#Loves telling the clouds to rain everywhere except on himself

[m1ssunderstanding]

Sorry, Paul, if you put glasses and a funny nose on the little 60's cartoon guy in your MV, I'm going to think of him as John.

[cherryjuicegf]

remember today that you are loved

Sometimes being close to a loved one can bring someone on his knees. Sometimes, in the literal sense. Forced to spend every year apart except for a day, a punishment for their love, they realize. Sometimes it's better for love to be forgotten.

a birthday gift for my dearest @moonysrz 💜 | 9.2k, M, angst with a happy ending, cw for some vomiting, [ao3]

There’s a man standing on the shore of the river.

Waiting. I can’t tell what for.

I am but a magpie.

Waiting, and waiting, and he’s been waiting, all day, and all night, and gods, isn’t he tired? Do these humans never get tired? He stands, there, forever stands, waiting and waiting and crying, shaking, screaming. And loving, loving, loving.

The water is cold and it’s a good day for a dip in the river, a spring day. Ironic. Funny, almost, the years that fall like relentless rain. Spring, when life blooms, when the skies open up and the sun peeks over the grass less hesitantly behind the clouds. Every spring, he arrives.

I don’t know who he is. Only that his steps are heavy, and his voice gruff, and his hands trembling, but when he reaches this side of the river, he becomes light as a feather, soft as cotton and his hands, resting on tear-soaked skin, are gentle and caring and loving, loving, loving. Every spring, he arrives.

Not this spring.

This spring there are no wide smiles, no hurling cries that end in tender touches. This spring, there is no love.

The man is sitting now. Why, why, why? No one is coming. And yet, he stays, till the sun sets, till the light fades on the horizon, till the tears have dried up and there’s nothing left. Do they ever dry up?

Waiting, and hurting, and loving, loving, loving. Maybe this is it. Maybe that’s what love is. Pain.

I can’t tell though.

I am but a magpie.

Everything hurt. He was on his knees, hands clutching at his abdomen, his biceps, his shoulders, his hair as though to rip them all off and it hurt, everything, everywhere, like a million knives tearing him apart. He screamed, hoarse and agonizing, and his throat burned with every scream that had skinned it until now, every wail that echoed like a false note in the hall. Somewhere distant, he thought he heard his name, Jaskier, Jaskier, hold on, it’s alright, it’s alright, and he screamed again, “FUCK GERALT IT’S NOT ALRIGHT!”

And then, he raised his look, panting, as though raising the heaviest rock. And his eyes met Geralt’s, right in front of him. And oh, he thought, he really thought he couldn’t hurt more. But the way wheezing grunts escaped Geralt’s strained lips, and the way his nostrils flared and his eyes welled up with tears and regret and, dear man, concern, made Jaskier want to wrap his arms around him and hold him tight forever.

Whimpering, lost between pain and himself, he reached out his hand, and grasped Geralt’s nape, leaning closer. And rested their foreheads together. It burned, the touch, seethed and his insides roared and his whole body shook so violently he thought it would explode with the next choked breath. But the tears that flowed down Geralt’s cheeks and almost mixed with his own made him hold on, just for now, just for a moment. Just for the time they had left.

And then his stomach jumped and he gagged and, turning around, he retched on the floor, choking, for what might have been the fourth time in the past minutes.

A voice above him, furious. “YENNEFER!”

“Enough!”

His feet were so desperate they moved on their own accord, dragging him far away as he crawled, far, far away, the furthest he could, writhing and trembling on the cold floor until his back hit the wall. And finally, finally the pain subdued.

He wheezed, tried to catch his breath. Spit out the foul taste in his mouth and wiped his lips, but the bitterness remained. Always remained.

Slowly, as though afraid that a single look would stab him, he raised his head. And there they were. Amber eyes, helpless, staring at him from across the wide room, and Geralt stuck onto the wall behind him as though he wanted it to absorb him. And his eyes. Oh, his eyes. Jaskier thought, that’s how he looked at people when they called him a monster. Then, as cold sweat drenched him, he realized. He had drawn back too quickly.

As though to refuse his own self, his too real pain, he turned to Yennefer. Startling, he saw her staring back and there was something haunting in her gaze, in the way her hand covered her mouth almost weakly, almost regrettably. He wanted to laugh. No, it couldn’t be that bad. Except the grieving glance she threw at Geralt filled the silence deafeningly enough.

There was a distinct stink spreading around them. He wanted to claw his own skin off.

“What did the mage say?” Yennefer spoke quietly, as though not to break the bubble of momentary relief, of that sweet attempt to pretend it’s just a bad dream.

Jaskier heard Geralt clearing his throat. Still, when his voice came out, it was more hollow than the void itself. “Love is pain.” And then, he huffed, in the same way the mage had huffed, in a mocking tone of hope, and Jaskier shivered. “Except for today.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

“When did the pain start?”

“Yesterday.”

Yennefer hummed, a bitter thing. “Seems you already got your day off then.”

No voice echoed in the silence that followed. Only some shallow breaths, and Jaskier’s mind screaming at him, pain, pain, pain, settled like a thick cloud over any other thought. Except, perhaps, for grief. Except for the way his fingers twitched to reach for Geralt once more. Even from so far away.

Maybe that’s how it would always be after all.

Finally, Yennefer heaved a deep sigh, and it was so different from the fondly exasperated tone of her usual sighs. “It’s a love curse.” And then, as if it meant nothing, as if their sanity wasn’t on the verge of shattering to pieces, she said, “I can’t lift it.”

Jaskier turned abruptly and shot her a glance, eyes wide, and he hated how his voice was barely heard in his furious terror. “What?”

“Eager to play with love, little poet?” The sorceress squinted at him, her glare throwing daggers, yet he flinched in the way her voice quivered. “I can’t. I--” she looked at Geralt, and she seemed so small suddenly, shaking her head “--I can’t.” Jaskier thought he saw her lips trembling before she pulled them into a straight line, almost a smile. Her eyes were turned to the void. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Loving and being loved.” A huff. “I never thought it could be physical.”

His body felt numb now, and Jaskier didn’t realize when he had lied down. It hurt, still, but not so intense, not so deadly. He didn’t want to think how far away Geralt should stand for it not to hurt at all. Yet, how funny, the further he was, the more unbearable the pain grew. From where his head rested on the marble, he saw Geralt staring at him. Between his furrowed eyebrow lay that adorable line of confusion Jaskier longed to ease away.

He read his lips more than he actually heard him. “Being loved...” And, oh, how he wanted to laugh. Stupid man. A small smile curved his lips and Geralt swallowed as he saw it. His eyes were glinting too bright in the light. Too wet. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Yennefer snorted in exasperation. “Damned idiot.”

“Look at me, Geralt.”

There he was. Standing rigid in front of the bridge, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders tense, drenched in the last of sunlight like a fitting irony. Jaskier felt his breath short, strained, a lump choking his throat as he remembered his arms, thrown around these shoulders, holding Geralt tight so that no sorrow would ever weigh upon him again. And yet now, as he stood, it looked like he was carrying the whole world’s grief on him, knees trembling not to give in under the weight. The whole world’s, or maybe it was just his and Jaskier’s. And, really, what world did they need except for each other?

Still. He stood, and Jaskier stood far away, enough to stand on steady legs, not enough for his heart to cease wailing with every mourning beat. Still, he didn’t turn around. And, oh, how miserable, how heartwrenching, to watch the man he loved the most turn away from him, not even letting him meet his gaze one last time, before they part. As though if their eyes met, he would break. As though he was ashamed. Guilty.

He didn’t turn around. He didn’t turn around and Jaskier’s fists were trembling, nails digging into his skin, and his throat was burning and his eyes wet with all the tears that weren’t brave enough to fall, saving themselves for a moment worse than that. His voice quivered. “Geralt.” Your eyes, your stare, your face, you, you, let me remember how I love you. “Look at me.” A sob, silent. “Please.”

Finally, finally Geralt turned. If Jaskier was a brave man, if he was selfless, he would let him go away. Just like that, no spare glances, no unspoken apologies. He was not. He was a coward, needing the pain in Geralt’s eyes to be certain of his love. He was selfish. He loved Geralt too much to let him bury this.

He would never bury this. And if he did, Jaskier would fall on his knees, claw at the ground, and dig it up, and it wouldn’t ease the pain, only make it stronger, but at least, even in pain, Geralt would know. He would know that he was loved.

He should know. The pieces of his heart were laid in front of him, bare and bleeding, and Jaskier let out a hysterical laughter. “You know. You had known, of course. You should have.” He raised his gaze, staring straight into Geralt's eyes, and he couldn’t decide if the strangled noise came from him or the witcher. “I love you,” and Geralt winced and at this point, none of them could tell if the pain was in the bones, or in the heart.

The blood is the same anyway, he supposed.

Geralt looked at him, lips curled in what he wished was a smile. Could have been, if this love was a pleasant thing. “Doesn’t it hurt?” His shoulders had slumped, just a bit, as though he had started to realize he couldn’t escape this.

As though to challenge their fate, Jaskier took a step forward. Still so far away. And yet he bit his lips. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. “It does.” Another step. “But it hurts more when I’m not beside you. So much more.” And he laughed, he laughed so as not to cry.

“This is a mistake.” The words hung in the air as if they didn’t have enough sincerity to push themselves into their hearts. Jaskier laughed again, gaze steady on Geralt. Another step, shorter this time, almost hesitant.

His voice was hoarser than before, firmer. “My love is not a mistake.” And then, more quietly, like a child hiding after breaking an expensive plate, “Is yours?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Only faintly shook his head, a substitute for a sob.

Watching as all the world’s complaints spilled from his eyes, dripped to the ground red like blood, Jaskier knew he didn’t really need to. And, somehow, it didn’t hurt as much. Certainly less than before. A lump caught at his throat. “Can I hold you, Geralt?”

A deep breath that wasn’t released. Suddenly, Geralt’s voice was weak. “Please.”

Jaskier paused, just for a moment, as though waiting for him to change his mind. He shook his head, a memory of a smile daring to crawl upon his lips. “Gods,” he huffed, breathless. “You love me so much to let me hurt you.”

Then, as Geralt’s lips trembled with swallowed screams, as his hands burnt with emptiness, he whined, silent, and held his breath. And ran.

Geralt caught him  in the middle before his knees buckled from the sudden pain and he let out a cry, although he couldn’t tell with pain or relief, as he wrapped his arms around strong shoulders, as he felt Geralt’s arms creeping up his back. And he held him, he held him close like he hadn’t done before, and hid his face in his shoulder to muffle his groans, and Geralt tightened his arms around him, whimpering, and it hurt, it burned, it killed them, and yet they held on tighter still.

He could feel Geralt’s breath on his neck, shallow and short. “Fucking asshole,” Geralt muttered, panting, voice barely audible, “loving a witcher and look where it got you.”

“Shut it, idiot,” Jaskier didn’t know how he caught his voice between his sobs but he wouldn’t miss the chance to curse Geralt back even in death. Even now. He whined again, fingers clutching at Geralt’s shirt for dear life. “Listen to me.” He raised his head a little, just to meet his eyes and oh, he was so beautiful, always beautiful. “Listen,” a sob escaped his lips along with his words, “don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare cross that river ever until next year,” his voice was barely a breath and he knew he hadn’t many spare ones left, and still he shook his head, and spoke. “Because if you do…” a chuckle, broken, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist. And it won’t end well for either of us.”

Tears were flowing down his eyes now and Geralt raised a hand, cupped his face firmly as though taking a better last look of him and if they could, they would stay like that forever. And how warm, the hand stroking his skin, how comforting, the embrace easing his pain away. How agonizing, the brush of skin on loving fingers.

For a moment, a sweet moment, Geralt pressed their foreheads together. And then, at once, he was gone.

Jaskier gasped, fell back, and there were no arms to catch him anymore. It was cold now.

When he caught his breath and managed to raise his head, Geralt had already crossed the wooden bridge and was standing at the other side of the wide river. Damned water. Damned bridge. Jaskier glanced at it, almost tempting. Shaking, he stood on his feet. Although too far away, he caught Geralt’s stare, and he looked so harmless, so small in their distance. Jaskier could still feel his fingertips on his cheek.

Yet, before he managed to have any second thought, and as though he was urged by the same temptation, Geralt raised his hand, and curled his fingers. And the next moment, the bridge was burning.

It was a relief, in a way. Behind the flames, Jaskier thought he discerned tears falling down amber eyes, or better, felt them on his own face, a mirror. As though the one crying can see the other’s pain better. He took a deep breath, and shouted. “I’ll be waiting for you!” But he didn’t need to. Geralt heard him, even as his voice broke, even as he whispered. “I’ll be forever waiting for you.”

He saw Geralt’s lips moving. The words floated, along with the breeze, along with the smoke, along with the flames. I love you too. And then, even briefly, even for a second, Jaskier felt Geralt’s arms around him again, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, Geralt was gone. As though to harmonize with his mourning, a magpie started singing.

Dearest Geralt,  

I’ll ask you to forgive me. For writing to you. You see, I’m afraid. Does it hurt you like it hurts me, love, to be out of reach? My words, the frown I can only imagine you have now on your beautiful face, are barely making up for the shadow by my side. I hope you have reached home safely, and I hope you didn’t open this letter before you were sitting on the cold comfort of your own bed. This one, at least, has always been for you alone.  

It’s funny, the way I speak like I know. Because my own bed is cold. Colder than any foreign bed, any used sheets that I have laid upon with you warming them with sweet familiarity. Do you cry for me, Geralt?  

Again, forgive me. Only that, I have barely any sheets left that I have not thrown into the fire and I desperately wanted to write to you. That is, if you’ll have me. If not, never reply, please. I understand. It can’t hurt any more than it already does, can it? I miss you. I am afraid.  

Do you love me still?  

I fear I’m too dramatic once more. I won’t bother you more with my nonsense. My candle will go out soon.  

Remember, Geralt, that you are loved. And I’m sorry the only reminder of it is pain. But let this reminder ease your heart, just like it eases mine to restless sleep. I ask nothing more of you, dear heart, not even your love. Only this. I love you, I love you, I love you. Don’t ever forget that.  

      Yours, forever,  

      Jaskier  

Geralt saw the paper shaking between his fingers, and realized he was trembling whole. He wanted to scream. He didn’t.

He only crumpled the sheet in his fist, and rested his head on his hands, drenching the blank ink in the river of his tears.

On the first day of spring of the first year, Geralt walked up to the shore of the river.

The ashes of a long lost bridge still stang his nostrils.

From the distance, he could see Jaskier in his plum doublet, he could see his eyes shining in the setting sun and the unshed tears, he could see the quiver of his lips. And the smile. He could see the smile forming on his lips and a voice inside him whispered that it might be the first genuine one after a whole year, and another voice laughed at him for giving himself such credit. And then he heard it. The faintest, happiest whisper he had heard in his life. “Oh, Geralt.” And it was enough for his knees to go numb.

As though his voice woke the forest, the birds started singing. They may have been before, but no birdsong was enough to echo Jaskier’s voice in his ears, not until he heard him again.

And then, his medallion hummed. And dozens of magpies fled from their branches, voices dancing in the air and, like a sea of feathers, they flew to the surface of the river, and rested on its gentle ripples, one after the other, in a row, until the last one flew and lowered itself to rest right in front of his feet. And, looking down from this absurd game of magic, he saw it. He saw the bridge. Suddenly lifeless, and white like marble, and waiting for its desperate guest.

And he heard a sob ripping through the wind.

He ran, and ran, and ran, and Jaskier looked so beautiful in his sorrow and his hope, and so warm as his arms waited and waited for a whole year, spread to fit inside the whole world, and yet when Geralt stumbled inside them, they needed nothing else to be full.

And they held each other. Like that, close and tight and desperate and clinging and Jaskier was sobbing and tears were soaking his black shirt, “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” whispering his name like a prayer and an elegy all the same, whispering it for all the times the ghost by his side wouldn’t answer his screams, holding him for every time his own arms were too empty clawing around himself.

And Geralt hugged him tight, tighter still, fingers digging on his clothes as though to keep him from going away again. And then, breathing each other in, he held his head inside his hands and pressed their foreheads together,and let their tears mingle, and Jaskier laughed, and laughed and laughed. “You’re here,” he kept saying, “you’re here, you’re here…”

“I am.” He would let all his spare breaths loose to say it, forever, forever. “I am.”

“Do you still love me, Geralt?”

“Gods damn me, I do.”

And he kissed him, deep and desperate and long, as though to muffle all the cries unspoken, to make up for every dream that ended in a nightmare, for the time lost, for every moan and laugh and sob and for every broken whisper. He kissed him.

He kissed him.

He kissed him.

He kissed him.

He kissed him, until it hurt.

Until the magpies fled, and hushed again.

On the first day of spring of the second year, their hands were tender, and the inn was silent.

Funny, how despair buried itself in a sea of white hair, how every choked wail died on the touch of their lips, and it was so familiar, so right, as if it had never gone away. And Jaskier hated it, hated the mere thought that he could get used to this so quickly while he knew it wouldn’t last. He knew that when he would greet Geralt on the bridge again, the magpies would fly, and Geralt would be gone, and he’d be alone again, looking for comfort in their already cooling sheets.

He shouldn’t get used to it. As his hand ran down Geralt’s back, he knew. Pain was a reminder enough and it wasn’t so special after all. He had to make it special.

He had to remind Geralt how loved he was and it felt like a ritual now, with every whisper, every kiss, every lingering caress that sang his quiet confession, I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Geralt,” he said and regretted the absence of Geralt’s lips on his, so he leaned in again to catch them in a soft kiss. Then he met his eyes, endless precious gold, and continued. “Let me make love to you.” And his voice quivered faintly in his throat because that was it. Love. So timid, so hesitant, like a question, as though Geralt would frown and leave, as if Geralt would ever leave.

Would he not ever leave?

Yet now, now Geralt just smiled and brought a hand up to cup his face, and it was like a river, the comfort flowing between them not knowing whom to fill up first and whom to leave empty. “I let you make pain to me, Jaskier. Eagerly,” he chuckled, adorable. “And I’m grateful even for that.”

Jaskier laughed. Idiot, idiot. He laughed, and climbed on Geralt’s lap and pressed their lips together again, not daring to let him go even as he pushed him back, even as he gently peeled their clothes off their already burning skin as it fit in one, and even then his lips would stroke whispers down his throat, his chest, the inside of his thighs, until Geralt sighed and Jaskier smiled and now the silence was so sweet, so melodic in his ears, only interrupted by his name, Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier, over and over like the sweetest song.

That was it. Love. Because Jaskier had laid with almost comically lots of people in his life, and yet it was never this warm, never this intimate. Never, as he moved inside Geralt, as he muffled his pants on his collarbone, had he felt rough fingers running up and down his spine, only in dreams. Never, as Geralt’s name spilled from his lips like a battle cry, had he felt his hand finding its pair inside Geralt’s, clutching it tightly like a reminder that this was something more. This was love.

Never, as he finally lied on his side trying to catch his breath, had tears dared to fall from his eyes in the most bittersweet burst of laughter.

Geralt turned at him, the most beautiful smile curving his lips as they parted for breath. “What now?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier chuckled once more and shuffled closer, raising a hand to pull a strand of white hair behind Geralt’s ear. “I just…” he took a deep breath, shook his head. “I can’t imagine my life without loving you.” His hand came to rest on Geralt’s face.

Like the sun setting, Geralt’s smile slowly faded. Instead, a faint line appeared between his eyebrows. “You can’t,” he repeated as though he couldn’t believe it, as though he could. He huffed. “Don’t you ever wish for it though? To stop loving me?”

His voice was small like a child’s and Jaskier’s heart thumped inside his chest, almost painfully. “Do you?”

It’s okay if you do, his eyes said and at the same time they begged, please, please don’t ever stop hurting me.

But Geralt huffed, the smile briefly returning to his lips. “No, I don’t… It’s just,” he swallowed, almost afraid, almost as though the barest sting of words would break this bubble they hid in once a year. “It would be so much easier.” Seeing as Jaskier frowned, he rushed to add, “For you. I am a witcher.” He averted his look. “Life was never meant to be easy for me anyway.”

Jaskier’s fingertips were now trailing paths on his face and he longed to know where they led, if there was a way out of this curse. The poet gazed at him for some moments, and his look resembled the one he had just before Geralt left. Then, slowly, as though not to scare a wild animal away, he leaned in and pressed a kiss on his lips, careful yet firm. And when he pulled away, and met his gaze, his eyes crinkled at the corners in a hidden smile. “My dearest witcher. Even if I had the choice to stop loving you,” he laughed again, as if he found it funny, “I would still choose pain. Because loving you…” he came closer still, until their breaths mingled and their lips were inches apart, “it’s the sweetest relief from it.”

And kissed him, again, deeper, and made to move on top of him when his skin rubbed unpleasantly on Geralt’s and the witcher let out a hum of protest, and laughed inside the kiss. “You’re fucking sticky, Jaskier.”

“Uh-huh,” Jaskier teased and almost deliberately kept their lips together, “and whose fault is that?”

“Fetch some water and I’ll show you.”

 “Ohoho –Ah, fine, fine you brute, stop –Ah, Geralt stop tickling me –you fucking asshole,” Jaskier stood up and loosely grasped the bucket of water and a cloth waiting beside the nightstand, steps almost dragged as he came back to bed. But before he sat again, he paused.

There was something prickling at his skin, and it most definitely wasn’t cum.

He looked at Geralt, lying there, waiting. Waiting until he came back. And it was so natural, so familiar was his presence, that a sudden dread crawled upon Jaskier’s bones and made his knees weak, the earth collapsing under his feet.

“Geralt,” he breathed and it was unreasonable, really, as Geralt was right there, and he would always be, even if he was away, he would always be there. Always. Jaskier swallowed as he looked into his eyes. “Will you come back to me again?”

Immediately, Geralt’s face darkened, and he sat up. “What? What are you talking about?”

Jaskier flinched. Damn it, what had gotten into him? His heartbeat fluttered in his ears. “Nothing, nevermind,” he stared at Geralt and smiled wide but it felt more like a wince.

“Jaskier…” His name was gentle on Geralt’s lips, so much that he could already feel tomorrow’s pain. Yet now, Geralt reached for his hand and pulled him to bed again, fingers entwining tight. “Jaskier,” he said again, as though he wouldn’t really look at him otherwise, and their eyes met. “Do you want me to?” he asked like it needed asking, like he still wasn’t certain, and Jaskier was tired suddenly, so tired, and tears flowed down his eyes and sobs wrecked his shoulders and then Geralt’s arms were around him and he hid his face in his shoulder, and cried.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun was setting, and his skin burned as Geralt’s fingers slid from his hold, almost regretfully, only to leave him emptier than any other time, and wanting.

It was only when the magpies fled to their branches and Geralt was lost deep into the forest that he realized, and horror beat him numb once more.

He had never really answered Geralt’s question.

Jaskier,  

It’s snowing in Kaer Morhen. You would love the view from the balcony, for certain, and come up with countless rhymes about it to bother me. Then again, you might make the memories of the place bearable, more beautiful perhaps, the ancient witcher’s keep. You’ve already done a nice job with a witcher.  

It hurts. And I too am afraid. But don’t waste your tears on what could have been. Keep them for it will hurt even more, having no tears to spare when they’re all that’s left. Who knows? Perhaps, if we evermanage to work this mess out, you’ll be over it.  

Gods know I won’t.  

I still love you. And I remember that you do too. Still, it would be easier, far easier, if you forgot both.    

      Geralt  

On the first day of spring of the third year Geralt didn’t come.

Jaskier stood, and waited, and loved, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. And a single magpie screamed with him.

“That’s quite a mess you have here.”

“Fucking hell!” Jaskier jumped on his seat and turned around panting, hand dramatically resting atop of his heart, only to find Yennefer standing in the middle of his room, arms crossed on her chest. He glared at her, eyes wide. “Why the fuck don’t you knock like a normal person?”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow, amused. “Scaring you is way funnier.”

He would answer back at her, he really would, if his thoughts weren’t blurry and his head throbbing with insomnia. But then again, it wouldn’t make much difference. Something in her eyes confessed that it had been long since she had some fun and somehow, he was content to provide her even that. She was right, after all.

And he just then realized.

He looked around the room, fists clenched. Sheets of paper were scattered on the floor all over, lectures and compositions and doodles mingled together, crumpled balls of paper, some drops of spilled ink beside his desk and on it, more piles of books and papers that he discovered blocked the sunlight from the window behind them. He held back a gasp, maybe not to embarass himself more. He hadn’t realized that the sun had long come up.

Beside his chair there was an empty bottle of a drink he didn’t remember, but that meant it had done a good job.

A small smile creeped upon his lips, and his throat was burning.

“Look at me, bard.”

As though on instinct, as though he dared not refuse, he raised his head and their eyes met. He thought, it was a good time for Yenefer to read his thoughts. Maybe she would make some sense out of the mess, and tell him too about it. Yet his mind didn’t go numb, or more than it already was. Instead, Yennefer stared at him, steady and insistent and almost sad. It was sad. In the way the circles under her eyes mirrored his, and her head was tilted, gaze held lower than usual, and her eyes were not sharp and cold and unreadable, but pained.

For a moment, he froze. Of course, that was it. The reason she was here. It had been devouring him for so long, and now she had come, finally, to let him know. And, oh, she was so late. He swallowed, voice small as though the words themselves were afraid to come out. “Is he dead?”

Yennefer squinted, but didn’t answer at once. He wanted to laugh. Geralt was dead. That’s why he hadn’t come. Of course, he never could have, he was slow, he was wounded and was left bleeding for days on end, no one to find him, to take care of him, and if there had been it was not Jaskier. Jaskier wasn’t there when Geralt sweated and whimpered with fever, he wasn’t there when his breaths came out shallow, he wasn’t there to hold him, touch him, even one last time, even if it hurt. And yet, how ironic. If he had been there, it would have been much more painful a death. And much more quick.

Of course, that’s why he hadn’t come. At least, he had died loving him. Jaskier’s eyes were fixed on Yennefer and he hated, hated every inch of himself for the momentary flutter that his absurd relief sent to his heart. His eyes almost begged her to kill him.

“Don’t be pathetic. He’s not.” Yennefer’s lips curved into a bitter smile. Oh. She needed no thoughts to read him.

Still, then, only then, his shoulders slumped and a deep sigh escaped his lips. He closed his eyes, not bearing to hold Yennefer’s piercing gaze any longer, and placed his head inside his hands, rubbing his eyes. Gods. He had to sleep.

He had been sleeping, of course. Just… less. Inconsistently. He would wake up sometimes, shivering, and curl around himself, as though to replace the missing warmth. He could not. He never could.

He heard Yennefer huffing beside him, but it was far from a laugh. Instead, her voice was weary. “Don’t worry. You love him too much to be so selfish.” She knew, she always knew. And he dreaded that she was the only one.

“Does he know?” he blurted out before he could think about it, and snorted, burying his face deeper in his hands. His fingers reached his hair and he resisted the urge to grip them. “Does he know that I love him?”

Her heels echoed on the wooden floor as she walked closer, steps slow and small. Gently, he felt delicate fingers creeping upon his, untangling them from his hair and lowering them to reveal his face, his hands still in hers. He swallowed, but didn’t look up at her, not yet. She shook her head. “He does. Perhaps,” this time it was a proper chuckle, always a bitter thing, “it would be better if he didn’t. It would hurt less. He might even get over his love some time, or pretend he did, for the sake of it.” A long sigh, and her voice was uncharacteristically flat. “But he doesn’t deserve that, does he?”

And then Jaskier raised his head, and their stares locked together. She was looking down at him, her lips slightly curved, and it made him smile too, even faintly. No. Geralt didn’t deserve that.

Yennefer’s free hand cupped his face and he shivered with itswarmth, leaning into the touch like an abandoned child craving its mother’s hug. He almost whimpered. It had been Geralt, the last time, and she hadn’t visited him for a long time. At least, at least. Her touch was a kind of comfort.

His skin prickled with every night he’d spent clinging to himself.

“You need to shave your stubble.” Yennefer’s nails faintly scratched at his cheek, no more than a caress. Jaskier breathed shakily, hummed in acknowledgement. She was always right. She always knew. Maybe she would know that too.

Looking into her eyes as if he would find the answer spilling from their light, he let his voice quiver, and he asked. “Why didn’t he come, Yen?”

Oh. He already knew the answer. Yennefer looked at him for a moment, then she shook her head. “That you have to ask him yourself.”

He already knew the answer. And, in a vain attempt to gather as much comfort as he could between the pieces of his shattered heart, he also knew, somehow, he would have the chance to ask Geralt one day.

Yet for now, his eyes burned and a merciless lump tore at his throat, a remnant of all the sobs he had left behind at the river. So he let his head fall on Yennefer’s side, and hid his face in her dress and, as her fingers softly worked through his hair, he cried some tears that had dried up.  

On the first day of spring of the fourth year, Geralt stood in front of Jaskier, and the distance grew longer with every passing second.

It can’t be, Jaskier thought, it can’t be that he doesn’t love me. It wouldn’t hurt so badly.  

Geralt’s fists were nailed on his sides, clenched. He dared not lower his look, as though he didn’t regret, as though he hadn’t finished yet. And yet the shadow in his eyes and the trembling of his lips whispered on their own the world’s deepest regrets.

A huff escaped Jaskier’s lips. He wanted to be mad. He wanted to cry out and demand an answer, even if it was not the one he wanted to hear, because maybe, maybe it would hurt less, knowing that there was never any hope, rather than grieving the one lost.

He wanted to be mad. But oh, Geralt was so beautiful in the sunset, his hair like a halo around his head and the lines of his hands, oh so soft, and Jaskier’s whole body ached, ached, ached with every touch they were deprived of for two years. Two damned years. “Geralt,” he whispered and his voice quivered, broke like a mirror that failed to reflect his rage.

And yet, and yet, somehow behind the veil in Geralt’s stare, something glinted. And ever so quiet, Geralt huffed. “You remember, then.”

Dried tears burnt Jaskier’s eyes and he shook his head, laughed, mouth trembling with unspoken whimpers, with all the sobs he had swallowed or hid in the pillow. “Fucking bastard.” He didn’t move. Neither did Geralt. If you stopped loving me, why, why does it keep hurting? A chuckle, bitter, and he took a deep breath. Took a step back. “You did good,” he said then, and tried to keep his voice stable, as though he would believe his words more easily then, “not coming.” Geralt had to know. He shouldn’t regret it. Jaskier felt his knees giving in. “My love, you don’t deserve to hurt.”

Geralt’s face darkened and it was as though the moon vanished in the night sky. “Stop.” He was far away, so far away. A heart was wailing. None could tell whose. Geralt made to walk up to him, but faltered, as though there was no choice, no chance anymore. He only stared at him, helpless, and for some reason, it was worse, so much worse. “That’s not why I didn’t come–”

“That’s not–” Jaskier laughed, this time rough, incredulous. Desperate. He raised his eyebrows and maybe, yes, maybe if he wiped this off too, maybe if he made it funny, it wouldn’t eat him alive. So he smiled, and his lips almost bled. “That’s not why you didn’t come,” he repeated, voice weak. The tears just wouldn’t fall. He nodded, gaze steady like a broken sword. “Then why? Why, why,” a sob escaped his lips, “why didn’t you come?”

A tear flowed down Geralt’s face.     Don’t fret, it whispered, I will cry for you. The sun had set now. And Geralt lowered his look. “Maybe I love you enough to let you go.” A huff. “Or maybe,” he said and it echoed like all his tears flowed in bitter words down his lips, “maybe I hoped you would forget.”

And then Jaskier was throwing his arms around him and holding him tightly, tightly, as though to melt inside him and never let him go again. And Geralt hugged him back, finally, and hid his face inside his neck and took a deep breath in his scent, drunk, and oh, he had missed him, he had missed him so much.  

Jaskier was laughing, or sobbing in his shoulder, he couldn’t tell and neither could Jaskier himself. “I won’t change this,” he whispered like he wanted to muffle a scream, “I won’t change this for anything, you hear me? And I won’t ever,” he gritted his teeth, “ever forget. As long as you don’t either.”

“Never,” Geralt whispered inside his hair and now it was calm, certain, “no matter the pain.” He chuckled. “I can’t help it… Jaskier,” the poet held his breath, and Geralt closed his eyes. “You’re my greatest mistake.”

Jaskier swallowed, fingers gripping at Geralt’s shirt. “Stay with me, Geralt.” As though sealing a decision, he took a deep breath, shaking. “Don’t leave tomorrow.” He raised his head, looked at him. “Hurt with me. I can’t bear to lose you again.”

He felt Geralt going rigid under his arms, and the witcher shook his head, eyes dark and wide. “Jaskier, I can’t do this.” His voice trembled. “It will kill you.”

Jaskier smiled, tilted his head. Slowly, he raised his hand to cup Geralt’s face and the witcher leaned into the touch, starving. “Every second away from you kills me. Love is pain, Geralt,” he shook his head, whispering, “but it’s also so much more.”

Geralt only parted his lips, but never spoke, words dying under Jaskier’s stare. Stubborn, idiot man. Instead, he heaved a deep sigh, and caught the poet’s hand on his face. It was so soft, so warm, his hand on his, comforting like lying on fresh sheets, and gently, he leaned and pressed a kiss on the inside of Jaskier’s wrist. He felt the bard shivering. Smiled against his skin.

“I love you,” he said, and he wanted to say so much more, but what else is there to say?

Nothing, perhaps. Jaskier smiled and his face was brighter than the sun. “Oh, Geralt. I love you too.”

When the sun set, the magpies fled to their branches, and Jaskier wished for it to be the last time, whatever that meant.

Geralt’s hand was clutching his, and now it was calmer than ever. He turned, looked into his eyes. Smiled, as though for a final hope. And held his breath.

A scream echoed in the forest.

They dared not leave the river shore. Dared not be heard by any other, refusing to be saved. They would probably never know if it was worth it. Because for now, it was not.

Geralt tried not to breathe, not to think, not to doubt for a second because Jaskier was there, inside his arms, after so long. And yet, there were screams. Tears. Jaskier was wheezing, burying his face in his shoulder, writhing like a fish out of the water. Sometimes he rambled along with each shortening breath. Geralt didn’t want to hear what he was saying.

He would like to say he had been through worse, because he had. The pain he was feeling now, numbing his limbs, stealing the life out of him, choking him, he had felt it again, and if it was less, his mind was too blurred to remember. But he had always been alone.

The opposite had been a relief until now.

“Geralt,” he heard Jaskier grunting but didn’t look at him, afraid of what he would see. “Don’t leave me, Geralt.” Another scream, heart-wrenching, and Jaskier bit into his shoulder, body shaking violently. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He wanted to tear himself to pieces, to jump into the peaceful water, rippling with their cries, and never come back up. But alas, he didn’t want to be alone either. He didn’t have the time to speak. Jaskier, as though in a desperate attempt to get rid of himself, turned around and vomited on the ground. Geralt brought a trembling hand on his back as he choked and wheezed, and it wouldn’t help, but he didn’t have much warmth left to give.

The ground was soft under them, welcoming, like a nightmare-promising feather pillow. He was staring at the sky, his medallion wildly vibrating on his chest. It was funny. Perhaps he would never see the stars again.

With an effort that felt like carrying the world on his shoulders, he turned to look at Jaskier as he was convulsing, fingers digging into the dirt, incoherent cries escaping his lips. His eyes were wide, nearly empty as he stared at the sky too, and Geralt thought, he would most definitely be the one to greet it goodbye first.

With the voice he didn’t know he could still use apart from grunts, he breathed one last attempt to save him. “I don’t love you.” And the words weighed wrong on his tongue.

He wished Jaskier hadn’t heard, he looked like he hadn’t, curled in himself and delirious. And yet, stubbornly protecting what was left, Jaskier laughed in his torture, he laughed, but didn’t look at him, only whimpered hoarsely. “Quit fucking lying.”

And there, laid and gutted with pain as they were, he outstretched his hand. And Geralt took it. And held it, tightly, tightly, the last reminder, even as he felt Jaskier’s nails digging into his skin, even as the poet screamed and screamed and trembled with just breathy whines left to echo, and even when his eyes fluttered closed and open again because he was not so lucky as to fall unconscious, even then he didn’t leave his hand.

And when he felt himself lost between the first rays of the sun and Jaskier’s eyes had long ago lost any hint of him, unnaturally blue and almost unblinking with uncontrollable tears, as though he was buried alive in his own body, when Geralt realized he could cry out no more, because no voice was left to aid him, when he let his body shake and arch like a frail leaf in the wind with all the pain he didn’t manage to fight back, even then, his grip remained waiting, tight. All that was left.

He was a witcher. He wasn’t supposed to suffer for love. But if it was to hold Jaskier’s hand, even in death, he thought, so be it. And thought no more.

※

When Geralt opened his eyes, the sun was setting.

He blinked. As though due to habit, he grunted what would probably be another curse through gritted teeth to cover up the pain.

So much pain. Unbearable. Deathly.

There was something missing. He squinted at the sky and the sky, as though sarcastically, stared back. It’s funny. He never thought he would see the sky again.

There’s something missing.

A hand clasped in his.

And then, it hit him like a thunder and he gasped and jolted up, eyes wide, breath cut as though he was scared that if he breathed it would be real, or it would become real after a deceiving dream. He stared at his hand, shaking. He wanted to laugh.

On instinct, he tightened his grip on the hand. “Jaskier,” he said and his voice was nothing but a broken, frail wheeze, hollow and trembling but it was enough, it should be enough. He breathed shakily “Jaskier.”

The pain, he wanted to say. The pain was gone.  

The realization dawned on him like the setting sun falling on his head. The pain was gone. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to do without it.

The hand in his was limp. His heart skipped a beat and, as if he didn’t want to be late in a feast that was already over, he turned around abruptly, shuffling closer to Jaskier lying on the ground, rigid and melting at the same time. “Jaskier!” he called again and he got no answer, gods, none, and he reached for the bard’s face and turned his head to face him, and he did. He faced him. He faced two blue eyes, glazed over and empty, staring at him with no hint of recognition or life or pain. He faced trembling lips croaking out silent nothings, voice too strained to even be audible. And, on pale skin, the tears had dried.

Geralt swallowed around a lump in his throat, snorted. Not now. They had gone all this way, they had come out winners. It couldn’t be over, not now. He refused to let it happen. He owed it to them. And, for once, he owed it to himself.

His fingers stroked over Jaskier’s cheeks and he stared at him, searching for a drop of familiarity in the wild sea of his eyes. “Jaskier!” he said, again, over and over, “Jaskier, it’s over, wake up, Jaskier, come back to me, it’s over,” until his voice failed him and he could only whisper, “Come back, it’s me, come back.”

And Jaskier stared at him, long and quiet, like a porcelain doll, until a weak whimper escaped his throat. “Hurts…” His words fought to be buried inside him again, as though he refused to let go of that single branch of sanity he had grasped inside himself.

And Geralt, oh, Geralt wanted to laugh, but he could only cry. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, Jaskier,” he whispered and he couldn’t imagine what his love would be without pain, but he craved to find out. Trembling, he brought Jaskier’s hand on his face, held it there, trying to let as much warmth as he had seep through. “It’s over now, Jask, it doesn’t hurt.”

There’s a last ray of light that fell on Jaskier’s face and it might be that, or it might be the spark in his eyes, and in a moment the poet lit up like a flower timidly blooming. “Geralt?” the name fell crumbling down his lips and his brows were furrowed but Geralt didn’t care, because now he could see him. Now he could laugh.

And he did, a hoarse, victorious chuckle that almost washed off all the previous screams. He grasped Jaskier’s hand tighter. “It’s me, Jaskier,” and there were tears burning his eyes, “we’re alright.”

Jaskier looked at him almost lost, almost afraid to believe. Almost waiting for the nightmare to kick back in. But it didn’t. Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile curved his lips, oh so bright, and it was as though the sun came back up to gaze at him. “Oh,” he whimpered and he was tired, so tired, but now he could rest. He shook his head. “We’re alright.”

And then he jumped and threw his arms around Geralt, tight, as though he had been saving his strength for that moment. They fell on the ground, limbs and hearts tangled between their hold, and there were tears, but it didn’t matter anymore. Jaskier looked at him, and there was a weary smile on his lips, but heady still, as though he was drinking and drinking with every glance he gave Geralt. He couldn’t stop drinking.

He pressed their foreheads together, breathed. “So much more…” he whispered and it was a relief, a dirty shirt finally thrown away, a weight off their shoulders. Geralt looked at him. The circles under his eyes. The paleness of his skin. He looked at him, and he felt like looking in a mirror. Without thinking, he smiled. “I missed you so much.”

 And Jaskier, staring at him through drooping eyelids, smiled back. Oh, they were too tired, still.

But now they could rest.

※

On the first day of their lives of the first year, Geralt opened his eyes, and the sky was staring at him. The sun was rising.

“There you are.” There was a wide smile spreading on Jaskier’s face, the widest he’d ever seen and he knew he could get used to this. A wave of warmth tingled through his body. Oh, he would.

He squinted at him, pleasantly sleepy and numbingly exhausted. “Good morning.” His voice was clearer. Still he would probably need a couple of days to feel the ache in his throat subside. Jaskier would need some more days to sing again. But then again, he didn’t care. Hearing him was enough.

Hearing him for as long as he wanted was more than enough.

The sun was seeping through the window, embroidering the shade of tree leaves on the wall and on the poet’s face, making his eyes glisten like morning stars.

Jaskier squinted at him. He wanted to say something, Geralt knew. He knew. And he couldn’t wait to learn even more. “I was wondering,” he whispered and there was a hint of teasing in his tone, and another one of genuine insecurity that he chose to hold back, lest he would challenge a settled fate. He sighed, the smile ever present on his lips, and something else, something a tad darker. The shade of the smiles they were deprived of. “Will you love me less now that it doesn’t hurt?”

It was silly, of course. He knew it was. How small, how unimportant, now that they’ve been through everything else, and really, he wouldn’t mind, because any amount of Geralt’s love would be enough to bring him to his knees. Yet there was a thin needle of doubt that stung him as though to make him flinch away, and he hated that it did. It shouldn’t. Gods knew his love knew no way back.

But Geralt, dear Geralt, frowned and tilted his head, face melting into complaint as though the mere implication wounded him. As though the thought of Jaskier of all people feeling like that made him burn. Indeed, the poet had done a good job assuring him. Now it was his turn.

“Listen to me,” he said and smiled as though to seal his words. His hand reached for Jaskier’s face, so close on the pillow beside him and finally, finally the ever present distance melted in their warmth. “I love you today, I will love you tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and in fifty years, if you ask me the same thing, I will remind you of today, and I will love you still.” There was a faint sparkle in Jaskier’s eyes and he suspected it was not the sun. Gods, he loved him. “Pain wasn’t a reminder of my love, neither of yours. Only a burden. The reminder is you, and your voice, and that heart of yours that beats so fast it drives you mad if you are to even consider such things.”

A deep blush painted Jaskier’s cheeks. Slowly, he turned his head just a little, only to place a kiss inside Geralt’s palm. Then, a smirk. “What a sap you are. Honestly, Geralt, I’m the poet between the two –ah, stop!” he let out a barking laugh when Geralt poked at his side and curled to himself, giggling. “Bastard.”

“We haven’t agreed on pet names yet.”

“Oh, you’re insufferable.” Laughing and laughing and Geralt thought, if he was to hear that sound for the rest of his life, he wished his life would be long.

Then Jaskier shuffled impossibly closer. Gazed at him as though he was looking at the most incredible work of art. Chuckled. “Today I think I love you more than yesterday,” he said and his voice felt like velvet. Geralt shivered. “And I think I’ll say that every day.” His eyes were wrinkling at the corners, happier than his smile itself. “Lest you forget.”

Geralt rolled his eyes fondly and pressed their lips together and the kiss was far from the first, but it was soft and peaceful and promising to be like that forever and on, along with the promise of them never parting again.

On the first day of their lives, the sun was finally shining down on them.

And, outside, a magpie started singing.

[lilyclawthorne]

No Clouds Allowed In The Sky, Ch. 2

“Clear skies” had been her life’s motto, it was the only thing she had at times to keep the lid on her emotions, and keep the weather outside from becoming disastrous. Totally an effective solution to her problem with no foreseeable issues, right?

——————————————————————

5 times Pepa’s emotions cause her to lose control + 1 time she can finally let them out

Ch. 1 Ao3 Link

Word Count: 3102

A/N I don’t know I’d this is what I planned to write, but it certainly is what came out of me during my random 3 am burst of energy

2. Age 17

It was not a great day. No matter where Pepa had gone, there had always seemed to be the same group of girls that appeared to be following her around everywhere, whispering to each other and laughing. They pointed in her direction, and she knew exactly who it was they were laughing about, and was beginning to get frustrated at their presence. Clear skies, she tells herself, just like her Mama taught her, pushing away the gray clouds that were slowly rolling in. It was important that she didn’t blow up on them, she was a Madrigal, and Madrigal’s always took the high road. Never supposed to let others get to you no matter how hard they tried.

Another chorus of giggling interrupted her thoughts, the words “weather freak” hitting her ears, and damn it, maybe she was a Madrigal, but Pepa was also Pepa first. She marched her way directly over to the girls, who were quickly becoming aware of her presence as thunder rang out in the sky. They already looked like they were beginning to regret their choice of activity for the day.

“ What!? Just what do you think is SO funny to you?” she screamed at them. They all looked away from her, guilty looks on their faces. The rain began to pour and people were clearing out the area, “ Well? ”

The sky lit up electric and the girls yelled, running away from Pepa, most likely going on to tell others that the girl tried to strike them all with lightning despite it being nowhere close to them. Great , she thinks, I’m gonna hear about this later. She turns around to head back home. Everyone has cleared the area it seems. Everyone except one person, who seems to have never learned that staring is rude.

“Just who do you think you’re looking at like that, huh? Come to make fun of me too??” she screams at a guy who had been watching her from the side the whole time that she had been confronting those girls. The sky flashing behind her to emphasized her point as she approached him, “ Well?”

He shook himself out of his slack jawed stupor, “ No! No. It’s just, well that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Now Pepa herself looked confused, “Don’t lie to me because you’re scared of my gift. I hate when people do that.”

He came closer to her, “I’m not scared! If anyone is scared of you then they clearly can’t see what a wonder you are! Those girls were idiotas .”

Pepa was shocked. Plenty of people loved her rainbows and sunshine, but her messy weather earned her many rude names and rumors that she had a hard time shaking off. At those moments she was a ‘powder keg of emotions’, and her sudden messy feelings were just ‘overcast outbursts’. No one had ever thought of her thunder and lightning as beautiful before. A blush crept up her face, as the rain slowed to a drizzle.

He marveled at her again as a rainbow was forming above her head. She followed his line of sight, wide-eyed and embarrassed when she saw the rainbow. Quickly, she waved the whole thing out of existence.

“And who exactly are you?” she asked, trying to move on.

“You can call me Félix.”

“I’m Pepa,” she paused, overthinking everything she was about to say, “You probably knew that already, everyone knows that. Pepa Madrigal, one of the Madrigal triplets, everyone knows who-“

He smiled at her nervous rambling, cutting her off as he reached for her hand to shake it, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pepa Madrigal.”

The rainbow came back even brighter.

————————————————-

It only took a few weeks of planned ‘bumping’ into each other and just ‘happening’ to come across the other’s path, before they finally started to date. The sun burned brighter than it had in quite awhile, and Pepa’s family did not fail to notice how radiant she had become.

“It’s nice to see you’ve found someone who makes you so happy, mija . You’ll have to bring him over soon,” her Mama told her that morning. Pepa nodded her head, agreeing with the woman.

“I don’t care who this guy is if it means we get weather like this all the time,” Bruno added, receiving a glare from Pepa, and getting elbowed by Julieta.

“Don’t be rude,” Julieta said, telling her brother off.

“What? I can’t say the weather is nice?? Is there something wrong with me thinking my sister is doing a lovely job of handling the weather for once??”

Julieta sighed, knowing exactly where this was going to go.

“What do you mean ‘ for once’ ? You try having a gift that changes with every emotion and see how hard it is to keep it controlled all of the time!”

“And there it is,” Julieta stated aloud, cleaning up her plate from breakfast and moving on to get started with her work for the day, as well as to avoid getting involved with another one of her siblings’ fights. She could still hear the bickering from the other room, until it died down, each of the other two triplets also helping to clean up. While Bruno quickly left without saying a word to either sister, Pepa stayed behind, taking a seat at the kitchen table. She let out a sigh, which Julieta ignored at first. Then a second, louder sigh. She gave in, putting a stop to her work and sitting down with her sister.

“Something you want to say?”

“It’s just, well, you don’t think I can only make the weather nice just because I like this guy, do you? Like this isn’t just my emotions taking control again but in a different way, right?”

“What I think, is that you and Bruno fall for each other’s bait way too often,” Julieta told her, ignoring the eye roll that she received, “And besides, as long as you feel confident that this guy, Félix right? That he likes you, all of you, then who cares if your emotions are strong. Can’t be such a thing as too happy, right?

“Why would you even put the idea in my head that he might not like all of me?!” Pepa turned to her sister, suddenly worried.

“That is definitely not what I said, but in that impossible scenario, then we will all be here for you. I’ll always be ready to protect mi hermanita.”

“You’re only older by 9 minutes!!” Pepa yelled at her. Before she could start another round of bickering with Julieta this time, the older triplet pushed the younger one out the door, telling her to go find somewhere to be or someone to help so she could finish her own work in the kitchen.

She decided to listen to her sister, starting her own trek towards the town, but there wasn’t much she actually needed to do. The crops were growing strong and benefiting from the clear sunlight, and there wasn’t flooding or water damage to help others out with because she hadn’t caused any serious rain as of lately. But she could help keep the kids of the town entertained and out of the adults’ way while they were working by making rainbows and puffy white clouds in fun shapes for them to watch and play with.

About halfway through the day she took a break from playing babysitter, letting the kids continue their games and run around her, when she spotted Félix in the area. She waved him over despite the fact that he was almost certainly already on his way to her. As she watched him come over another rainbow grew above her head.

“You like him, don’t you?!!” She jumped when she suddenly heard a few of the children yell, coming up from behind her, “We’re gonna tell him!!”

She wasn’t worried about the kids, pretty sure Félix already knew that she very much liked him. When she looked back over at him, she could see him laughing at the kids surrounding her suddenly making their way over to him. She saw them whispering amongst themselves as they all approached her. He crouched down to the kids, not very far away from Pepa at all.

“Do you guys want to know a secret?” The kids nodded, almost too enthusiastically, “I like her a lot too.”

The kids jumped up and down, hardly able to contain their excitement. Pepa’s rainbow grew more vivid, and the sun burned a bit brighter, promptly causing another kid to tell him that they were pretty sure she heard him. She shooed the children away from Félix, letting them be on their own for now, as she went on to spend the rest of the afternoon with the guy she was quickly falling for.

———————————————

“Pepa, can you like, turn down the heat or something? I feel like I spent all night sweating,” Bruno asked his sister. A little over a week had passed by, and it was beginning to grow very hot with each passing day. All of Pepa’s family had taken notice of just why it was happening, but she herself barely recognized what was going on at all. Their Mama had asked Bruno and Julieta to talk with their sister earlier that morning. The woman thought she’d be more responsive to her siblings telling her that her new relationship was causing a heat wave and soon to be drought.

They, of course, weren’t thrilled by the idea either, opting to take the less direct approach first.

“It is getting a little too warm to be cooking and baking in the kitchen all day as of lately as well,” Julieta added to their conversation. She had been slightly regretting saying there could be no such thing as too much happiness to her sister. But only slightly.

“I’m sorry guys, I can’t help it,” Pepa told them with a smile, “Maybe I can try and figure something out later, but I’ve gotta go meet Félix in town now!”

As she left, the other two siblings shared the same look of discomfort, well aware that this was going to be much harder than they wanted it to be. They followed their sister out the door

Pepa, on the other hand, was in a world of her own. She walked down the streets with her head in the metaphorical clouds, as there hadn’t been any actual ones to even look at in awhile. Additionally, she failed to notice the many stares she received, or the whispers people shared while pointing slightly in her direction. The girl was too happy to let anything ruin her day, and too focused on getting to her destination to even notice any of it. Or to even notice that her siblings were following her.

Those two, however, certainly could see everyone else’s reactions. As much as Bruno may have liked having less negative attention on him at the time, he didn’t want it all to be placed onto his sister. 50/50 maybe, he jokes to himself, but not all of it.

They’re stopped from their mission when a local farmer asks Julieta if she has anything on hand she can spare as many of the people working that day were suffering from heat exhaustion. Of course she’s always ready, taking her bag off and just handing the whole thing to the man.

“Anything in here should help with the symptoms, but what would really be best is for them to get some shade and water, otherwise you’ll just need more food,” she tells him. Before the man can even begin to point out that they wouldn’t need this at all if it weren’t for their sister, Bruno grabs Julieta by the arm. Pepa was out of sight by now, but he rushed them off in the direction they last saw she was headed.

After searching for a while, they still couldn’t find her, but they did come across Félix and following him led them straight back to where they needed to be. Unfortunately for them, he was not quite as oblivious to their presence as they’re sister was. They stood by some stalls, watching from afar, when he finally met their sister with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek. Each of the siblings felt uneasy at their situation when they watched their sister practically glow at Félix’s arrival, giving each other the same unsure look. When they turned back around to watch, however, they were met with the sight of their sister marching straight over to them after Félix had mentioned to her that they were following him.

“I say we run right now,” Bruno declared, trying to turn around only to find that Julieta had a grip on him, and was shaking her head.

Pepa finally approached them, “What are you two idiotas doing here? Following Félix around?? Did Mama put you up to this?”

Bruno looked away, leaving Julieta to be the responsible one as always, “In a way yes. But not to follow Félix-”

“So you’re following me then? Why do I need babysitters all of the sudden??” Pepa looked at her siblings incredulously. People started to stare as she got upset. Whispers could be heard around them, and her siblings took notice immediately. She followed her siblings’ actions, looking around them now when she realized they weren’t paying attention to her anymore. Because everyone else was .

She could hear the whispers.

“Oh, I’d be so happy if she gets upset enough to make it rain finally.”

“Maybe we’ll get a whole outburst, that should clear up the drought quickly.”

“We could use one of her ‘temperature tantrums’ right about now, am I right?”

“Oh. I see,” were the only words Pepa let quietly fall out of her mouth. She turned back to face her siblings. They could see it in her eyes that she wanted to cry so badly, but not here, not right now. They could see how her hands twitched, aching to pull on her braid. And they could hear her breathe quicken, threatening to spill over into hyperventilation.

“Pepa, why don’t we go home, okay?” Julieta says softly. She nods at her sister, focusing on the feeling of each of her siblings grabbing onto and holding her hands. Feels them gently pull her forward so she can take a step, and then another, until she’s moving in sync with them. She stares at the ground, still feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on her. She wants to tell herself “ clear skies ” just like her Mama taught her, but clear skies are currently the problem.

Félix tries to approach as they pass him by. He’s the only person in the crowd who does so. The only one besides her siblings that wants to make sure she’s okay. Bruno tells him it’ll have to wait till tomorrow.

The triplets slowly make their way back to their home, and Pepa keeps it together pretty well. She’s still sitting on the edge, so close to boiling over, but she hasn’t done so just yet. Casita opens the door for them as they arrive, quietly moving the staircase so they’ll end up right in front of Pepa's door. Her siblings still hold on until they make it to her room, the large sprawling field and the gentle breezes it contained being the environment they needed so desperately for her to feel calm right now. When the door finally shuts behind them and she just collapses . She screams. She cries. They don’t need to look outside to know the sky has turned a dark gray for the first time in weeks.

Julieta holds her sister’s head in her lap, undoing her braid so she can gently run her fingers through her hair. She’s learned very well already that this is a kind of pain that nothing she makes can heal. All she can do is hold her and try to comfort her. Bruno’s never been quite as good at comforting people, so he chooses to stand awkwardly by the door in case their Mama comes by.

When the crying slows down a bit, Pepa speaks, the anger she’s feeling as well finally bubbling out of her, “It’s not fair. They don’t like when I’m sad. And they hate me when I’m happy. Am I supposed to feel nothing? ”

“No,” the other two tell her at the same time. Neither one of them thinks it’s physically possible for her to hold in her emotions like that, nor would it be healthy for her to do so, and they definitely do not want to see her try.

“I think I hate this ‘gift’. I know I’m supposed to be grateful but I hate it.”

And now this is a territory that Bruno is familiar with, he speaks before even thinking, “Yeah, I hate mine too. You get used to living with it though.”

Pepa looks up at him, then back at Julieta, who shrugs, “Don’t look at me. I only have slight issues with my gift.”

And that’s enough for the two younger triplets to laugh.

“You’re the one with the actually useful gift!!” Bruno tells her.

“What? Did you get burnt while cooking or something?” Pepa adds on.

Julieta rolls her eyes at them, keeping her feelings to herself. She let’s the two of them poke fun at her because Pepa’s tears may not have stopped but she is laughing, and her siblings are getting along with each other instead of fighting for once.

When the laughter dies down eventually, and they’re forced to come back to the situation at hand when Pepa speaks, “What do I tell him? I can’t be with him because he makes me too happy??”

Bruno finally joins his sisters on the floor, “Well, is he worth all these emotions?”

She barely thinks for a moment before saying yes.

“Then you’re gonna need to talk about all of this with him. Not just how your gift works, but how you work,” Julieta tells her before adding, “I can help you figure out how to do that if you like.”

Pepa nods, then she yawns, “Tomorrow, okay?” She leans herself backwards, staring up at the peaceful sky her room provides her, unlike the one outside. Before anyone can complain she’s not sleeping on her bed, she yanks her siblings down to lay in the field with her, talking until they can talk no more, and eventually falling asleep together in one big pile like they used to do so often as kids.

[archesa]

have 🌈🔥☁️🌟 for whichever two of your folks you feel like talking about :D (or just one if that’s too much!) @kerra-and-company

Thanks so much for these! And thank you for your patience! These took forever for me to answer, I've been busy with work and my mind was abuzz with thousands of thoughts that I could not get a hold onto... Constant white noise, plenty of plot bunnies running everywhere and no focus on anything... Somewhat better than pure creative drought but still quite frustrating!!

Anyway, here are some HC that I hope you'll enjoy 😘❤️🍂

🌈 RAINBOW - what advice would they give to their younger self?

Despite being (or perhaps because of that) a chronomancer, Galaëd knows better than to risk interfering with his or anyone's past. The ripple effects are too wild, too unpredictable...

That being said, a harmless pieces of advice he'd gladly have returned a couple minutes in the past to offer himself before disaster stroke :

Never. Try. To outsass. Dairban.

You will lose, and end up being exposed and kinkshamed in front of your entire guild and the Grand Warmaster of the Vigil.

Abridged transcript of the exchange as registered by Scruffy, 1334 AE :

[Dragon’s Watch pondering why, despite being a ranger, Laranthir doesn’t a pet]

Galaëd : Well, he has Dairban!

Dairban : Bold words from someone consistently impaled on a cactus.

Galaëd : What?

Dairban : *throws Galaëd on Canach*

🔥 FIRE - do they have any self destructive tendencies? what habits do they have that hinder them from becoming their best self?

Galaëd will deny it with all his might but... he can get a little... bit... irrationally... jealous.

Jiirka and Rorschach will mercilessly tease him for the dark glances he’ll throw to a certain corsair, when Canach first considers leaving for new adventures aboard her airship. It’ll take a pep-talk from his friends -- a quick reminder that it is well and definitely established that cunning, manipulative women are not Canach’s type -- and Canach casually asking Galaëd if he’d rather request a leave or an official demobilization for the poor twig to realise his partner never even considered leaving without him 😅Where to ? Only time will tell!

☁️ CLOUD - a soft headcanon

Draconis Mons is... not Galaëd’s favorite place! Apart from the constant humidity - seriously at this point I’d just rather it rained! - the sheer abundance of briars and liana, so soon after the campaign of Maguuma would already have been a waking nightmare without these damn antlers getting caught in everything, everywhere, all at once!

But Rorschach has been exceedingly patient, untangling his friend from whatever weed had latched onto him with nary a peep! An exceptional show of restrain when Galaëd looked like this, for the majority of the trip!

🌟 GLOWING STAR - what do they think about when they look at the night sky? is there someone they want to star gaze with?

The skies turning from a molten gold to a deep purple and the stars coming alive on the deepest of blue, dispelling the last shadows of the nightmare still clinging to his mind, even as the dragon writhed and died, still trying to poison the Dream...

The menders had calmed him and reassured him, after the dragon faded, defeated by a handful of future Valiants — one of which he'd soon enough recognize amongst his fellow recruits, within the Vigil — and he spent his first hours in the waking world watching the stars and fireflies dance above the shallow water of Caer Astorea.

Whenever he observes the stars, he feels called back to this moment, where the world seemed a quieter, easier place — his destiny, the path he was born to tread laid at his feet — where he was content, and proud, and comfortable and hopeful.

Of course, life is seldom as simple as menders and luminaries would have the saplings believe.

And he enjoys his life, rich and chaotic and full of love and laughter as it is!

But stargazing remains a suspended moment, a bubble out of time and space, where he can pretend nothing exists apart from the skies above and his loved ones besides. And, of course, he particularly enjoys stealing such moments with Canach.

[annaberunoyume]

When Rorshchach first saw beyond New York (Rorshchach x Nite Owl)

''Hey, Rorshchach.''

''Hrrg?''

''Want me to fly you to your house?''

The dalmatian-masked man lowered his head after a second.

''Can't show where I sleep.''

''Why not?'', asked Nite Owl.

''Prefer not to show.'', the other answered in a final tone.

Nite Owl sighed. He was a bit annoyed, yet concerned. Rorshchach never told anyone where he slept. From the look (and...sometimes, smell) of it, it couldn't be good. Still, his patrol partner looked cold and more tired than usual. This is then than an idea plopped up in his mind.

''Hey-hum, (clears throat), well then...I don't know quite a lot about where you live, but I do know one thing...'', the goggled hero smiled with pride, ''...It's that New York looks mighty beautiful from up there...I bet you never saw that. And besides, you look like you could warm up a bit.''

Rorshchach almost imperceptively moved his head up, as if caught. He grumbled, but he was indeed shaking and his mouth was making vapor, even through his mask. Even his coat, at this hour would most likely not fare him by then.

''Hrrgh...Fine...Just to get warm.''

Nite Owl was pleased with his victory. He pressed a button on Archie and with a whoosh, they could enter.

Archie had been recently cleaned up. Rorshchach's shoes squeaked on its floor. He felt a bit out of place and fidgeted in his pockets. Nite Owl beckoned him to sit on the right seat at the commands. The fedora-wearing slender lad did with a a slight slump. The chair was ergonomic and thinly covered with a sort of velvety fabric, like those old cars. He sighed.

''All set?''

''Yeah...''

''Then...contact.'', Nite Owl smirked.

Effortlessly, Archie ascended with a hum. The cabin was filled with an aqua hue. At first, Rorshchach could see towers upon towers...A poor black woman tucking her children in a double bed...A couple fighting...Punks staring up at the vessel...Graffitis...That street painting of silhouettes in love on one wall..

But then, the towers made way for antennas...Then clouds...Then...

Rorshchach's dark blotches on his mask slowed down to near standstill...

Stars...Stars everywhere...The kind you only see in a storybook... They glittered like...He couldn't quite compare it to anything. He knew nothing of beauty, for it had deserted New York since forever... In the deep dark, they seemed t glow even more...

Then... Archie slowed to an halt.

''Pssst, Rorshchach.''

The latter jumped as Nite Owl's fingers tapped on his forearm. He looked upon a warm smile.

''Look...''

''… (faint gasp) ...''

The moon...Humongus amongst a plain of pale, twilight blue clouds...Perfectly framed through the viewport...

And not sounds of a plane getting near...

Rorshchach slumped his arms at his sides...He slowly got up and walked, step by step...

Nite Owl could tell the awe hiding beneath the mask...

Rorshchach contemplated the scenery left...to right...Then, he drew in a long, slow breath...and slowly exhale, tonus loosened. His black spots swirled about serenely.

''Pretty, isn't it?'' smiled Owl.

''...Calm...No noise...Peace...''

''...I love to go there, some nights.''

''Hmrmr...Silence...'', Rorshchach's smile wasn't quite hidden by his mask, anymore.

Nite Owl cautiously joined his accolyte. Both taking it in...

Until there was a rumble below...

''Maybe we should go, it might start to rain.''

''No. I want to stay.''

'' Well...Maybe we can fly some more...Then, I could drop you off wherever you want.''

''...Hrmrm..Okay.''

And thus, as rain began to fall, they flew in the night for a longer while... Rorshchach made himself at ease in his seat...Just watching the plains of clouds and stars...Then when the ship went under it, he listened to the pitter-patter of the rain...

Nite Owl glanced every now and then. He never saw him this relaxed. He was indeed a strange fellow, but he was effective when squeezing truths from crooks. And he was on point with his theories about cases they both took together. He never quite teamed up with the others, except when needed be.

Strange fellow...But always true to his mission. No compromises. Nite Owl liked that.

He glanced again...and gasped.

The fedora-wearing vigilante had drifted off. His arms comfortably lying atop his striped thighs and his head lolled to the left.

Nite Owl smiled and turned the autopilot on. He untied his long brown cloak and gently went to cover him and tuck it around Rorshchach's shoulders. The latter lowered the tip of his chin onto it.

Nite Owl serenely beamed. Seeing that the hat may fall off, he took it with utmost care in one hand and...with the other one...he...gently stroke the back of his neck. When it leaned into the touch, Nite Owl contained a gasp, then after a pause, did it again. Rorshchach sighed. Nite Owl hesitantly smirked in slight amazement at how close he had touched him. He slowed his strokes, then placed his hand onto his shoulder.

''Good job...my friend.''

THE END

[karliahs]

hello! this is over 500 words, i hope you don't mind. i just like this whole part so much i couldn't cut it XD if it is a bother just cut from the end until it's 500. love you!

Tim had always noticed people, collected little details about them in his head whether he intended to or not, but he thinks his observations used to be about happier things, though it’s hard to remember exactly how he was, how he felt, before - it wasn’t the kind of thing he ever tried to memorise, the kind of thing he ever thought he could lose. Now he finds himself taking note of the coworker who comes back from their lunch break with faint puffy red marks around their eyes, or the older guy who checks his phone with something like dread in his eyes. Danny would have called it his older brother instincts (but what good did those instincts do him? ).

Tim blinks back to the present, realising he’s been pushing a napkin over the same spot of floor for a while now. Jon offers him a hand up, though he braces himself on the bar with his other hand before he does. Tim takes care not to let Jon take too much of his weight as he’s hauled back up.

“Ah, thank you. And apologies, again,” Jon murmurs, gesturing awkwardly at Tim’s lightly-beered clothes.

“Happens to everyone,” Tim says easily. Jon still looks lightly anguished, and Tim silently wishes this could have happened to someone else, someone with the confidence to laugh it off. “I’m always convinced I’m going to drop something when I go in the silent study bit of the library,” Tim offers.

“Ah...that worry hadn’t actually occurred to me,” Jon replies, solemn enough that Tim can’t really tell if he’s joking.

Tim finger-guns. “Any other anxieties I can stir up while you’re over here?”

“I’m quite capable of stoking my own neuroses, thank you.”

Jon glances over his shoulder at the tables the rest of the department are occupying, perhaps doing the same thing as Tim and trying to psyche himself up for some more hollow smalltalk. Tim notes that his jacket seems slightly large on him, but in a way that kind of works. The collar of his shirt is slightly out of place beneath it. There’s a lump forming in Tim’s throat, even though nothing is happening - nothing but standing close to someone, noticing the little signs that they’re real and alive entirely independent from him. He’s aware, as he always is, of the hollow pit in his stomach, pain ebbing and flowing but never gone, new flares thrown off from a familiar wound, now pulsing with a kind of loneliness. All this, just from standing close to someone and trying to make them feel better about a mistake that didn’t matter.

“I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

And here’s where Tim could say sure, wave him off and go back to moping, buy everyone an obligatory round, flex his meaningless chat muscles and be home by half 9. “Mind if I join you?” he asks instead, and to his surprise Jon nods immediately, as if he’d been hoping Tim would say that.

They duck outside to find dark clouds have given way to an anticlimactic drizzle. They stay close to the pub, shielded from the rain by the slight overhang of the roof. Jon fumbles with a lighter and Tim finds his gaze drifting over the rain-slick streets. It’s been a while since he’s been...anywhere, really, other than work and his flat. Longer than he can remember since he was outside in the never-quite-dark of the city.

Despite himself, Tim finds himself admiring the buildings across the way, modern painted shop-fronts on the ground floor giving way to weathered brick and occasional stone carvings above. It was the first thing he’d loved about London, how you only had to look up to catch a glimpse of its history, and it almost wounds him all over again, that that love isn’t gone too. It would be easier if he was just one thing, all the way lost. It would be easier if he didn’t still love the world that killed Danny.

Jon lights his cigarette, and silently holds the lighter out to Tim. Tim shakes his head, and Jon doesn’t question him about why he’s come out here if he doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t press about the way Tim must be looking; he knows he’s never had much of a poker face. Danny tried to teach him poker, on a visit home from uni; Tim left for six weeks and came back to playing cards and strategy guides everywhere - his brother, who never sit still even in his own head -

“Where were you, before this?” Jon asks. Tim wouldn’t have pegged him for a smoker, but he looks immediately more relaxed with a cigarette in his hands. Nice hands, too. It would be easier, if he didn’t-

“Publishing,” Tim answers, before he can drift again. He wants to say more, to make sure this undemanding presence isn’t going to leave his side, but his throat is still tight. “You?”

Jon frowns, as if debating something to himself, then gives a tiny rueful smile. “Tesco.”

Tim grins. “Was it a haunted Tesco?”

“Only by customers,” Jon replies, dry as bone.

from: please leave a light on when you go

HELLO, this is 1000 years late and for that i apologise!! i absolutely do not mind that it is over 500 words. tbh i'd do these for whole fics if enough people were interested!

Tim had always noticed people, collected little details about them in his head whether he intended to or not, but he thinks his observations used to be about happier things, though it’s hard to remember exactly how he was, how he felt, before - it wasn’t the kind of thing he ever tried to memorise, the kind of thing he ever thought he could lose. Now he finds himself taking note of the coworker who comes back from their lunch break with faint puffy red marks around their eyes, or the older guy who checks his phone with something like dread in his eyes. Danny would have called it his older brother instincts (but what good did those instincts do him? ).

i think i've talked about my tim just genuinely loving people in general feelings in another one of these answers, but it continues to be true. makes sense to be for a character demonstrated to be both smart and gregarious. i also wanted to muse on how formative traumatic events both change us and don't - tim still cares about the people around him, but now he's unconciously looking for pain

i am not immune to older brother tim feelings...i am especially not immune to them being directed at jon...

Tim blinks back to the present, realising he’s been pushing a napkin over the same spot of floor for a while now. Jon offers him a hand up, though he braces himself on the bar with his other hand before he does. Tim takes care not to let Jon take too much of his weight as he’s hauled back up.

part of the reason pre-series jontim is so fun is thinking about what would draw these two together. one answer is that i imagine jon as someone who would want/need a particular kind of consideration from those he's friends with, and i imagine tim as someone who's very good about noticing what people need and working around it without it being a huge thing

i was surprised that dyspraxic jon is not already a tag! or even just 'dyspraxia' does not seem to be a tag. i've read a lot of good fic involving various mobility issues for jon and this is a hc that i think makes sense (and that i hope i portrayed sensitively)

apparently the only tims i write are just regularly dissociating. i have no justification for this except that grief is really good at displacing you from time and also it's a convenient narrative device for dipping in and out of internal monologue

“Ah, thank you. And apologies, again,” Jon murmurs, gesturing awkwardly at Tim’s lightly-beered clothes.

“Happens to everyone,” Tim says easily. Jon still looks lightly anguished, and Tim silently wishes this could have happened to someone else, someone with the confidence to laugh it off. “I’m always convinced I’m going to drop something when I go in the silent study bit of the library,” Tim offers.

“Ah...that worry hadn’t actually occurred to me,” Jon replies, solemn enough that Tim can’t really tell if he’s joking.

Tim finger-guns. “Any other anxieties I can stir up while you’re over here?”

“I’m quite capable of stoking my own neuroses, thank you.”

lifting tim's fear here directly from my uni days. quiet libraries...so good at making me feel like i'm about to start emitting 1000 noises (i now work in a library but it's not a quiet one so we're mostly good)

jon who is jokes in a v specific deadpan way that a lot of people don't get...a good headcanon

trying to inject the right amount of slightly awkward formality into jon's dialogue is hard but fun...that last sentence i think i thought about a lot even though it's a short/simple thought. gotta make it sound like a short/simple Jon thought

another reason they would like each other right off the bat - banter

Jon glances over his shoulder at the tables the rest of the department are occupying, perhaps doing the same thing as Tim and trying to psyche himself up for some more hollow smalltalk. Tim notes that his jacket seems slightly large on him, but in a way that kind of works. The collar of his shirt is slightly out of place beneath it. There’s a lump forming in Tim’s throat, even though nothing is happening - nothing but standing close to someone, noticing the little signs that they’re real and alive entirely independent from him. He’s aware, as he always is, of the hollow pit in his stomach, pain ebbing and flowing but never gone, new flares thrown off from a familiar wound, now pulsing with a kind of loneliness. All this, just from standing close to someone and trying to make them feel better about a mistake that didn’t matter.

jon in big jacket...as the kids say, hot jon rights

i've also talked about this in another one of these but man. the little details that make it feel real that someone is there close to you. when you are lonely the reality of other people right there just out of your reach suddenly drives home

"a mistake that didn't matter" tim is always thinking about the mistakes that did matter :(

“I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

And here’s where Tim could say sure, wave him off and go back to moping, buy everyone an obligatory round, flex his meaningless chat muscles and be home by half 9. “Mind if I join you?” he asks instead, and to his surprise Jon nods immediately, as if he’d been hoping Tim would say that.

i think jon here is like i think i am enjoying talking to this person but on some level would be relieved to stop, so i will take a punt as to whether or not he is also a smoker and let fate decide. luckily for him tim is not a smoker but he does crave human connection

They duck outside to find dark clouds have given way to an anticlimactic drizzle. They stay close to the pub, shielded from the rain by the slight overhang of the roof. Jon fumbles with a lighter and Tim finds his gaze drifting over the rain-slick streets. It’s been a while since he’s been...anywhere, really, other than work and his flat. Longer than he can remember since he was outside in the never-quite-dark of the city.

Despite himself, Tim finds himself admiring the buildings across the way, modern painted shop-fronts on the ground floor giving way to weathered brick and occasional stone carvings above. It was the first thing he’d loved about London, how you only had to look up to catch a glimpse of its history, and it almost wounds him all over again, that that love isn’t gone too. It would be easier if he was just one thing, all the way lost. It would be easier if he didn’t still love the world that killed Danny.

mostly my reaction when i have had to be in london is some level of :/ but maybe i do think fondly of some of it. cities at night...the weird mash up and modern & ancient in uk buildings that i always took for granted until i didn't. also hello architechture-buff tim

rereading this it's just very obvious to me that i wrote this during lockdown...like oh imagine going to a place and seeing a person. magical. effervescent

i do love them huddling close to keep out of the rain here...thematically appropriate, it is sad battered people against the world time, and also circumstance bringing you literally close to someone and having that change/spark something

the last line distresses me, the person who wrote it. i don't know if i have much to add to it really. sometimes the most painful part of living through something is waking up the next day and finding that you are still alive and a real person capable of being touched by the world

tim blames both himself and the world for killing danny. sure hope that blame and hatred doesn't rise up and send him into a spiral of self-destruction some day. would be a real bummer if that happened and ultimately led to his death via clown murder explosion

Jon lights his cigarette, and silently holds the lighter out to Tim. Tim shakes his head, and Jon doesn’t question him about why he’s come out here if he doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t press about the way Tim must be looking; he knows he’s never had much of a poker face. Danny tried to teach him poker, on a visit home from uni; Tim left for six weeks and came back to playing cards and strategy guides everywhere - his brother, who never sit still even in his own head -

“Where were you, before this?” Jon asks. Tim wouldn’t have pegged him for a smoker, but he looks immediately more relaxed with a cigarette in his hands. Nice hands, too. It would be easier, if he didn’t-

“Publishing,” Tim answers, before he can drift again. He wants to say more, to make sure this undemanding presence isn’t going to leave his side, but his throat is still tight. “You?”

Jon frowns, as if debating something to himself, then gives a tiny rueful smile. “Tesco.”

Tim grins. “Was it a haunted Tesco?”

“Only by customers,” Jon replies, dry as bone.

thank you for choosing this passage because now i have noticed/will edit the last sentence in the first paragraph, which is missing a word and does not scan right (should be 'who could never sit still even in his own head')

'Nice hands, too. It would be easier, if he didn’t-' hot. jon. rights. also connecting the 'maybe it would be easier if i wasn't still alive and real and capable of feeling' thing to noticing, appreciating, wondering if he wants something with jon

jon has definitely not told anyone else at the institute that he was in customer service before this. proud of him for this brief moment of trust. also between this and martin having told tim about his CV, i think people just look at tim and are like yeah here are my career-related secrets

i also just love imagining jon in customer service. and as someone who did not work in customer service at the time of writing this fic but now does, i mostly do not view customers as hauntings (library patrons are mostly chill) - unless it is 10 minutes until we close, in which case they are the absolute bane of my existence

[blu-joons]

Underneath The Mistletoe ~ Johnny Seo

The night was beginning to draw in, the final remnants of Christmas day were left to be celebrated. As a chill graced the air you made your way out of the porch of your parent’s home feeling the crunch of the layer of snow under your booted feet.

As you let go of a sigh the air clouded, the colour of your hands turning a light shade of red as you gripped to the balcony. It had been the best part of a year since you last visited home, but one thing you made sure to never miss was Christmas.

This year was made extra special by Johnny being able to join you in a gap in his schedule, for several years your parents had been inviting him over but he always happened to be busy, but this year, he found the time to make for you.

It had been perfect, everything you could have dreamed of. You were lucky that your parents bonded so well with Johnny, and he absolutely adored them too, welcoming him into your family like he was one of their own.

The creak of the old door frame opening brought you out of your thoughts, you glanced across to see Johnny appearing by your side, handing you a thermal mug filled with hot chocolate, one for himself in his own hand too.

“When your parents bought us couple’s mugs, I thought it was stupid, but these have actually turned out to be quite handy,” he chuckled.

You lifted the lid up of the mug, allowing the steam to warm your face back up and get rid of the red hue on your cheeks as you tried to warm up. His body leant against the balcony matching your own, elbows touching against one another.

His body was wrapped up tightly having spotted you outside when he got up to grab a bite to eat, grabbing his coat and scarf before risking the outside. He was much better dressed than you were, rolling his eyes as you let go of an icy sigh.

“Do you want my jacket?” He offered, already beginning to slip it off, but your head shook, pulling it back around him. “You’ll catch a death if you stay out here like that much longer.”

Your shoulders shrugged, the weather didn’t matter, it never mattered when you were home, it was something you’d learnt to embrace. Nowhere in the world felt quite as cold as home, but that was why you loved it so much.

With your decline, Johnny instead pulled you closer into him, resting his hands either side of you on the balcony. “At least this will keep you a little warmer if you stand here for a while.”

“I’m not that cold, it just seems that way.”

“If you’re not cold, tell me why your hands match Rudolph’s nose,” he teased, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

With the sleeves of his jacket covering his hands, he rested them over yours and tightly squeezed against your skin to try and bring a bit of colour back to it. He didn’t know how you managed to stay outside when he would have been straight indoors at the first sign of a chill.

His chin rested against the top of your head as you snuggled further into the warmth of his chest. “Have you had a good Christmas with all of us?” You suddenly asked, hearing him hum in response to you.

“It’s probably been my favourite Christmas ever because I got to spend it with you. And you got me some epic presents like you always do, you always manage to exceed yourself every year, I don’t know how you do it,” he said.

You were pretty proud of your presents especially having paid attention throughout the year at all the little things he mentioned that he wanted.

“Well, I loved my watch that you bought me too, it’s the exact one that I wanted.”

The two of you fell back into a comfortable silence as you began to drink your hot chocolates, staring out at the picturesque scenery your parent’s garden provided. Droplets of snow hovered off all the tree branches, footprints were scattered everywhere from the last few days of playing in the snow, and the moon was beginning to light up perfectly to begin the festive period to a close.

Everything was just as you could have wished for, your very own winter wonderland, and the best present of all stood right by your side, finally being able to be with Johnny.

“I don’t think I’ve properly wished you a Merry Christmas today,” he noted, looking down at you.

“I’m sure you did; didn’t we say it when we woke up this morning?” You asked, thinking back.

Waking up in his arms on Christmas morning felt like a dream in itself, so you understood if maybe you had dreamt it. But you were sure as you watched his eyes open and his lips part, the two magical words came out of his mouth.

His head shook leaving you confused, as he placed his mug down onto the floor. “How can I have wished you properly if there was something missing from it?”

You watched closely as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a twig of mistletoe and holding it high above you. Your hand quickly came up to hide your giggle as his eyes fluttered shut and his lips pouted. You leant up to meet his lips, capturing them sweetly for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of the warmth of his body.

“Now my Christmas is complete,” he chuckled as you pulled away from him, watching the mistletoe slip out of his hold, falling gently in the gust of wind into the mountain of snow that had gathered in front of the balcony.

“I thought your Christmas was already complete by being here with me?” You challenged, remembering the second thing he told you as the two of you woke up that morning.

“It was, but I just had to be definitely sure that it was complete this time.”

Your smile grew, jabbing into his side. “You’ll do anything for a kiss sometimes, won’t you?”

If there was one thing Johnny would never tire of, it was your kisses. He was always around kissing you, whether it be raining or sunny, warm, or cold, he’d always be by your side with his lips pouted, silently demanding from you.

“I can’t help it that you’re so irresistible,” he teased, snaking his arms tightly around your waist.

Your head shook, twirling back around to look out over the garden, you only had two more days left at home before you had to go back with Johnny, all the sights that you would miss, and the people that you’d be without soon began to hit you.

“When do you think we’ll come back home?” You asked, tilting your head up to look at Johnny. “Well, to my home anyway.”

“Is this not my home?”

His eyes furrowed as you poked against his cheeks, “you know this is your home too, but you have your proper home. It’s only when I come back here do I remember how much I miss it when I’m not here, even though I love it with you.”

“I know the feeling.”

He tried to be strong and not let you see how much it phased him, but he hated being away from home too. He’d forgotten over the years what it really meant to be at home for Christmas, forgetting how special the times were that you all spent together.

“Maybe we should go to your family next year.”

He couldn’t lie, the thought of being back with his family brought a smile to his face, a tear to his eye, it had been far too long for them all. “We’ve got a whole year to talk about it yet, there’s still plenty of time for us to decide where we’ll spend Christmas.”

“Or maybe we could do it together, invite all our families to our place and really make it a Christmas that everyone will be able to remember.”

“I’ll agree to that so as long as you let me fill the place with mistletoe so I can kiss you wherever, and whenever, I want,” he teased, trailing several chilly kisses along your cheek. “Okay, maybe just one piece then, so I can still kiss you.”

You nodded in agreement, bending down to pick up the twig and hold it up against your head, offering your cheek for him to kiss, except his lips diverted, pressing against your own.

“Now my Christmas is complete, I got a kiss from you,” you blushed.”

His eyes lit up at your cheeky smile, “you don’t need to have mistletoe to get a kiss from me. Just say the words and I will always be happy to oblige and give you the best kiss in the world.”

“Best kisses in the world? Then why don’t you prove it?”

---

Masterlist

[cuddles-with-bucky]

My Face, Your Boxers

Bucky X Reader

Authors Notes: Written for @the-ss-horniest-book-club​​ and thank you so much for allowing me to combine these two amazing prompts together!!! Hope I did it justice!

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, pranks, language, sexual tension, talks of sex, implied smut.

Words 2,372

Prompts:

Y/N and Bucky have never got along and are always bickering. One day, he decides to prank her by changing all of her lace underwear to briefs with his face all over them.

Bucky has a date tonight and reader changes all of his boxers to “Pardon My Hardon” boxers.

The boxers:

“You’re putting way too much milk on your cereal, doll.” Bucky elbowed you, almost knocking you off the stool and spilling the milk everywhere.

“Fuck off and mind your own business.” You gritted through your teeth, wanting to knock that smug grin off his stupid face. 

“Ah, young love.” Sam teased as he walked casually into the kitchen that was thick with sexual tension, no thanks to you and Barnes. You shot him a glare, pouring your milk carelessly over your cereal.

“Y/N seriously, fucking leave some milk for the rest of us!” Bucky warned, reaching over and snatching the bottle from your hand.

“Stop being up my ass all the damn time Barnes.” You said, scooping some cereal up on a spoon and shoveling it into your mouth. “If you want me to fuck you up the ass doll, all you gotta do is ask.” 

“I’m out!” Sam announced, grabbing an orange and leaving quickly, leaving just you and Bucky alone in the kitchen which was always a very bad idea since you didn’t get along with the man. 

You’re not really sure why, ever since he came to the compound, he acted cold and distant with you despite your warm welcoming and months later, he became the biggest dick. 

“I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth.” You argued, loved pushing his squishy buttons. Despite him being an enormous asshole, he was so easy to piss off and you loved it.

“Hypothetical question, why?” Bucky pressed, taking a seat next to you and watched in amusement as you kept on shoveling the cereal in your mouth. 

“Well first of all; you’re always sweaty and disgusting and I imagine you grunt a fucking lot. And secondly; I repeat my first point. Thirdly; I’m best friends with my vibrator that always lets me cum first. Something I don’t see you doing.” 

“Aww, you jealous doll ‘cause you don’t have a man to know, lick you and fuck you into the mattress?” Bucky smirked, leaning his forearms on the counter.

“Jealous? HA. I actually feel quite sorry for any poor woman underneath you as you drip your disgusting sweat on her face. I’m GRATEFUL for that. Besides, wouldn’t want your dentures to fall out as you sucked the life out of me, plus, I’m a really nice person, now please, fuck off and have a great day.” 

“Whatever you say, doll.” Bucky chuckled, drawing the pet name out since he knew how much it annoyed you. He was getting up to leave and missed the spoon being launched at his head by seconds. 

“Sergeant Barnes?” The AI beeped as Bucky walked into the common room. 

“What is it, FRIDAY?” Bucky asked, looking up in the air. 

“A parcel has arrived and Mr Stark has left it in your room, sir.” 

Bucky laughed knowing exactly what the parcel was, and it was all planned perfectly since you would be out of the compound most of today. 

Bucky hurried back to his room and unpacked the parcel that was sitting on his bed, he cut the tape and laughed maniacally as he pulled the new custom ordered underwear out of the box. He spent hundreds of dollars on this and it had to go right. 

He put a few hundred into a separate bag and hid the box in his closet in case someone decided to barge in like they normally did. Bucky exited his bedroom, walking down to the other end of the hall where your room was, just as he was about to go in, you came out.

“What?” You asked confused, putting your keys and phone in your pocket. 

“I was- I thought you were out?” Bucky stammered, subtly moving the bag of underwear behind his back so you couldn’t get a peek. 

“God, what are you, my husband? If you really must know, I’m just leaving so leave your testicles in your pants and stay out of my room. I remember what you did last time and I don’t want another cleaning bill.” 

“Yes ma’am.” Bucky saluted. He was amused you didn’t even wonder why he was outside your door, or maybe you did and just didn’t care since Bucky always did go out of his way to annoy the fuck of you. Him being there was nothing to you.

While Bucky sneaked into your room, you had your own secret meeting with a friend in Brooklyn. You knew Bucky had a date tonight, because he’s talked about it non stop since last week and since he embarrassed you on your last date, you figured a little paycheck was overdue. Your friend had ordered you over 300 pairs of boxers. Boxers you were planning to plant in Bucky’s dresser so his date could freak the hell out. 

You were an observant person, and his sweatpants never hid anything that great. The man constantly walked around with a boner, it was so obvious so these boxers were true, but you know, they would excuse it for him when his date sees him. You couldn’t wait to see the look on his face. 

Bucky pulled all your lace panties out and threw him carelessly onto your bed, including your bras. He unpacked the new briefs and folded them neatly into the top two drawers of your dresser, snickering as he saw the print on them. It was probably quite a childish prank, but he was sure you’d get a kick out of it.

Once Bucky was done, he put your laced panties in the bag he brought with him and left your room undisturbed and went back to his to hide the panties and meet Steve at the bar for a few beers. 

You actually passed Bucky in the lobby, just as he stepped out, you were about to step in. He noticed a box in your hands, around the same size as the one he had delivered and snickered. How ironic would it be if you pranked with him the same underwear. 

“Whatcha got there dollface?” Bucky purred, adjusting his leather jacket. You couldn’t deny he looked smoking hot in his black outfit. “More dildos?” He teased.

You snickered and stepped into the elevator. “Why? Jealous they might be bigger than you Barnes?” You cackled, pressing the button to your. 

“STAY OUT OF MY ROOM!” You heard him yell just as the doors closed. 

If anyone was to blame for this prank, it would be Bucky for leaving his damn door unlocked and making it too easy. You had no problem breaking into his room and removing his tattered and worn boxers, some with holes where the wiener would be, why he had a fucking hole there was anyone’s guess, you’d like to think it was because he probably rubbed one out every time he was alone in this room. 

You replaced his ragged old boxers with some lovely new ones. They were red with a black waistband. The imprint on the front where his bulge would be read “Pardon My Hardon.” To now, you cackled like crazy every time you read it. You could imagine the look on his face, and also his date’s face. 

Apparently, he was hoping to get lucky tonight. With these boxers, that’s not gonna happen. This was their first date after all. Once you hid his old boxers under the bed, you proceeded with the second part of your plan to make sure he would wear these and not notice them; remove all lightbulbs from his room. You paid Tony in good faith to cut the electricity for tonight when Bucky would be in his room changing anyway, but to be sure Tony didn’t follow through on his promise for some reason, you needed to remove the lights just in case. 

You clapped your hands when you got the last light bulb out, also throwing them under his bed and left his room undisturbed. 

Now you just had to wait.

***

Bucky returned back to the compound around 8 p.m and already it was dark outside. The heavy rain clouds that lingered over NYC ended daylight quicker than expected. To make matters worse, the storm had cut electricity out in the compound. Candles were lit everywhere, except for Bucky’s room since he just needed a quick wash and change of clothes. His eyes had never let him down before and he knew his room like the back of his hand. 

He closed the curtains in his room and walked into the bathroom, washing his face and hands and patting himself dry with a towel he felt around for. 

Bucky could hear the distinctive chatter from his teammates down the hall as they sat in the common room talking about the storm. Thunder and lightning came suddenly and the rain pelted against the floor-to-window panes. This storm came suspiciously quickly. Considering he was aware Thor was in town.

But these thoughts never really crossed his mind and he didn’t piece it together. He was thinking about Dot and his date tonight. He whipped his black jeans off along with his boxers, opening the drawer, he felt around for a pair and grabbed them.

His fingertips traced along the waistband until he felt the silk label and slipped into them. They felt a little tighter than usual, but Bucky had been working on beefing up again. 

Bucky reached into his closet and pulled a clean pair of jeans off the hanger and slipped them on. He next removed his shirt and picked a button up off the hanger on the other side of the closet. When he was dressed and happy, he sprayed some cologne around his throat and neck, picked up his leather jacket off the bed and left his room. 

He walked a little down the hall when your door suddenly ripped open, scaring the shit out of him. He stumbled and put his hand over his heart.

“Did you seriously fucking change my underwear to your stupid face?!” You gritted through your teeth. 

“I did.” He shrugged, smirking as he now leaned against the doorframe. “Now you will always have me between your legs, doll.” Bucky teased, licking his dry lips. 

You huffed out a laugh and shook your head. You’d never tell him, but you actually really liked the briefs. They were exceptionally comfortable and you find them funny. You couldn’t imagine the look on a man’s face though as he peeled them off you.

“You have a date tonight right?” You questioned, the candlelight behind you just about makes out his features. 

“I do, so no need to wait up. I’ll leave some earplugs in the common room so we don’t keep you awake.” 

You laughed, there was no way he was getting any tonight with those boxers he was most likely wearing. 

“Enjoy the *squeak, squeak, squeak*” You teased, imitating his squeaky mattress that you heard often.

“Enjoy your vibrators that you had delivered today.” He retorted. You snorted and retreated back into your room, slamming the door unintentionally in his face.

***

You didn’t know what time it was when you fell asleep. Once Bucky had left earlier, you found Tony and Thor and thanked them with a hug each for their part in your plan. Let’s face it, without them, this wouldn’t have worked. But it seemed you were right and Bucky really was that naive. 

You’re not sure what woke you up either, you thought you heard a knock on your door but it must have been in your dream. You rolled onto your back and stretched, putting your arm under your pillow, you just started to doze off again when the knock came louder this time. 

You glared towards the door, rolling over to flick a lamp on and dragged yourself from the comfort of your bed towards it. You opened the door and on the other side stood a rather tired and unamused Bucky Barnes. 

“Barnes? Are you lost, you’re room is down the hall on-”

“What the fuck did you do to my boxers?” He seethed, his jaw and fists clenched. You rubbed your eyes and chuckled, angering Bucky more. 

“Oh, you saw them.” Is all you said, his eyes flickering down to his custom briefs. He couldn’t help but become aroused when he saw a slight wet spot and your nipples tenting underneath your tank top. 

“No, Dot saw them and she was fucking horrified!” 

“Poor Dot. You know, they are really funny and I’m sorry but if she couldn’t take the joke then maybe she isn’t the one for you.” You stated, folding your arms across your chest and resting them under your breasts, the swells of your breasts now threatening to spill out. 

Bucky said nothing as he took a step towards you. You remained still in your place, his breath fanned over your face. 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe then I don’t want another man between your legs, on briefs or otherwise.” Bucky sighed. Your arms dropped down by your side and Bucky took the opportunity to reach out and take on, guiding it to his hard bulge. Your hand squeezed him and he moaned quietly. 

“If you want this, if you really want me, then I suggest you get in here and get your face between my legs for real.” 

“If I knew planting briefs with my face on them would make me fuck you, I’d have done it months ago.” Bucky chuckled, his hands on your waist as he walked you backwards. He kicked the door closed with his foot, guiding you two back towards the bed until your knees hit the side of the mattress. Bucky kneeled on the floor before you, his fingers hovering on the waistband of the briefs. 

“Are you sure?” Bucky asked, needing to hear you say it. “I know we hate each-”

“I don’t hate you. And I’m sure. Please…” 

“Good, me neither. Once I start, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

“Then don’t stop.” That’s all Bucky needed to hear. Once those words left your lips, your briefs were ripped from your body and your legs thrown over his broad shoulders. His tongue diving in between your seeping folds.

[yeojaa]

stages: comedown (with me).

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  pg-13.  tags.  alluded/referenced drug use (please be responsible).  wc.  1.6k.  author note.  i got the idea for this in the shower so it’s disjointed/weird.  this will likely be a three part thing.  soundtrack.  songs to comedown to:  hold me close (climax).

Perhaps he’d taken too much.  (No, not perhaps.  Definitely.)  He can feel it in his bones, threading through his limbs as a tidal wave that pulls him under and sweeps him from shore.  Leaves him unmoored under the flashing lights (strobes, not stars).  Has him floating somewhere high above his own body, weightless.  Makes everything move in slow motion.

“Don’t run!”  

It’s a voice from his right - he thinks? Maybe? - and it’s so pretty.  An angel, surely.

“I’m not,”  he says.  Or imagines he says, anyway.  The words don’t fit the way they should, brought together like mismatched puzzle pieces and catching on his mouth on the way out.  They cut over his gums and teeth, stick uncomfortably behind his molars.  Too heavy and too light all at once.

“You are, baby boy.”  

It’s you.  A friend of his friends.  The girl with the kind eyes and creeping laugh and glitter all over your cheeks.  You’re radiant - ethereal, iridescent, awe-inspiring.  There are a dozen stars caught in your hair, shining back at him beneath the dim street lights.  He wants to reach out - almost does, can feel the desire edging up his joints and unfurling his fingers - but stops short when you speak again.  It’s the nicest sound he’s ever heard.

“Are you feeling okay?”  You’re staring into his eyes just as hard as he is yours.  Except you’re a fair sight better, studying him curiously, with concern laced over your tongue in criss-cross patterns.  He’s vibrating - inside, outside, everywhere.  It’s hard for him to focus on you when there’s so much happening, when he feels like his heart’s beating a mile a minute.  (Was that a lot?  Even he doesn’t know right now.)

“I’m f-fine,”  he stutters out, not because he’s nervous but because otherwise his jaw won’t move.  It’s seizing even as he works to loosen it.  That’s scary.  

All at once, it’s all he can think about.  The grind of his teeth, the ridge of muscle, the tension laid beneath skin.  Then comes his breath.  It’s so loud, echoing against his eardrums.  (Was that normal?  It doesn’t feel like it.)  In, out.  In, out.  Has he always sounded like this?  Have his inhales suddenly turned to gasps?  Is he—

“Hey.  Hey.”  There’s a hand on his cheek now.  Your hand.  So soft, a small palm with delicate fingers.  You’ve got glow in the dark nail polish on and a million little jewels scattered over top.  Jungkook nearly goes cross-eyed trying to follow the path your hand weaves.  (At one point, he loses it.  Where’d it go—)  “Relax.”  

Your voice is so soothing.  Rain on a windowpane.  Warm sheets at midnight.  A summer breeze.

“I-I’m trying.”  He hiccups once, twice, tries to focus on the shimmer of your eyeshadow, all the stars caught within the dark of your stare.  You’ve caught him in your magnetic pull, hung him into your orbit with just one look.  He can’t tear his eyes away;  yours offer a fireworks show against the night sky, so pretty it skips his heart. 

“Breathe,”  you instruct, take his fingers between yours.  He wants to look down - does, for the briefest moment.  Then he stares longer, entranced by your nails and the silver around your wrists, how your hands look twined with his.  

You haven’t got a single tattoo.  Not that he can see, anyway.  His stand in stark contrast, wobble across his skin as you squeeze and release, squeeze and release.

It feels nice.  Helps with the tension that branches into every vertebrae and makes his jaw hurt.

“Just hold my hand, okay?”  As if to remind him, you gently knock your knuckles against his once more.  It’s so nice he returns the gesture, watches as his skin blows white beneath the tension.  You don’t even flinch, simply pull him along after your group.

Oh, he needs to walk now.  Right.  

(It’s hard when all he wants to do is look at you.  Hold you.  Listen to your voice.)

(Your voice.  It’s too quiet without it.  Too—)

“Is this your first time?”  It’s not a whisper but it feels just as far, filters into his ears seconds after he’s seen your mouth move.  That’s normal, he thinks.  No.  Wait.  It’s not.  It’s not norm—  “I’m guessing yes.”

Should he be embarrassed?  Ashamed?  Worried?  All the emotions blend together, bleed over his features and he thinks he’s biting into his lip.  It’s not how it normally feels, though.  He does it again, over and over and over.

Only stops when you’re speaking again, reminding him.  “Relax, baby.”

Jungkook repeats the word in his head.  Then out loud, because everything in his skull is going a little too slowly, sounds dragged out and strange.  As if he’s underwater.  (But he’s not.  He’s okay.  He’s here, with you.)  “Relax.  I’m relaxing.”  The more he says it, the less it seems true.  

By the time he’s said it six times - or maybe more, because he really doesn’t know - you’re squeezing his hand again.  Guiding him beneath glaringly bright lights, stroking the fingers of your other hand over the pulse of his wrist.  Where has everyone else gone?  They’d been right in front of you.  

Oh— they’re there!  Five, ten, fifteen feet away.  Filing into the elevator like sardines in a can.

Run, his brain tells him.  Insists.  But you’d told him to slow down.  Don’t run! had slipped past your lips.  He has to listen. 

“We’ll take the next one.”  You’re talking to him.  Obviously.  There’s no one else in the lobby.  Just the two of you, waiting for the lift.  It’s taking so long.  Why’s it taking so long?  He’s inhaled at least five times.  Ten times?  Was that too many?  Was he breathing too fast again?

“Relax,”  he says to himself.

“Relax,”  you follow, soothing the nerves that tickle his skin.  You’re still holding his hand, leaning so close.  He’s warm - burning up, he thinks, radiating heat through his clothes - but he wants to be closer.  Craves touch.  Craves your touch.

You hum when he falls against you, settles right into the open frame of your body.  You don’t even complain when you have to manoeuvre his jellied limbs to hit the right floor number, simply returning your arms around his waist when he whines a noise and hugs you tighter.  He’s certain he’s a little gross - can feel it along his nape, over his chest, down the cut of his spine - sweaty and sticky.

“Come on, baby boy.”  You mean him.  He likes that.  Loves it, in fact.  Wants to hear it again and noses into your shoulder, knees bent and back curved.  He’s folded up against you, packed so tightly as if he might disappear between your bones.  

“Tired,”  he returns.  He is.  He isn’t.  His mind is abuzz, adrift, alight.  

But he wants to rest - lay down and not move for as long as he can.  Would you stay with him?

He asks you, because he needs to know - needs you.  “Stay?”  It’s hardly a question, barely able to beg an answer as he means to.  

You’re leading him down a hallway, past doors with numbers he can’t read.  His feet are dragging - he stumbles too many times - and he’s still draped over you, a weight against your side where your hands interlace.  “Of course.”  He doesn’t think you mean it as a promise but he takes it as such.  Can’t help it.  Doesn’t want to, in any case.

(Jungkook’s a sucker for pretty girls and you’re beautiful.)  

It’s impossible for him to look away, even as you pull him over the threshold and out of your little bubble.

“Kook, you good?”  A deep voice, liquor-laden.  Taehyung.  

Then a laugh.  Windshield wipers.  Two sets.  Jin and his girlfriend.

“____’s got him.”  

That’s your name.  He remembers now.  Repeats it until it’s the only thing he hears.  It looks nice written, penned in cursive against his eyelids.  

“I’m gonna take him to lie down.”  It’s your voice again.  He could pick it out in a sea of thousands (or more realistically a sea of fourteen).  He’s moving again, dragging his socked feet as he goes.  You’re still there.  He recognises the heat of your body and how good you smell, honeysuckle and lavender concentrated the closer he gets.

(He’s so close.  Pressed against your back, tangled in your hair.  He doesn’t think you mind.  You’re so soft.  So good to him.)

“Tired.”  

“I know, baby.  Just lay down.”

Lay down?  Where?  

Oh!  It’s a bed.  Beneath his knees, then under his cheek.  The blankets feel like a cloud but he’s hot.  Too hot again.  Breathing too hard.  His face is smothered.  He can’t—

“Hey.”  You’re there.  Always there.  He’s on his back, delirious, gaze unfocused.  The light above your head acts as a halo.  You’re an angel.  His angel, he thinks.  Must be.  “One breath in.”  Your hand is on his chest, right over his heart.  You must be able to feel how it stutters, trips over its own feet any time he looks at you.  (Not that he’s looked away.)  He does as told.  Takes a deep breath in to make you happy.  “And one breath out.”  It whistles past his teeth.  

There’s something else on his face.  You again.  You’re pushing his hair back, scraping those magical nails over his scalp and making him purr.  

“Just rest, okay?  You’re safe.”

His lips are being touched.  Are you kissing him?  

His eyes snap open but he can’t see.  Not well, anyway.  It’s too dark, your hair a curtain around him.  (It isn’t your lips on his, he realises.  Deflates with the knowledge.)  It’s the tips of your fingers brushing over his mouth, across his chin, up his jaw.  

“Relax,”  you tell him yet again.  “No biting.  No clenching.  Focus on me.”

It’s an easy ask - the simplest task in the world.  

“Okay.”

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​ @snackhobi​​​ @codeinebelle​

[hoaxsen]

| happy [ late ] new years to one and all <3.

| here's some Levi angst.

| word count; 1,684

I'm coming home. 

" Promise me to stay alive? " 

" I always do, runt. You better promise me. "

" I promise. " 

Not all promises were made to be kept, either from the fact that they're broken almost instantly. Or they can't be kept at all, just empty words being said to fill the dead air created from the promise being said. 

Words that people take so seriously, as if they'd truly mean something. They're supposed to mean something, right? Supposed to mean the world to the people who created this. End it off with pinkies interlocking, like a kid friendly way of signing off a piece of your soul. 

A piece that you'll never get back. Discarded along with the broken seal, like as if finding a product in a store open. Needs to be thrown out.

I'm coming home. 

" This expedition might get us even further in taking back for humanity. " 

" Don't get your hopes up, just focus on coming back alive. . .please. " 

" I promised, didn't I? " 

You did, you promised Levi Ackerman an entire world in that one small and simple line. 

But that universe didn't hold up for long, it collapsed along with the small space of an open heart he had. This expedition was supposed to be clean and simple, Erwin said. It was supposed to run flawlessly, as he's promised time and time again. But failed to keep, this entire mission wasn't supposed to end this way. His new formation was supposed to have fewer casualties, little to no accidents should everyone follow pursuit. 

This time, that wasn't the case. The case that had opened and started it's cruel trial was the one happening here and now. 

The weight of it feeling like a star going supernova inside his heart. Though since that pressure was trapped inside so tightly, there was no way for it to be let out. The captain shut down, his mind going blank and his eyes looking vacant as he drunk in the news. 

Tell the world I'm coming home. 

" They. . .were caught in the hands of a titan, sir. " 

You weren't alive, not here to keep your end of the promise as he did with his. Not here to tell Levi that it was a mistake, they mistook you for someone else. That wasn't the ordeal, as much as he wished it was. All in his mind, playing on loop over and over was a silly little promise made before this. Of course it wouldn't have been kept, not in a world like this. A world where humanity is now at the bottom of the food chain, cornered like wounded animals. 

The captain of the Survey Corps dared not to let his heart leap out of his chest. The man dared not to shed a single tear in front of his comrades. This was the norm, he'd had to chant to himself like a prayer on a broken record over and over for the silver lining to not shine through. Hold it back all the way until he was behind closed doors, locked so tight that letting it all out wouldn't be a problem. So that his regiment could probably see, that even their captain was at this game long enough to realize not every little thing was going to last. 

A captain in front of everyone else, a human with emotions while being alone. That's how he wanted to treat this, tricking himself into thinking that's how he needed to treat this. 

Should he have looked on that cart, pulling the fallen soldiers back to the safety of the walls. Levi knew he would have let that dam overflow with the sounds of a heart aching lover. 

This expedition became the very reason why he loathed titans more. Becoming the very reason why, he started having doubts in his Commander. 

I know my kingdom awaits. 

The freshly dug hole waited for you alright back in Wall Rose. Somewhere maybe just outside the Krolva district, they called this place The Scouts Yard. 

How this one patch of land that could have been used for anything else, soon started becoming overtaken by the bodies of his fallen companions from their ongoing war. 

Now it houses your body. 

The weather of the day was a stark contrast of his mood, the sun was shining with a few small thin clouds in the sky. A pity really, he thought that whatever God was out there might knew how to read a room. Levi slowly got down onto his knees to read the words on the new tombstone. 

Here lies; Y/N L/N. 

The ravenette couldn't bring himself to read the rest, already biting down his tongue to distract himself from the stinging of tears in his eyes. Hands clenched into fists at his side, his nails threatening to dig into his skin and draw blood. The dirt that was gathering at the knees of his uniform was going unnoticed. 

' You promised me, idiot! How could you break it!? ' 

That broken promise lead you into a new world, a world of dirt under the earth. Was it like the hellhole he escaped from? Or was it better than the underground life? Except, there was no stairway fee. It was like your citizenship of this messed up surface world was revoked. Tarnished. Never to be used anymore. Torn away as if it were a fake and the MP's of that world came to collect you. 

The grey orbs of the Ackerman were starting to itch and pulse with the amount of restraint he was using to not let himself cry. Levi's breathing changed into one of a heavy, and broken up pattern. 

All he could think about was not here, not where people could see him at his weakest. Not at his lowest. 

A hand being placed on his shoulder brought him out of his trance. Looking up, he saw none other than the man he promised himself to follow. 

That's funny, huh? How he promised you he'd stay alive if you did, and how he promised himself to follow after your murderer. Every. Step. Of. The. Way. His life he placed in Erwin's hands, the same hands that weren't big enough to take your life into consideration. His own captain snapped at him, pushing his hand away harshly. Grey hues glaring ever so harshly at what seemed to be confused blue orbs. 

Levi stood up to his full height, giving Erwin the greatest stare down of his existence. The commander taking a step back to retaliate, as if he were the victim. 

" Levi- " 

" This. Is your fault. " 

Levi left Erwin with that, not catching how the commander suddenly got the hint, staring down at your grave. 

And they've forgiven my mistakes. 

Was it a mistake, to have broken a promise in this cruel and fucked up world? Was it really? You could catch Levi pacing the shared room with this thought in mind. 

His side of the room was a complete and total mess. Just like his office, papers everywhere, wooden chair pieces scattered over his floor. Yet, should any piece debris get over to your side, Levi is cleaning it like a mad man. Leaving everything the way you had it before, hoping to preserve what he could of your memory. 

Thinking it would bring a sense of calm to his nerves. All it brought uneasiness, abandonment, and a whole battalion of negative emotions that started attacking and swirling inside him. He almost questioned if this was how titans felt when their ends were coming to a near. A silly question, one used to try and distract himself. Not like it was helping in any shape or form, just made him feel worse. Useless even. 

' Did I even say ' I love you enough ' ? Did I show them that I cared? Did I do enough before their time came!? ' 

A sob left him, loud and clear as day. Almost turning into another moment of pure wails and tears. The man was pretty sure he showed enough emotion, even when he tried and didn't really know how. Tried his best not to be closed off and buried in his work twenty-four/seven. He felt like screaming and sobbing this time. Was he even enough for you before death? If he wasn't so tired and dehydrated from doing the said act maybe about twenty minutes prior, Levi would have let the entirety of Wall Rose know his pain. 

Eyes bloodshot from the onslaught attack of tears that kept pouring over from his once shining metallic eyes. How many cups of tea had he had? That somehow didn't end up as glass shards beneath his boots. For once, the mess didn't bother him, his promise to stay clean was broken. Just like almost everything else. One promise he made out of this shit, was to kill each and every titan. Then show Erwin that they're human, not just soldiers waiting to throw away their lives for bastard nobles. 

Those were promises he couldn't break. Along with not forgetting you, a bittersweet reminder on how everyone precious leaves his life one way or another. No amount of rain in the world could wash away that pain. 

Here now sat the Scouts' captain, sitting up against a heavy locked wooden door, holding what was your cloak from the expedition. Levi couldn't bring himself to clean it, the red of your blood, or maybe someone else's stained and clashed with the green. Making it a murky, dark, and odd color, Levi clutched it to his chest. His stray fallen tears turning the fabric a darker shade of its color. 

" I promise you, brat. . .I'll be coming back home alive. " 

Not all promises could be kept, just words to fill the dead silent air that was created. Reminders that it could always be broken in the least expected amount of time, in the most hurtful way. A stupid way to sign off a piece of your soul and hope for the better. 

Tell the world that I'm coming home. 

Levi Ackerman, was now no stranger to it. 

[fascination-street-writing]

Sober to Death | Teenage Au! Risotto Nero x Reader

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows become ghosts

Content Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (Not Underage), Mentions of Suicide, Implied Child Abuse, Underage Smoking, & Emotional Manipulation (Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics)

It is the summer of 1988. You have spent the past few days cooped within the shelter of your home to evade the arid, sweltering heat; even the spigots are dry. You long for autumn leaves.

The smouldering faces of painted women stare at you and watch, still, as you glide the twin blades of your mother’s cooking shears through pulp paper. She had promised you for weeks now to buy a new set of crafting scissors for you; your last pair disappeared, seemingly out of thin air. Your father insists that it was the work of garden fairies. You suspect interfamilial thievery.

A dollop of hot glue pools beneath the tip of the gun. A string not unlike a cotton candy fiber chases the glue gun upon separation; a scar on the back of your hand prompts you to not touch the simulant gemstone-encrusted tool. You press the trimmed image of a smoking model against the glue. Turquoise glitter rains down from the bottle and coaxes over the greyscale photograph. Plastic diamonds the color of honey, a magenta feather streaked in silver – you blow over the page of your scrapbook and grin.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop your dresser. Paper trimmings fall to the carpeted floor. Glitter sticks to the palm of your hand. Christy Turlington joins Isabella Rossellini and a nameless American model – the seventeenth page of your third portfolio is complete. You pride yourself in this hobby of collecting the images of women who have been frozen in time by glamour shots and risqué poses. Perhaps immortality truly means to be plastered inside of a teenage girl’s fashion scrapbook and hidden beneath her bed. You fancy yourself a curator – a conservator.

You kick back your feet and breathe in the perfume of the candle that burns on your bedside table. Instead of a pair of proper scissors, you mother had returned from the craft store with the caramel-scented candle. She is, admittedly, a bit forgetful at times.

You hear his fingers rapping against the pane of your window before you notice his presence: a pair of black-sclera eyes with red irises peer into your bedroom. You blow out the candle and turn off the overhead light. He is patient as he waits for you to slip on your Mary Jane’s. The bulge of a cigarette carton peaks out from the pocket of his torn jeans.

Through the opened window, Risotto Nero wordlessly extends his hand to you: yours is dwarfed by his calloused grasp. He leads you beyond your father’s wilting flower garden – you dance over marigolds, asters, and tithonias, careful not to step on the blossoms that suffer in this Sicilian drought.  

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows become ghosts. Cicadas and katydids sing. Risotto’s brooding, silent form matches your pace as walk towards your rendezvous place. Your legs have memorized the journey: up the hill, past the schoolyard, down the spiraling path behind the market, to the park across from the shoreline.

The wooden plank of the swing creaks beneath your weight. You grip the rusted chains and push, only enough so that your body sways, suspended above the ground. Risotto sits beside you, stagnant. Ashen earthiness wafts through the cloud that forms before his face. The smell of cheap tobacco is so strong that you forget how lovely the scent of the caramel candle felt in the well of your lungs.

The cigarette slips from his fingers to yours. Hot to the touch, you bring it to your lips and breathe in. “Mio padre said he could look at your bike, by the way,” you say to your companion, the first words of the night thus far. He takes back the cigarette. “He says he’ll let you work for him or something, just so you don’t have to pay him back for the new tires.”

He hums with the filter stuck between his teeth. “Thank you,” he mumbles through smoke.

You smile and nod. He had been without his bicycle for nearly a month now, ever since one of the boys in his tenement building slashed its tires. Risotto’s parents had refused to replace them, insistent that their son had purposefully dug his own grave with the older, less reputable residents of their complex – it was his responsibility to lie down and bury himself alive.

If not for his cousin Barolo’s intervention in the matter, you thoroughly believed that your friend would have been thrown out onto the streets. The Nero’s were a temperamental pair, to be sure. You have lost track of just how many times Risotto has come to school with a bruise on his cheek or a busted lip – how many times you have met him at your window in the dead of the night, to be greeted by the aftermath of a blackeye: and always, he blamed the welts on fights with his neighbors, but you knew better. To him, it had never mattered what his parents did – so long as he has his cousin. And you.

His mother and father terrify you, and rightfully so. And yet, a part of you is grateful for their negligence; it means that you have the chance to spend more time with their son, to whisk him away from the strain of his household. You are beholden to the burning in your legs because it reminds you that walking to the park takes longer than a simple bike ride. Though few words are ever spoken between you and Risotto, you savor every moment spent in his company.

His actions tell you that he is appreciative enough of your presence. He drops the spent cigarette into the carton and pulls out a second; the flare of the match glistens in his eyes. You hide the frown that creeps upon your face behind a curtain of hair.

A nicotine high is nothing more than a nasty headache and an upset stomach – you do not enjoy smoking nearly as much as he does.

Although, you have gotten rather good at pretending.

Insegnante di Scuola jailed, charged in Manslaughter

Sordi Fellini, 32, was arrested at his home after Polizia Municipale di Palermo said he fled the scene of the 1:50 a.m. accident. Fellini, insegnante di lettere for Istituto Gonzaga, has been charged for driving while intoxicated, manslaughter, and leaving the scene of an accident involving a death.

Dead at the scene of the 1:50 a.m. wreck was Barolo Nero, 20.

The dried leaves crunch beneath your feet. The wind pulses against your legs, pressing your pleated skirt taut to your stocking-clad skin. There is a certain bitterness that comes with walking home from school, alone. The autumn air becomes more frigid. The journey, longer. The weight of textbooks in the bookbag slung across your back is far heavier.

More than anything, you miss Risotto. You are reminded of him every moment that you catch yourself staring, longingly, at his empty desk in each classroom. Though you consciously leave a seat open for him next to you at your lunch table, as if he might sit down at any moment, you know that it is for naught.

You were not invited to the funeral, because there never was one. Barolo was cremated and scattered along the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Signore Fellini, your estranged literature teacher, has been stripped of his certification – not that a degree would do him any good in prison.

And Risotto disappeared.

His bicycle has become something of a centerpiece in your father’s workshop: a drying rack for freshly cleaned hand towels. Each night that you find yourself hovering over your father – who is typically hunched in his desk chair – to press a kiss to his cheek and summon him for a meal, the bicycle taunts you. It is the emblem of your missing friend.

Tonight, you do not enter the workshop. A detour to the park has set you three hours behind. Your mother greets you from her place at the kitchen sink with a worrying tone. You have missed dinner, though truthfully, you are not hungry. Her water-pruned hands reach for you, yet you bat her away and retreat to your bedroom. Homework assignments wait to be completed. You strip yourself of your uniform and settle for a nightgown.

The evening sky has not yet settled to dusk – the cicadas and katydids no longer sing, for summer has passed and taken everything else with her: the drought, the wilted flowers, and Risotto. Still you sleep, a hand clutched to your chest, as if the meager act of cupping your aching heart might alleviate the dull rhythm that pulsates through you, even while you dream of cigarettes and torn jeans.

And when you open your eyes, jostled awake by the rattling of the window, you know that he has come back, perhaps compelled by devotion. Or perhaps, after all this time, it is that he could no longer bare the self-driven deprival of your affection.

In your room, Risotto’s battered shoes sink into the plush carpet. You close the window and draw the blinds shut. His gaze falls to the record player, then to a neglected crafting toolbox – scattered laundry on the floor, a framed watercolor painting of lilies: everywhere except for you. Your mouth opens, but words fail you. The questions that you have wanted to ask no longer matter because he is here now.

As you study his face, you wonder if his cheeks were always this gaunt. His fists are clenched. You pull him into your arms, crossing a line that you have only ever fantasized of toeing. His hands raise to your spine after a moment of hesitation. Fingernails pry into the thin fabric of your nightgown – he grips you tightly, like he fears that you might drift away if he pulls back. You feel the quaking of his shoulders before his tears fall and collect against the crook of your neck, to pool in the cavity of your collarbone.

Vulnerability has never come easy for Risotto. He wears stoicism like a mask. But here in your room – the forbidden safe haven – he wills himself to let it go; it falls to the floor as you lead him to your bed and pull his clothed body flush against yours, beneath the shelter of a duvet and wrinkled sheets.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper into the dark. “I was so worried about you.”

His grip on you eases and he settles onto his back before he speaks: “I’m sorry.”

Your face falls. “Don’t apologize. I don’t want you to.” The mattress creaks. You lean against your bent elbow and watch him as he stares at the ceiling. You can practically hear the gears churning in his mind. He is begging for help, but he does not want it – he is drowning, yet he refuses the buoy. “You don’t have to talk about it right now,” you say, referring to Barolo’s death and consequently Risotto’s absence. “Just understand that I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

But he already knew that.

Your eighteenth winter hails no snowfall, but rather gentle rain. You clutch the steering wheel of your hand-me-down sedan, foot coaxing over the pedals. It had once belonged to your father, until your seventeenth birthday. The scenery blends and contorts through the windows and Risotto puffs on a cigarette, exhaling through his opened window. Softly, Christmas carols hum through the speakers. The noise of your tires grinding against the slick roads is muddling.

Midnight Mass was a blur. Tradition demanded your attendance, yet your thoughts wandered. You broke the bread with quivering hands and said your holy words to Mother Mary, fingers and palms conjoined ephemerally. When the bishop dismissed the clergy, you found Risotto in the crowds of embracing strangers and giddy children.

The car swerves into gravel. The scent of sea spray climbs to you. The waves crash against the sand just as the tide beckons them to. You have reached spiaggia di Capaci. The gingham blanket settles into the sand. You and Risotto take your respective positions, a considerable distance left between your bodies. You do not mind the early rain that peppers your face with mist.

Above your heads, the stars embellish the ethereal ink-black sky.

His thumb coaxes over the back of your hand, tracing the grooves between knuckles. Your breath hitches in your throat. It is unknown just how many times your hand has found its way into his grasp before. And yet, you shiver and flush because now it is different – because now, you are an eighteen-year-old woman in love with your childhood friend.

You crane your neck to face him, a question of his intent frozen on your tongue as his red irises meet your gaze. You are motionless, even when his stare falls to your parted lips. The chill that radiates from the ocean holds you in place.

Time stops as he speaks to you: the waves refrain from the shore – the steady drizzle eases – but your heart beats in a fury.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod and suddenly his lips slant over your own, which remind him fondly of a freshly split strawberry. He bites back the gasp that betrays your composure. He kisses you with such fervor that he pulls his hand away from yours and tethers it to the back of your head, his fingers lost in the matted mound of hair. Like a kitten starved for milk, you explore the caverns of his mouth, the taste of communion wine heavy on his breath.

You find his shifting grasp on your hip daunting. A knee threads between your legs, parting them. A heat pools within you – you grab the back of his neck and pull him closer, closer. You lean into him, keening, desperate for friction.

He toys with your clothed sex and swallows the adolescent moan that you choke on. The hand beneath your dress is cold; goosepimples rise over your tender skin. He separates his lips from yours and pulls back to admire, through half-lidded eyes, as you bite your cheek and squirm while his thumb hooks around your dampened panties. You lie beneath him – your hair splayed around your head like a halo and a red blush stained to your cheeks – and he thinks, utterly and truly, that you must be Persefone herself. 

Risotto’s heart beats, faster still; a contender only to yours. You feel like you might die, blissful that it would be a winsome way to go – on a beach somewhere, echoed only by thoughts of the one you might have loved in time. But when his long finger brushes against your untouched folds and tethers you to your very core, you know that you cannot possibly be dead. He curls himself and retracts. You raise your hips to meet the fever of his palm, eager for the second finger that he has yet to add.

“Please, Ris,” you beg. “More – please.”

He obliges. It is not long before you feel the coil tighten within your lower abdomen – before you fall apart for him.

Through your stupor, you manage to grab his wrist to cease his movements. “We can’t do this here,” you airily insist. “My car –”

He pulls you to your feet. Your shaking legs have you fumbling over sand. The key jiggles in the lock of the backseat door. You shimmy over crinkling faux leather. Your dress falls to the carpeted flooring.

A shirtless Risotto takes in the sight of your naked form. A body once saved for marriage, now prepared for sacrilege. He utters your name and groans: “Voglio scoparti.”

“Per favore.”

He fills you, slowly. Knees bent and tucked beneath his weight; you cry out against the skin of his neck. With little time to adjust, he rocks into you. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, desperate to anchor yourself. Every thrust elicits a gasp from your swollen lips.

You grimace peevishly when Risotto slows his pace. “I can’t do this,” he mutters. “It’s not comfortable.”

He pulls himself out of your folds, only to flip you onto your stomach without a moment to spare. A hand finds its way to the back of your neck, effectively pinning you down onto the car seat. His other arm ensnares your waist and hoists your backend into the air. On bended knees, he enters you again, pounding with a burst of newfound energy and desire.

Condensation coats the windows. The pressure on your neck deprives your lungs; however, the mere thought of Risotto asserting such dominance over your bent form has you reeling towards the edge. Your fingers fly to your sensitive nub, tweaking the it in your own grasp. Your release washes over you, and you cum on his cock with a moan laced in ecstasy.

He finishes on your back, lacquer to your sweat-slicked skin. He rubs something soft against you. You realize, as sand particles fall to the car seat, that it is your blanket. Head flush to his chest, you listen to the thumping within his ribcage. A sigh passes through your lips and your eyes fall to his discarded wristwatch. It is just after 3:00 a.m. – in five hours, you will wake to the sound of your mother’s knuckles rapping against your bedroom door to join her and your father for breakfast before an onerous day of entertaining relatives. But for now, you will enjoy the solace of Risotto’s embrace.

You press a kiss to his cheek. “Bon Natali, Risotto.”

He grins, tired. It is enough to fill you with unadulterated love.

“Bon Natali, bella.”

The early days of the springtime bloom yield the first wave of tourists to Palermo for the season. Market vendors inflate their prices. Restaurants become far too crowded. The beaches – the sacred places – lose their luster as they become a haven for foreigners.

You do not mind the influx of strangers, for you have never found a reason not to. After all, no one comes to your city to gawk at Catholic school students.

The hand pressed to your bare backend feels limp. Even as you trail your finger over his chest, through patches of hair and young muscles, Risotto is unresponsive. Your lips brush against his clenched jaw – he flinches but does not relax. He is perturbed beyond question.

“Ris?” you begin, waiting for him to look at you. He does not. You frown. “Are you alright?”

A stiff nod is his response.

“Well, if that’s the case, can I ask you a something?”

Another nod.

"Would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night? You know – as in an actual date.”

"No.”

You sit up, tucking the blankets around your breasts. “Oh . . .” you trail off, suddenly self-conscious of the post-sex haze that lingers on the sheets. “Why not?”

Because I’ll be gone – he wants to say. The pair of crafting scissors that he once stole from you years ago, now tucked away within his backpack, is a nasty contemplation. “Because I don’t want to,” he huffs.

“Did I do something wrong? Are you embarrassed of me?”

No. “Yes.” He can feel the splitting of your heart – it feels just like his own.

“I don’t understand,” you insist. He reaches for his jeans, dressing in silence. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

“It’s easier than telling you the truth.” He shrugs on his jacket.

“What truth?”

I’m never coming back. “I’ve only been using you for sex, and now I’m bored – I never thought you were stupid enough to think that any of this was genuine. But I shouldn’t be surprised.”

You bring a hand up to catch the tear that rolls down your cheek. You wait for his rebuttal – for a smile, a shaking of his head, and an insistence that it was only a cruel jest taken too far. But the look in his eyes, that callous sneer, tells you that he is serious.  

You will not cry for him – you will not beg him to stay. “Get out.” You choke over your words. The figs of your tree have shriveled and fallen to your feet, black as death itself. “Get out of my house.”

And so, he leaves you beneath the barren tree you once thought to have planted together. Springtime has left a sour taste in your mouth, after all.

Sordi Fellini Dead in Suicide at Jail, Spurring Inquiries

Signore Fellini, the insegnante di lettere sentenced for his convicted manslaughter of Barolo Nero in 1988, was not under suicide watch at the time of his death.

Signore Fellini was found around 6:30 a.m mercoledì mattina. He posted bail seventeen hours before his alleged demise.

On la Costa Smeralda, echoed only by thoughts of the one he loved a decade ago, Risotto Nero basks atop bloodied sand, dying. A crushed carton of cigarettes lies beyond the reach of his severed hand. The phantom pangs of adolescence remind him of you.

Years of schooling under the scrutiny of god’s eye have turned him away from religion: he was a deist and nothing more. Still, the silent prayer on his lips pleads that he might see you once more – to beseech your absolution, though he knows that he does not deserve it. To prove his fidelity. To give you the life you have always been so deserving of.

No, Risotto was never a religious man. But he worshipped the very ground you walked on. You were his savior – and he denied you like a disciple driven by guile.  

The lump in his throat elicits a painful cough; a blade to his esophagus. He recognizes his folly far better than any man. How differently might things have turned out if he had just stayed by your side – if he had agreed to go on your silly little date; if he had never snuck his way into Fellini’s prison cell to slit the wrists of the man who bequeathed to him an unending grudge; if he had never found Passione.

He might have been a husband, if you would have wanted to marry him. He might have been a father, if you were so inclined to become a mother. He never knew your thoughts of the future because he had never asked.

He might have been anything other than a broken, dead man who has lost everything.

The wooden plank of the swing creaks beneath his weight. He grips the rusted chains and digs his feet into the dried woodchips. A katydid crawls over the mulch next to his sneakers and chirps; Risotto brings the sole of his shoe over the mating insect, ready to squish it.

A pair of Mary Jane’s comes into his view. He leaves the katydid be, which resumes its path to the second katydid beneath the opposite swing. The scent of cigarette smoke wafts through the air.

He meets your gaze. You smile and take your seat in the swing above the female katydid. The cigarette slips from your fingers to his. Hot to the touch, he brings it to his lips and breathes in.

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows have become your ghosts.

| 3869 Words |

[izzyfandoms]

Beach Day

SHIPS: Thvi

CHARACTERS: Virgil Sanders, Thomas Sanders

WARNING: Nothing this is just pure plotless fluff

GENERAL TAGLIST: @quillfics42 @aj-draws @phantomofthesanderssides @phlying-squirrel @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game @because-were-fam-ily @imtryingthisout @a-creepycookie @emo-disaster @littlestr @spooky-scary-virgil @fuyel @mimsidoodles @soupgremlin @aroaceagenderfluid @birdsbookshiddeninrealbirdsskin @quirkalurk @gingers-trashy-stuff @iinyxtello @justaqueercactus @melodiread @mrbubbajones @glassferns @pun-master-logan @gayturtlez @k1ngtok1

Masterpost

“Virgil, you know I love you, right?”

Virgil lifted a hand, creating shade over his eyes to keep the glaring sun from blinding him as he turned to squint suspiciously at his boyfriend.

The couple was sat together on the beach, huddled together on one towel, watching the waves and watching their friends as they splashed around and played in the sea. There were no clouds in the sky, nothing to block the brightness of the sun except Virgil’s hand over his own face.

Beaches weren’t really Virgil’s thing. He preferred being inside, and, in his opinion, storms and rain were much better than the hot, humid heat of the Summer.

“I get the feeling I’m going to regret saying yes,” he told Thomas flatly.

Thomas made a sound that was halfway between exaggerated offense – a habit he seemed to have picked up from his older brother, Roman, which always gave Virgil a feeling of equal exasperation and fondness – and entertained laughter. He leant closer, gently bumping his elbow against Virgil’s side and shifting even closer to him, pressing up against Virgil’s side.

“Come on,” Thomas laughed. “Would I ever do anything to hurt you?”

Virgil continued to squint suspiciously at him. “Hurt? No. But annoy? Yes.”

“Aww, would I do that?”

“Yes,” Virgil said bluntly.

Thomas laughed again, a little louder this time. “Come on, Virge. You know I love you, right?”

There was a beat, where Virgil continued to stare suspiciously at his boyfriend. Thomas reacted by doing his best innocent expression, which, of course, only made Virgil’s suspicion of him grow. But, after only a moment, Virgil sighed.

“Okay, fine,” he said, gesturing vaguely with the hand not shielding him from the sun. “Yeah, yeah, you love me. I love you. What is it?”

“Aww, you love me?”

Virgil gave Thomas a flat look, and didn’t say anything in response to that.

Thomas laughed again. “Okay, okay. The point is that... well, you know I love you, and therefore you know that when I say this, I only mean the best.”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like where this is going.”

Thomas shrugged, and gave Virgil a slightly sheepish, apologetic smile.

“Why are you wearing your hoodie at the beach?”

“Oh,” Virgil said.

He looked down at himself, at his hoodie, which he was wearing over a purple t-shirt and black swimming trunks. He blinked, looking a little startled, though Thomas wasn’t sure whether that was because he hadn’t expected Thomas to point that out, or if he’d just completely forgotten that he was wearing it.

Thomas leant forward, taking Virgil’s free hand in one of his own, and using the other to slowly run his thumb over Virgil’s knuckles.

“It’s, like, a bazillion degrees out, and I feel like I’m going to boil in just this,” Thomas said, looking down at his own outfit – just swimming trunks and flipflops. “I have no idea how you’re still alive in all those clothes, and I’m just a teeny tiny bit concerned you are going to die.”

Virgil huffed. “I’m not going to die.”

“Fine, fine, you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass out, either.”

Thomas gave Virgil a flat look of disbelief. “Do you remember what happened the last time you told me that? About, I don’t know, a month ago?”

“No,” Virgil lied immediately.

Thomas’s look of disbelief only strengthened, and he didn’t even need to say anything – just stare at Virgil – for his boyfriend to sigh and give in.

“Fine, I... I passed out.”

“You passed out,” Thomas nodded. “So, forgive me for worrying about you when you already look like you’re overheating and about three seconds from melting on the spot.”

“But I like my hoodie.”

“I like it, too,” Thomas agreed, before grinning. “And I admire your commitment to the aesthetic but please, I’d rather keep my boyfriend un-melted, thank you very much.”

Virgil snorted. “I don’t think that’s a word.”

Thomas laughed again. “Who are you, Logan?” He teased.

“I wish. I’d get so much more done with a brain like his.”

Thomas nodded, humming in agreement. “You’re right, you’re right. It’s a shame he couldn’t make it, but at least Pat stayed behind with him.”

“He’s not exactly the beach type, either,” Virgil added. “I think he’d just sit here and read, and then complain about getting sand everywhere and talk about how he just could have stayed and read at home.”

Thomas chuckled. “Oh, exactly and- hold on, are you trying to distract me?”

This time, it was Virgil’s turn with the shrug and the sheepish expression.

“Sorry.”

“Come on,” Thomas said. “If you take off your hoodie, I’ll give you kisses.”

“You’d kiss me either way.”

“Well, yes, but if you take off the hoodie, you get kisses and life. And if you keep it on, you’d get kisses and death. And I don’t really want to kiss a corpse.”

Virgil’s nose wrinkled. “I’d hope not.”

Thomas squeezed Virgil’s hand. “Hey, I’m pretty sure Logan would agree with me. Want me to call him and ask?”

Virgil huffed. “No, no, I get it.”

He let go of Thomas’s hand for just a moment, shrugging off his hoodie and then holding it carefully in his lap as he returned his hand to Thomas’s without a second thought. He squinted again, glaring at the sun as best he could without blinding himself, as he now didn’t have a hand to protect his eyes from it: one was in Thomas’s, and the other was holding his hoodie.

The beach was loud, which usually Virgil wouldn’t be a fan of, but he had hardly noticed it most of the time since their arrival. He was too distracted by Thomas talking to him or kissing him or holding his hand – or even just existing in his natural oh-so handsome state – and the things that usually would have stressed him out seemed seemed almost smaller in comparison to Thomas.

And, well, Thomas had been right. It had gotten rather hot and stuffy in his hoodie, and now that he’d taken it off, he felt significantly cooler and more comfortable.

He turned back to Thomas, who was smiling at him cheerfully, but with just the hint of teasing in his expression.

“Feel better?” Thomas asked, and it was impossible not to hear the slight smugness in his voice.

Virgil rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the upwards twitching of the corners of his lips, or the fondness that seemed to always creep into his expression when he looked at Thomas.

“Yeah, yeah,” Virgil said, squeezing Thomas’s hand. “No need to be smug Mr. Right-About-Everything.”

Thomas laughed. “Ha-ha, you said it, not me.”

“Aww, you two are adorable.”

Both Thomas and Virgil looked up in unison, their eyes immediately landing on their friend, Emile, who had somehow walked up to them without either of them noticing. He was smiling down at them, stood up whilst the couple were both sitting down, which was the only time he’d ever seemed taller than them, since he was by far the shortest of the friend group.

Virgil could feel his face warm slightly, though it was a little difficult to tell since he was already warm and red from the summer heat.

Thomas laughed. “Thanks. We try.”

Emile smiled, before slowly and carefully sitting down in the sand at Thomas’s other side.

“You two can go swim now, if you want,” Emile said. “I’ll watch our things.”

“Oh, nice!” Thomas said.

He dropped Virgil’s hand, jumping up and then immediately held out his hand for his boyfriend to take again. Virgil hesitated for a moment, before he glanced at Emile.

“Can you take my hoodie?” He asked.

“Yup!” Emile held out his hands, and took Virgil’s hoodie, placing it in his lap. “I’ll take good care of it.”

Virgil was never a fan of leaving his hoodie alone with someone else – it was his favourite possession, after all: the patches having been made by hand – and it meant a lot to him. But, he supposed, Emile was the one friend he trusted most with it, other than Thomas and Patton and Logan. The latter two weren’t there, though, and Thomas was coming with Virgil.

“Thank you,” Virgil nodded.

He then turned back to Thomas, who was still holding his hand out for Virgil to take. Virgil took it without hesitation, and let Thomas help him stand up.

Virgil stood too fast, wobbling and almost tipping over, but Thomas caught him by the waist before he could fall over.

“My hero,” Virgil said flatly.

Thomas laughed. “Don’t let the others hear you calling me that,” he joked. “I don’t think they’ll ever let it go. It took three months for them to forget about the time you accidentally called me ‘baby’ in front of them.”

Virgil’s nose wrinkled. “God, that sucked.”

“My lips are sealed,” Emile piped up, prompting the couple to turn to look at them. He mimed zipping his lips shut, locking it, and then throwing away the key with the hand not holding Virgil’s hoodie in his lap. “But you two are absolutely adorable! A real Ruby and Sapphire.”

“Aww,” Thomas practically cooed, before turning back to Virgil. “I bet if we were gems, we’d have the coolest fusion.”

Virgil snorted. “Or maybe it would just amplify both of our anxieties.”

“Oh, right. You know, I’d almost forgotten about that,” Thomas then nodded his head in the direction of the waves. “So, swimming?”

“Okay, just as long as we don’t go too deep,” Virgil said. “I don’t want you to drown.”

[caffeinatedbraincell]

I’m back on my bullshit with more TOG fluff, have fun :)

Read on AO3

Joe stumbled into the kitchen, soaking wet and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He looked around frantically before making a beeline toward the countertop. He lunged for the notebook lying there.

Behind him, Nicky yelped. “Yusuf!”

Joe turned around to find his husband carrying a package of flour in his arms, which he’d apparently been retrieving from the pantry while Joe barged into his workspace.

“Hmm?” Joe said distractedly, already starting to feel the lines slipping. Damnit, why did the perfect words for his poems always only occur to him in the shower? Meter, alliteration, emotion… he’d had it all at the tip of his tongue moments ago. He just needed to write it down before he-

“Hayati, you better have a good reason for standing dripping wet and half-naked in my kitchen. There’s soapy water everywhere! You’ve made such a mess, Joe, and I just mopped…”

Nicky’s lamentations continued, and Joe tried desperately to listen while mentally reciting what was left of the lines he’d composed in the shower.

“Joe?” Nicky’s fingers snapped impatiently in front of his face. “Are you even listening to me?”

The last vestiges of his beautifully crafted words evaporated from his brain, and Joe sighed, shoulders slumping forward. “I’m sorry, Nicky. I’ll clean it up.”

He turned to grab a spare dish towel from the cabinet, shivering slightly as a wayward breeze hit his damp skin. Before he could take two steps, Joe felt a gentle hand around his wrist.

Nicky maneuvered the flour package onto the table and leveled him with a mortifyingly discerning look. “What happened, love?”

Joe remained silent, unsure of how to go about explaining the absurdity of his current presence in the kitchen. The whole endeavor seemed rather stupid in retrospect. And it wasn’t like he had a line or two of breathtaking poetry to show for it, either.

Nicky’s eyes widened a little at his hesitation. “Are you alright, Joe? Are you hurt?” He ran his hands fretfully up and down Joe’s arms and chest, feeling for traces of an injury. Joe’s eyes snapped up guiltily, and he took hold of Nicky’s wrists and brought them to his lips.

“I am alright, amore. I mean it. Not at all hurt. Please do not worry.”

“You’re trembling. Go dry off and wear something warm, I’ll take care of the floor. Then you can tell me what’s going on.”

Minutes later, Joe emerged from their room in one of Nicky’s large, fleece-lined hoodies. He found Nicky in the kitchen, wringing out a towel into the sink. As soon as he saw Joe, Nicky walked over and pressed a warm mug of hot cocoa into his hands.

“Let’s sit on the couch?”

Joe nodded, following his husband to the living room and curling up next to him on the cushions. A small blaze was starting to catch in the fireplace. Outside, rain poured with a vengeance. Nicky had closed the window but left the curtains open. Joe smiled to himself. He had never met anyone who loved the rain as much as his Nicoló.

“Drink, hayati. We can’t have you catching a cold. See, I even added those tiny marshmallows you like.”

Joe took a large sip from the cup, sighing softly as the chocolate-covered notes of nutmeg and cinnamon floated over his tongue. He nuzzled closer to Nicky, feeling a little overcome with warmth and love.

Nicky wrapped his arms around Joe and pulled him closer. “So, are you going to tell me what prompted you to run out here mid-shower in the cold of winter?”

“I thought of the right words,” Joe mumbled into Nicky’s holiday-green jumper.

“Hmm?”

“For a poem I was writing. I’ve been struggling for days with a particular section and it suddenly came to me while showering. I wanted to write it down before I forgot.”

A comfortable silence blanketed them for several minutes. Joe took another sip of his drink, savoring it gratefully.

“You didn’t, though.”

“What?” Joe asked.

“You didn’t write anything down. You came into the kitchen, but you never even opened your notebook.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot the words. They never stay for long.”

“Was it because I yelled at you?”

“No! No, amore, that was well-deserved. And you didn’t yell at me, you just…emphatically expressed your displeasure at having to mop again. Which is fair, honestly.”

Nicky chuckled, and Joe felt his heart fill with warmth all over again. He set the empty cocoa mug aside and tenderly pressed his lips to Nicky’s.

The next morning, Joe found a whole set of brand-new children’s bath crayons in the shower, stacked neatly next to their soaps and shampoos.

___

The crayons turned out to be a life-changing convenience. This became clear just three weeks after they arrived, when Joe found himself in a position to send a completed manuscript of his current poetry book to his publisher ahead of the deadline.

“This has literally never happened before,” he told Nicky in awe. “I’m always late, if anything. You are a genius, my love, thank you so much for the pre-Christmas present.”

Nicky all but preened. “Had you told me earlier, I would have gotten the crayons for you ages ago.”

“Ah,” Joe replied a little bashfully, “I didn’t actually know such a thing existed until you got them.”

It was when Joe returned from a brief meeting with his publisher the following day that he and Nicky had their first actual fight in several months. It started, like most of their fights, with empty stomachs and a grocery trip oversight.

“Joe, there’s no fresh garlic in this bag!”

“There was none at the store. Use the minced garlic in the fridge.”

“What?!”

Joe rolled his eyes. “It’s the same thing, Nicky. Better, in fact, since it’s saving you the trouble of having to chop it yourself.”

“Have you ever heard of making roasted garlic cloves using minced garlic?”

“I have not,” Joe conceded. “We should make something else.”

Nicky knew he was being impractical. Obviously, there was nothing Joe could have done if they were out of stock at the store. But Nicky had been planning this dish for days, and had already promised Nile he would send her some as part of his ongoing campaign to refute her claim that “any form of garlic except garlic bread is gross.”

There was no way Joe could have known about that, either, but Nicky was in no mood to admit any such thing.

“Joe, you had one job! I gave you a grocery list!”

Joe turned from where he was stocking the refrigerator, brow furrowed. “I don’t know what exactly you expect me to do about the store being out of garlic.”

“I don’t know, maybe check another store? Was that the only grocery store in this city?”

“Nicky, I think you should go to your room.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just…you’re hungry. And you’re clearly not prepared to cook without fresh garlic. So let me do the cooking, and you, uh, do something else. Outside of the kitchen.”

“Are you kicking me out of my kitchen?”

“Our kitchen, madre de dio, Nicky! I’m trying to help you!”

“Maybe you could help me by actually getting the stuff I asked you to get from the store!”

“You know what, if you need whole garlic so urgently, get it yourself. It’s dark and below freezing outside. There is no way I’m wandering from store to store at this hour to fulfill this baseless whim of yours.”

That, Nicky knew, was a completely justified response to his unreasonable anger. But it hurt nevertheless.

“Fine,” he whispered, grabbing his coat and storming out the front door before Joe could see the tears prickling in his eyes.

Joe stared at the door, astonished. Part of him wanted desperately to follow Nicky outside. Of course he could check a couple more stores. If Nicky genuinely wished for something, Joe would go to the ends of the Earth, scour Heaven and Hell, to get it for him. No amount of ego was worth knowing his beloved was out there, hungry and alone, in the frigid wind.

But Joe was also well aware that he wasn’t at fault here. And Nicky, his Nicky, rarely reacted like this to their disagreements; perhaps he just needed some time for himself. It wouldn’t be right for Joe to impose his company when his husband clearly didn’t want it.

Joe sighed in frustration. A hot shower would clear his head, he hoped, heading for their bedroom.

Twenty minutes after he had stormed out, Nicky was coming around to the realization that this had been a profoundly stupid idea. Moments after leaving the house, he had realized that he’d left the car keys behind. Foolishly, he’d boarded a bus for downtown, too irked to return home. Now, with the bus routes closed for the night and taxis staying off the road as snow clouds threatened the city, Nicky quietly admitted to himself that he was stranded.

The first weak snowflakes began to fall. Then the wind picked up, blowing several icy droplets into his face. Nicky shivered. Fuck this, he thought, pulling out his phone. His pride wasn’t worth causing Joe to worry, and it definitely wasn’t worth getting sick from the cold and creating loads of extra work for his husband. He was going to call Joe, apologize profusely, and beg him to come pick him up.

At their home, Joe let the steaming water soak through to his tired bones as he scrawled passionately on the shower walls. He was a little hurt and, if he was being honest, more than a little worried. But for once Nicky wasn’t here for him to talk to, so he threw his words at the wall in brightly colored crayon instead.

He almost didn’t hear his cell phone ring. Contorting his upper body out of the shower, he wiped his hands on his towel and reached around for the phone in his pants’ pocket. The called ID flashed his husband’s name. Joe picked up without hesitation.

“Hello?”

“Joe, I fucked up. I’m s- so sorry. I should never- never have spoken to you like that, h- hayati. Please- please forgive me.”

Over the line, Joe could hear Nicky’s teeth chattering as he struggled to get the words out. Joe shut the water off and clambered out of the shower.

“Nicky, what happened? Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m f- fine. It’s just cold.”

“Come home. Please.”

“Yeah, that’s- that’s the problem. I took the bus here. The c- car keys…”

Joe had put the phone on speaker and was already getting dressed. He shouldered into a coat and seized a large throw from their bed, striding into the living room.

“I’m coming. Where are you?”

“Uh, Mira Mesa Transit Station. S- sorry, kind of far.”

“Nowhere in the universe is too far.”

“Joe-”

“Just sit tight, I’m on my way.”

Joe drove like a madman. Luckily, no one else was insane enough to be out in this imminent blizzard, so at least the roads were clear. In just under ten minutes, he reached the station.

A figure sat huddled under the overhang. Joe barely managed to stop the car before jumping out.

“Nicoló!”

Nicky struggled to his feet. “Joe, grazie a dio-”

“Shhh, amore mio, I’ve got you,” Joe soothed, pulling a shivering Nicky towards the car and bundling him into the passenger’s seat. Once he'd climbed in himself, Joe turned up the heater and divested Nicky of his too-thin, snow-soaked windbreaker. “Wear this,” he coaxed, whipping his own dry jacket off and wrapping it around Nicky’s shoulders.

“No, hayati-”

“Shh, love, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Joe wrapped the throw over the jacket, dusting the snow from Nicky's collar and tucking the blanket in. The whole way back, he drove with one hand on the wheel, intertwining the other with Nicky’s and rubbing his knuckles to warm him up.

“Shower,” Joe decided as soon as they stepped into their home. “You’re so cold, my heart. Go stand under warm water until you can feel your toes and fingers again. I’m going to make us some hot soup, okay?” Joe leaned forward and kissed Nicky’s nose gently.

Nicky nodded, too cold and tired to insist on helping. He had an inkling sense that Joe might still be irritated with him, after all. It would not be undeserved.

He made his way to their bedroom, draping Joe’s jacket over a bedpost and discarding his own clothes as he stepped into shower. Exhaling deeply, he turned his back to the stream of hot water- and froze.

A red bath crayon lay fallen on the floor, clearly left behind in haste. Joe must have been showering when I called, Nicky thought with a pang of guilt. But what had caught his attention was the shower wall in front of him. There, written in his beloved husband’s flowy cursive, was a poem.

If I could only read your heart When your lips cannot translate I wouldn’t let it break, my love Yet if it does Take mine An eternity alone I’ll wait.

The warm water poured down Nicky’s back, relaxing his aching muscles even as tears sprung into his eyes at Joe’s tender, longing words. Nicky stared and stared until the steam blurred the writing beyond perception.

A knock at the bathroom door snapped him out of his reverie.

“Nicky? Are you alright? Almost done?”

Nicky cleared his throat. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

He shut off the water and dried off. He found the bedroom empty, and slipped into the pajamas and fluffy sweatshirt that Joe must have laid out for him earlier. Dry and warm and very cozy, Nicky felt his eyes well up again at the care Joe put into something as minor as picking out some clothes.

Even during their worst fights, Nicky never doubted their love for each other; their hearts had been one far too long for any such lingering uncertainties. But it never ceased to amaze him how quickly Joe forgave. How despite taking Nicky’s hurtful words to heart, Joe went above and beyond to make sure he didn’t suffer.

He took a deep breath to regain his composure, and walked out. But the moment he entered the kitchen, the fragrance of creamy red pepper tomato bisque reached his nose, and he very nearly broke down in tears again. His favorite soup. It was a recipe he and Joe had perfected together through the years. Watching Joe quietly ladle it into two bowls, Nicky felt something clench in his chest.

“Hayati.”

Joe spun around. “Nicky! Are you feeling better, my heart?”

“I am.”

“Oh, good. Are you, uh…” Joe’s eyes flickered to the floor. “Are you still angry with me about the garlic thing?”

Nicky crossed the distance between them in two strides and threw himself into his husband’s arms. Joe stumbled back, a little startled, but quickly pulled Nicky close and buried his face in Nicky’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Nicky.”

“No. No, Yusuf, please. You did nothing wrong. It is I who should beg your forgiveness, having treated you as I did. You've shown me nothing but kindness, and I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

Joe shook his head in protest, nuzzling his nose into Nicky’s neck.

“I saw what you wrote in the shower,” he continued. Joe stilled in his arms. “I- I don’t know if you meant for me to see, but…”

“I forgot to erase it. But everything I write is for you, Nicolò. It’s yours.”

“It was beautiful. Beautiful, and heartbreaking. Forgive me, my all. Forgive me for raising my voice at you, for making you feel alone. Forgive me for walking away insteading of talking to you. And forgive me for dragging you out into that storm at this hour to come searching for me, it was beyond cruel to make you drive so far-”

Joe pulled back, eyes round with tears, and gently pressed his palm to Nicky’s lips.

“Stop it. Please. Don’t apologize for calling me when you needed me. Where would I rather be than at your side? I meant it, earlier. Nowhere in the universe is too far.”

Nicky held Joe’s hand to his lips and kissed his palm. A tear slipped down Joe’s cheek as he swallowed a sob. Nicky wrapped a hand behind his neck and rubbed soothing circles into the tense muscles there. After a few minutes, Joe's breathing evened out, and he lifted his eyes to gaze at Nicky with unguarded adoration. It would be so easy to just let this go, Nicky thought. But the knowledge that he had hurt Joe stood like a wall of glass between them, and Nicky felt it would drive him mad.

“Joe, I- I need to hear you say it. If you forgive me, that is. I don’t know, tonight has just been a lot. Please, hayati, I-”

“You are forgiven. You are always forgiven.”

Nicky exhaled, feeling the glass wall shatter. He kissed Joe’s temple softly. “Thank you, my love.”

Joe tilted his head slowly, dragging his lips up Nicky’s jaw until he could capture his mouth in a melting kiss. Nicky responded with ardent devotion, backing Joe up against the refrigerator and holding him there as they kissed again and again. It was only when he grew light-headed from lack of oxygen that Nicky pulled back. Still, Joe whimpered at the loss of warmth, reaching out for his husband.

“Nicky…”

“Joe, you have no idea how much I want to stand here kissing you all night. But you’ve prepared this wonderful dinner. I’d hate for it to get cold.”

Joe laughed, a joyous thing that swept Nicky off his feet just like it had the very first time he'd heard it.

“Alright, let’s eat. But after dinner we’ll cuddle on the couch under the heated blanket and I’ll hold you to your promise.”

Nicky smiled fondly, unable to help leaning in and placing one more kiss at the corner of his beloved’s lips. “Please do.”

[love-daesy]

sweet and salty

h.iwaizumi

♡*:.✧

I apologize for any grammar mistake in advance!

—

Tears ran down your face, salty liquid mingling with the heavy droplets of water from above. The rain fell on you, showering every part of your figure, prickling your skin each time they made contact with your body.

The world felt heavy around you, drowning you, intoxicating you with the very music it has to offer (though the sounds around you were rather thunderous, deep, violent; yet your focus was on the song the small tree branches, that were showing signs of cracking, were playing, the water that seemed to sing as it poured down on the ground, the flickering streetlight in the right corner that went out every time a thick droplet made contact with the brownish metal - almost in tune with the rhythm of the song)

You smiled. A genuine, honest kind; reminding one of the awakening sun as it kissed good morning to the lonely sky. Although it was cold and the icy wind nipped at your skin as you closed your eyes, your heart seemed to warm up, the familiar warmth began to spread over your body as he reached out for your hand. He squeezed it tightly, and behind your shut e/c orbs you could imagine his mouth turning upwards. The beautiful smile that was only reserved for you; the one where it reaches his eyes, the one where his nose seems to wrinkle a little bit, the one where nothing but affection, adoration, love was written on it. It was almost always followed by a small kiss, in which he tried to convey all his emotions into. And it really, without fail burned your insides every time, sending shivers down your spine at the same time. It was sweet and sour, seeing as both alone would at some point be too much; but mixed together, you couldn’t get enough.  A faint red would creep up your neck, your face would burn hot as your heart thrummed against your chest; though soon enough he would squeeze your hand again, his other hand finding purchase in the back of your neck as it played with your hair, touch soft and light, trying not only to calm you down, but himself as well. 

After, he would say that this is what love tastes like, and the corners of your mouth would turn up, gracing him with your sweet smile (that he would do anything for, just seeing it on your face is like a blessing made from heaven; though thinking about it, he always thought you were an angel trapped down here in the dark world anyway).

Sighing, you let your mind wander to the first time you two cuddled. It was so awkward, and he was so shy (which, to be honest, you would’ve never expected of him, as he always seemed rather bold, with that signature scowl on his face). He didn’t know where to place his hands at first, asking for silent permission every time, before placing them somewhere on your body - after giving him a small nod of reassurance. Later, far later into the relationship, he said that he didn’t want to make a wrong move, didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, saying that he wanted it to be perfect, because, god, you deserve nothing less but that, and he couldn’t have forgiven himself if he would’ve done something that maybe would’ve made you uneasy. 

You turned on your side, heart quickening, breathing gast and shallow. As if nature could feel your emotions, a loud thunder rumbled above you, accompanied by a lightning, which illuminated the darkened sky.

Another memory floated back into your mind: it was a few weeks after moving in together. On a stormy winter night, the electricity turned off due to the heavy raining and rumbling thunder and wind. Hajime placed candles everywhere around the apartment, creating a romantic, lovely and overall homey atmosphere. The night was spent cuddling on the couch (after the awkwardness, shyness was long gone now), telling each other weird stories of the past, praising every decision made and whatever is out there that you met each other, kissing while whispering sweet nothings to each other, saying I love you every 5 minutes to remind the other one (because he could never get tired of telling you how much he loves you, neither could you), hearing each other’s steady heartbeat as it lulled you to sleep eventually.

You sniffled as you felt the rain coming slowly to a stop, only small droplets pouring down now. Tears felt heavier, they were the only thing that seemed to play the song now as they dropped on the ground. (The rhythm was slower now, as it reminded you of all the times you slow danced in the kitchen at 3 am; drowning in each others eyes while small declarations of love were silently passed between them.)

“I miss you, and..”

You said, voice cracking, eyes squeezed together tightly, face twisting with love, pain.

“And I love you so, so much.”

His voice echoed in the back of your head; his last few words whispered in your mind.

(“Hey, Love.”

“Oh, hey Hajime. I’m on my way home now. I hope you haven’t eaten anything yet, because I brought take out! You’re favourite, of course! Oh.. And… You know, I also saw this little Godzilla plushie on one of the store windows … And I just had to buy it. I know we already have like.. three? But in my defence, it reminded me so much of you, so I just couldn’t help it!  I nam-“

“Y/n. I love you. So so much.”

“I love you to-“

“Not so long ago, I was alone, lost even. You brought light to my life, and I.. I felt like I was home after a long time. Thank you for finding me.”

The crack in his voice, the little sniffling, the coughing while he desperately tried to steady his voice to say the declarations, the confessions he needed to let out on his final breath. The ambulance was already on its way, but he knew deep down that it was too late. He had to hear your voice one last time, so with the little strength that was left in his body, he called you.)

You tried to smiled, looking skyward as the dark, melancholy feeling surrounding it seemed to slowly disappear, leaving it almost empty except for a few lonely clouds, before walking inside, plushie held tightly in your arms.

[mlpdestinyverse]

“One November Eve”

One stormy eve, when Dream Flow mysteriously doesn't show for their meet up, Skychaser heads to his friend's home to find out what's keeping her. What he discovers isn't quite what he expected.

Feat. Skychaser, Dreamaria Flow

Related Chapters: Little Monster, Newcomer, Impasse

~Destinyverse Archive~

Skychaser isn't usually one to fuss when it comes to Dream Flow's occasional tendency to arrive late to their hangouts.

He's long accepted it as an on-and-off habit of hers, oversleeping or losing track of time. It's not like they've ever been in a rush, so it's never truly bothered him. Besides, it's easy to imagine her getting caught up in a busy, tiring schedule as an Emotion Counselor.

The latest he can remember her ever arriving was about thirty minutes past their designated time, and even then she came to him apologizing profusely before insisting on treating him to make up for the tardiness. He can tell that she's since made a more conscious effort to be more punctual, despite his assurance that he really doesn't mind.

An hour and twenty-two minutes late...now that's just plain out of character.

It's nearing 6 PM now, and it won't be long before they'll have to officially reschedule their sauna day for another time. Sky is still sitting at a cafe table, tapping his hoof against the wooden surface, the vibrations causing his long empty cup of mint chocolate chip ice cream to shake. 

He'd been looking forward to relaxing within the embrace of hot steam on a chilly autumn day. More so than that was his eagerness to behold Dream's first heavenly sauna experience, as a mare who apparently had never even known of their existence until a week ago. She had mirrored his excitement, giving him a date where she'd be completely free. But that's all quickly becoming rather trivial compared to his growing bewilderment.

'Did she go on a last-minute errand run?? What is going on?'

It's only when a large droplet of rain nearly jabs his eye that he knows that the fall thunderstorm Ponyville ordered for the sake of building atmosphere towards Nightmare Night has begun. And it's at that moment that Sky knows he has a time limit before the rain starts pouring. So with a frown, he swiftly makes his way to a new location...

By the time he's in front of the door to Dream's house, the boughs of leafless trees have begun groaning and Sky's thick mane might as well be mauling his face, thanks to the whipping winds. Honestly, if it wasn't for the sheer absurdity that was the concept of being "stood up" by Dream of all ponies, he would have thought to arrive sooner to check on his friend. But looking at the house, the windows are completely absent of any light, and that becomes even more prominent with the darkening grey sky above him as the sun dips away and the clouds prepare to-

-drench him. Just...all at once. A waterfall-like sheet of rain crashes onto him, and he hisses a curse as he instinctively tries for the doorknob, despite knowing it won't open.

Except it does, and Skychaser has to blink a few times at that.

'Guess she went out and...forgot to lock it behind her...?'

A flash of lightning and Sky all but scrambles inside and shuts the door before the accompanying boom of thunder can deafen him.

As he enters the threshold, and his eyes adjust to the brief lightning flash followed by the interior darkness, he almost swears a separate faint light catches the edge of his vision. But it's gone before he can fully acknowledge it, and it leaves his mind as soon as he winces at the booming thunderclap.

"Hokay then..." Sky mutters. He shrugs off his hoodie and hangs it on the nearby coat rack. Having visited Dream's house numerous times before, finding and flicking on the closest light switch isn't too difficult. The warm lighting reveals the large, decently furnished living room he's grown quite accustomed to, as a place to spend time with his friend as well as a safe space for a few of their counseling sessions together: television and couch set up to the left, first-floor bathroom to the right, her open kitchen towards the very back, next to the polished curving staircase... "Wait for Dreamers it is..."

At least, he hopes Dream isn't still trying to make it to their sauna day. Once she realizes he's not at their meeting spot, she'll either look for him at the Cutie Mark Sanctuary if only to frantically apologize like the sweet doof she is, or she'll make the better call and head back home in this weather.

Unless she's forgotten their plans entirely. Then well...at the very least, she'll absolutely return straight home and they'll figure it out from there.

'Unless...an emergency...?'

Sky vigorously shakes the worrisome thought out of his head, only to flinch and curse again when water droplets fly everywhere and cling to the nearby wall. This isn't the time to go into Anxious-Brother-Mode™ when he should be hunting down a towel unless he wants to create a puddle in the middle of Dream's living roo- oh, a puddle's already forming, goddammit.

He carefully maneuvers himself towards Dream's towel closet on the right-most wall, right beside her bathroom door. But he sighs and gives up midway on tip-toeing when he realizes he's leaving a trail of rainwater anyway, making a faster beeline for it. Without pause he yanks it open and pulls out a fluffy towel with cute little sea motifs, aggressively drying his cursed sponge-like mop of hair; the true perpetrator of the puddles...a symbol of freedom and majesty now fallen from grace. For shame.

He sighs with relief once he feels sufficiently...less wet, albeit his feathers are sticking in almost every direction and his inner pegasus shrieks at him to preen- which, speaking of, is it weird to preen in your friend's house when they're not there?

Shower Thoughts with Skychaser.

Sky lets the towel hang around his neck and grins to himself over his dumb mental joke- but upon closing the closet door fully, something he hadn't noticed before immediately greets him.

A single orange sticky note, attached to the door at eye level.

He's genuinely confused at first, but once his eyes flit over the words written on it in black marker, he near-instantly recalls the counseling session he'd shared with Dream not even a month ago. In this very living room, funnily enough:

"Sticky Note Affirmations" she had called it, suggesting it to him like many other forms of therapy they've given a go through the course of their friendship. He remembers her explaining it as a method of using positive affirmations in one's daily life, to "move the mind away from persistent negative thoughts" and "set in a more positive way of thinking".

"Positivity takes practice!" he can practically still hear the confidence in Dreamaria's voice from that day, her beaming face forming in his mind. "We may be our own worst critic, Sky, but we're also the one person in life who can be our most faithful supporter. So try cheering your future self on!"

It sounded a little silly at first, the idea of sticking notes around his room and expecting them to do anything. Dream Flow did say the results varied for everyone.

Now, Sky has a small collection of post-it notes that have given him just the slightest boost needed to help deviate that self-deprecating corner of his mind; more often than not, at least. Who knew that reading something as simple as "I Am Worthy" on his bedroom door every morning could make a difference in his outlook for the day? He sure didn't.

But maybe Dream being the source of the idea made her feel a little present within each of his notes, believing in him just as much as he was encouraging himself.

Dream specifically offered the idea of writing down kind compliments for himself. There were also reminders and encouragements for daily tasks, saved for the heavier days where such chores often felt impossible or pointless. Now one particular note near his comb encourages him to brush his mane each day because otherwise, he'll deal with knots that resemble a pile of tangled earbud cords - or worst...Astral Dusk's spikes - and risk shaving it all off in frustration (Monochrome would have a field day).

Anyway, that aside, the note on Dream's towel closet reminds him of that sort of encouragement:

"Because a hot shower organizes thoughts and helps warm the soul!" it motivates, in curvy writing that he definitely recognizes as Dream's.

It shouldn't be a surprise that Dreamaria would practice her own suggestions, maybe to test the effectiveness for herself; but at the same time, how effective could testing it be? In his friend's case it felt hilariously redundant, like a mere flashlight's beam merging in with an already blinding sunray of optimism. Or...something. He's not as poetic with words and comparisons as Eventide.

Point is, the living embodiment of positivity just setting up more positive inspiration for her "future self" is incredibly funny to him and wholesomely endearing.

Skychaser backs his way into the middle of her living room, bumping up near Dream's couch there, and gives the room a good squint - and to his delight, his eye catches the pastel colors of more sticky notes dotting the mare's kitchen.

Well, at least he has something to distract himself with while he waits on Dream Flow. And if there's anypony he'd love to read some encouraging wisdom from, it'd have to be the counselor herself.

So he starts at one end and slowly saunters through her kitchen space, from one note to the next, feeling his grin and amusement growing with each one.

"Because an uncluttered sink helps with an uncluttered mind!" a pink note above her sink declares, where a few glasses and plates have been left to sit.

"Use me! Because you've come so far as a cook, and I exist for a reason!" the green note on her spotless stovetop-oven all but shouts.

"Because your body deserves nourishment, and Uncle wants you to eat well. Don't forget to keep a full fridge!" one blue sticky note insists on her refrigerator. Skychaser slyly opens the freezer door to better gauge the sorts of things his friend prefers to indulge in, for the noble cause of future birthday bashes (he genuinely half expects a compartment full of ice cream). His eyebrows fly up when he sees it's empty besides a tray of ice cubes.

'She REALLY must have gone out for some serious grocery shopping, geez...'

Now that he thinks about it, it's curious, really. Because while Dream's session on the notes had been held a month ago, Skychaser had visited just a week before and he's certain these little reminders hadn't been present that day. But the folded corners and slight creases on the notes suggest that they aren't recent either...?

Huh. Weird.

Sky hears the rain audibly thrum harder on the roof. He glances at the door, then at the time on her microwave.

6:42. Still no Dreamaria.

Hooves clacking across the tiles, Skychaser turns to leave the kitchen. In an effort to set aside his uncertainty, he considers what distractions he could find on Dream's T.V. That is until he finds himself pausing by the kitchen island.

Skychaser now notices that amongst a clutter of unopened mail envelopes, a single letter has been left out. Were it not for the rather official-looking white and blue mailer with a broken gold wax seal, or the fancy thick yellow parchment of the letter itself, Skychaser would have overlooked it.

He fights with himself, eyes flicking back and forth between the rest of the living room and the strange letter just...laying there.

...his need for answers wins over. Because surely a small glimpse and the quickest skim just to understand the subject of such an out-of-place letter couldn't hurt. It just may be the very clue he's been seeking as to the whereabouts of his friend.

'An emergency', his mind supplies nervously again, the feeling intensifying when he picks out on the envelope's face that the mailing address is from Reinsford; Dreamaria's hometown.

'Yeah, that's not comforting...'

So sure enough, he sets his now-folded towel onto the counter and leans over the parchment, giving the sentences a quick once-over. He searches for names, keywords, the last line of the letter-

He stops.

He reads the last line again. Then a third time, his eyes widening with each reread.

'Hold the fuck on, am I-?'

Sky swoops the letter up into his wings. He squints harder, darting his orange irises back to the beginning. Because maybe context would confirm whether he's crazy or he just read what he thinks he just read.

"Dear Madam Dreamaria Flow,

I hope this package and its contents have found you in good health. 

It has been a lengthy two years since your departure from our beloved coasts. Your absence has been profoundly felt by your fellow residents and myself, even to this very day.

While I would not dare to take up more of your time than necessary, I first wish to extend my deepest apologies for not reaching out to you sooner. Your uncle has shared a tale or two of your exploits in Ponyville, and though I am sure you have found success and a great sense of fulfillment in your new career - a hearty congratulations to you, may I add! - I have felt that a hefty debt was left unpaid the day you left this town.

It is only right that I follow through on my word. It took some time, but after vowing to properly reward you for your unforgettable deed, I am happy to announce that I have made great use of my authority to finally deliver:"

Halfway through the letter, the storm outside gives another bright flash of lightning, followed seconds later by a booming crack of thunder that almost shakes the air. A barely present corner of his mind registers something...slightly different about it; like a subtle sparking undercurrent of sound had joined in for just a second. But right now he's focused on this letter, too immersed in speed-reading the sentences to consider it as anything but a one-off:

"Enclosed is your very own Reinsford-sanctioned Certification of Arcane Excellence. Please do brandish this certificate with pride as a prior member of Reinsford's community. I believe such high credentials could prove useful and bode well if presented and proven to Princess Twilight Sparkle herself.

While losing someone as gifted and valuable as yourself thoroughly saddens us, we are quite pleased knowing our talented Dreamaria is still putting her skills to good use.

Remember that this town will always be your home. It has been far too long since we have last seen you. Never hesitate to visit, and if anything goes wrong, know that we will gladly welcome you back with open arms."

And then finally, he reaches that line again. Except he isn't sure if context has at all changed the amount of bewilderment and awe his discovery has brought him.

"Nonetheless, Reinsford will continue to miss its - official, as of this letter - dear Wizard, and its citizens whole-heartedly wish you well with your personal endeavors.

With gratitude, Mayor Bight"

A thunderclap of merciless lightning shatters the sky, and in that very instant, darkness falls around him.

The blackout startles Skychaser enough that he drops the letter and braces against the kitchen island with a soft yelp. He's thankful that the nearby streetlamp is managing to stream in just enough light through the windows to allow him the vaguest visual of his surroundings; shapes and desaturated colors and shadows, more than anything.

But now there is an eerie, deafening silence, with the background whirring of every appliance coming to a complete hush. The rain, the slightest shifts of his body, and his breath are suddenly much louder, almost reverberating through the room.

Whatever sense of confusion and wonder over Dream's letter has momentarily fizzled out, replaced by goosebumps and an immense sense of vulnerability. He feels small and uneasy - a single breathing body in an expanse of black and greys.

'Maybe I've uh...outstayed my welcome... If preening in your friend's empty house is weird, standing around for them in the darkness of their home may deserve a restraining order.'

He'll just have to table his questions and intrigue for another day, as exasperating as it is to have even fewer answers now than before.

For the sake of his boggled mind, he settles that Dream is out shopping. Or doing awesome-secret-wizard-shit, if this letter and her disappearance aren't just some strange, elaborate prank Dreamaria has set up just for him. Unlikely, yeah, but he's also learned that Dream Flow is pretty up there in terms of surprise factor.

Maybe he'll see enough faces on his way back to the Sanctuary to ask around about his friend. But before that, if he wants to even make that journey, he decides that a borrowed umbrella might be a good idea right about now. Or ooh, a cute, tiny raincoat he can drape over his head as he elegantly races through the streets before ducking underneath an awning and meeting his soulmate? Surely Dream had one or the other around somewhere.

The attempt to lighten his own mood somewhat works as he's able to blindly locate her letter, replace it on the counter, and urge himself forward through the low lit room. The air has been quick to drop temperature without its heating unit, only adding to the strangely oppressive atmosphere.

Thankfully the street light bounces off of the far wall - the one he had previously borrowed his towel from - preventing him from running face-first into it. If he's remembering right, and he traces the wall towards those curving stairs in the back corner...

The wall stops short. Tucked into the large alcove that follows, he finds his sought-after mystery door right near the foot of the stairs.

While aware of its existence, he admittedly has never seen the room's interior nor ever had a reason to check it out. He's only ever assumed it to be some sort of coat closet, so naturally, any form of raincoat or umbrella would surely be stored within. Most likely??

But as he steps up to the door, all too ready to prepare for his leave, he yet again is brought to a halt. He makes out a familiar small square shape in this shadowed corner of the house, attached to the door a little higher than the usual eye level.

'Oh. Even here?'

He almost chooses to ignore the sticky note with his priorities at hoof. But something about it draws his eye - and he realizes that, even in this lighting, he can faintly make out words. It's due to the writing itself, displaying neat and meticulous letters, as opposed to the other affirmations that were more hastily scrawled.

'"Because"..."you"...?'

Sky has to lean in until the bridge of his scrunched muzzle is just inches away from the note. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, so he's able to read the bleeding inky words:

"Because you'll prove them wrong."

.....

Skychaser allows himself a moment to give the note a good, long stare.

Maybe it's due to his current circumstances: the storm, the week of Nightmare Night, Dream's absence, standing alone inside a dark, deathly still building on a cold November eve. But the sharp change in tone from Dreamaria's previous notes definitely forces Sky to acknowledge just how unsettled he feels.

One step back and he's boring his visible eye into the closet door before him. That eye then falls to its silver door handle.

...this....is a closet that he just found that note on. Right?

Sky very quietly, very weakly laughs to himself. He moves to turn the handle before he can overthink it.

'Maybe this is where Dream keeps all the dead bodies.' he jests, pushing the door open a sliver.

It creaks under his hesitant grasp. With that crack, Sky notices a light source within, out of sight, in a room bigger than he honestly pictured; faint. Orange. ...pulsating?

BANG!

Sky releases an indecipherable shout right as the door in his grasp SLAMS back in place in one explosive movement. He stumbles backward but he doesn't get far, because in a whirlwind there are glowing blue lights flying around him in literal ribbons, erupting from the floor, grabbing him, coiling around him so rapidly that he doesn't get a chance to even unfurl his wings as he rears up, because now they're being tied to his back and his forelegs are bound up securely against his chest-

He's lifted, hoisted right off the ground and jostled about in the process of being turned. At this point he's stopped thrashing and has kept his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth painfully clenched. Upon the movements stopping, he cracks his eyes open to look down at himself.

Instead, his irises flash to his lower left, where the end of one ethereal ribbon is gradually creeping around his neck without actual contact: a silent threat. He can't control the pitifully strangled noise he lets out, desperately leaning his head as far away as possible, which isn't far at all.

'What the fuck, what the FUCK, I WAS FUCKING JOKING-'

He would be breaking down into hysterical laughter right about now if he wasn't so shaken. The only reason he hasn't entered a full-blown panic is that the ribbons have completely ceased their motions, and while tight, it's not enough to restrict his breathing. He's fine. He's okay.

Look at him. Those positive thinking exercises have been working...haha. ...coping with humor at a time like this probably isn't the healthiest, though, even if it's working to keep his sanity intact.

Maybe it's not fully hitting him. It all feels too unreal, like some realistic fever dream-

Violently swishing fabric rolls through his ears next, too pitched and harsh to be born from his imagination. Skychaser jolts, because in a single blink, the safe beams of the streetlight filtering in from each of the house's windows have been cruelly snuffed out. The curtains have all been pulled shut in one sweep. He's been left in true, absolute pitch darkness.  

And then he sees it.

A set of white, glowing pinpricks of light, waiting in the shadows straight ahead.

Staring right back.

Watching him. Sky registers that this is real.

Body and throat seized up in terror, he doesn't even scream. He can't find his voice, only listening to his own labored breathing while those two glows eerily sway and grow closer. He catches the sound of slow, careful steps. Hoofclacks.

As his mind processes, the glowing orbs stop just outside of the light from his radiant restraints.

And they speak.

"...state your business."

The voice is low. Soft and husky, yet it carries in the quiet amongst a backdrop of rain. It's formal, frigid, and completely foreign to him.

Skychaser shivers.

"I-I..." he struggles out, his own voice hoarse but miraculously coherent despite his scrambled brain. "I was...l-looking-"

He snaps his mouth close when he hears a sharp inhale in front of him. It's followed by a much gentler, far more familiar tone.

"...Skychaser?"

Sky's eyes bug open, only for him to cringe away when a flash of light nearly blinds him. He blinks against it anyway, urging his pupils to focus in on-

Dream Flow.

The tip of her horn is illuminated with a small beacon of magical light - a beacon that closely resembles whatever the hell she's done to her pupils, filled at the centers with the very pinpricks of white that had shaken him previously.

The unicorn looks thoroughly dumbfounded. Wide-eyed, mouth open, head pulled back. When she seemingly confirms his identity for herself, her eyebrows knot even further.

"...you're...my intruder?" she slowly sounds out. "How did you...why are you here?"

Sky's remaining brain cell has long fizzled out by now, so he sputters at first before he exclaims back;

"Me?? I came here looking for you! You didn't show for our sauna meet! Where in Equestria have you been?!"

Cogs seem to turn in his friend's head for a few seconds before realization settles in.

"Oh." She murmurs, blinking owlishly at him. "That...yes. You're right. I...oh..."

More beats of silence pass. Sky shifts uncomfortably in the ribbons' grasp. Before he can even ask, the motion has Dream breaking out of her stupor. As if just realizing the state he's in, dismay flickers across her face. And yet she lets out a laugh, one he can only describe as stressed in this context.

"Oh Celestia, what a horrible...horrible misunderstanding!"

With a blue spark of her horn, Skychaser watches as the magical ribbons begin to shimmer and dissolve away, gently lowering him down as they do. He turns his head about at the rather pretty display, with sparkles left behind in the spell's wake before those dissolve in thin air too. Skychaser doesn't get to admire for long as he clumsily has to catch himself with his front hooves those final few inches to the floor.

He shoots her a perplexed look, but he doesn't think she sees it, because she's too busy aiming a secondary laugh at the floor. In his gut, he has the distinct impression that she doesn't actually find this humorous. Not with the way her shoulders have gone rigid.

"I am...so terribly sorry, Skychaser. I genuinely thought someone had broken into my house and...well, I was prepared for a confrontation!"

"I noticed!" he wheezes out, half-exasperated, half-jokingly. "You also look ready to shoot lasers out of your eyes, and I nearly peed myself because of it."  

Dream winces, then squeezes her eyes and sets her horn sparking blue again. When she reopens them - thank God - her actual pupils have returned. The spectrum of colors in them are discernable again too - downcast, he discovers that the azure in her irises appears more pronounced. Or maybe it's the low lighting.

"They say intimidation leaves an impression," she quips, the corner of her mouth barely quirking up. She's still not looking at him. "Guess it worked, huh?"

Sky mouth pulls down into a deep frown, his gaze roaming over his friend. Dream's blue mane is unusually unkempt from what he's used to. The mare's form hasn't even moved an inch from its tight, almost closed off stance in the past minute or two - a significant contrast to the conversational cadence of her voice.  

He doesn't think he's ever seen Dream so...physically withdrawn before. In a way, it was understandable in the aftermath of what's looking more and more like one very awkward, very startling mix-up. But it's also not like she hurt him.

"Hey, Dreamers, it's okay. You freaked me out, sure, but I'm WAY more relieved to see you. I was starting to think something serious happened."

Shortly afterward, Dream finally meets his eye, but only to offer a sad smile.

"I apologize for that! It seems I just..."

"Overslept?" Sky grins humorously, only to pause when Dream's expression dips into guilty. "Wait what?"

"I'd only meant to close my eyes for an hour or two at most-" she confesses, glancing up towards her stairs. "-and take a short rest before meeting up. But the murky weather must have lulled me." A chuckle bubbles out of her and she shakes her head. "I think my sleepy haze made me forget everything else once a 'threat' entered the picture. But that's no excuse. I won't let something this careless happen again, I promise."

Sky rubs his forehead. Not because he has a headache, but because the small puzzle pieces he now possesses are struggling to mash together. "So...you were actually upstairs? This whole time?"

Dream nods. "Yes, I woke up when..." Her eyes trail over towards the front door.

She goes quiet. Almost as soon as that answer fades out, another question begins. "....Sky, how did you get in anyway?"

"Your door was unlocked...?" he provides, letting the question in his tone voice his own confusion. "Which I thought was weird."

Dream answers with a short, disbelieving laugh. "Oh wowy! Seems I didn't lock it behind me when I got the mail today..." she breathes out a sigh. "I'm glad you got out of the storm, but I'll need to be more mindful."

Mail.

An opening presents itself to him. A way to find answers and ease tension, he hopes, as his buried intrigue and curiosity rises from the depths.

"Hey, don't sweat it! But I gotta say...that was a preeetty cool trick you did back there," A knowing grin spreads across his face, and he leans his head forward with a conspirational whisper. "Miss Wizard~"

Dreamaria doesn't respond right away. It takes her one steady beat before she slowly turns her head back towards him.

A blank stare greets him.

"...what?"

"You're a Wizard, Dreamy!" he chirps, bouncing between his hooves. "Congratulations! Even I couldn't believe it when I spotted your letter, but all that fancy-shmancy magic you did sure confirms it." He taps his hoof to his chin, humming playfully. "It sounds like you've had a bunch of snazzy spells up your sleeve for a while! Why'd you never-"

He's so lost in his giddy mental world of excitement and thrill that he almost misses the way Dream stiffens. Almost.

Because her smiles are gone now.

"You...read my letter."

It's less of a question and more a statement she's allowing to sink in. Caught off guard by her abrupt monotonous tone, he finds himself self-conscious in his reply.

"Yeah it was...lying on the counter, and I thought it could be a...clue...but um..."

With each word, Sky begins to recognize the breach of privacy he had committed and how weak of an excuse he really had to snoop on a clearly personal letter. Even if it felt justified at the time. It's his turn to wince guiltily. "Yeah no that...sounds pretty bad actually."

Dream doesn't react, gazing back vacantly in a way she's never done before. It makes him retract a hoof, an uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach. "...Dream?"

She inhales, almost painstakingly slow and deep. The breath is held for a few seconds longer.

Then, after an exhale that's just as prolonged, the smallest smile ghosts across her muzzle.

"I see. You were worried and it just kind of happened. Right? I'm the one who left it out and created this whole mess. So really, it's my own fault."

What? Sky insistently shakes his head. "No way, it's your house. I should've held off...I'm sorry."

Dream reaches out to touch his shoulder, smiling sweetly. "Apology accepted! What's done is done, eh~?"

Uncertainty lingers despite himself; to think he managed to elicit that response, out of Dream, which made it undeniably that much more nervewracking. Regardless, Skychaser wills himself to relax.

How Dream can consistently be that quick to forgive will remain out of his realm of understanding. Good thing, too...he didn't think he could handle impairing one of his most cherished friendships all because of his own ever-present idiocy.

"...can I ask...??"

Sky's a little dubious on where to put his footing down from here, but he trusts Dream enough to be forthright with him about where her lines lie. Thankfully the corners of the mare's eyes crinkle back cordially.

"Yes, Sky?" she invites.

"...does that mean you're like that one guy?" He leans back in, side-mumbling to her. "Star Whirl the Bearded or whatever-"

Dream laughs, loud and hearty. "OH, heavens no! Starswirl was an arcane prodigy. I'm nothing like that." Dream Flow turns away from Sky to walk towards her front door. Curious, Skychaser follows after her. "In fact, despite what that letter claims, I'm not a Wizard."

"What?" Sky laughs out, shooting the back of her head a doubtful raise of his brow. "But they gave you-"

She smiles back at him over her shoulder, serenely closing her eyes and shaking her head.

"I'm not a Wizard. Being a Wizard suggests that I'm some grand expert who plays with different fields of magic for a living! I'm just an Emotion Counselor who happens to have some extra prior study on the side." For some reason she begins to glide an absentminded hoof against the carved wood of the doorframe. "Reinsford legally naming me their pet Wizard doesn't change that."

...pet? "Now excuse me for a second!" Dream says, aiming her horn towards the entrance. "I really need to reset this before the mental buzzing gives me a headache."

Her horn illuminates - an odd mismatch of bright blue with tinges of her magic's usual orange - and Skychaser gapes as the unassuming decorative markings carved into the door's wooden frame begin to light up brightly, one by one, until it's covered with these glowing elaborate lines and shapes completely unfamiliar to the pegasus. Dream turns back to him, coaxing him with a nudge of her head towards the display.

"If you don't mind, Skychaser, could you please touch one of these runes? If I add in your magic signature, we won't have to worry about another silly mishap."

Sky has literally no idea what any of that means. But Dream looks composed and attentive, so he follows her instructions. This "rune" he touches brightens, casting a warm halo of white light around his hoof. Then it all fades away, dimming the room back to just Dreamaria's light spell.

He glimpses at the unicorn and takes in the unexpectedly soft way she's looking at him.

"...thank you for trusting me." She expresses with warmth, placing a hoof over her chest in some form of relief.

"I mean yeah, always, but that was...?"

Dream perks up. There's a playfulness to her demeanor as she casually shrugs.

"A magical alarm. Just in casies. You activated my runes when you walked in," she giggles. "That's what alerted me and woke me up! But now that I've included you into the formula, you're my trusted exception. No more false alarms if something like this manages to happen again."

Okay. Sky's mind is officially boggled.

"Wait, so you're over here trying to convince me that you're NOT a Wizard-" He gestures incredulously at the door. "But you can do crazy shit like that?!"

Her ears twitch back, enough to catch his attention. Just like that, she's back to averting her gaze.

"Ah...this isn't as complicated as it looks, actually!" Dream defends cheerfully, strain returning to the smile she's wearing. "The initial set up was more tedious if anything. But I appreciate the compliment!"

With that, she strides away from the front door and back into the house, presumably towards her kitchen. However, her attitude regarding the subject bugs him. It's not like he knows much about unicorn history and titles and whatnot, but still...

"I thought being called a Wizard would be like...the highest honor for a unicorn or something." He scratches his head, a little embarrassed over his own lack of knowledge. "So I guess I'm not getting why you're..."

"Being called a wizard is a compliment to a unicorn's abilities." Dream supplies for him, slowing her gait to a halt. She turns her head without facing him, choosing to speak into the air instead. "Being named a Wizard is different...just something silly they began labeling me one day." More jovial laughter shakes her shoulders. "It was a little much! So Ponyville became my home of choice."

Despite her light-hearted, almost whimsical tone, Sky's ability to read body language doesn't fail him. He sees tension retake her frame.

"So you don't want to be one." Sky notes with a frown, eyebrows pulled back. Hooves clacking against the hardwood floor, he stops just beside her to brush a soothing wing against her shoulder; something he realizes he's never had to do, because comfort has only ever been given the other way around. "Too much pressure?" He prompts quietly.

Dream Flow is staring off, a distant look on her face. There's a slight shift to her jaw.

"I...don't have time to..."

She's deep in thought. Contemplative. Choosing her words carefully as she lowers her head to one side.

"...humor their fantasy of me."

A tense silence follows, along with a creeping feeling of personal familiarity. Sky tries to work a response through his mind, but he doesn't get enough time to when Dream's gently pushing his wing away and beaming up at him. "But never mind that. This weather must be doing things to me. It's not like me to put a damper on the mood! I've never been the biggest fan of rain."

"It's not a damper..." Sky tries, because really, when has Dream ever opened up to him like this? It's never even crossed his mind that she even had things to open up about, as stupid as that was.

But it's clear to him that Dream's finished, with the way she holds up a hoof and how the curve of her lips eases. "I wouldn't want anypony getting the wrong idea about me here either, actually. So I hope we can keep this between us? No more ‘Dream the Magical Wizard'?"

Dream drops her pitch a few decimals just to exaggerate the title, and it's so out of the blue that it wins her a short laugh from him. "Of course." Sky answers without hesitation. If she's shared all she's willing to, enough to return to her usual self, he won't push it. That's how she's always been when it came to him, after all. "You're just 'Dreamers the Dork" to me."

A grin breaks across Dream's face at that. "I like that better, actually."

"Ooooh no, don't say that, or else I'll start greeting you like that. Everywhere we go."

Dream giggles and continues her trek to the kitchen with Sky in tow. He now sees that she's heading towards that little area directly beneath her stairway; a side room to her kitchen used for her laundry appliances.

...memory swears that the folding doors to this room were closed earlier.

"Okay, let's fix this..." she hums and steps into the crowded space, leaving Sky standing at the threshold. He never identified it until now, writing it off as some random metallic plate on the back wall, but Dream Flow snaps it open and reveals it to be a door to a breaker box.

Confused, he's about to stop what should've been a futile attempt at bringing back power, but just like that, Dream flicks the top-most switch and the house comes back to life around him. Light refills the room, the microwave lets out a beep of relief, and Sky meanwhile is whipping his head back and forth between the main room and Dream herself.

"Wait, I thought the storm took out the power, how did you??"

"Oh, no." Dream grins sheepishly, gesturing towards the circuit breaker behind her. "That was all me."

Oh, how the surprises never cease with her. When did she even get downstairs to pull this stunt on him?

Well, she could teleport. But even that made noise. How he never heard her even once is-

Oh. Thunder.

"This was...one elaborate plan, Dream."

"That's true. But when you've never lived alone before, you sort of...end up a little paranoid." Dream rubs her foreleg shyly. "I saw lights on downstairs, sensed someone I couldn't even see walking around, and had no clue what they wanted. Naturally I assumed a break-in, so I took the necessary precautions to keep safe and take action."

If Sky didn't feel bad earlier, he's certainly feeling it now.

"Damn...didn't mean to scare ya, sis."

"That goes for two of us..." Dream Flow sighs dramatically. "Causing fear in you...I'd never wish for that again."

"Hey, I'm just glad it wasn't anything paranormal!" Sky exclaims, backing up to let Dream join him in the actual kitchen. When she does, though, she turns her head towards her appliances.

"...oh. Well this is embarrassing." She says, looking straight at one of her sticky notes. "These were meant to be private, but wow does this explain why my 'intruder' was so entertained by my kitchen."

Skychaser snickers. "Hey, I for one appreciated your wise words. I think it's cute that you're messing around with affirmations yourself."

Speaking of...that reminds him.

"I was wondering, Dream," Sky motions his head back towards the very space their face-off had played out. "What's that room by the stairs? I thought it was a coat closet, but..."

He trails off, wondering if Dream will catch on.

"Oh, that? That's just my private study! I've stored a bunch of very personal memories from Reinsford in there." She smiles. "I take it you read my note. It's basically a little reminder for myself to keep moving forward."

Ah. Move on from a town of expectations? That made enough sense to him. And he sure was glad all of the wild threads tonight were finally ending with answers.

"And like everything else, I can only guess that creepy orange glow was you too?" he teases. "I only got a glimpse, but it definitely was a distraction before everything broke loose."

Dream doesn't say anything at first, as if waiting for him to continue or deliver some punch line. When he doesn't elaborate she gives him an inquiring eyebrow raise and a tilt of her head. "Wait, what glow?"

Sky stops. Just in case, he searches Dream's face, but she looks sincerely clueless.

"The...one inside the study?" He provides, hoping for any sign of recognition. "Something was glowing, but it was faint and I couldn't see anything."

Dream looks taken aback. Eyes darting sharply towards the door in question, she gives it one disbelieving look.

"'Glowing'...?" she whispers breathily, and the goosebumps that had long faded away are now returning to Skychaser's pelt. He blanches.

"Oh Gods it wasn't you..." Sky tugs at his hair and makes some sort of makeshift curtain to hide half of his face behind. "Oh Gods, what was that then?!"

Dream's multi-colored orbs snap back to him. "A-ah! Well-" her voice carries a slight tremor, one she catches and visibly swallows down (as if that'll hide how she's just as freaked out as he is, she's not fooling him). Then she laughs it off, giving him a playful grin. "It's probably not ghosts?"

"Probably?!"

"It's more likely some old runic project of mine! Responding to the electrical energy in the storm." She waves her hoof towards the ceiling. On cue, a rumble of thunder reaches them. "Elemental conversion and all!"

"Lady, I still don't get your magic talk, but if you say so..." He heaves out a breath. "Anything but ghosts...or dead bodies."

Dream gives him a quizzical look at that last comment, but apparently decides against asking. "Well hey! You know what'll lighten the mood?" Dream claps her hooves together, eyes glittering now. "The storm won't stop for another hour or two. So it's time for me to begin making it up to you, starting with a movie night! I still have popcorn in the cupboard and plenty of soda~"

Sky squints at her from behind his mane-wall.

"...'Dogs Don't Dance'?"

"A classic." Dream nods sagely.

"And you'll restock your dang empty freezer first thing?"

"Whoops...don't worry! I'll stop slacking and do that tomorrow~"

Skychaser carries himself to the DVD storage shelf her television sits on. It's thankfully on the literal opposite side of the room from Dream's private study, a place he's sure he'll now associate with tension and spooks after the events of the day. Keeping away is proobably for the best, especially right now. Because reassured or not, the pegasus doesn't think he'll be completely shaking off his jitters tonight. A scary movie would probably do him in at this point.  

Dream must be experiencing something similar, because after tapping the popcorn setting on her microwave, he sees her lean against the counter and restlessly gaze off towards that very door behind him. Warding off any surprise demons with her magic stare, he hopes.

But enough jokes. He leaves Dream to it, turning his full undivided attention on the vital task of sifting through DVD cases and finding his favorite comfort movie of jiving animated dogs. They both probably need it.

_________________________________________________________ This...this is a dense chapter and I'm kind of living.

I'm so curious to know what theories and thoughts people have drawn from it, so don’t be afraid to hyper-analyze. Nothing brings me greater joy... I recently fell in love with a few different writing styles and decided to play around with it myself here! I had a lot of fun with it, HEHEH. These probably constitute a whole separate lore upload, but for now, below will be a list of headcanons on Wizards in Destinyverse! For those interested!

-----------------------

Wizard/Sorcerer/Sorceress are all synonymous and are used based on preference. “Wizard” is the go-to gender-neutral term of the three.

The title of “Wizard” has altered throughout time. In pre-Equestrian days, when the Unicorns were all competing to understand magic and develop their power and prestige, the original Unicorn Royal Family were quick to employ the most powerful and innovative mages as advisors. These were the first Wizards - they were gifted high societal status and became the first nobles, whose wealthy descendants still live in the uppercrust of Canterlot to this day.

Thereafter, Wizardry became a profession that certified one’s expertise and allowed a unicorn to work alongside the most prestigious spellcasters and researchers (sometimes working for the crown, but not always). Aspiring Wizards then only earned their own title if they were lucky enough to have their talents acknowledged by the royal family  (in the special case of the mighty prodigy Starswirl himself), or by the authority of an existing Wizard (ie. the sorcerer Clover the Clever, first student of Starswirl the Bearded).

After the three pony tribes integrated into one society (and the Unicorn Royal Family abdicated for the reign of Celestia and Luna), unicorns stepped up in villages all across Equestria to offer magical consultation and arcane services to their fellow ponies. From time to time, an especially studied specialist with a wide range of knowledge would prove their skill or accomplish an incredible feat; thus began the practice of local governments certifying their very own Village Wizard for townsfolk to go to for any magical needs. Not all Village Wizards dedicated themselves to one singular town; in fact, it was considered an honor for a village’s Wizard to proudly represent their town and aid others across Equestria.

The decline of spellcrafting and spellcasting over the centuries has led to Wizards being few and far between. The desire to pass down arcane knowledge still exists, as seen with Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns; so these days, only those with a thirst for knowledge (or even rarer, the desire to pursue arcane advancement) study magic. Even fewer who graduate Celestia's school have gone on to become Wizards, either becoming professors at the princess' school or private tutors of upper-class Canterlot.

The modern Wizard is now defined as a certified practitioner of multiple fields of magic who is consulted for arcane services and/or researches for the sake of arcane advancement. Famous present day Wizards include!

Mage Meadowbrook and Mistmane (both once designated sorceresses of their respective villages). Meadowbrook was the very first non-unicorn to become a mage, and then named Sorceress for her potion-making and item-enchantments.

Starlight Glimmer (sorceress; professor at Twilight’s School of Friendship and occasional aid for Uni-Tech)

Sunset Shimmer (sorceress; royal scientist; founder of Uni-Tech who works for societal advancements in magitech)

Sunburst escapes the definition by a thin hair, due to not being an actual spellcaster or crafter. But he is a valuable magic advisor with his keen mind, and a proud member of Uni-Tech.

[tlkfanficfest]

TLK Fanfic Fest Prompts - Round 2

Round 2 is here! And the fandom has DOUBLED the amount of prompts since Round 1! That’s right, we have 126 prompts for this round. AMAZING!

This round will be open for two weeks and be closed on July 26.

All the prompts are alphabetized below, into different categories. Anyone can write using any prompt and all prompts may be filled by multiple people!

Please remember to tag your completed prompt fill with #TLKFFF2020 and @tlkfanficfest so they can be included in the Fill Post.

If your prompt fills are also on AO3 please add your fics to the The Last Kingdom Fanfic Fest Collection.  

If you wish to submit an anonymous submission, you may do so here. All submissions will posted at the discretion of @tlkfanficfest. We will not post anything involving incest or anything involving minors. 

And now, without further ado, the prompts:

PAIRINGS

Aethelflaed/Erik cute moments

Aethelflaed/Uhtred. Domestic (similar to early episode 4x05) either at cookham or saltwic/droitwich

Aethelflaed/Uhtred. Edward's thoughts on uhtred and his sister 4x04 when he walks away from his sister after the battle and they are embracing (if he were to turn around and see them)

Aethelflead/Uhtred, there's many ways for Aethelflead to have pleasure without risking to break her oath of chastity

Aethelfled/Uhtred. Uhtred retakes bebbanburg and aethelfled comes to join him.

Aethelfled/Uthred break the vow of chastity. Many times.

Aethelfled/Uthred. Aethelfled is wounded in battle, and Uthred nurses her back to health.

Aethelfled/Uthred. Aethelfled was already pregnant before her vow of chastity.

Aethelfled/Uthred. Fill out the time between the first kiss and the beginning of Season Four. How did the romance/ courtship take place?

Aethelfled/Uthred. Her mother mentioned Alfred looking down on what was happening. What would alfreds thoughts be of uthred bedding his daughter and their love for one another (also no chastity vow was made)

Aethelfled/Uthred. Uthred will do whatever it takes to get Aethelfled back. He won’t lose the woman he loves.

Aethelhelm/Haesten - Aethelhelm finds out from Haesten that Osferth is Alfred’s bastard child.

Aethelwold gets it (“it” either being some sex or a slap in the face. Preferably both)

Aldhelm - Modern AU where Aethelflaed sets up Aldhelm with her friend (OC female) – progressing through to cute romance and proud Aethelflaed when romance works out between Aldhelm and OC

Alfred/Uhtred Alfred likes to watch Uhtred fuck, Uhtred likes to put on a show. Power play

Alfred/Uhtred unresolved sexual tension. May or may not spill over like the wax on Alfred's candles. Wax play would be perfect

Alfred/Uhtred, "it is customary to kneel"

Alfred/Uhtred, patching up battle wounds

Alfred/Uhtred, sex in a church

Brida/Cnut - AU where Brida does tell Cnut she’s pregnant.

Brida/Ragnar - You distract me

Brida/Ragnar, Brida gives Ragnar her permission and affection.

Brida/Ragnar, Dunholm is a fortress but not yet their home. It’s time to mark their territory.

Brida/Ragnar, on Ragnar’s ship and sailing to wealth and freedom, Ragnar begins to notice Brida... and she begins to notice him back.

Brida/Ragnar, Ragnar loves Brida. But a man must have a son.

Brida/Uhtred, Brida's pregnant and alone and desperate to get laid when she comes across Uhtred and his pretty boys on their way north

Eadith/Finan, Eadith and Finan's first child

Eadith/Finan, Osferth walking in on Finan and Eadith humping in a closed room

Eadith/Finan, that awkward flirting that leads to smut phase

Edward - Edward makes a friend (OC female)

Erik/Uhtred Erik has a better way of trying to persuade Uhtred to join the brothers than a talking corpse.

Father Pyrlig/Osferth - they are forced to fight each other.

Finan is far from home and missing Uhtred, he masturbates thinking about what he'll do to Uhtred when he gets home.

Finan, Finan is badly hurt after a battle and reader takes care of him. (Bonus if they are married and it adds even more angst eheh)

Finan, The Irishman is in love with Steappa's daughter. But it doesn't stop the two men to continue to annoy each other

Finan/Eadith: firsts. First touch, first hug, first kiss, first time, first child. Anything do do with firsts.

Finan/Gisela (implied Finan/Gisela/Uhtred relationship - no cheating), Uhtred goes to Winchester leaving them in Coccham. Gisela is pregnant and Finan helps her with her cravings.

Finan/Gisela/Uhtred, the days Finan and Uhtred return from travel are Gisela worship days (it's all about her).

Finan/Osferth, Osferth is stabbed by Finan while trying to wake him up from a nightmare.

Finan/Sihtric — domestic moments

Finan/Sihtric: Finan watches Sihtric sleep.

Finan/Uhtred - Hickeys

Finan/Uhtred modern barber shop AU, including some 21st century sexy times

Finan/Uhtred orgasm denial

Finan/Uhtred pledge their lives to each other

Finan/Uhtred Uhtred has always been taught that to be fucked by a man is shameful, so why is he so desperate to be fucked by Finan? Uhtred wrestles with lust

Finan/Uhtred Uhtred is cock of the walk everywhere he goes. Except in bed where Finan rules the roost

Finan/Uhtred, a lone wolf is harrying Uhtred's sheepfarming tenants in Northumberland. Finan and Uhtred go on a wolf hunt.

Finan/Uhtred, Battle of the Somme au

Finan/Uhtred, choking

Finan/Uhtred, Finan hears Uhtred calling Gisela's name in his sleep

Finan/Uhtred, Finan is Uhtred's ESL teacher.

Finan/Uhtred, Finan pays tribute to the new Lord of Mercia

Finan/Uhtred, Finan took the contract, but watching Uhtred with his kids, he finds he can't pull the trigger.

Finan/Uhtred, Finan wants to kill Aethelwold, but Uhtred talks him out of it.

Finan/Uhtred, In the middle of winter, Aethelstan falls in the Thames. Uhtred dives in after him. Finan warms him up.

Finan/Uhtred, King Uhtred of Northumbria watches as Abbot Finan of Irland enters Bebbanburg... and after the feast, gives him a very warm welcome indeed.

Finan/Uhtred, meet cute at a marathon start line

Finan/Uhtred, planning a battle for Alfred in bed

Finan/Uhtred, recovering Skade is the first time they've been on a boat since the slave ship, and Finan doesn't react well. Uhtred wakes him from his nightmares.

Finan/Uhtred, Saxon Stories/Temeraire crossover, Uhtred and his dragon rescue Finan and his dragon from slavers

Finan/Uhtred, stolen moments

Finan/Uhtred, Uhtred figures out that Finan can read

Finan/Uhtred, Uhtred gets caught in the rain on his way back from Winchester and feels very sorry for himself. Finan makes him feel better.

Finan/Uhtred, Uhtred is on a mission for Her Majesty's Secret Service. Finan is his contact.

Finan/Uhtred/Gisela, Uhtred returns a changed man, but Gisela doesn't mind the Irish warrior he brings with him

Finan/woman (OC or Canon character, early morning sexy times.

Gisela/OC, Whilst Gisela is in the nunnery waiting for Uhtred’s return she has an affair with a fellow nun. Bonus if the other nun looks like Jodie Comer

Gisela/Uhtred, Uhtred loves Gisela's post baby curves.

Haesten/Uhtred, deep down Haesten wants to be one of Uhtred’s pretty boys.

Osferth, Osferth wants to kiss the reader all the time.

Osferth/Finan/Sihtric, Osferth plays a prank on Finan and Sihtric.

Osferth/Sihtric - they get lost in a blizzard.

Sigtryggr/Stoirra - getting to know each other by talking of their favorite things.

Sihtric, Sihtric takes his wife for a moonlight stroll.

Steapa, Steapa helps the reader with a twisted ankle.

Stiorra/Sigtryggr and their first kiss.

Uhtred, Reader dry humps Uhtred while he’s injured.

Uhtred, Uhtred spends time with his children.

Wihtgar, A crack ship fic featuring Wihtgar and one other character of your choosing.

NO SPECIFIC PAIRING

Aelswith gets her heart's desire

Aethelflaed and Alfred - Cloud watching

Aldhelm gets adopted/abducted by the Coccham Crew, who take him for a night of drinking to get him to loosen up

Coccham crew in a naturist camp

Cookham crew bathe after battle. Lots of nakedness is encouraged

Dane vs Saxon biker gang rivalries (modern au)

Edward, Edward reflects on his father’s death.

Fantasy AU (elves, dwarfs, maybe magic etc). Maybe with some Finan freaking out about the other races of creatures he meets

Finan - domestic Finan

Finan - Finan gets adopted by a kitten that follows him everywhere. Everyone learns to love the kitten (even Aelswith). Finan becomes protective of the kitten

Finan diet coke break

Finan likes to play games

Finan, Finan gets a concussion. Each of the guys take turns talking to him since he can’t fall asleep.

Finan, lays hurt after battle, and you are there to care or him.

Guthred, Guthred learns of his sister’s (Gisela) death by childbirth. He’s kept tabs on her.

Magic Mike AU

Osferth, he tells people he loves them (platonically) by the food he cooks.

Pokémon AU - Danes and Saxons battle via Pokémon

Ragnar Ragnarson, Alone in Ireland, Ragnar hears rumours of a Saxon uprising at Loidis, a slave who killed his master, Earl Ragnar the Fearless.

Ragnar Ragnarson, becoming a big brother to a younger brother.

Ragnar Ragnarson, conversations with Alfred while a hostage.

Ragnar Ragnarson, learning Uhtred is a slave

Ragnar Ragnarson, leaving home in Loidis to go and make his wealth

Ragnar Ragnarson, searching for Uhtred at Alfred’s command

Ragnar Ragnarson, teaching his new brother Uhtred how to use a sword.

Ragnar Ragnarson, watching his father fight in battle.

Ragnar Ragnarson, when his father tells him that the crops will not grow and so they will leave Denmark and go to Northumbria to make their wealth and build a new life

Sihtric, Sihtric has cold hands and he likes to tease his friends by putting them on them with no warning

Sihtric. Sihtrics gets comforted by Uhtred (not pairing). Bonus points for extra Coccham Squad feels.

Steapa, Steapa’s thoughts on Finan.

Thyra, Thyra’s family greets her in Valhalla.

Uhtred, finding his children after he finds out about Gisela's death

Uhtred, growing up in Loidis, remembering Bebbanburg

Uhtred, it's canon that Uhtred talks to his horses. Maybe one day, someone overhears him talking.

Uhtred, putting Bebbanburg to rights again

Uhtred, slowly realising that Gisela has been buried

Uhtred, watching his kids sleep when he gets home from battle

Why Finan is always tugging on armor collars.

Young Ragnar, let the games begin

Young Ragnar: sword play

IMAGINES

Clapa, reader humps Clapa on his lap.

Finan, Reader, Sihtric: Reader finds herself in a poly relationship with Finan and Sihtric

Finan/Reader, Finan comes home to find reader gone. They had gotten into a fight that day before he was to go off to battle with Uhtred. She told him that if he left she wouldn't be there when he got back. Lots of angst with a sad ending. (it was from the last round and I missed the submission :'( sadly. I'd love to try and post it this time)

Finan/Uhtred - To keep Finan and Uhtred quiet the reader halfway undresses while spying on Danes.

Sihtric saves the reader from drowning

Sihtric, the reader dares Sihtric to lick her on the neck.