you've been. You're no slouch, I'm sure you've been keeping up with the world's events over the past however-many years. Do the Marines even bother to keep sending our bounty posters to the Baratie anymore? Well, regardless, I'm sure you can read right through me. I can't deny it, I miss you, old man. I'm happier than I've ever been in my life, and such a huge part of that is thanks to you and the guys back on that old cruiser. Every recipe I try to make, I imagine you screaming in my ear and telling me that it tastes like shit. Some days I really wish I could be back there, but most of the time I'm joyful. Life has been really, really good. A few years ago, I met someone. Last year, we got married, and soon after our lives changed so drastically. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on, and she's as sweet as an angel. I mean it, too. I know you'd probably think something along the lines of me playing up my affections again just because she's a pretty woman, but I mean it. You'd love her, Zeff. Living as a pirate is the most stressful thing anyone could ever do, but she makes every day worth it. The crew was discussing the possibility of returning to the East Blue a bit ago, and when we do, I'm going to introduce you to her. I've spent the last years talking all about you, how you taught me everything I know about cooking, and I can tell she's just as excited as I am to finally see you. This letter's gone on long enough and I don't want to use up all of Nami's paper.

-- Sanji"

Zeff felt a lump in the back of his throat. Sanji had grown into such a fine young man, eloquent with his words and his feelings. He knew how big of a deal it was for the boy to be so honest and open. But one thing in the letter caught him off guard. What did he mean by, "Soon after our lives changed drastically."?

Zeff peered into the envelope, where another, smaller envelope was tucked inside. He almost didn't see it. Pulling it out, he held the letter and original envelope in between his fingers while he opened the second. Sanji was thorough with his packaging, that's for sure.

Inside, there were three photographs printed on thin, matted paper. The first was of Sanji and you, the wife he wrote about in his letter, taken by someone else holding the camera. Sanji had his arm around you, holding you against him, and you had your face nuzzled into his neck. His other hand held a cigarette away from the two of you, like he was in the middle of telling a story. The two of you were smiling brighter than the sun, Sanji's eyes completely closed with the motion of laughter, and yours creased, your irises looking up towards him.

The second photo made Zeff's eyes water. A photo of you and Sanji on the deck of the Sunny, exchanging rings. Sanji was wearing a sleek navy blue tuxedo, while you were wearing a gorgeous white ballgown. For pirates, you cleaned up phenomenally. He could just make out tears in Sanji's eyes as the photo displayed you sliding a band onto his finger. A skeleton with poofy hair stood between the two of you, which Zeff found a little odd, but he chuckled at the absurdity of it all.

Zeff flipped to the last photo.

The tears that were welling in his eyes from the previous image finally slid down his cheeks in heavy, salty droplets. His lip quivered.

Sanji sat in a chair, beaming down at a bundle of cloth held gently in his arm. He was crying in this photo as well, and was reaching a finger over the top of the bundle, where a smaller hand was reaching outwards to grab onto it. A small glimpse of blonde hair could be made out from under the cloth securing the baby tightly. On the back of the film, Sanji wrote the birth date and the name of the baby.

Zeff used a sleeve to wipe his blubbering eyes. His lips quivered, but he couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face.

Was he allowed to call himself a grandfather now? He figured it was only appropriate.

[not-freyja]

LU Write-A-Thon

This our second monthly LU Write-A-Thon, spearheaded by @hotcheetohatredwastaken and myself, will run on July 1, 2024 from 12 am to 12 am GMT (7pm to 7pm EST starting June 30). There is one goal in mind with this event---write as many productive words within that day as humanly possible.

Originally a fun game amongst friends, we are now opening this up to the general fandom-body-public (and happily so) by popular demand!

The event will be hosted on discord, and the link will go out via a reblog/reply/edit combo on this post a few hours before the event starts.

We're so excited to have all of you come and write with us, and the event rules are right here blow the cut:

What counts as writing?

Writing fanfiction or original fiction, leaving or answering comments, outlining, drafting, storyboarding, personal journaling, and (writing) homework---basically, anything that furthered yourself, the LU writing community at large, or your stories with a positive word count, can be included in your final word count.

(Editing previously-written works can also be included, but only if it produces a positive word count, and only those new words may be counted. The goal is to get new words on the page).

What CANNOT be counted as writing?

General chatting, talking about already written works, etc, will not count towards your final word count. Words counted must, as previously stated, further yourself, the writing community, or your stories. This does not mean that you can't chat with your fellow writers---the ⁠⁠chaos-chat thread was created for such a purpose!---but the main goal of this event is to produce and engage in writing in one form or another.

What is a sprint, and what is the schedule for the sprints?

Sprints are (voluntary) periods of concentration in which writers will write as much as they can within a time limit, with some friendly competition to be the one with the most words by the end of the sprint. These will be hosted in the ⁠⁠sprint-bot thread. Every hour, the times :00 to :15 will be dedicated to a 15 minute rest, and then a 45 minute sprint will run from :15 to :59. Moderators will start the sprints periodically---writers can jump in as desired.

Do you have to participate in the sprints?

No. You can write on your own if you wish, just make sure to keep track of your total and only count what is written in the window of 12am to 12am GMT (7pm to 7pm EST) on July 1. Additionally, you can write in the suggested breaks between sprints, but again, make sure to keep track of your word count on your own then.

How should I count my words?

There are two main ways that you can count your words---using the Sprinto Bot in the ⁠⁠sprint-bot channel, or keeping track of them yourself. If you are keeping track of them yourself, especially if you're counting words other than fiction writing where your word count is easy to find, please take care to be as accurate as possible---you can use an application like Google Docs or Word to give you your exact word count, even if you have to copy and paste your ao3 comments into them to get it.

If you're handwriting, this gets a little bit rougher to calculate, but we'll encourage you to give it your best estimate.

We'll be on the honor system here: play fair, and report as accurately as possible.

Where/When should I report my words?

Final word counts will be reported in the ⁠⁠word-count-total channel. We encourage you to make ONE post at the beginning of the marathon with your word count; then, as the event continues, you can edit your post and update your word count there.

You can update your word count at any point during the marathon in the channel mentioned above---in fact, the breaks between sprints would be a great time. And once the event is over, there's a period of grace of up to 6 hours for everyone to get their word counts in, but no more writing is allowed during this time. After 6 hours (6 am GMT; 11pm EST), the thread will be locked, and no more additions will be made. So be sure to get your final count in as soon as possible, once the event is over (or even before, if you must dip early).

What if I can only write a little?

That is fine. We are going to be playfully competitive, but it is not a contest---it is a group project. We are using teamwork to make the line go up. Every word counts, and any amount of writing is a fantastic amount of writing. The goal is to do better than last time AS A GROUP, not individually. So do what you can, and be sure to have fun with the rest of us!

WORD COUNT TO BEAT: 88,978

[redactedrem]

You know what? Fuck you. *Ponifies Batman*

Guys I'm so excited to share my newest project of ponifying the Batfam, it started out small with the hypothetical "I wonder what Batman would be like in a mlp universe." And then the project kept getting bigger and bigger.

If anyones interested in my world building/ headcanons surrounding this project, you can see it under the cut. (I didn't want to make the post too long.)

Incase anybody couldn't read my bad handwriting, I gotchuuu.

-(First pic) Bruce Wayne: Bruce had got his cutiemark the night of his parents death, after the grief had broken his spirit and he realized that he never wanted anypony else to feel the same pain as he does. (He has a fake cutiemark to cover up his obvious destiny)

- The first pic is pretty self explanatory, but I want to make it clear that Bruce's destiny isn't "My parents are dead so now I dress up as a bat and beat up mentally ill folk". Because I've seen people on here give hot takes on cutiemarks that directly link them to a ponies destiny.

This goes for specifically in the mlp fandom but (for the sake of being on topic) I'll use the the example of that one post where someone gave the hot take that Jason would get his cutiemark in the warehouse right before he dies (or after he dies? smthing like that) because "It would be really fucked up to know that you were always destined to die." And listen, I can appreciate some good Jason Todd whump as the next guy but knowing that this would be based in a mlp universe . . . just doesn't sit right with me.

It sounds less magical that way. Its like saying that Rainbow Dash was always meant to be the fastest flyer, so theres no point in trying to compete with her. So uhm, trying to stay on topic here. My personal hot take is that a pony's cutiemark is symbol of something that they do/ a skill or talent that they have that makes them happy. And whats a more magical and fulfilling destiny than doing something that makes you happy for the rest of your life?

Looping back to Bruce, he didn't get his cutiemark the moment his parents died, but I like to think that he got it sometime later on in the night. After hours of being checked on by the police, getting looked at by the paramedics, and after Alfred took him home. Its 1:40ish in the morning and tiny foal-Bruce is just staring at his bedroom wall feeling numb and dissociated to hell. And sometime after processing everything that night- he just decides that this is the worst thing that has ever happened to him and that he will do anything to make sure that nopony will ever feel the same pain that he has felt. And then-- Ta da!! Cutiemark!! Too bad neither he or Alfred got to experience the excitement when they both saw it the next day :')

(Edit: I didn't know where to put this detail, but Bruce's fake cutiemark is based off of the "Make It Wayne" TV logo from this fanfic here )

-(Second pic) The Bat: This is heavily inspired by Flutterbat, I know theres canonically already a race of bat ponies made from Lunas stunt as Nightmare Moon. But I chose to go through with the Flutterbat route because batponies are a race, and have bat-like features 24/7. In comparison Fluttershy maintains her pegasus appearance by day and transforms into Flutterbat at night (ALSO with there being implications that there are "Triggers" for her transformations in the day too!!) Which adds the "Vampire." right in front of her batpony title.

I might do a lil comparison chart between vampire batponies and regular batponies in the future or something. But for now I'm focusing on my batpony Bruce Wayne headcanons so yea. My point is that I felt like making Bruce a "vampire" batpony would give him a more solid secret identity with also the bonus of a really metal origin story.

Now we all know that the canonical origin story of batman is that a few months after the tragedy of his parents death, Bruce had fallen into a cave? a well? a pit? of bats and triggered a fear of bats since then. Later on he decides to become Batman so he can invoke the fear of bats he once had into the criminals of Gotham. Yadda yadda yadda.

Now canonically, we don't know the exact science on how Fluttershy turned into Flutterbat. What we do know is that at the time, pony magic is not researched enough for Twilight to be aware that Fluttershys "Stare" is her own form of pony magic and that it would interfere with Twilights spell.

Do you see where I'm getting at here? Uhmm don't ask me what exactly happened in the cave, I'm doing this for fun and thinking about it too hard makes me spiral. But uhmm something something- Bruce looked at a bat in the eye and decided to embrace his biggest fear to fuel his cause, and his already traumatized and fucked up pony magic had transformed his body- something something. (Edit: I didn't think about this until now but maybe Fluttershys "Stare" and Bruces "Bat Glare" could be a usage of the same form of magic? Just a thought)

I'll probably come up with a more suitable explanation in the future, but like I said. All of this is just for fun.

[signanothername]

Your comices always make me feel so many things, it's really ashame that I can not put them into the right words, just to show you how must yuor creations mean to me So let me just say thank you, I am sure that I already said that before, and that I will do so in the future, but really, thank you for makeing all this and shareing it with us I love how every comic is linked to each other, making a big story out of so many smol ones, I love the relationships between the characters, how they grow thru every one of the comices and how many detiles you put into the comices! You are a great artist, and really thank you for creating all this Only thing that I struggle with, is the fact that it's sometimes hart to read what the characters say 'cuz some letters marge into another or are so smol esgbdsgafdbagdfagfd

HSHSHHSHSH OOOH MY DAMN HEART THANK YOUUUUU 😭❤️❤️❤️❤️🌷🌷🌷✨✨✨✨✨

I genuinely am happy to know you love the work i do, i try my best when it comes to my stories and seeing people connect with them and the way i write my fave characters genuinely makes me really happy <33333333

And no that’s actually a very valid criticism, i’m actually fully aware that my handwriting isn’t the easiest to read, both cause I tend to write really fast that the letters start getting blurry with each other and cause I can’t for the life of me write like a normal person and my writing tends to be a bit italicized xhhxhxhhx

That’s why i’m happy to say you won’t have to suffer anymore, cause @byrdblood provided me with an amazing website that turns handwriting into a font, very handy and I actually did finish making my handwriting into a font

So my comics should be a lot easier to read moving forward >:)

My handwriting still looks bad but at least it’s a lot more legible bdhxhdhhd (and I won’t have to write it myself anymore thank fuck cause that was hell it took so much time and energy dhhdhdhhd)

[bengiyo]

Love for Love's Sake Ep 8 (Finale) Stray Thoughts

Last time, the game world began falling apart around Myungha as he refused to choose between his grandmother or Yeowoon dying. With only 15 days left, Myungha began to pull back from Yeowoon, even as he tried to bulk up his relationships with his friends. Myungha received an item to change any part of the story, but could not change himself to admit to Yeowoon directly that he loved him. Despite Yeowoon asking all the right questions directly, Myungha couldn’t say what needed to be said, and chose to break up. We left with Myungha falling into the abyss as the world unwound before him.

Did Myungha erase himself from Yeowoon’s memory? I’m glad his friendships are intact, but it seems like he’s experiencing echoes of Myungha.

Episode 8: Answers

Wait, why does the brand lady remember Tae Myungha?

Oh, this is upsetting. Only the brand lady and Yeowoon remember Myungha. Even his grandmother doesn’t remember.

He wrote “Please make Cha Yeowoon happy” and then he vanished. I get his panic now.

Wait, is Cha Yeowoon a PC now?

Wait, was the brand owner Myungha’s ex in the main world?

Oh no…. Tae Myungha went to see his mom before and she had started a new family and refused to see him.

I approve of the letterboxing to let us know we’re seeing the history from the physical world.

This is putting me in my Sea, Swallow Me and Other Stories by Craig Laurance Gidney feelings.

Wow. I have a lot of thoughts about this writer creating a story because he loved his friend he missed so much that he wanted to give him a second life in a game where you help him see that he is loved and that he can choose to live. “Write me a poem to make me happy.”

ARE THEY IN DIFFERENT REALITIES? WHAT THE HELL??

He’s going to find his favorite person!!! 😭

Oh, romance, never stop hitting me with lens flares to show that the love is bursting.

Yes, let’s continue those kissing lessons.

Whoa, he’s wearing pink now.

Okay, seeing them make out by the sea and then play in it with their friends after that reveal about Myungha just sent me over the edge.

Final Verdict: 9, Highly Recommended. This final episode went to some really dark places, but this is the kind of queer media that I secretly love the most. I’ve written about how grief is a big part of my experience before, and how much Eternal Yesterday helped me cope with feelings that had been in me for 15 years. I think there’s something beautiful in the melancholy of the writer who is grieving their friend in their work. The thing about the fact that everyone dies, is that those who loved us will remember us and they will miss us. A version of us continues to live on in them. When we lose someone tragically, there is a need to process those feelings, and I appreciate the desire of a writer to immortalize their friend in a story where they recognize and receive the love they wished for in life.

I love that there’s a component of death of the author here, where Myungha wants to know who he is and why he wrote things like this, because I wonder if the writer infused some of the writings Myungha gave in life since we recognized Myungha’s handwriting in the missions. He’s trying to give Myungha what he wrote that he wanted and what he wrote about love. I love that we don’t exactly what the creator’s relationship is with Myungha, but the gay in me calls to the gay in him and says that he loved his junior in Myungha the way Myungha maybe connected to in Yeowoon. I like to think that he wrote Cha Yeowoon based on how he saw Myungha, and a part of him wanted to see Myungha happy. Perhaps he felt he couldn’t give that to Myungha in life for various reasons.

I loved the game mechanics so much. I loved the side quests. I loved it because it didn’t work all the time. I know I link Shane Koyczan a lot when I’m being especially emo around here, but it’s like his poem Stop Signs where he’s desperate to connect with his crush and he’s trying everything he can think of to reach them. What it does force to recognize is what’s important. All the running around and trying to get all of these things is about taking care of the person he likes. Earning the money forced him to work at something without just receiving it from someone else. Getting Yeowoon friends made both of their lives better, and they found the other gays! I loved the debuff mechanic because it makes you pay attention to the world around them and approach situations with caution.

This show was beautiful. I haven’t seen an It Gets Better project that hit the right way for me in so long. I like that this show kinda snuck up on us with the darkness. There have been so many high profile celebrity deaths in Korea in the last few years, and there’s gotta be so many more of regular people that we don’t even know. I really love that this story is about loving lonely boys and asks the audience not to give up. I love the notion that loving someone else is a pathway to learning to love yourself. You can love for the sake of love itself. This show surprised the hell out of me, but this is going to be one of the shows I think sticks with me from this year.

[serenaoffaerun]

Tenacity - Chapter 3 of the "Consequences" series

It's finally here!! Thank you all for your patience. Because of the physical letter writing I drew for Tav and Gale's back-and-forth, this took much longer than I anticipated. Plus, the story just kind of...ran away with itself... This chapter comes in at a word count over 8,000 and I don't know how that happened LOL.

Big thanks again to @alpydk who started off this series with what was supposed to be a one-off angst story, and allowed me to write my own sequel chapters to finish the story my own way. (Alphydk's chapter 2 can be found here.) As my first long-form writing in over a decade, it's been a fun challenge to take two characters I love so much and get them out of a position I wouldn't have put them in in the first place. 💜

Without making you all endure any more of my "propensity towards verbosity," I present chapter 3: Tenacity (complete with hand-written letters!)

Summary: After agreeing to try to re-establish their friendship/relationship by writing letters back and forth, Tav and Gale set out on their journey of communicating, listening, and healing. You better believe they're both going to hold on for dear life.

Word Count: 8,289 (I'm not sorry.)

CW: References to depression, alcoholism

Tags: GalexTav, angst/fluff, pre-established (albeit rocky) relationship, future smut? (no spoilers...), brief mention of infertility (in a positive way??), depresso espresso, communication, healing, Tara's getting ALL the tuna.

[I'm sure I left some out, I'll come back and add to it once I get this on AO3 - coming soon!!]

Screenshot: Taken from my own gameplay. Please do not re-post as your own.

NOTE: For those who don't want to read Tav's mediocre (but improving) handwriting or Gale's flowy cursive, the text version is printed below each letter (including doodle descriptions!)

9/2 4:45PM Pacific - EDIT FOR MORE NOTES:

My underlines went away when I copy/pasta'd from GoogleDocs, and now I realize that you can't underline because of links, so they're bolded and italicized instead.

REGARDING BHAALSPAWN INFERTILITY - this is NOT canon to BG3/DnD/Forgotten Realms. I totally made this up to fit my literary needs. 😉

Alpydk's chapter 1: Consequences

Chapter 2: Acquiescence

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tav assessed herself before she even opened her eyes. Between the wine and the crying, she was probably the most dehydrated person in all of Faerûn. The pounding headache she was used to. She'd made blackout curtains for a reason, after all. But the soul-wrenching nausea, that was new.

Being blissfully infertile, she knew there was no risk of pregnancy. One of her permanent "gifts" as Bhaal's former Chosen was the ability to be as promiscuous as she pleased without fear of pregnancy in order to weasel her way into the hearts, minds, and pants of any of her previous victims. Not that she'd needed that ability since the Nautiloid, or especially her subsequent severing from said god. But this was no ordinary nausea anyway. It was coming from somewhere much more complex.

Among the growing list of sensations Tav noticed from her downward-facing zombie position on the couch, she found two long-lost friends: the physical feeling of being simultaneously sated but also achingly empty in her core, and...hope. Surprisingly enough, she realized it was the latter that brought on the nausea.

Crippling anxiety, overwhelming depression, stabbing guilt, these are feelings she was familiar with and knew how to handle: with denial and alcohol. Just ball it up and shove it in the "future ulcer" pocket by the stomach and cover it up with a bottle of wine or two.

Hope, on the other hand, is a fickle bitch. It introduces the possibility of a better future. The idea that things could get better. Then comes the uncertainty.

‘Desirable things in life are never guaranteed,’ she told herself. ‘You can always lose them. Don't get TOO comfortable! You might still have to live the rest of your life without the man you truly believe is your soulmate.’

Tav had NEVER believed in the idea of a ‘soulmate’ before. That was even more laughable than ‘love at first sight.’ But she’d come to believe it now.

‘And you fucked it up, didn't you? You let yourself have the worst lapse in judgment, then you doubled down on it by screaming and being a hurtful wretch. You did this. You did this and you don’t deserve forgiveness, you don’t deserve mercy. No one else will ever fill the hole in your heart, so you’re going to die alone and unloved. That’s what you deserve.’  

The words from the voice in her head kept playing on a loop for the last six months and they wouldn’t shut up. Drowning them out with wine and sleep had become her modus operandi. There’d been nothing to look forward to, nothing to hope for. It was the way things were going to be, she’d accepted it. Especially in the last few months after Waterdeep. She couldn’t have her heart broken again if she didn’t expect anything.

But now, new words were taking up space in her brain. His words.

‘…there was a time that we’d also brought out the best in each other, once. I refuse to believe we can’t find our way back there again.’

‘Fuck.’ Those words had stolen her breath. Given her reason to think that there was a chance. That maybe he would give her the mercy she knew she didn’t deserve. Gale was just that kind of man.

If that were truly the case, though, why did he shut her out so quickly in the first place without getting to even talk about things. Why did he go straight to the biting comments and yelling instead of showing any kind of signs of forgiveness being a possibility.

‘Because you ripped out his heart that was already broken and threw it on the ground with all the remains of any self-confidence he had left after Mystra, you inconsiderate, unfaithful monster. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.’

These were the new conversations Tav now had running back and forth in her head and that’s where the source of the nausea was seated. In the unknown future where happiness still existed. Along the path that could go to life-long depression and loneliness or a blissful existence with the man who completed her, and she wouldn’t know which way she’d end up traveling until she got there. It was terrifying.

‘I refuse to believe we can’t find our way back there again.’

Face still mashed in the couch pillow, she balled up her fist and slammed it down into the cushion. Depression wasn’t going to win today. Or any other day, for that matter, at least not like it had been. She would not allow herself to be swept up in the waves of self-loathing and doubt to the point of being non-functional. Not anymore.

She took a deep breath and sat up, eyes still closed. There was a warmth on her face that she knew would be the late-morning sun coming in through the living room window. As she cracked her eyes open, she winced as the light seared into her brain and fired off pain signals. Slowly, she stood up, walked across the room, and felt around for the blackout curtains.

Medicine. Shower. Food. In that order.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Looking around the room later that day, Tav felt pretty proud of herself. Once she got herself cleaned, fed, and a bit more clear-headed, she opened the curtains again and opened all the windows. Her little depression hole needed a good airing out.

Starting with all the trash, she got rid of the wine bottles, the old food, even the bin filled with dirt and burned clothing. After washing off surfaces and sweeping floors, she put all the books back on the shelf, keeping a box full of scrolls and a quill pulled out on her desk. One sandwich and two sinks full of dishes later, it was nearing night time, but she had one more task ahead of her: the letter.

She’d been chewing over words in her head all day, but she still had no idea where to start. How do you even begin a letter like this? ‘Hi, Gale’? ‘Dear Gale,’? ‘Esteemed Professor Dekarios,’? If the greeting was this difficult, how would she even move on to the rest of the letter? She knew for damn sure that she wasn’t quite ready to be fully emotionally vulnerable, especially with him (even though he’s the only one she should ideally be emotionally vulnerable with…).

‘Welp, might as well just start,’ she said to herself as she sighed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hi Gale,  [in the top right hand corner was a little swirly doodle with some flowers and leaves. Next to it was written ‘I don’t have fancy paper, so I tried to do something cute?]

I’m having trouble starting this letter, so I figured maybe just admitting that is as good of a place as any. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what you want to hear, I don’t know what will help or what will just hurt… Here’s what I do know:

-          I’m sorry. [there are tear stains on the paper here]

-          There’s no excuse for what I did.

-          I don’t even know if I know the reason for what I did.

-          I don’t feel like I deserve your patience, your forgiveness, your mercy, anything, really. Your anger is totally justifiable.

-          I don’t know who I was that night or in the months following.

Except, I do. I’d reverted back to the person abomination I walked away from. The hateful, murderous, evil, wretched thing I said I’d never be again. Yet, I can’t claim that I wasn’t in my right mind at the time either. I never lost consciousness. I was aware of the decisions I was making. I just don’t understand why I made them in the first place, other than I’d lost hope. I’d stopped trusting you. I’d assumed you were going to leave me and go back to Mystra or pursue godhood where you’d no longer be…you. [Next to this is a small sketch of a broken heart.]

Here's what else I know:

-          You didn’t deserve that.

-          I don’t deserve you.

[Below this was another item that was heavily crossed out, but you can make out the words ‘I still’.]

(this letter is a mess, I’m sorry. I’m just…flustered)

[On the right side of the paper, there was a list of four items outlined in a rectangle, above which was written ‘Good things’ – a question mark had followed this, but it was crossed out with an X. The four items are:]

-          I took a shower today.

-          I cleaned my house for the first time in weeks today.

-          I’m going to stop drinking for a while.

-          I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed.

It’s not ‘the letter of a lifetime,’ but it’s a start. I hope you’re well and that your students aren’t giving you too much of a hassle. Can’t be as bad as slaying a whole camp of goblins, right? [Here there was a small doodle of a goblin head, X’s for eyes and tongue sticking out, laying in a pool of blood next to a sword.]

I look forward to hearing from you. Take care of yourself, please.

-Tav

P.S. I’m working on my handwriting. I’m sorry if any of this is illegible. Not really a subject that was covered in “Bhaalspawn University.”

[At the bottom of the letter was drawn a curvy vine with leaves, flowers, and flower buds.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Gale swallowed thickly as he held the letter in his trembling hands.

‘She did it. She actually wrote, and it wasn’t full of anger and insults. It was a real, honest-to-the-gods attempt at talking.’

His eyes shimmered as he re-read two lines over and over again:

-          You didn’t deserve that.

-          I don’t deserve you.

His heart ached as he pondered the fact that she thought so little of herself. It made him remember his inner monologue after the debacle with Mystra and the orb. All Gale told himself for a year was that he’d made mistakes so huge that no one should have to ever bear the burden of his presence again. Anyone who showed any affection towards him, platonic or otherwise, was a fool who was wasting their time. They’d just end up being let down by this depressed shadow of a former Archmage. Knowing that Tav was the one now who truly felt she wasn’t deserving of forgiveness or mercy brought tears to his eyes.

He felt a bit lighter, however, at the implication that she even cared whether or not she was worthy of him. Not only cared, but was taking bolder steps forward. She’d apologized, she’d wished him well, she’s taking care of herself… Then it dawned on him that she’d gotten so low that a task as mundane as taking a shower was to be celebrated on a list of positive things.

Oh, did he remember that pit of despair well. He’d spent a year down at the bottom of it. Cut off from all outside contact, forgetting (or refusing) to eat, going days, even a week or more without bathing because he didn’t have anyone to see anyway. No point in expending the energy.

Now, however, Gale was at least teaching. That had kept him going. Even if he didn’t interact with many people outside of Blackstaff Academy, he was still getting dressed, going to a place with other people, and teaching Faerûn’s youth to harness and control the Weave.

But what of Tav? How often was she seeing others? It seems she had relocated after all. The return address is listed in Daggerford, a town not far south of Waterdeep full of retired adventurers, artisans, craftsmen, and farmers. A relatively quiet place compared to Baldur’s Gate, but still a city with plenty of opportunities. (And only a three-, maybe four-day travel from Gale. That would explain how easily she ended up in Waterdeep in the marketplace on that cold, rainy day…).

He remembered her telling everyone how much of a hero she’d been at the reunion party. What happened to her adventuring? Would she even be home enough for their letter-writing to be consistent? She’d made no mention of her activities, that was something he’d want to follow up on. As much as it would have previously brought him satisfaction to see her put in her place for everything she’d said, cut off from others and alone, now it just caused an ache in his chest.

The threads of his bitterness and rage had already begun unraveling. He’d been letting the truth sink in since the reunion: Tav had acted reckless and lashed out because she was scared. Scared of losing him. The thought of him abandoning her for Mystra or for godhood drove her to seek pleasure in someone else. Yet he hadn’t bothered to get to the root of the problem at the time. All he knew was that he had his heart broken. He had been betrayed. He had been ‘abandoned.’

He sighed heavily as the pangs of grief and remorse started to take hold. What a fool he’d been. A self-centered, arrogant, quick-tempered fool. But he shook those thoughts out of his head. This wasn’t the time to keep dwelling on what he had or hadn’t done in the past. Where the ball of anger had resided in his chest, just as roiling and hungry as the Netherese orb had been, he felt the tension had begun to break apart. There was still much healing to do, but now there was a little room for the patience and understanding he’d wished he’d displayed before.

He re-read the letter again, chuckling lightly at her doodles and scratches. Her handwriting had much improved, she gave herself too little credit. It was good to see she still had her silly sense of humor as well. She hadn’t been completely robbed of her beautiful qualities.

Draining the last sip of wine in his cup, he arose from his spot on the balcony and walked inside to sit at his desk. One thing nagged at him before he could start writing his response, though. Underneath the bottom list where she said she didn’t deserve him, she’d written something and then furiously scratched it out. He thought he might know what it said, but didn’t want to get carried away if he was wrong. Holding the letter carefully in front of the lit candle on his desk, he stared at the scratches, trying to piece together the words underneath. His breath caught when his eyes brought them together:

‘I still’

I still… Still what? I still hear the voice of the Dark Urge? I still won’t forgive you?

No. Given the context of what was said and the direction they were going, it had to mean only one thing. He would only allow himself to think it was one thing.

‘I still love you.’

Hoping with everything he had that it was true, he took another deep breath and pulled out a scroll from his desk drawer. It was his turn now.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dear Tav, [In small writing to the right of the greeting, it says (my ‘fancy paper’ is at the academy) with a winking face doodle.]

Sometimes I think I’d prefer a good goblin massacre to a room full of hormonal teenage wizards learning to control a firebolt spell, but each day is a new adventure, after all! [After this sentence, Gale had doodled a flame, his head/hair with wisps of smoke, and in small writing with an arrow pointing to the drawings, (I tried).]

Thank you for your thoughts, and especially for your apology. I can’t in good conscience say that everything is forgotten, but I fully believe we are on the right path forward.

I would also like to apologize, because you deserve it. You are so much more deserving than you think you are of kindness, understanding and, yes, when I am able, forgiveness. I understand, likely better than anyone else you might know, how strongly self-loathing can take hold.

Which is why I want to tell you that I’m proud of you. I don’t know what you’ve been up to in recent months. I heard you telling the others about some adventuring opportunities, but I gather from your letter that self-care had gone by the wayside. I’m proud and happy to hear that you’re starting to focus on yourself. Yes, I agree with you: showering, cleaning, limiting alcohol intake, and even being tired enough to go to bed are all good things. I hope you continue being kind to yourself.

Admittedly, I’d fallen into a similar rut. While I get plenty of social interaction at the academy, my extra-curricular life has been…non-existent. I come home to my tower, I usually remember to eat, I grade papers, stay up entirely too late researching, and then attempt to get enough sleep to repeat that schedule ad nauseum. The cleanliness of my home, and myself, had been sorely neglected. But as you are focusing on self-improvement, I shall endeavor to do likewise.

Speaking of self-improvement, that’s where the letter-writing idea came from. Rather, through Tara’s efforts to help me during my year of isolation. She’d suggested I do some journalling to write out my thoughts and emotions regarding Mystra. Not only to get them to stop rolling around in my head, but to be able to articulate them. It did help, quite immeasurably, in fact. That’s why I’m so thankful you’ve agreed to this in the first place. I feel like it will serve us well. [A filled-in purple heart was drawn here.]

Actually, I can’t tell you how many letters I started writing to you in the last six months. I really did try. It just always felt…wrong, somehow. Like it wasn’t the right time, or my words weren’t sincere, or they’d fall on deaf ears. But I’m so glad we’re ‘talking’ now. I’ve missed you, Tav… [A filled-in but broken purple heart was drawn here.]

Tell me what you’ve been up to! Tell me your thoughts. Tell me any and everything you want to. I’ll be waiting to take it all in.

Yours,

Gale

[To the left on the bottom, Gale had drawn an open book with an ink pot and a quill. In the middle on the bottom, Tara had been drawn, wings outstretched, lying down, eyes closed, with a small note: (Tara’s sleeping on my desk and she’s adorable!). On the right under his signature, Gale drew a wand with sparkling stars and a curved line of weave making a flourish.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dear Gale – [Here, she had drawn a wand with stars similar to the one he’d put by his name in his letter]

Thank you for saying that you’ve wanted to talk this whole time. That makes me feel so much better. I never put quill to parchment, but I started countless letters in my head. Like you said, it just never felt right. [After this, Tav drew a scroll, an ink pot, and a quill.]

This does feel like the right path at the right time, but to be honest, Gale…I’m scared. I’m scared to put everything on the table again. With how much I got we got hurt last time we allowed ourselves to be vulnerable with each other, I can’t go through that again. Nor do I want you to go through it again. [Tav had drawn two filled in broken hearts after this paragraph.]

It humbles me to think you feel I’m deserving of good things. Truly. I don’t feel like I am, so I suppose it’s good that someone in this world does. Your encouragement in taking care of myself is unexpected, but ultimately not surprising. That’s just who you are. I’m thankful to hear that you’re taking it upon yourself to improve as well. [Here, Tav had drawn some grapes and cheese on a plate, and to the right of it, a broom and dust pan.]

I fully understand, however, that you can’t forgive me, at least not yet. (I wouldn’t forgive me either.) Hopefully I can begin to earn it over time. I’m not going to sit here and defend my actions with trying to find solace in Mizora’s…experience. It wasn’t even fulfilling, if it makes you feel any better. (It won’t, I know you). It was just tricks of the mind and a devil’s words of promises for things I didn’t even desire. (Perhaps the ‘old me’ would have.) I regretted it immediately, yet it has marked me forever.

But I know that how it left me afterwards is not the point. The point is why I let myself go along with it in the first place. I’ve done a lot of thinking in the last months, especially since the reunion. Let me preface this by saying that I am not shifting the blame. I still made the decision to give in. However, after days and weeks of your near-obsession with the Crown of Karsus, I could see that look in your eyes. You couldn’t stop thinking about the power it could offer. Power that we know all too well would only corrupt you and change you. Then, your meeting with Mystra, introducing her back into your life with her deal to get rid of the orb for the crown… I could feel you slipping away from me.

[On the left side by the words Crown of Karsus, Tav had drawn the crown with a big ‘X’ through it. Near where Mystra is mentioned, she drew a scared ‘Mystra,’ identified as ‘witch bitch,’ being threatened by Tav with a dagger.’]

What I should have done was keep talking to you, seeking reassurance. I should have spat in Mizora’s face and told her to get the fuck out. [In this area, Tav drew herself spitting in Mizora’s face.] I should have sought solace in your embrace, in your words, in your love… But one thing I need you to understand: I was brought up my whole life to be let down. Every success came with a defeat. Every win came with a loss. Every gift came with a sacrifice. You were the most important gift I will ever have in this world or the next. I was positive I was going to lose it, so…I don’t know. I think maybe I wanted to push it from myself first before it was taken outside of my control? Mizora approaching me with her “offer”… She knew exactly what she was doing: giving me an “out” that she knew I would take because I was at my most vulnerable.

For all my accolades being a “Hero of Baldur’s Gate” and savior to many, I clearly didn’t have the strength to stand up to her temptations. I let her use the fact that I have major trust issues to weasel her way into my deepest fears and exploit them. I didn’t have a chance. It doesn’t excuse my actions, but I hope it at least explains them.

I’m running out of parchment. You asked what I’ve been up to. If it’s of any comfort, things are going well enough. I’m eating mostly regularly, I’m keeping up with the chores, and I’m even starting to finally organize some garden space in the yard. I’m trying to spend some time outside every day, and I’ve replaced the wine with various teas. They’re small steps, but they’re steps.

I don’t know if I’ve gotten us closer to any kind of resolution, but hopefully my words can fill in some of the gaps. I look forward to hearing your response.

Thank you, by the way, for giving me something to look forward to again.

I’ve missed you too. Very much so.

Humbly yours,

Tav

[At the bottom left of the page, she drew a cup of tea]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dearest Tav, [to the right of the greeting, it says in smaller writing (I apologize for the condition of this letter. It was rather difficult to write.) The letter is littered with smudges where tears had fallen and letter had been re-written over them.]

As I wrote my last letter and have been pondering your response, it weighs on me just how grave a mistake I also made. The blame for our downfall does not fully rest with you. (Let me finish…)

Feeling like you’re not worthy, like you made too big of a mistake to recover from; you know how familiar I am with those thoughts. Looking back, this means I should have been the one who was there for you the most. Yet I wasn’t. I was the furthest one away.

I agree with you that my anger was justified. I’d felt like I’d been told I wasn’t enough for you, which is exactly what I feared from the beginning. In my mind, you had openly told the entire world that Gale Dekarios, fallen Archmage of Waterdeep, scorned by Mystra herself, could not, in fact, make you or anyone else happy. You had to go find your pleasure elsewhere.

Where my mistake lies is in never stopping to think how much you had to have been hurting in order to find solace in Mizora in the first place. I don’t think I even gave you the chance to confirm you hadn’t been possessed, quite frankly. It’s no wonder your defenses went up immediately. My reaction, while potentially understandable, was absolutely awful.

I am so sorry that I never gave you a chance to talk things through before letting my hurt and rage take over. What I should have done was walk away and screamed into the void instead of at you before hearing any kind of explanation. I suppose I figured there would never be one good enough. Never did I think until recently that I could have possibly had something to do with you feeling pushed in that direction. I should have been more reassuring. I should have given you no reason to doubt my love for you and my dedication to you.

The possibilities that came with the crown had taken over my waking thoughts, and even infiltrated my dreams. Providing an eternal life without conflicts for both you and I sounded like the perfect solution, and I became hyper-focused. You had tried telling me that you were scared, that you didn’t want me to lose my humanity. I just still thought I was smarter and had this whole grand plan all figured out and you would realize it eventually.

[Before the next paragraph is drawn an infinity symbol, a heart nestled into the loops on either side.]

But I didn’t do enough to put your mind at ease. I didn’t help you understand that I wouldn’t have actually left had it come down to choosing between you and the crown. I never, never would have left you, Tav. As I shouted rather rudely before, I only ever truly wanted you. I assumed you knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt, so I didn’t spend any time reinforcing it. I let my focus drift too far. Then, I left you scared and alone afterwards with no chance to explain. I, the ex-Chosen and ex-lover of a goddess, from whom he should have learned humility after his hubris, the man to whom you showed so much kindness and understanding and support when anyone else would have run in the other direction, I couldn’t even show a fraction of that back to you.

Taviela, my heart, I am so, so incredibly sorry that I wasn’t there for you. When you pulled me from that portal and later heard my harrowing tale of foolishness and desperation, you stood by me. You took care of me and encouraged me, and I threw that back in your face at the first opportunity. It will be a long time before I can forgive myself for that. But I humbly, honestly, and hopefully ask if you could ever forgive me. I understand if you cannot, but know that I will spend the rest of my life proving myself to you.

Please keep telling me your thoughts, Tav. I want to hear them. I need to hear them.

Repentantly yours,

Gale

P.S. I’m far too emotional at the moment to do many little doodles, but yours warm my heart. Please keep doing them. [A filled in heart was drawn here. He had also drawn a simple version of the wand and stars under his name.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My Dearest Gale, [Across the top of the page was a wand, a wavy line of weave, and small stars.]

I’ve been staring at this parchment for at least an hour, but I haven’t been able to write anything until now. I’m sobbing at your words. Your insight about everything I put you through, the weight of what happened after all your hurts and insecurities from Mystra and the orb, the fear of being inadequate to me… That weight is almost too much to bear. I’ve berated myself for months now for hurting you, but the full impact never hit me until I read it in your words. I want to fall on my knees and cry at your feet and beg for mercy. But how could you possibly ever forgive me? I’m sorrier than you will ever know for allowing you causing you to feel that way again.

Also, to think that you are taking any of this upon yourself so strongly, I really don’t know what to say about that either. I still feel like this is all due to my deficiencies. My weaknesses. My fuck-ups. But I can understand where you’re coming from, wanting to take some responsibility. All I’ll say is that there is nothing to forgive anymore. I hold no more ill will towards you. We both acted like children throwing tantrums, but we were each already pushed to our limits and didn’t stop to think about, well, anything, really.  [Tav had drawn 5 filled in hearts here, along with writing (I don’t know what else to doodle here because I’m also emotional).]

It feels cheap to keep coming back to my upbringing, but it’s an unfortunate reality where I’m concerned. Everything was always a bitter fight of either words or daggers. There was no real “communication” to speak of. There were no “feelings” shared. It was all cruel lessons with harsh punishments. ‘Be a bitch, or get walked over’ was something I told myself a lot. I never truly learned to stop and step back and give things time to breathe. Putting myself in another person’s shoes is something I’ve forced myself to learn, especially during our adventures.

I have a confession to make. When I (literally) ran into you in Waterdeep a few months ago, it wasn’t just happenstance. I’d come there with a purpose. The downward spiral had begun weeks prior and I was nearing rock bottom. I came to look for you. To see if you were possibly even half as miserable as I was without you. I was certain you would be, and that it would give me a reason to approach you. We would be on common ground and might actually be able to talk. [On the right side of the page, Tav had drawn an open book sitting in a puddle of water in the rain. On the pages of the book it said ‘I’m sorry about the books.’]

But then I saw you. You were in the marketplace, smiling, making small talk with the merchants, even laughing with them. You looked full of life. You looked like you were doing just fine – without me. My heart dropped into my shoes and I’d considered just walking away, never letting you see I was even there. But something in me snapped. I apparently just had to get in a couple more digs before I walked away forever. That was childish and unacceptable and I’m sorry I put you in that position. (I don’t blame you one bit for the Hold Person spell, for the record. I deserved it.) [Tav had drawn the symbol for the Hold Person spell here, along with Tav approves.]

Please forgive me, but I’m emotionally spent. I think I’ll wrap this up to send in the morning, go sit on the back porch with a cup of tea, and just think for a while.

Still yours,

Tav

[Along the left side of the bottom of the page, Tav drew a small flower garden. On the right side, a cup of tea.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My Darling Taviela, [On the right side of the top of the page was carefully drawn an eternity symbol. Inside each side was a heart – a G written in the one on the left, a T written in the one on the right. Next to it, Gale wrote:] (I’ve been doodling this a lot lately.)

My heart aches for you, for us both. You’re right. There’s nothing to forgive anymore. We were both stretched so far beyond our limits, no wonder we broke down. We both have acted out of turn, we both have put ourselves through the wringer, and we both built impossibly high walls around ourselves. I’m happy to say that I believe we can push those walls down now. I want to move forward in whatever way we can, even if that ends up being as friends (though judging by your comments, it doesn’t sound like that will be the case, but please correct me if I’m reading the situation incorrectly).

I have a confession for you, in light of your revelations regarding our “run-in” in the marketplace. It was all an act to save face out in public. The laughter, the ‘life’ you say you saw in me, the light-hearted interactions – they were all a façade. I was miserable without you, however angry I was. After that interaction, it got even worse. I felt awful immediately, leaving you standing there shivering in the rain. [Gale had drawn a hand getting smacked by a ruler with words in a bubble outlined in sharp angles: BAD WIZARD!] I couldn’t believe that, even though there was some provocation, that I’d still reverted to such a childish response. I sank further into my depressive state. I almost didn’t come to the reunion with our companions either, actually. It felt like more of an effort to get myself put together than I was capable of. Fortunately, Tara snapped me out of it.

Speaking of Tara, I’ve been working on getting her to be more understanding. I’m sure you have noticed that her protectiveness of me overrides any kind of empathetic nature towards anyone who has caused me even a lick of hurt. But she’s come a long way in understanding both sides of our…predicament. I’ll keep at it, for both of our sakes. [A trail of small paw prints was drawn after this.]

I’m pleased to say that I’ve been keeping up with the cleaning, [on the right side of the page, Gale doodled a robed hand holding a sparking wand next to two balls of dust that look like rabbits. Underneath was written, (dust bunnies).] I feel like I finally have a handle on my students and my lesson-planning, and I’ve found joy in cooking meals again. Too much time is being spent grading sub-par assignments in the evenings, I’ll admit, but it comes with the territory. My heart has been all the lighter in the last couple of weeks, and it’s all thanks to you: your words, your patience, and willingness to work on…well, us.

What have you been up to lately? Any more adventuring opportunities coming your way? Are you doing any traveling? I wonder if there’s any chance our paths might cross in the near future.

I’ll admit, my mind has been wandering to thoughts of seeing you again. I miss the warmth of your embrace, the sparkle in your smile, the feeling of home when I look into your eyes – I feel like a part of me has been missing since our falling out.

I was actually thinking… What would you say to coming back to Waterdeep for a proper visit?

Take care of yourself, my darling [a filled-in heart was drawn here]

Gale (no fancy drawing in my name this time. Just me, missing you.) [above this, Gale had drawn a side profile of himself from the chest up, looking down, eyes closed, a tear falling from his eye.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The letters had been going back and forth at a regular, weekly pace. It was about six weeks after the reunion, which already seemed like forever ago. They had come so far, and his words made her realize that she missed him more than she knew was possible.

However, when Tav saw the last question in Gale’s letter, she froze. Her chest tightened and her breath quickened. She got dizzy, her hands shook, and her mind raced, tears threatening to overflow onto her cheeks. She was having a panic attack.

She threw the letter in her top desk drawer, slammed it shut, ran down the hall, and pulled the lever for her shower without bothering to warm the water first. Fully clothed, she stood underneath the cold deluge until her breathing slowed and she could process her thoughts.

The nausea was back. She sat on the floor on a towel and just let the water drip off her. Tucking her knees up to her chin, she stared at the wall and focused on her breathing. She wanted nothing more than for Gale to walk in the room right now, pick her up, and hold her in his lap, caressing her hair and whispering comforting words to her until she felt better. But as much as she wanted to feel his arms around her, to smell his scent, to run her fingers through his hair and more, she was absolutely terrified.

All she could think of as she started rocking back and forth was that she was going to end up hurting him again. She cried and cried until she resigned herself to lying down on the floor and crying herself to sleep, shivering in her damp clothes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A week went by and there was no response from Tav. Gale tried to brush it off, attempting to convince himself that perhaps she had gotten a chance to do some traveling, and was running behind sending her letter.

Nine days went by and his resolve started to falter. He replayed every word in his head that he’d written in his last letter. Was he moving ahead too fast? Did he assume too much? Did he push her too far? He ached to see her, to hear her voice, and to comfort her. But he could NOT let himself fuck things up again…

On the tenth day, he sent just a short message in hurried writing, requested for the utmost urgent delivery.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tav,

I’m truly, deeply sorry if I’m pushing you too far. You don’t have to answer the last question. We can continue just writing if that’s what makes you comfortable. I’ll do whatever you need, but I cannot, I will not lose you again.

Please, talk to me, my love.

Gale [A filled in heart was drawn after his name.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sleep never found him that night. He let his brain run through every worst-case scenario it could come up with. Tears were still crawling down his face every so often as he saw the faintest colors of the dawn coming to greet the eleventh day. Thank the gods he had the next couple of days off for Midsummer…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

On the afternoon of the twelfth day, Tav’s response arrived. Gale didn’t even go back inside or shut the door. He ripped open the envelope and tried to steady his breathing as his shaky hands held her letter. He let himself take a deep breath and fall back against his door frame as he read:

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My precious Gale,

I am so very sorry for the delayed response and for making you worry. I don’t know what came over me, but when I saw you asking to see each other again…I panicked. I had a full-on panic attack, after which, I slept for days. I lost all track of what day it was or how much time had gone by. I kept picking up my quill and the words just wouldn’t come. I’m so sorry. Your words in the message I received today snapped me back out of it. Thank you for checking on me. [A filled-in heart was drawn here.]

Gale, I can’t bear the thought of hurting you again. I’m not saying that I don’t want to see you. Believe me, nothing would make me happier. My dreams of getting to be near you, to hold you again, to be held by you, they are my greatest source of comfort. But we haven’t spent any time together in person since the reunion, and we spent months before that acting like completely different people.

What if we can’t change, Gale? What if seeing each other brings out all the anger and spite again? I can’t forgive myself, even if you have. I don’t know what to say – I can’t lose you again either, I won’t survive it. And I fear that I will become upset by something and fall back into my old ways of dealing with arguments: with juvenile pettiness and venomous words. I’m so scared…

In fact, I’m going to deflect now so I don’t dissolve into another panic attack.

To answer your other questions – honestly, adventuring hasn’t happened in a while. I was being truthful at the reunion when I said I’d been adventuring and helping people. But coming back from Waterdeep is when I started to shut everyone out. My house descended into chaotic messes that I didn’t have the energy to clean, I stopped eating regularly, I was drinking at least a bottle of wine a day, and I slept all the time. I have enough money set aside that I can get away with not working for quite a while, but that won’t last forever.

The gardening is going well now though! I haven’t killed so much as a tomato plant! I’m growing flowers and selling bundles here and there. I’m also growing my own vegetables and some fruits, though I haven’t begun selling those yet. I’m getting the itch to start baking, however… I’ve found a great deal of fulfillment in creating (growing) some kind of life now instead of dwelling on the memories of taking it. [Along the left side of the page, she drew a tomato plant crawling up the side. Along the right, she drew a plate of danishes and a cup of tea.]

I’m so sorry again for worrying you. I just froze because I don’t want you to get hurt. I’ll get this sent to you as quickly as I can, but please tell me your thoughts. I’m hoping your insight can be of some comfort.

With all my heart,

Your Tav

[At the bottom of the letter, Tav drew the same symbol Gale had been doodling on everything he could: the eternity symbol with the hearts in the middle, one with a G, one with a T. Next to it, she wrote:] (I tried… Yours looks much nicer.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My sweet Taviela, [Their infinity symbol with hearts and their initials was on the top right.]

Thank you for explaining the reason for the delay. I completely understand, and I’m sorry to have caused you to panic. If I may offer some encouragement, however, perhaps I can help quiet your heart.

Neither of us are under anywhere near the amount of pressure and stress that we were at the time back in Baldur’s Gate. We are taking care of ourselves now as individuals, fully independent of others, and neither is a crutch for the other. This bodes well for quelling any fears of being too dependent on each other for our own good.

We’ve seen what damage can be done by careless words and actions, and we’ve walked back from that ledge – together. Now we’ll be more aware of the warning signs should we become frustrated with each other again. We’ve talked about what we can do to avoid arguments in the future, like walking away for a breather, should we need to. Lest you have any unrealistic expectations, please remember that we will become frustrated with each other and we will likely have some arguments. That’s only natural for any two beings that have a close relationship. But we have some experience now and wisdom gained. I truly believe that we can be better for each other. We can change. Together. [A filled in heart is drawn here along the left side of the page.]

If you are comfortable thinking about the possibility of visiting, I have a proposition for you. Some simple guidelines that will help keep us in check as we try spending time together again, under completely different circumstances.

-          I will get you set up in a lovely room at The Yawning Portal for one week. The bartender owes me a favor for clearing out some riffraff a few weeks ago. Then you can have a place you feel comfortable retreating to without feeling trapped in my tower, should you wish to get some space.

-          So as to not put too much pressure on either of us too quickly, we can have a date each day, but we don’t spend the entire day together (at least not every day). It may be midsummer, but I still have regular responsibilities with the academy that I need to see to. Besides, that will give us time to individually reflect on our time together and how we’re feeling.

-          At the end of the week, we can talk about how things have gone and what direction we should go at that point. We won’t pressure each other, and we’ll agree that we won’t be disappointed if one person needs more time than the other. Above all, we need to make sure our friendship stays in tact.

So, what do you say? Look! I even got Tara’s stamp of approval! [On the side of the page is an ink pawprint.] (Do you have any idea how much convincing it took to get her to put her paw in ink? I owe her tuna for weeks…)

I won’t pressure you, but if you’re amenable to this plan, we can do this as soon as you’d like – even next week. Having said all that, if you still want to take things slower and keep writing letters for now, I will fully support that decision and be delighted to keep doing so.

If you will allow me, however, I would like to make one last plea: I want to see you, Taviela. I need to see you. My heart aches for you and my arms feel so painfully empty without you in them. I long to curl my fingers into your hair, to hear your contended sighs, to be lit up inside by your laughter, and, when you’re ready, to make love to you and cover you in affectionate, healing kisses until every hurtful word we’ve ever exchanged is erased from memory itself.

I know you’re scared, my darling. But I believe in us. I believe things will be different this time around. I hope and pray to every god and goddess who will listen that you can find it in your heart to take the risk.

Come here to me, my love, and we can keep walking our way forward - together. [A filled in heart is drawn here.]

I eagerly await your reply, whatever it may be.

Yours always,

Gale [A doodle of a wand surrounded by stars is by his name.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tav’s hands trembled. Gods, she missed him so much it physically hurt. Especially now that she knew how much he was missing her as well. Sitting at her desk, she re-read his last full paragraph with tears flooding her vision and heart filling her chest, not to mention a familiar heat between her thighs. She knew at that moment that her desire and her renewed trust in Gale Dekarios FINALLY outweighed her fears. She didn’t even need to think about her response. It was short and sweet:   

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Gale, my love, [Their eternity/hearts/initials symbol was drawn on the top right.]

I’ll set out tomorrow by horse from Daggerford and will arrive at the Yawning Portal on Sunday evening around dinner time. I sincerely hope your arms will be waiting for me, because I’ll be rushing into them the moment I see you. [A filled-in heart was drawn in.]

Just don’t be holding a stack of books this time… [ Tav had drawn a doodle of a winking face here.]

Yours always,

Tav

P.S. I doubt we’ll be waiting long for those healing kisses… I know we’re going to space out our time together, but stay with me the first night? Help me “settle in” to Waterdeep? [Tav sketched a set of lip prints in the bottom right.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tears fell from Gale’s eyes, but happy ones this time. He could tell his cheeks were flushed too from her “P.S.”… He laughed at her jab about the books, then folded up the letter and brought it to his lips, kissing the edge she would have folded with her soft hands.

He had planning to do. 

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for writing a fake crush note to a homophobe?

So for starters, I AM gay, just not in that direction, and I definitely am not attracted to him

So there's this guy at my school that's very homophobic. Which isn't wholly surprising given that we're in a red state, but still sucks. His phrasing of things is often very uncomfortable, like he'll ask you if you "agree with LGBT" which is just- tf?? He's also the guy that sent a link to a pinterest post about Dumbledore being gay (yes, THAT Dumbledore) with the caption "my day is now ruined :(" so yeah I'm not too fond of him. He was also emotionally manipulative towards one of my close friends, something I'm not going to get into here bc that's her business but needless to say the guy sucks. We'll refer to him as Homophobe.

Thing is, dude gives off really strong bi vibes. Not entirely sure what it is about him, but until he started being openly homophobic I was certain he was bi. Quite a few of my other queer friends agreed when I casually mentioned this.

So we all hate Homophobe for a variety of reasons, right? And we were having a discussion about him for whatever reason, and we had the idea to write an anonymous note mentioning that he feels very bi bc his reaction would be funny. Stick it on his locker between periods and yeah. But because of our extreme dislike towards him, it pretty quickly devolved into How Can We Fuck Up This Guy's Life Without Being Too Mean.

Someone proposed the idea of writing it as a gay kid that has a crush on him, mentioning that multiple people have agreed that Homophobe seems very bisexual. I was voted to be the person that writes the note, as I'm the best at writing in different handwritings and having it look natural. So the note's been written. It doesn't say who it's from, just that the imaginary kid shares a class with him, likes him, and asks Homophobe to leave a note in a certain location if he likes him back.

And just- I dunno, I was on board with this idea at first but I'm starting to have more doubts about this. Is this a dick move?

What are these acronyms?

[snoutbleed]

Telling a story takes guts.

Forensic photographer Sören Heinrich can’t ignore the nausea bubbling in his throat when documenting someone's darkest day. He loses sleep over the fates he captures but is drawn to the purpose vested in his grisly role. When blood-slicked prints become Sören's next subject, he finds a message that blurs the line between his personal and professional life.

"This is where I’ve been. Don’t follow."

Unable to fathom his long-lost brother’s crimson handwriting, Sören descends into the criminal underworld for answers. The young boar's inner demons guide him toward a morbid self-reckoning.

Direktion 2 has their work cut out for them.

Crime is on the rise in post-reunification Berlin. Among the cases, the Polizeidirektorate in the city's westernmost boroughs is baffled by freak murders at the hands of denizens without motive.

In the shadow of the Berlin Wall, the crime wave takes a supernatural twist behind the lock of a post-Soviet puzzle.

Camera flashes at the crime scenes reveal gruesome secrets stirring in the shadows.

Unravel the conspiracy in #LONG STORY SHORT.

#The Filing Cabinet -- scan the profiles of those in the know. #Bloodstained Polaroids -- view the images of lives gone astray. #Evidence Board -- learn the details of secrets best kept. #Mystery Signals -- behold the lore of the mind melt. Face the music in the official Long Story Short playlist!

Everyone gathers toward the Abschnitt.

There are several Polizei Berlin stations like the Abschnitt, but everyone tied to this supernatural symphony ends up near this Spandau station particularly.

Sören Heinrich -- ( boar | tag | bio ) The black sheep of the Abschnitt. Sören’s abrasive nature keeps his co-workers at bay, a division widened by their western ideals clashing with his East German upbringing. He distances himself from the station through tight focus on his job, always the first to arrive at a crime scene. Don Jae Hale -- ( elk | tag | bio ) The silver-tongued Kriminalhauptkommissar of the Abschnitt. Hale is quick to dismiss the killings up until his leadership comes under siege by the paranoid public. Umeya Romanova -- ( fox | tag | bio ) The Bundeskriminalamt detective sent to assist with the Abschnitt’s mounting cases. Rumor says Umeya is there for more than the mystery, but her motives veiled by a callous attitude. Marieke Reiss -- ( rabbit | tag | bio ) The star psychology student barely escaped a killing. Now a key witness, Marieke can’t rest easy knowing she could be the next victim, driving her to take matters into her own hands. Reinhardt Müller -- ( donkey | tag | bio ) The Abschnitt’s disgraced ace detective, worn down and living in the grimy corners of Berlin. When crime spikes, Reinhardt tries to relive his “glory days" of detective work. Ukko Heinrich -- ( boar | tag | bio ) The crime lord defends his territory with brutal but firm methods. He's sworn to his found family, the country's political rift making him protective to a fault. Vorwitz Albrecht -- ( bat | tag | bio ) A gardener with good banners but bad morals. Vorwitz's unsavory career choices put him in the Abschnitt, but he finds a way out with Sören.

Entropy knows no bounds.

Stop, look and listen: stories are everywhere. Behold my settings.

Face more madness in #TALES GONE STALE.

LAID TO WASTE -- an abomination stirs in the bayou, its secrets poisoning a township. THE WASTED LIVES -- a group of galactic fugitives embark on a never-ending getaway on a runaway cruiser. (Links need an update. Stay tuned.)

The mind behind the melancholy.

ACHTUNG! This blog is 18+ for gore and suggestive content!

You can call me Dissy (she/her). I'm a writer with stories and ideas always bouncing inside my head, especially this one. Feel free to ask me about myself, my writing, my characters, or anything else. I promise you I can bark up a tree for hours.

I also do Polaroid photography: check out @hogrot for my shots!

I also encourage comments, critique, etc. about this setting. I want to pace myself while writing this, therefore I have all the time I need to refine this where I can. I don't expect this story to come out for a while anyway, especially as I run it through critiques. Hell, this pet project wouldn't have come into fruition thanks to the feedback of some incredible friends.

Shoutout to PYRY for doing character design and art for this setting, as well as giving his ideas and characters for the Heinrich plotline. Go check out his killer art. This story wouldn't exist without him.

Another shoutout to @tsanapi, an incredible artist who drew the art pictured above. Her sense of style is so keen.

And a final thanks to you, the reader, for tuning into the mind melt. This signals wouldn't have picked up without you.

[girlwiththepapatattoo]

you see through me what lies beyond, Chapter 2

Warnings: vaginal sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, intimidation, Ganondorf being himself

Summary: Left alone in the Demon King's rooms, you pick up a new skill.

Notes: I hadn't expected to do a second chapter, but I managed to get an idea for a plot! Granted, I'm not sure where it'll go right now, but...that's part of the fun. If you spot any mistakes in this, feel free to point it out, I'm falling asleep editing lol <3

Read on Ao3 here!

Previous chapter

You wake alone. For a moment, you startle at the unfamiliar bed, the silk sheets under your naked skin, before memories of the previous night come rushing in. You feel your face go hot as you remember everything that happened. I can’t believe that I really…with him…

You roll over, pressing your hand to the space he’d been in when you fell asleep together. The sheets are cold. He must have gotten up early, you think. You stamp down on the rising disappointment. I doubt he’s a cuddler…

Slipping out of bed, you make a face at the lingering stickiness between your legs. You start to make your way to the bathroom, before pausing. On the table where you shared dinner last night is a place setting for one, and what looks like a folded piece of paper sitting in front of the plate. Smiling faintly, you grab the card as you head into the bathroom for a quick wash, opening it and reading it on the way. In tidy, efficient handwriting, it says: 

My little beauty, I have work to do today, so you will not see me until dinner. You may read anything in my rooms that you wish; I cast a spell this morning upon your brow that will let you read our common tongue. Avail yourself of my bathroom. If you get hungry or thirsty, simply press your hand to your plate or cup and the food you want will appear.  Above all else: Do not leave this room! I cannot guarantee your safety if you do. I would not see you killed so soon after you’ve arrived.  Ganondorf

“Not until dinner, huh?” you murmur, disappointed. But you know that he’s a busy man, so you try not to take it personally. 

You soak in the tub until pruny, enjoying the way that you can stretch out in the water as much as you want, even floating at one point. But your stomach rumbles insistently at you, and so you finally get out, wrapping yourself in a big, fluffy towel and heading out to eat. Breakfast is delicious, hearty and filling, with a variety of fruits that burst on your tongue. 

And all the while, your mind is racing. Yesterday, so much happened that you couldn’t process it very well. (It didn’t help that you were very thoroughly distracted by a certain giant king, either.) But now that you’re alone without much to do, it all hits you like a truck. 

The Legend of Zelda is real. Ganondorf is real. And this isn’t a game. 

A part of you aches to go explore, wanting to see all the places you’ve only been to in pixelated form. But your lover’s warning gives you a healthy pause. This isn’t a game, and you were no warrior like Link. Odds are, if you were to meet one of Ganondorf’s minions, you would be killed. The thought made you shiver in fear. 

And so, once breakfast is done, you peruse his bookshelves. Leather-bound volumes sit proudly in neat rows, and scrolls are tidily piled in drawers. Titles in languages you can’t read decorate the spines and covers of many of the tomes, and some books give you such a bad feeling that you don’t dare to touch them. But there are a fair few that are written in Common, and thanks to the spell he placed on you, could be read just fine. You settle on a bestiary of various monsters, thinking to arm yourself with some knowledge at least, and settle down into Ganondorf’s huge armchair before the fire. 

This particular book is large to accommodate detailed pictures of monster anatomy, the binding sturdy and a muddy brown color. You read about the different monsters that one could encounter in the world, doing your best to commit them to memory. But when learning about their biology no longer holds your attention, you return to the bookshelves, looking for something different. 

And indeed, you find it. Sitting there amongst the tomes is a thick book, written in common: Magic Primer. “Primer…that’s for beginners,” you murmur, and pull the book out. As your fingers touch the binding, a gentle warmth flows up your arm. It makes you smile, hopeful that this will be something you’ll be able to learn. 

You quickly make your way back to the armchair, Ganondorf’s words from yesterday about your possible talent swirling through your mind. Excitedly, you crack the book open. 

New student of magic, this author says to you: above everything else, above natural talent, above raw power, the one thing that a learner of magic must remember to be is patient. Learning magic is akin to befriending a feral cat. If you try too hard, it will run from you. Not hard enough and it won’t be interested in what you have to offer. And if you do not guard yourself, it will rip your throat out.  As in all things, you must find balance, and be not discouraged if the power doesn’t immediately leap to your fingers.  Patience, student, will get you far further than anything else. 

“Patience,” you murmur. “Well, I’m stuck in this room until he gets tired of me, so I can do patience.” 

You turn the page. The first chapter is about meditation, and how important it is to beginners learning magic. “It is highly recommended that new students meditate for at least an hour before trying anything beyond this chapter. A chaotic mind will yield chaotic spells, which can be dangerous for new practitioners,” you murmur, reading aloud. 

You shift in place, following a diagram from the page about how you should sit. “Clearing one’s mind, for most people, is easier said than done. But it need not be full silence. A monotone hum can be even more effective than trying for nothing at all.”

You nod to yourself, lay your hands on your knees, close your eyes, and start humming. A soft, straight tone sound filters into the air around you as you focus on your breathing. You didn’t think you’d be any good at it, and it is difficult, trying not to latch on to the random thoughts that pop into your mind. But almost before you know it, the hour’s past. You shift, stretching out joints gone stiff from sitting in one place for so long. 

The second chapter details some easy first spells. “A light spell is always handy,” you read, “and relatively easy to do. Hold open your dominant hand and fill your thoughts with light. Keep in mind, light can take different forms. If you think about firelight, a flame will light in the air above your palm, so be cautious. The easiest and safest is to think about pure sunlight, as it will result in a simple glowing ball of light.” 

You open your hand above your knee and close your eyes. You think back to…just a few days ago, actually. On Earth, it’s the beginning of spring where you live, and the snows are beginning to melt. You’d stepped out of your door and felt the warm sun on your skin, the feeling pleasant enough to make you stop for a few moments just to enjoy it. 

It’s that feeling that you bring up. The light against your eyelids, the warmth on your face, the uplifting feeling it gave your spirit…so strong is the memory you nearly feel sunlight on your skin now. 

Wait… 

Your eyes snap open, and hovering above your palm is a baseball-sized orb of light, giving off a softly radiant glow. 

You gape it as it floats above your hand. You did magic. 

You did magic.

You did magic!!!

You’re so excited that your mental control over the spell is thrown out the window, and rather than just fade, it bursts into motes of light that slowly disappear, like a tiny firework that reflects your elation. You all but squeal in delight. “Holy shit, I can do magic!” 

Your stomach takes that moment to grumble, but you didn’t want to stop now. So you take up the book and move to the plate on the table. “Let’s see if I can figure out how to make the light stay without concentrating,” you murmur as the tray conjures you lunch. 

And so it is that later that night, when Ganondorf unlocks his door and enters his room, he’s met with dozens of globes of light, softly shining and floating in the air, and you in the process of making another, still only clad in a fluffy towel. 

He stares in shock as he watches you gently toss out another globe, which comes to rest a few inches from one that’s already made. He closes the door behind him, locks it, and snaps his fingers. At once, all the globes go out. You gasp, jumping in sudden fright as the room is suddenly much darker than it was, and you turn to look at him. Those golden eyes all but glaring down at you make you swallow. “Y-You’re back! Ganondorf, I-” 

“What do you think you are doing?” he all but growls at you. He walks toward you, slowly, and you feel your spine trying to disintegrate. You’ve never felt so small, so insignificant before in your life, like a gnat before a colossus. 

“I’m sorry, I…I found this book!” You hold out the primer in front of you like a shield. “I-I was just curious, I didn’t think it would actually work, but then I made a light, and-” 

You cut off with a yelp as he snatches the book from you, flipping through the first couple pages. He’s quiet for a few minutes, before uttering, “Have you tried any other spells?” 

“N-No! I swear, I only did the light spell!” you gasp. 

He closes the book and sighs as he takes in your terrified appearance. “...that is well then.” He offers you the book back, which you gingerly take. “I did not mean to frighten you. But magic can be dangerous to learn on one’s own. I would be cross if you’d burned up my room.” 

You figure that’s as close to an apology you’re likely to get from him, and your shoulders start to relax. A little, anyway. “I…I wouldn’t want to learn the more dangerous spells on my own anyway. I’m not stupid,” you mumble defensively.

“Glad to hear it,” he rumbles wryly. He tilts his head slightly, and despite himself a hint of  curiosity enters his gaze. “How long did it take you to perform the spell the first time? Tell me about your method.” 

You perk up, and you start grinning. “Okay, so, the book said that before you start on magic work for the day that you should meditate to calm your mind, so I did that. Then, the light spell said to ‘imagine a light source, but be careful if it’s fire.’ It suggested sunlight, so I just…” You explain to him your thought process. “...and when I opened my eyes it was there, above my palm!” 

He looks surprised. “That easily?” 

You nod eagerly. “That easily! I was so surprised and excited that the spell sorta burst, it was pretty.” 

“I see.” He looks thoughtful. Then he suddenly scoops you up with one arm and strides to the armchair, sitting and settling you into his lap. His arms wrap around your waist, and he curves his chest over your back. “Show me. Perform the spell again.” 

You’re a little breathless from being manhandled like that-one night in his presence wasn’t nearly enough to get you used to this. But you nod and close your eyes. “Give me a moment to settle my mind again.” 

Amusement enters his golden gaze, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Of course.” 

You both sit there in silence as you calm down. Though, it was easier said than done: the fact that you could sit cross-legged in Ganondorf’s lap and still have room left over was…very distracting. But eventually, your emotions settle, and you open your eyes. “Okay.” 

He watches you as you lift your hand, but he’s not just watching your physicality. He’s practiced enough in the arcane arts that he can feel other people’s energies. He hadn’t been kidding yesterday when he told you his thoughts about you and sorcery, but not just because your feelings were able to breach dimensional boundaries. He can feel a wealth of energy inside you, locked behind your world’s limitations. But upon traveling to a world where magic is common, those limitations were shattered, and now your energy flows freely. 

He watches as it travels from your heart and brain, the epicenters of magical force, down your arm, up through your palm to curve into a ball and burst into radiant light. It took all of two seconds. It hovers there, casting a cheerful light over the area. You grin up at him. 

He watches it for a moment. “Show me how you anchor it.” 

“Okay.” You close your eyes again. He watches just a tiny sliver of your energy break off from the main body of the pool available to you. It sticks through the ball of energy as if nailing it to a wall, and you take your hand away, letting it float there.Ganondorf reaches out, poking at the orb, trying to move it–but it stays firm. 

“...I have to admit, I am fairly impressed,” he finally says. You light up, almost brighter than the orb you’d created. “Do not get me wrong, this is a beginner spell. Creating light is not difficult for even children, once they have even a rudimentary grasp of their own energy. However…” He leans back in the armchair, looking thoughtful as you turn around in his lap to face him. “You performed this spell instantly the first time you tried it. That is rare. And to follow it up, in your first session ever using magic, with a holding technique?” He nods. “I will give credit where credit is due: that is very well done.” 

You beam happily at him. “Thank you! I didn’t think something like that would impress you, I’m honored.” 

He nods. “As you should be. However…this will be the last time that you practice magic by yourself.” 

You blink, your stomach sinking like a rock. “...why?” 

“Like I said, I do not want you burning down my room. I have too many important documents and relics in here. Instead, starting tomorrow, you will learn directly from me, in a training room much more suited.” 

Your jaw drops. “You…you’re going to teach me yourself?!”

“I am. Your potential is too great to leave to someone else. I will see to it personally.” 

“Holy shit,” you breathe, and he rumbles a chuckle in amusement. “I…well, I’ll do my best to learn.” 

“Of course you will. I do not expect any less.” He watches you for a long moment, before reaching forward and capturing your chin in between his thumb and forefinger. “Be warned: I will push you to your limits.” 

You swallow hard, but smile faintly. “I figured you would. You’re good at that.” 

His lips quirk up into a smirk, and he leans forward, so close his nose brushes yours. “Am I? Is my little beauty thinking of last night?” he purrs. 

Your heart rate ramps up, your eyes blowing wide. “I’m sitting in your lap and you’re about to kiss me. How could I not?” you whisper back. 

He abruptly grabs your hips, and he yanks you forward against his chest. “I do enjoy how eager you are, little one,” he whispers into your jawline, nipping playfully as his right hand lifts to curl gently around your throat. Heat explodes into your veins, and your gasp is music to his ears. “I like the thought that you are so eager, you would do anything I ask. Would you not?” 

You whimper, trembling at his touch, your hips already pressing forward into his. “V-Very nearly, yes,” you gasp. 

He chuckles, low and dark, the sound curling lithely into your core. “As I thought.” Then abruptly, he plucks you from his lap and stands you next to his chair. “However,” he says, standing as you sway a little, “I have not eaten anything since breakfast. Delicious as you are, you are not very filling.” He smirks down at you as he moves for the dining table. “I will save you for dessert.” 

You gape at his back in disbelief as he leaves you there. The heat is rapidly dissipating as you realize that he’d been only playing with you, and you huff, blushing darkly as you come over to take your seat at the table. “You’re a damn tease, Gan.” 

He flicks his hand at the covered platter, and when he removes the cloche there are slices of roasted beef, smelling of spices and something like wine. There’s also steamed vegetables, and on the other plates appear fresh fruit. It’s a very well rounded meal. “I do not recall giving you permission to shorten my name,” he muses, raising an eyebrow as he serves you a portion of the food. 

You flush faintly. “Well…your full name’s a bit of a mouthful.” Much like other things, you think, though you don’t say it out loud.

“Even so. One night of passion does not entitle you to such…familiarity. Not yet, anyway. You will call me Ganondorf, or my lord. Understood?” 

You glower at him. “If that’s what you want, then fine. But it feels weird being so formal with you, and not just because we…we had sex. I grew up knowing you and your stories, for God’s sake.” You pause as his eyes flick to yours. “How about a compromise? Can I call you Ganon?” 

His lips purse in disapproval. “I am not Ganon. Ganon is my bestial form, and you should know that.” 

“I do, but that doesn’t mean-”

“I have given you your options,” he says firmly. “If you cannot follow my wishes on such a minor subject, how am I to trust you to follow my orders when I teach you magic?” 

Despite yourself, you wince and look down. “All right…I’m sorry, Ganondorf.” 

“Apology accepted.” 

He goes quiet after that. You examine him as you both eat, though you try your best to be subtle about it. He’s perfectly mannered, but his eyes are miles away. You wonder what he’s thinking about, if there’s some problem with his plans. You wonder if it’s Link and Zelda…and that thought makes you freeze, your eyes going wide in sudden realization. 

“Could I ask you a question?” He grunts an affirmative. “If you die, am I stuck here?” 

He looks at you sharply. “Why are you thinking of my death?” 

You hold up your hands placatingly. “I’m not! I mean, I am, but not in-I don’t want you to die, that’s not what I meant. But generally, if you’re alive then Zelda and Link move against you, and that tends to lead to you dying. What if you die while I’m still here?” 

He stares at you for a long moment, before sighing. “If they were to slay me, yes, you would be stuck here. But they would not kill you, as you are not part of my plans. You are only my companion.” 

“All right…” You look down, swallowing slightly as you cut another piece of beef. “That would…kinda suck. I mean, not only do I not want you to die, but I wouldn’t know where to even start about living in a fantasy realm.” 

He snorts. “Yes, a world of much lower technology would be a culture shock for you. But once Zelda learns that you know about…all of us, I am sure she would provide for you.” 

“You think?” 

“Of course. Not only because she is kind, but because you would be a source of information for her.” 

You smile ruefully. “Wisdom.” 

The tone of your voice sounds almost resigned, and he chuckles without much humor. “Wisdom. You understand better than I thought you would.” 

“The outside perspective helps with that.” 

“Indeed.” 

It goes quiet again, save for the snap of the fireplace and the clink of utensils. Only once the food is gone does he turn to you. He smirks, his eyes roaming your form, and he flicks his fingers. The platter and plates disappear from the table. “Stand.” 

You flush, but you push your chair back and stand before him. “Good girl,” he rumbles, and the praise makes a shiver run up your spine. “Come closer.” 

You step forward, and as soon as you’re within reach he grasps you and lifts you from the floor, stripping the towel off and laying you face down on the table. You gasp as he pulls your hips up into the air, his enormous hands framing themselves around your ass cheeks. “Ganondorf!” 

He chuckles, a low, amused, aroused rumble as his eyes feast on the view before him. “Yes? I told you that I would have you for dessert, did I not?”

“You did, b-but I didn’t think you meant it literally!” 

He snorts. “Rarely am I anything but literal, little one. Now, unless you’re crying out in pleasure, hush.” 

You flush darkly as his thumbs pull your lower lips open. You glisten in the firelight, and in the light from the nearby candles, and he watches with relish as your weeping hole twitches in arousal. He says nothing, just emits a pleased near-growl as his eyes roam your folds. His right index finger hooks gently over your labia, leaving his thumb free to rub teasing circles over your entrance. A choked cry is muffled into the table top as all the eager nerves are stimulated around your hole, and he smiles when he feels your thigh muscles twitch under his left hand. 

His thumb suddenly sinks into you, punching a curse out of your lips. He plunges it in and out a couple times, watching the way your slick builds around the digit, before he pulls it out to swipe once over your clit. 

He chuckles as your hips buck. 

His right hand leaves your ass as he sinks one long, thick middle finger into you. Your fingernails scratch against the table top as that finger slowly undulates, and your hips move of their own accord, pressing back to meet his intruding digit. His left hand tightens on your hip, forcing you to stop. 

“You will move when I tell you to,” he growls, and all the while his finger continues to move, to slide along your slick walls. 

“P-Please,” you gasp in vain. You know after last night he doesn’t respond to your begging until he’s good and ready. 

He smirks, his golden eyes darkened and molten, as he watches your quivering cunt responding to him. He watches the way your clit engorges under its hood, wanting attention. He watches the way your juices drip down your folds, squelching around him. 

And then he adds a second, stretching you around his massive fingers. 

“FUCK,” you shout, your hips twisting against his grip as he slowly presses forward. His pace is achingly relaxed, not because he thinks you need him to go slow after last night, but to torment you, the sweetest torture. “Please, please, I-I need more!” 

“Is that so?” he replies, his tone as casual as if talking about the weather. 

“YES! Please, Ganondorf, please!” 

The second please is barely out of your mouth before his thumb is suddenly swiping rapidly over your clit, before his fingers in you suddenly piston rapidly. You shriek in pleasured surprise, your left arm shooting out and knocking a cup off the table with a clang. He laughs as you writhe against his hold. 

And then he slows back down. You whine in protest, feeling the beginnings of an orgasm fade back into your belly, and your clit throbs. 

He stands, suddenly, but your hips come with him, and you yelp as you hang upside down, your thighs hooking over his shoulders. Your face is pressed now against his clothed erection, his cock firm and hot against your cheek through his pants. His left arm is wrapped around your lower back to keep you there, while his right stays where it is, his fingers still deep in you.

 He says nothing, and you get no more warning, before his lips wrap gently around your clit. Your fingernails dig into his thighs and pleasure surges up your nerves like a lightning storm. His lips work gently around your clit, not sucking, just rubbing, and you choke on a sob of pleasure. 

You can feel it building again, the beginnings of your orgasm, rolling in the base of your belly as he works you with all the patience in the world. His hips never once twitch despite the massive erection under your face; he’s fully focused on you, on making you lose your mind in desperate need. 

Impaled on his fingers, orgasm building achingly slowly, his beard tickling your labia and inner-most thighs, you cry out his name like a prayer. 

Then his tongue begins to swirl rapid, tight circles on your jutting clit, and his fingers piston once more into your aching cunt, and you explode into blinding pressure and heat. He growls against you as your walls seize his fingers in a velvet vice, and before you could even realize that he’s pulled his pants down, you’re bent over the table and he’s pushing into you. You scream his name as his fingers keep rubbing your clit, your orgasm not stopping as his cock spears you open. He bends almost in two over you, biting down against your shoulder as your walls do their best to milk him. His hips slam into your ass, his cockhead hitting a spot inside you that sends lightning up your spine, and with a bellow he follows you into bliss. 

Your body buzzes as he empties himself into you, his teeth leaving your shoulder, replaced by his lips and his rapid breathes, exhaled through his nose. His hips keep pumping, slowly, sliding his softening cock through the mess he made of you. You whimper his name, going boneless on the table under him, shivering as sweat cools on your lower back, on your thighs, in your hairline. 

He gathers you up, making you gasp as his cock slips out of you, and he carries you into the bathroom. You smile tiredly against his shoulder as he lowers you into the water. “I have a feeling we’re going to be in here a lot,” you murmur. 

He smirks. “I have a feeling you may be right,” he rumbles as he sheds the rest of his clothes. “But I do not see you complaining about it.” 

His smug tone makes you want to argue…but you can’t. After all, your new favorite pastime is letting the Gerudo King turn you into a whimpering, dripping, desperate mess. 

Not that you’d say that out loud, anyway.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

i have the feeling that Yves would study mc caligraphy and ortography from the very kindergarden to college, like the length of the strokes, the space in between, if its bold and sharp, of soft and curvy, idk there is like a science or something about ur way of writting reveals the details of personality, the way u were raised, etc etc but it is not vey accurate i guess, since Yves will change his way of writting when he feels the need to, from chicken scratch russian veteran curvy medic letters to sotisficied romantic royal signatute

He does, actually! That is why, the best way to pamper him is to hand over your most well-kept, cringy childhood diaries, any media that existed of you since your conception, and let him interact with family members, teachers, or guardians who remembered even an iota of information of you.

And it does decode more of you, it tells him about the structure of your hands, bones, the texture of your skin and how it affects the way you hold your pen, your personality, and even how your nerves and brain wiring link when given enough time. It will be accurate to you because you are human enough. However, it's not an appropriate approach for Yves, who is vaguely described as not having the same biology as the rest of us.

He can be a chameleon if he wants to, changing himself into an entirely different person, down to his genome. But he doesn't necessarily like playing pretend, he wants to be his authentic self. The only reason why he doesn't have consistent handwriting is because he has to. Just so he could have things the way he wanted, to keep secrets, and manipulate how others perceive him to his advantage.

However, during his early years when Yves wasn't as adept at exploiting his personalities, he primarily wrote in Ronde Script.

[alexagirlie]

Sasnak City The Kingdom - Day 2

So day 2 at Sasnak City was the bussiest day and had some of the super fun events which made the convention worth the pricetag.

This post be long heh heh heh

(Link to Day 1)

So saturday was jammed packed, here just see the schedule

My day started with announcements, then the photos that came with my ticket, Amelia Clarkson and Harry Gilby. Both are super super sweet by the way.

Then came the Sasnak Community Photo. This was meant for attendees to get an official photo together, we grabbed some of the staff as well since they are amazing, but the cast had other ideas...

Arnas had a meet and greet about to start so he couldn't stay (he tried) so Eliza is holding up a photo with him in it. (She is so sweet)

Then 2 of my group went to go have their meet and greet with Arnas while I went and hung out. Then we all had lunch together before the next round of events.

Lunch was scheduled and provided by the convention which I thought was a nice touch from the organizers.

Following lunch my group had a meet and geeet with Harry. Poor lad had food poisoning right before flying out so was still recovering but it was a really interesting meet and greet. He talked about what it was like working with the rest of the cast and a little bit on the short film he was in with Cavan Clerkin (which we got to watch on Sunday).

After the meet and greet my group and I parted ways, they had a meet and greet with Ryan while I went to grab some autographs before my meet and greet with Arnas.

They had the cast split between two rooms, Mark, Arnas and Eliza in one room, while the rest of the cast (minus Ryan) in another room.

I got my autograph from Arnas first (I did ask if his handwriting had improved since Paris. He laughed and said no). My group and I had made up gift bags for all the cast and I got to give Arnas his. The cast weren't allowed to open them during autographs but I heard after the fact he was showing his off.

He also took a picture of my print immediately after I set it down 😁 I think he liked it? Hah.

Next I got my autograph from Eliza and she was so very sweet. She remembered attendees from previous years and their names!

She also took a pic of my print but she asked first 🤣. I also got to give Eliza her gift bag and she was so surpirsed and elated to be getting one!

Afterwards I had to get back in line and wait to get Marks autograph. Mark being the Special Guest had a longer line then most and some people a head of me were pretty chatty (poor man cannot chat and write at the same time) but we got there.

After I got Marks I had to boogey up to the next room where I had 15 minutes to squeeze in autographs from other cast before my meet and greet with Arnas!

They all loved the print and were super nice and I was able to get everyone I needed before my Arnas meet and greet.

Doing the meet and greet with Arnas was an experience! He is so vibrant and passionate and I learned things I didn't know about him! He talked about his time on set with WOT and about his time in Thailand filming for White Lotus.

He talked about philosophy and his religious views and how they affect his career and personal life. His passion for learning and growing.

I also got to ask a question from my list!

I asked him what was more fun, swords or axes.

The answer, axes 100%.

He then told a very fun story. He has a tick where he fidgits with his hands and anything he is holding so he used the weapons as a way to help control that (would explain a lot of how he grabs his weapons in scenes) so during the filming of season 4 and season 5 he used to practice tossing and catching the axe in between scenes.

He would annoy the heck out of the sound crew because he kept dropping the axe and the sound would get picked up. So he spent 2 years practicing this toss and catch until he could do it no problem and during the filming of SKMD he finally had a chance to do it in a battle scene.... and he fumbled it. Twice 🤣 he couldn't remember if the catch ever made it into the movie but I know I will be watching for it next time I rewatch.

The session finished with some selfies, I hate taking selfies and Arnas was happy to oblige my request to do silly faces 🤣

After the meet and greets I headed back to the main hall and met back up with my group and we joined the rest of the attendees as we got to have a special screening of Eliza new short film, Little Brown Bird.

It was filmed on the Isle of Man and was made with John Ryes-Davies (Gimli from LotRs) and it was so, so beautiful. It was about a woman taking care of her father who had alzheimer and takes on a supernatural turn!

After the film we were released to go have dinner before going back for a special event later in the evening.

We made the mistake of walking to the nearby shopping centre for dinner and it. Was. So. Fucking. Hot. We about died on the way back.

The evening ended with an event called Lords of the North. This event alone was worth the cost of the tickets. This was essentially a meet and greet with every cast member with drinking involved 🤣

Each table had 6 attendees and the cast had 10 minutes with each group before moving on. It was so much fun!

Learned a bunch fun things!

1. Amelia Clarkson agrees that Sihtric would make the best husband.

2. Rod Hallet loves Vancouver (my friend lives here and I live close by).

3. Magnus Samuelsson participated in the Swedish Dancing with the Stars back in like 2011 and won! (They played a video at the end of the event, he is a really good dancer).

4. Ryan had to study and learn the mannerism of an otter in drama school. Had to go to the zoo and observe them, then at the end of the semester had to pretend to be one in front of the class.

5. According to Mark, we lost the sleeveless Finan in season 4 because Arnas was jealous that he couldn't show off his own arms. (Arnas later denied this when we asked, he said he covered up to allow Marks arms time to shine, he knew if he had his guns out they would steal the show).

6. I asked Mark who's idea it was to have the bead and braid in Finan's hair and he said it was his. He had wanted it longer but the powers that be thought it would be "too dane" looking and he had to argue that Finan wasn't a saxon and that the celt did braids as part of their own culture.

7. Mark and Arnas filmed a bunch more of those little videos (The adventures of Sihtric and Finan) then what they shared on instagram, including a really good one themed on Bebbanburg BnB. We asked Arnas to post them, he seemed to think the time had past but we told him no, and that we would take the blame for "bullying" him to post them. We will see if he remembers 🤣 should I DM him? Would that be weird?

8. Eliza is the cutest human being. She also has some super funny videos of the cast we hope she shares one day.

The evening concluded with an after party! There was a DJ and more alcohol and about 10 minutes after it started they announced for all phones to go away and that the cast was coming over to dance with us!

Highlights from the dance party;

Cast, well dancing and being goofy.

Mark and Arnas trying to sneak off to explore the venue and getting in trouble. (They did this a few times over the weekend).

A congo line.

A dance off between Mark and Arnas (Arnas took his jacket off, took his hat off to run his hands through his hair and put it back on. It did things to my insides).

A dance off between Harry and Ryan.

It was a ton of fun! Very long day, but a ton of fun!

Stay tuned for day 3 adventures!

(Link tk Day 3)

[tomionefinds]

can yall share some tomione fics that youre currently reading/following? or even maybe an updated list of favorites?? thanks!

Hey Anon,

Sorry for the wait was checking if our other admins had more to add. As always there's our Admin Favs list here for anyone who wants to peruse everything on there. Apparently we've hit the threshhold for max links you can have in a post on Tumblr so we can't keep adding there.

Here's a few new fics I've been reading/following, as always I'm sure they're will be more to come in future ask me again in another year. Can't stop, won't stop. <3

I'd love to get more recs from people reading new works too! Please drop them in our comments or use our Submit feature to make a post! -JD

Altered State by Ginnyruin

E/Ma | WIP | 219k

Six years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Auror Hermione Granger activated a mysterious dark object, which unexpectedly sent her decades into the past.

Tom Riddle, now known as Voldemort, returned to British wizarding society in 1966 after a decade-long absence. Under the guise of interviewing for the DADA teaching position, he went to Hogwarts to conceal one of his Horcruxes, Ravenclaw’s Diadem. However, the coveted position had been stolen a week before his arrival by an intriguing witch.

As manipulative schemes emerged, tension built into a ruinous obsession.

Art Trilogy by WildKitsune

E/Ma | WIP

Art of Genius- Three years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione is working on a team of healers to help find a cure to a new wizarding disease. An imprisoned Lord Voldemort offers the help of his considerable genius but only if Hermione consents to be his handler.

Art of Charm- Even though Voldemort seems to be keeping his word to Harry and living within the laws of wizarding society, Hermione isn’t convinced her mate is as reformed as he seems. She becomes overwhelmed, knowing she can’t trust the one person she needs most in the world.

Art of Magic- A new player has entered the game between Hermione and the Dark Lord. What will it mean now that their bond has been broken? And what sort of powers does the mysterious Mr. Lake wield?

atelophobia by natasharomanhoffs

M | WIP | 107k

Sure enough, not five seconds later, the door cracked open, and a tall boy with green lining on his robes strode into the Hospital Wing. Hermione absent-mindedly noticed his attractive face, but she was more focussed on his uniform.

Lord, that looks stuffy, was her first thought.

At least he knows how to tie a proper Windsor knot, was her second.

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by Perhentian.en

M | Complete | 252k

Hermione had grown quite used to help Harry each time her friend managed to end up in some impossible situation, and this even if the war with Voldemort had been over for a long time. But when Harry, faced with the destruction of the magical world, decides to throw his friends back in time, Hermione is appalled. And what about this reckless plan of his to somehow use Voldemort?

Dark Lord Who by Naidhe

E/Ma | WIP | 35k

Bellatrix Lestrange uses dark, sacrificial magic to bring the Dark Lord back to life after Harry Potter has given his life to defeat him. However, asking for a "Dark Lord" turns out to be a tad bit too ambiguous. Baba Yaga is having fun, Godelot is a sadistic bastard, Herpo the Foul brags about his horcrux, Tom Riddle is unimpressed. (Dark)

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement by devdevlin

E/Ma | WIP | 14k

Harry's got a wild theory, and naturally, it's become her problem.

--

In which Voldemort fled the Battle of Hogwarts and seven years later, Hermione is appointed to lead the team tasked with tracking him down. *this is a rewrite

The Diary by LittleMulattoKitten, weestarmeggie

M | WIP | 127k

Hermione was suspicious when she found an old journal amongst her things.

Tom was intrigued the night someone else's handwriting appeared in his diary.

Lord Riddle watches his past unfold from Hermione's side of the timeline to make sure history repeats itself without Albus's interference.

Endless Night by cassidyblackwrites

E/Ma | WIP | 41k

The one in which Hermione is Abraxas Malfoy’s step-sister. 1940s - 1950s AU. No time travel.

Exitus Acta Probat by JellyBellys

M | Complete | 466k

After a series of catastrophic events, Hermione decides to go to the past to stop Tom Riddle. Story includes timetravel, Slytherins that aren't evil, romance, betrayal, death, angst, and some comedy thrown in. AU after OoTP.

Forever Means Forever by cocoartist

T+ | Complete | 7k

If she ever saw Unspeakable Number 37 again she would kill him with her bare hands: Hermione's research into the Veil has an unexpected side-effect. COMPLETE.

Gryffindor Red by foolishlywandwaving

NR | WIP | 37k

"How - how dare you?" She stammers, pushing him away with both hands. Riddle backs away as though she is brandishing a hot poker, a horrible little smile on his face. Her thighs burn white hot from where his hands have been trailing up. Hermione yanks her dress down and continues, finding her voice through the fog of insanity that has clouded her judgement. "How dare you just show up to my house and threaten me, then kiss me!"

Hermione Granger And The Journal’s Riddle by Little_Seraphim

E/Ma | WIP | 104k

‘I want to open it,’ Hermione thought nearly opening the book before stopping herself. “You cheeky book.” She tapped its cover. “Compulsion? Really?” Rolling her eyes at how stupid whatever magic the book had upon it was, she put it away in her school things and began sorting through ways of blocking magic. The new project had her eager and before long, she’d forgotten her boredom. Whatever the book was, it wasn’t common and it could influence the minds of those nearby.

‘I’ll get to the bottom of you.’ Hermione thought giving the book a grin.

Icarus by MarbleGlove

T | Complete | 16k

Some successes are only measured in how long you last before falling. Hermione writes a letter and begins a relationship. Complete

I of the Storm by Ardentlyadmired

E/Ma | One Shot | 6k

Her mind is still racing as she flees between the trees. Each bite and sting of the landscape feels like it’s fighting to keep her, hold her here. Even in the slick rainfall branches scratch at her face, drawing blood, snarling and pulling at her hair. Leaving pieces of herself in her wake.

She can smell the damp. Petrichor and dirt. Rot. The blood on her cheek, the sweat on her skin that melts into the rain. The acrid scent of fear. It reminds her that she is alive. Almost there. Almost free.

Infinite Spin by seollem

E/Ma | WIP | 24k

All the screens flashed black and white simultaneously, scoreboards blinking excitedly, the same glorious name at the top of each list.

Invictus by greyana

E/Ma | WIP | 319k

Voldemort intended the object to be used by his most loyal follower in the event that his horcruxes were destroyed, but it ended up in Hermione’s possession instead.

It sent her back to a time when he was much less the monster that she’d always known him to be. Dumbledore’s description of him couldn’t have prepared her for the intelligence and charm of Tom Riddle.

He isn’t who she thought he was.

Hermione discovers that it’s a dark descent into the madness of the man she should hate, but can’t… a descent she will never emerge from.

LordVoldemort.

Lady Selwyn by matchapuff

E/Ma | WIP | 88k

The discovery of an old Selwyn family photo sends Hermione back to 1952. At the heart of her journey is a silver crown.

Miðgarðsormr by xXAonoNYmouSPXx

M | WIP | 163k

Tom watched as the mother and son stop at a spot by the fountain. The witch whom he's never met before in his life, with bushy brown hair atop a heart-shaped face, and the boy who looked exactly like him when he was at that age.

Pink by yuwoo

E/Ma | WIP | 10k

If Tom had any say, he would not be here, but he has only just gained the Gaunt Seat. It is aberrant for one of his status to not possess a Thrall.

A Pound of Flesh by Thomas M Riddle sequel: Ill Met by Moonlight

M | Complete | 20k

AU: In her sixth year, Hermione engineers a way to reawaken Tom Riddle's diary. But forbidden magic has its risks, and she finds herself locked in a deadly battle of wits with the most dangerous teenaged Dark Wizard of all time. A game where the only way to win may be to prove the Sorting Hat's decision to put her in Gryffindor wrong. TW: Torture (some sexualized)

the price of water by peppershark

E/Ma | WIP | 34k

After a mishap in the Room of Hidden Things, Hermione finds herself in a barren, post-apocalyptic future where witches are all but extinct.

Ruination by VittoriaRenoir

M | WIP | 33k

Tom Riddle shows up on Hepzibah Smith's door in search of Slytherin's locket. Unfortunately, Hepzibah's daughter, Hermione, doesn't seem to like him much. Meanwhile, Hermione plots revenge.

She Rises by giraffelove92

M | WIP | 341k

"He watched as the air around her crackled with her magic, and it was so aggressive, so electrifying, that he wondered how this beautiful creature had ever managed to evade his notice – how he'd so foolishly underestimated her from the start." Darkfic.

Shopkeeper by Ciule

E/Ma | One Shot | 6k

A strange impulse rose - as if he wanted to have a conversation with her, maybe find out what she needed the fae teeth for - and he Summoned his trench coat, shrugging into it.

“Let’s have dinner.” It came out as a command, not as an invitation, and the girl looked as if she had seen a flying Merman.

A Sin To Know by EchoPhoenix

M | WIP | 81k

Tom allowed a genuine smile past his bloody lips as he raised his slender fingers to his gaze. Miss Granger really ought to curb such a self destructive habit, digging her fingernails into her palm like a reprimanded child?

stars never fade by no_halo

E/Ma | Complete | 9k

Almost a decade later, Tom finds her in Paris. She's still up to the same scheme, hoping to stop him and his rise to power.

Trials by nauticalparamour

M | Complete | 51k

A happenstance meeting between Tom and a mysterious witch named Hermione in Borgin and Burkes sends the pair of them on a tangled path to get what they want - Tom, ultimate power over the wizarding world, and Hermione, to bring down the dangerous wizard at the edges of her mind. Will their magnetic connection help or hinder them in their ultimate goals? Time travel AU.

Venenum by Koryanderi

E/Ma | WIP | 145k

Hermione travels for the year 1943. All she wants is to return to her friends, but her evasive attitude and behavior that breaks the standards of time, ends up arousing interest of Tom Riddle that soon turns into an obsession.

Verso by virennia

E/Ma | WIP | 25k

Hermione met him when she was twelve.

Tom Riddle, the most handsome boy in school.

when sunsets look like blood (hold me till the stars appear) by justprompts

T+ | WIP | 37k

"I - I'm really sorry, I've had a kind of portkey issue - " the girl begins, her voice carefully controlled - as Tom smirks at her.

"Really?" he says, pointedly raising an eyebrow at the offending object around her neck. "Wouldn't you rather say you've had issues with time?"

There's a long pause, as the girl's eyes widen and she looks down at the exposed chain of the Time Turner. She mutters a curse, before sighing and saying, "So, what year is it?"

Or alternatively

The one in which Hermione Granger accidentally time travels into Abraxas Malfoy’s bed in the middle of the night.

Who Are We? by BareWithMeHoney

E/Ma | WIP | 28k

The year is 2004. Voldemort has hidden his Horcruxes in the past and the Order is fighting against impossible odds to find and destroy them.

But when Time itself begins to unravel, a new kind of sacrifice must be made before the world comes to an end.