#and it was turning out so terrible but i think i managed to salvage some of it 🤣 it's fine even if it's a mess i love him always

[bittersweetresilience]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FELIX

someone put on the birthday music. huh? you can't decide?

[lili863]

Animagus

(Pt 5)

Matteo Riddle x MC

AN: Enemies to lovers, Quidditch, banter, conspiracies, dark arts, manipulation, death eaters, Slytherin boys, suggestive themes

Word count: 5.7 K

Masterlist

**************

"UGH!"

Ripple grunted in pain as his back slammed against the cold stone wall. His wide eyes darted around, taking in the group of Slytherins that had cornered him, their faces marked by the casual cruelty of those who know they hold all the power.

"Hate to break it you but if you ever thought you were my type then you’ve clearly lost your fucking mind," Matteo chuckled, though the sharp edge in his voice made it clear he wasn’t really amused.

The Hufflepuff tried to salvage what little dignity he had left "I-I didn’t mean it! I swear, I don’t know what happened!"

Matteo’s smirk widened, "Didn’t mean it? Damn, Ripple, you’re breaking my heart."

Everyone except Ripple chucked who was still holding hope that he could get through this conversation alive.

Blaise chimed in, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "So, what then? You’re just naturally an idiot? You’re telling me Wynn Cromwell tampered with your papers, charmed you, sat back, and had a good fucking laugh while you proclaimed your undying love, and you couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it? What are you, a wizard, or just a shit Muggle in disguise?"

Ripple stammered, unable to form a coherent reply. In truth, he hadn’t even realized his papers had been charmed. The fact that you had pulled this off without him noticing made him question whether he was truly terrible at magic or if your abilities far exceeded what any sixth-year should possess.

"No offense, Ripple," Matteo leaned casually against the window, the smile on his lips a stark contrast to the cold stare he aimed at the shrinking Hufflepuff. "But if I hear you say shit like that again, I’ll make sure you’re eating through a straw for the rest of the year."

A quivering sigh escaped Harrison Ripple's mouth "You know I didn’t mean it. Whatever Cromwell did it..it caught me off gaurd. I never expected her to do such a thing in the first place"

Matteo patted his shoulder in consolation though it was hardly genuine. "I know. That’s why I’m letting it slide this time, but fucking hell,…" He trailed off with a laugh, turning to glance at the others, who were all watching with predatory interest. "You’re pathetic."

The fists of the young hufflepuff's only tightened in response, jaw gritted so tight, he knew his tooth would ache later on. But each cruel remark from the unforgiving syletherin elite only kept getting worse.

“You know what I find fascinating"? Theo spoke up, his low baritone voice sharp "How someone so insignificant can manage to fuck up so royally. You’re like a bad joke that just keeps getting worse.”

Ripple’s emotions flickered to momentary fury, jaws clenched because he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, knowing better than to show defiance in front of the Slytherins.

Theo’s eyes gleamed as he read Ripple's anger like an open book and his lips curved at the sight as he continued, “I half-expected you to drop to your knees and beg for a kiss"

Ripple let out an involuntary huff of disbelief, but before he could register what was happening, Theo stepped forward, his hand gripping the back of Ripple’s neck like a vice. With a low, mocking chuckle, Theo leaned in closer, his breath hot against Ripple’s ear. “Maybe you still will. What do you think? Want to plant one on Riddle before he puts you in the hospital wing?”

With a sudden, forceful shove, Theo pushed Ripple forward, sending him stumbling into Matteo. The Hufflepuff barely caught himself, his hands flailing as he struggled not to fall. Matteo, for his part, didn’t bother to move, watching Ripple’s pathetic attempts to steady himself with cold indifference.

The group erupted into laughter.

“This isn’t funny!” Ripple’s voice cracked with desperation as he tried to regain some control. “I made a mistake, okay? I get it! But I’m the Hufflepuff Quidditch team captain, damn it! Hufflepuff's finest! How many times do I have to say I didn’t mean a single fucking thing?”

The outburst hung in the air, the silence thick and suffocating.

Every second that stretched only seemed to raise Ripple's blood pressure when Matteo finally broke it “Look at that, Ripple’s finally growing a backbone."

"It’s because you guys treat me like shit," Ripple finally blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer. To his surprise, Matteo just snorted, unfazed. "Well, can’t argue with that.Every time you open your mouth, it’s like watching a train wreck. You make it too damn easy."

Ripple watched Matteo light up a cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around his fingers, that same infuriating grin still playing on his lips. It didn’t matter if he could whip out his wand and hex every one of these arrogant bastards; he still wouldn’t be taken seriously.

Matteo exhaled a stream of smoke, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto his quivering form. “You know, my father always said there’s nothing more pathetic than a wizard who doesn’t know his place. And now, looking at you, I finally understand what he meant.”

The words hung in the air, colder and sharper than the stone walls around them.

Every scrutinizing gaze was silent but said a thousand words that Ripple's pride just couldn't swallow. It was as if their eyes were stripping him of every last shred of dignity, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

He had been willing to endure their torment, but even a cornered animal only takes so much before it lashes out.

"I want the cup," Ripple’s voice rang out, cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade.

The group's reaction was instant—a brief flicker of surprise, quickly replaced by simmering anger.

Blaise’s expression darkened as he stepped closer to Ripple. "You know that's not going to happen."

"But- You all said-"

"You’re asking for the impossible," Theo interjected "We can’t just hand over the Cup. The rest of Slytherin would never go along with it. You’d have the entire house against you—and us."

The arrogance of their tone has sent Ripple's thoughts into a mess of fury. I don’t give a shit, was all he could think, feeling the anger tighten in his chest.

If they wanted to go to the Map Chamber so badly, then they’d have to pay the price. Besides, there's nothing he would like to see more then the ridicule they will face after Hufflepuff gets the cup, they deserve whatever they have coming from their shitty parents anyway.

"I want the Cup. You want the location of the Map Chamber. It’s that simple." Ripple persisted.

"It’s not that simple, and you’re fucking delusional if you think it is," Enzo snapped, frustration flaring in his voice. "You really believe we can just tell the team to throw the match? Do you even understand what would happen? Forget Wynn running her mouth to Hufflepuff—the whole fucking school would know.

"That’s your problem, not mine".

He was done playing their games. They were the Slytherin elite, after all—if anyone could figure out how to pull this off without getting their hands dirty, it was them.

Ripple shook his head again, straightening his back, trying to muster the last bit of defiance he had left. "No. Either you give me that fucking cup, or no location—"

Before he could finish, Matteo lunged forward, the rage a living thing that contorted his features into something almost feral. He slammed Ripple back against the wall with a force that rattled the stone, his face inches from Ripple’s, eyes blazing with fury.

"You fucking prick," Matteo hissed, his voice low and venomous. "Finally had enough, have you? Grown a pair overnight?"

Ripple gasped, his breath caught as Matteo’s hand tightened around his throat. Panic surged through him as he struggled to breathe, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

"Maybe you’ve forgotten," Matteo’s voice dropped even lower, a dangerous edge to it, "but you’re easier to read than a fucking children’s book."

It was then that Ripple’s eyes widened with the horrifying realization—Matteo had been inside his head, sifting through his thoughts like a predator playing with its prey.

Fuck.

Matteo Riddle was a Legilimens.

"Wait—w-wait!" Ripple stammered, his voice trembling as he desperately tried to backpedal. "I was just angry, alright? I didn’t mean any of it!"

Theo chuckled darkly from behind Matteo, his tone laced with cruel amusement. "Oh, this should be good. Care to share, Matteo? I’d love to hear what our dear Ripple really thinks of us."

Matteo’s grin was cold, devoid of any real humor, as he tilted his head, never breaking eye contact with Ripple. "Oh, he’s just thinking how fucking delightful it would be to see us humiliated. To watch us lose to Hufflepuff and get what we deserve from our ‘shitty parents,’ as he so eloquently put it."

Ripple’s face drained of color as Matteo recounted his thoughts, his entire body trembling under the weight of his fear.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Blaise smirked, his expression dripping with mock sympathy. "Cheers mate, that might be the single most amusing thing that has ever escaped your thoughts, I am sure you who's Riddle 'shitty parent' is right"?

The look on the Hufflepuff's face looked like one of death at the realization.

Enzo sighed " You’re even more of an idiot than I thought."

Matteo leaned in closer, "Here’s the thing, Ripple—I don’t give a shit about your threats. You’re a pawn in a game you don’t even understand, and I’m done playing nice."

Matteo took a deliberate step back, letting Ripple slump against the wall as he gasped for breath. Th hufflepuff watched with panciked eyes as Matteo took another hit of his cigarette the smoke curling around him like a serpent.

"You know," he began, his voice casual, almost conversational, "my father’s always been a shitty parent. Never did get the hang of that whole 'loving father' thing. But torturing people? Now that's a skill he's mastered".

Ripple’s eyes widened in horror, his face going pale as he struggled to find his voice.

"You’re really fucking unlucky, you know that?" Matteo continued, his voice dripping with sadistic amusement. "Because if my old man hears about what’s been running through that tiny brain of yours, he’s gonna have a field day. You think we’re bad? You haven’t seen shit yet."

Ripple’s breath hitched, his hands shaking as he tried to stammer out a reply, but Matteo cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Here’s the thing," Matteo leaned in close, his voice a menacing whisper. "You’ve been withholding information. My father doesn’t like it when people keep secrets from him. And when he finds out you’ve been playing us, he’s not gonna just let it slide. No, he’s gonna make you scream until your fucking throat bleeds."

"And let’s not forget Aunt Bella" Theo added casually

"She loves to get her hands dirty. She’ll carve you up, leave nothing but a bloody heap where you once stood. Marking her toys is her favorite game. A permanent reminder of your stupidity." Theo added with a chilling smile, watching the boy’s face pale as though he hadn’t nearly pissed his trousers at the thought

Matteo took another hit and crouched down, leveling with Ripple before blowing a stream of smoke into his face ""You ever heard of the Cruciatus Curse? That’s my dad's go to. He’ll break you. Piece by fucking piece. And he won’t stop until you’re begging for death. Problem is, he doesn’t like giving people what they want."

Matteo’s tone shifted, becoming almost conversational again, which somehow made it even more terrifying. "And the best part? He’ll keep you alive, just to see how long it takes before your mind snaps. Every. Single. Detail. That’s what he’ll want. He’ll want to know every little thought that crossed your mind while you were fucking us over."

Ripple’s entire body was trembling now, the sheer terror of what was being described overwhelming him. His mind raced with images of unimaginable pain, of being tortured until there was nothing left but a hollow shell of who he once was.

"Are you curious, Hufflepuff?" Matteo’s voice dripped with malice, "What it’s like to live with ‘shitty parents’? Say the word. Go on, because it's just one letter away." His eyes were cold, revealing the weight of a history filled with cruelty and violence, a glimpse into a world anyone let alone the Hufflepuff could hardly imagine surviving.

Ripple’s resolve crumbled, the fight draining out of him as shook his head, voice desperate and heavy fighting back sobs. "Please... please, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything, just don’t let him... don’t let him do that to me!"

The Slytherins exchanged satisfied glances, their cruel smiles widening as they watched Ripple grovel at their feet.

Matteo leaned down his voice a soft, sinister whisper. "Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Start talking. And make it quick. We’ve wasted enough time on you already."

Ripple’s hands shook violently as he struggled to speak, his voice barely a whisper. "The map... it’s in the library, hidden in the Restricted Section. I... I can show you."

The tension was suddenly broken by the distant sound of footsteps. The sharp click of heels on stone grew louder, and before they could react, Professor Snape emerged from around the corner, his cold, calculating eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him.

"Riddle," Snape’s voice was like ice, cutting through the air. "What exactly is going on here?"

In an instant, Matteo’s expression shifted, the darkness in his eyes replaced by an easygoing facade. He loosened his grip on Ripple, stepping back as if nothing had happened. The rest of the group followed suit, straightening up and adopting similarly nonchalant postures.

"Professor Snape," Matteo greeted smoothly, his tone laced with a hint of false cheer. "We were just… cheering Harrison up. He’s been a bit down lately, and we thought we’d lift his spirits."

Draco, Theo, Enzo, and Blaise all nodded in agreement, each of them putting on a convincing show of innocent concern.

Snape’s eyes flicked over each of them, his expression unreadable. He knew exactly what was going on—the tension in the air, the way Harrison Ripple was trembling, Matteo’s calm menace—it all painted a clear picture. But Snape had his own precarious role to play, one that required him to tread carefully between two worlds.

He was a man trapped by his own double life, forced to watch as students like Ripple became pawns in a game far beyond their comprehension.

"Is that so?" Snape drawled, his voice heavy with unspoken tension. His gaze shifted to Ripple, who looked as though he might collapse under the pressure. "I suggest you all return to your common rooms before I decide to take points from Slytherin for loitering in the corridors."

Draco nodded, his expression equally composed. "We’ll make sure Ripple gets back safely," he added, his voice dripping with insincerity.

Snape’s gaze lingered on Matteo for a moment longer, as if silently warning him to tread carefully, before he finally turned away.

"See that you do," he said curtly, his robes billowing as he walked away, leaving the group alone once more.

As soon as Snape was out of earshot, Matteo’s smile faded, replaced by the menacing glare that had Ripple shrinking back against the wall again. "Library, this Friday, 10 pm"

Ripple hesitated to say his next words but said it anyway "But that's after curfew..."

Matteo smirked, "Is that a problem"?

"No… no problem," Ripple finally managed to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Matteo straightened up, satisfied with Ripple’s submission. "Good," he said coldly, turning away without another word. The rest of the Slytherins followed, their eyes still gleaming with dark amusement as they left Ripple standing alone, dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

As the sound of their footsteps faded, Ripple hands rand through his hair, fisting them in frustration

What did he get himself into? Whatever it was, forget the cup, because if Matteo father is involved, there was no hope of winning.

******************************

You walked through the dimly lit halls, speeding your way through countless stray if students.

You were late—and not just five minutes late, but ten, and it was to Snape's class, of all things.

What possessed you to take a "quick" nap in the library when you were already sleep-deprived was beyond you.

Breathless, you took the stairs two at a time, cursing under your breath as the classroom door came into view.

You could see everyone already seated at their tables, the room eerily quiet.

Now Snape was bound to notice you.

Taking a deep breath at the top of the stairs, you fought to steady your breathing and not look like you were about to collapse from the jog.

Trying to remain as normal as possible, you held that composure with great difficulty and walked in, making a beeline for the closest table.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you quietly set your things down, biting your lip to suppress the breaths that needed to escape.

Some students turned around, watching you with curious eyes as you settled in as quietly as you could

After a few moments, you let out a sigh when suddenly Snape monotone voice echoed through the classroom "Ms. Cromwell, 5 points from Hufflepuff".

'Fuck' you mouthed, slumping in your seat as some Hufflepuffs looked your way with annoyance.

As the class began, the soft clink of glass and bubbling potions filled the room. Everyone was partnered up, diligently working on their Draught of Peace, while you sat alone at the back of the class. You didn’t mind, though. You preferred the quiet, free from distractions, and you knew how to brew this potion without help.

You didn’t have many friends besides Hermione and Ginny, neither of whom shared your schedule. And the few Hufflepuff mates you did get along with weren’t in this class either. No matter—you opened your textbook and began preparing your ingredients, content in the solitude.

But just as you were about to slice the moonstone, a familiar voice cut through your concentration.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite honey badger.”

You looked up, spotting Matteo lounging with Theo and Enzo, his usual smirk playing on his lips as he sat at the table besides you.

"Is that so? Your sure it isn't Ripple"?

Matteo shook his head "No, no. He's my second my favorite".

You let out a small laugh "Better keep that to yourself Riddle, otherwise you'll break his heart".

"Only heart your breaking is mine Cromwell sitting by yourself like that" Matteo feigned worry but you only rolled your eyes, actually a tad amused by his presence.

"Good. There's nothing that fills my day with joy then hearing that sentiment" You pulled the black hair tie from your wrist before pulling your raven hair up to tie back into a pony tail, eyes now concentrating on the ingredient in front of you.

Matteo went quiet, his gaze lingering longer than it should have.

His eyes lazily roamed you, coming up to your exposed neck as you shook your head, securing the hair into place.

Pretty.

Matteo noticed these things a long time ago, but never in detail before. The small moles that speckled your neck to the freckles sprayed across the bridge of your nose. All adorned by your jet black hair framing your soft features. It was all more noticeable today.

You shrugged off your robes, rolling up the sleeves of your crisp white shirt. The movement was casual, but Matteo’s Adam’s apple bobbed as his throat tightened, his eyes tracing the lines of your neck and chest.

You had always worn loose clothing so he never paid much mind to your figure, but when you had sat back down on the bench not paying attention, the skirt rode up thighs revealing the soft fat of your skin squished against the bench.

Fucking hell...why was it always the quiet ones..

His lids lowered, focus sharpening at the edge of your skirt. An inch further and his eyes would have seen the color of the undergarment you chose to wear today.

His breath hitched slightly—just for a moment—before he caught himself, a small grin returning to his lips as he leaned back, watching you with a new, curious intensity.

Meanwhile, your hands shook as you struggled to cut the stubborn blue moonstone, its dust scattering haphazardly around the cauldron. The rough, sharp edges of the stone glinted dangerously under the dim light, threatening to slice your fingers if you weren’t careful. But the dull knife you’d grabbed from the last pile of equipment didn’t help matters. Just your luck.

The cauldron in front of you hissed angrily, bubbling higher than it should, reminding you it needed the other ingredients fast, or this potion would be beyond saving.

With a frustrated huff, you tried to maintain focus, wondering why today, of all days, was spiraling like this. Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps nearing your table. You looked up to see none other than Professor Snape, looming ominously over your cauldron like a dark cloud. Disapproval gleamed in his eyes, and the frown etched on his face deepened with every second he looked at your failed attempts.

"Any day now, Ms. Cromwell," Snape's cold voice cut through the silence, making you fumble with the knife.

You swallowed and quickly returned to the task, trying to scrape the moonstone with as much force as you could muster. The dust flew everywhere, scattering like powdered snow, but you were determined to make it work. The frustration burned hotter in your chest with each passing moment.

A sigh of exasperation escaped the professor, and you could feel his disapproval grow heavier. You looked up sheepishly, still struggling with the moonstone, desperately trying to convey that you were at least trying.

"I—I’m sorry, Professor. The knife is just so dull—"

"No, Ms. Cromwell. That is not the issue," Snape’s voice was biting.

Red tinged your cheeks at the insinuation of his words that your were just utterly weak and grip strength was trash.

"Riddle" Snape snapped.

"Riddle!"

Your eyes widened, flicking behind Snape to where Matteo sat, lounging lazily in his chair, his potion already finished. Of course, it was.

"Pair up with Ms. Cromwell," Snape instructed, his voice sharp and impatient. "Perhaps she’ll find some competence under your guidance."

He sighed, getting up from his chair replying, "Sure, Professor."

His eyes found yours, and the subtle smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips sent another wave of heat to your face. You quickly looked away, leaning back in your chair and setting the moonstone down with more force than necessary.

As he reached your table, he leaned over your shoulder, his gaze boring into the half-finished potion with cool indifference.

"Did you plan on finishing this today?" he asked, his voice low, teasing, as his breath ghosted over your ear.

You groaned quietly in response, leaning back just a bit too far, and your back brushed against his chest. You quickly straightened up, trying to ignore the way his eyes trailed over the side of your face, almost too close for comfort.

"The knife is dull," you stated.

Matteo snorted, amusement lacing his tone. "Really? Let me see."

Without waiting for your reply, he slid into the seat next to you, effortlessly grabbing the moonstone. With a single, swift motion of the knife, a fistful of moonstone dust fell cleanly into the cauldron. He made it look disgustingly easy.

"You were saying" Matteo teased with grin.

You sighed, irritated but keep quiet as the two of you began to work.

A few minutes pass by and you notice Matteo had moved on to the next part of the potion with infuriating ease. He worked diligently, cutting ingredients with precision, measuring them carefully before adding them to the cauldron. His movements were fluid and confident, and it was clear he knew exactly what he was doing.

Your eyes flickered to the knife he’d set down.

Stupid knife. You thought.

Silently, you picked it up, turning it over in your hand, inspecting it as if it were the culprit for all your troubles.

Matteo eyes now pinned on you, watching you turn the knife over in your hands, feeling the edges. He raised a brow wondering what your doing when you suddenly started glaring at the blade like it had personally betrayed you.

"Pft-haha"

You attention now snapped to him chuckling and shaking his head.

"What"? You asked.

"Are you seriously blaming the knife, Cromwell? That’s adorable."

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. "Wha—It is the knife! I mean, look at it!" You pointed at the dull blade. "The edges are completely blunt, the handle has no grip, and I can’t even remember the last time someone polished this ancient relic—"

Matteo's grin only widened, amusement gleaming in his eyes as he leaned casually back in his chair, watching you with a soft, almost playful look. There was something different about you when you weren’t constantly on guard—a flicker of something softer beneath that fiery exterior. He took note of the way your face scrunched up when you were upset, almost like an irritated bunny trying to be tough.

You paused mid-ramble, catching the look on his face. Your shoulders slumped, and you let out a defeated sigh. "Okay, you know what? Let's just focus on finishing the potion."

"Oh, believe me, I’m focused." Matteo smirked. "But it’s hard to concentrate when you’ve got moonstone dust all over your face."

You gasped, your hands immediately flying to your face. "Where?" you started swiping at your cheeks, but only ended up sending the dust flying everywhere.

Matteo chuckled again, this time reaching out to brush the bridge of your nose with his thumb, wiping away the last of the dust. Your nose scrunched at the sensation, and Matteo found himself momentarily distracted by how cute you looked, even if you were a mess. He ignored the quickening pulse that beat against his chest.

"Thanks," you muttered, blushing slightly before returning your focus to the potion.

He hummed in response and began working again.

As you filled the cauldron with more water, Matteo chopped up more moonstone, dropping it in with perfect timing.

You began to stir the mixture, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand, but his presence beside you was distracting—too close, too intense. The air between you felt charged, each breath you took slightly more ragged as you tried to keep your composure.

Then, without warning, Matteo leaned in even closer, his cheek grazing yours, the warmth of his skin sending a jolt through your body.

"Here," he whispered, his voice a low, smooth murmur that made your heart skip a beat. A shiver ran down your spine, uncontrollable and far too obvious. "You’re not stirring it right."

Before you could react, his hand slid over yours, firm but deliberate, taking control of the spoon and shifting the direction of your movements. His fingers wrapped around yours, guiding the spoon smoothly through the thick liquid. "Counterclockwise for this draught. Always."

You nodded stiffly, your throat dry, and you could practically feel the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips before he finally pulled back, his hand lingering for just a second too long before retreating.

"Good," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin before he leaned away, leaving you to wrestle with the lingering heat that spread through your body.

A few more minutes pass by and you notice the color of the cauldron.

What kind of color is that?

You glanced at Matteo and see him measuring out unicorn powder, with powdered porcupine quills and syrup of hellebore sitting besides him in cups.

A creeping dread filled you as you realized something was wrong.

Your eyes darted to your notes, flipping quickly through the pages of your book. Then to Matteo’s textbook. Your heart sank.

Shit

You had been following the wrong recipe.

The realization hit you all at once.

Matteo was focused on the cauldron, his brow furrowed slightly in confusion as he observed the unexpected color change in the potion. He glanced down at his notes, then back at the cauldron, clearly sensing something was off.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to salvage this before class was over.

You quickly gathered more ingredients, trying to stay calm, and brought them back to the table. Matteo’s eyes flicked to you, clearly confused. "Hold on," he said, "why are you bringing more unicorn powder? We can’t add any more."

You licked your lips, trying to think fast. "Well... are you sure you added the right amount?"

Matteo raised an eyebrow, studying your face with suspicion. Before he could reply, the cauldron in front of you hissed ominously, a small plume of steam rising from the bubbling liquid inside. Your stomach dropped.

The mixture began splashing against the rim of the cauldron, hissing louder by the second.

You cursed under your breath, panic clawing at your chest as you watched the potion teeter on the edge of disaster.

Matteo’s head snapped up at the sound, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell did you do?" His voice was sharp as he leaned over your shoulder to inspect the potion.

"I—I don’t know!" you stammered, panic flooding your voice. "Something’s wrong!"

"Shit!" Matteo cursed, his hand grabbing your shoulder as the cauldron sputtered. Hot liquid shot out, narrowly missing his face.

"This thing’s about to blow"

Quickly, he grabbed you by the wrist and yanked you to the other side of the room. You stumbled after him, trying to keep up, but in your frantic escape, your shoe lace snagged on the edge of the table. With a startled yelp, you tripped, crashing into Matteo and sending the both of you sprawling onto the floor.

Matteo’s breath left him in a sharp grunt as you collided with him, sending both of you sprawling to the ground. Your face hovered just inches from his, eyes wide with surprise as the cauldron behind you erupted with a deafening bang.

Hot liquid shot across the room, splattering against the walls and tables as students ducked, chairs scraping the floor in their haste to avoid the explosion. The thick, pungent stench of burnt ingredients filled the air, mixing with the billowing clouds of steam that obscured your vision.

For a brief, chaotic moment, the room was nothing but smoke and confusion.

When the dust finally began to settle, the scene shifted into sharp focus. Matteo lay flat on his back, his chest rising and falling beneath you. One arm was draped instinctively over your waist, fingers gripping lightly as though to keep you steady. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, jaw clenched, a look of utter disbelief etched into his features.

You, meanwhile, were sprawled across his chest, blinking in stunned silence, trying to process the sheer absurdity of what had just happened. Your hands, still braced against his shoulders, trembled slightly, the heat of the near-explosion lingering in the air around you.

You let out the breath you were holding when Snape’s icy voice cut through the chaos like a knife. "What in Merlin’s name is going on here?!"

You quickly scrambled off Matteo, your face flushed with embarrassment. Matteo, still lying there, smirked lazily as he got up, brushing himself off. "Well, that was one way to blow up a class," he muttered under his breath.

The room was dead silent, save for the dripping of the ruined potion as it slid down the walls. The other students, who had taken cover during the explosion, peeked out from behind their desks, eyes wide in a mix of amusement and fear as they waited for Snape’s inevitable wrath.

Snape’s gaze, however, was laser-focused on the two of you. His black robes billowed ominously as he stalked over, his face a mask of fury. He took one look at the state of the classroom—the scorched walls, the overturned cauldron, the puddles of ruined potion—and his expression darkened even further.

"Ms. Cromwell, Mr. Riddle," he hissed, each word sharp and clipped. "Detention. Both of you."

Your stomach dropped as his words sank in. You could feel your fellow students’ stares burning into the back of your head. Snape’s displeasure was one thing, but the thought of detention with Matteo? That was something else entirely.

"Sir—" you started, but Snape’s cold glare silenced you instantly.

"Save your excuses, Cromwell," he snapped. "I’m not interested in hearing them."

Then, his gaze shifted to Matteo, "Mr. Riddle," Snape’s voice dropped to a dangerously low register, "I expected better from my best student. Perhaps I was mistaken in assuming you were above this... childish behavior."

Matteo’s amusment from earlier faded, his expression tightening as Snape’s words hung in the air.

Snape, having made his point, straightened up, his voice sharp and unforgiving. "Both of you will stay behind after class to clean up this disaster you've created. And I expect it to be spotless. Fail, and you’ll both be scrubbing cauldrons for the rest of the term."

He turned on his heel, robes billowing as he stalked back to his desk, leaving the room in a tense, heavy silence. The rest of the class cast nervous glances in your direction, but no one dared to say a word.

You let out a shaky breath, your pulse still hammering in your ears. Matteo, however, remained disturbingly quiet, his expression unreadable.

Okay, You definitely owed him an apology.

Sucking in a breath you spoke "Matteo"

His lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk, his gaze flickering back to meet yours, "Try not blow up anything else before detention. See you after class, Cromwell," he mocked

You jaw hung, but your were wordless, watching him causally brush himself down and walk out of the classroom, with Enzo and Theo following suit.

For some reason the thought of being alone with the Matteo Riddle in room for hours had sent your stomach doing flips, causing a wave nausea.

Whatever awaited you, one thing was certain: you weren’t just cleaning up a mess. You were walking straight into one.

[rendy-a]

Idia househusband au

What kind of househusband is he?

Fluff plz

Fluff is what I do best.  Please enjoy and thanks for requesting!

There is a learning curve involved with adapting Idia to the househusband life.  When you were first married, Idia struggled to manage his new household duties.  Having lived a sheltered and wealthy life, he has never learned the proper way to manage things like laundry and vacuuming.  You would pat him on the back after a long day and tell him to stick with it, that you believed in him.  He takes heart at your faith in him and resolves to conquer his chores.  Over time, he has made an impressive array of gadgets to do the housework for him.  Now, he hardly works at all.  Don’t worry thought, that isn’t time wasted but time he can devote to you! (and anime)

Idia is still big into gaming, which leads him to keep unusual hours.  If you feel like trying to stay up late with him, he’ll put a comfy reclining chair in the game room for you.  Go ahead and watch him play for as long as you are able.  Some days you fall asleep in the chair only to wake up with Idia curled up on your lap.  It was too far to the bed plus…he doesn’t want to sleep in there without you.

Idia likes keeping images of you he gleans from the various monitors around your house.  Not in a creepy way!  He just can’t help but think of that time you smiled at him when he told you he made dinner himself.  Or when he held your hand that time you were sick and you told him that he was the best. (Him!)  These small, soft expressions are collected for emergency purposes.  The emergency being whenever he gets lonely waiting for you to get home.  He’ll set his monitor into slideshow mode and take in all your tender expressions to remind himself that you’ll be coming home to him soon.

Dinner was burnt.  You said you’d be home hours ago and that is when dinner was ready.  There is only so much even highly advanced cooking robots like the ones Idia makes can do for holding something warm for three extra hours.  When you stepped into the house, you could tell by the smell of char wafting from the kitchen and no Idia to greet you at the door, that you’d messed up. 

You found him in his game room, legs pulled up on the chair with his headphones on.  ‘So, pretty upset,’ you thought.  You wait for a moment to give him a chance to find a place in his game to stop so you can talk.  After a while, you realize he doesn’t intend to stop.  “Sorry,” you get out lamely, “There was a big project and I had to stay late.”  He doesn’t stop playing but, before you go, you see one eye flicker to observe you as you go. 

You head to your room and set your things down before hopping into the shower.  You feel terrible after both working a long day and disappointing your spouse.  You really need a hot shower to de-stress.  After a good amount of time, you finally resolve yourself to turning off the steaming water and heading down to the kitchen to see what you can salvage from the ruined dinner.  To your surprise, on the table is a steaming bowl of fresh ramen waiting for you.  A cooking bot approaches you to ask what toppings you’d like added.  You give the robo-chef your order and sit down to wait.  You set your arms on the table and lay your head on top of them, waiting for your dinner to be ready.  You smile softly, looking at the ramen bowl waiting.  A peace offering if you ever saw one.  Maybe, after dinner, it would be good for you to make an offering of your own?

You knock on the doorframe of the gaming room and Idia casually looks up at you.  Or he tries to but only succeeds in nearly falling out of his chair.  “Wha wha what are you wearing?” he stammers.  “Oh, this little number?  Just something I picked up from that Con we went to last month.  I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”  His hair is rapidly turning from the standard blue to a more flushed pink.  “Commander Lightning!  From the Space Hero Brigade anime.” You smile at him seductively before adding the final piece.  “I thought I’d spice it up just a touch.”  Idia looks at the cat ear headband you’d just donned before setting his controller aside.  This was a limited time event, if he’d ever saw one.

Bonus: The next day, Idia shyly hands you the lunch his robot chef has prepared and gives you a small kiss as you head out the door.  He waves at you from behind the door until you are out of sight.  Then he lets out a sigh of relief and closes the door, blocking out the normal world for another day.  Now, straight to his computer; he has things to do!  He pulls up the footage from last night.  There.  That is the shot he needs.  You are at the table with your head on your hands looking at the bowl of ramen with a soft smile on your face.  Some people might not be able to see it, but Idia knows that when you gaze at that bowl of ramen, what you are actually looking at is him.  And that look on your face whispers, I love you.  He saves the image to his file.  That will get him through another day.

[alenseress]

"Well, fancy meeting you here."

The main hall is quiet at night. Not for long, of course, just a moment between the midnight's fall and just before the sunrise, when the room gets so eerily quiet Dushan thinks he could count the mice around the corners just by the sound of them. The fireplace is the only light inside, he squints at its gleam with slightly blurry eyes before slumping down a and finding Dorian's worried gaze.

"Fancy indeed," Dushan echoes, eyes following the slope of the mage's shoulders, buried beneath the fur — it's one of those robes he managed to salvage from home, he knows it just by the shape.

From the Trevelyan house, that is. Something about the way the fibers cling to Dorian's slightly sweat-damp skin, how he shivers barely noticeably, something about that makes Dushan's guts ache, dull and weary. He gets up from the throne with some unexpected effort and crosses the distance to the chamber's door, pulling Dorian into a hug.

"Why are you up?" his lips find the left temple, his fingers find the back of his neck, pulling the heavy head into a cautious embrace.

Dorian, unusually cold palms hidden beneath the fabric, wraps his arms around his middle in return. Stands like that for a few seconds, chest to chest, beat to beat, breathing shallow and just a bit too fast.

"Couldn't sleep without you."

There's an unspoken implication that something woke him, one of those heavy night terrors that leave him panicked and gasping for air. Dushan kisses his temple again and hears a quiet chuckle muted by the layers of fabric. "You look terrible like that, you know?"

Dushan pulls away slightly, arching a brow. "Like what?"

Dorian breaks the embrace, taking a few steps aside and slumping down on the throne — legs thrown over the armrest, arms folded over the chest. He bounces a foot in the air, eyes finding the fire Dushan was staring daggers into minutes ago. "Like this. Like a ghost of an emperor looming over his lost kingdom. Was afraid that if I look at you for too long you'll start turning green."

Dushan snorts and makes a scary face, letting the anchor shine and light his frame. Dorian rolls his eyes to that, idly bumping his heel into the golden binding. "Oh shut up."

He doesn't see the painful vince, Dushan makes sure of that, grabbing him and turning him in his seat like the mage weighs nothing. Dorian yelps, almost offended, as Dushan kneels down in front of him. A brief eye contact — the Inquisitor marvels at the sight of him against the starry skies, and then lets his own head fall, burying his face into the robe, into the tense thighs. I'm tired, he wants to confess. I'm so tired and I can't keep my eyes shut for more than mere seconds no matter how close I hold you.

Dorian doesn't really need him to spell it out, does he. Dorian runs his fingers through his thinning out hair and whispers gentle words Dushan can't yet understand.

"Amatus, come back to bed."

"Marry me."

The silence rings. Dushan doesn't lift his head, not until Dorian lifts it up for him, hands squeezing his cheeks in a deadly grip.

"Have you gone mad on me?"

They stare and stare at each other, Dorian's sheer panic against Dushan's stone calm. He palms at his forehead, grips his cheeks again, something hysterical in his posture. "No, really, you impossible bastard, have you lost your mind?"

Dushan's stoic expression turns to amusement, as he finds a wrist to kiss. "I'm on my knees already, I can beg."

Dorian huffs. Dorian puffs, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, the other pushing Dushan away with a force he doesn't really mean. The Inquisitor sits back willingly, looking up open and offering, eyes squinted in loving humour.

Dorian shakes his head. "Absolutely I will not."

And weak, awed curses follow, as he stares down at the man at his feet.

Dushan leans forward again and pulls one bare, frozen foot into his own lap. Kisses the knee, does the same with the other. There are hands in his hair, still feverishly pushing him away without any real strength to them, lips whispering something inaudible and "get up, get up before anyone sees you, matula" as they grow trembling and unsure. Dushan hugs his legs, like he's afraid Dorian will set off running, and looks up, face suddenly stern.

"I've done many things wrong and I will do much more. But I want to do this, this, right, while time remains."

The anchor burns, his eyes burn, as the hall grows green in color. His own panic rises as he speaks urgently.

"Whatever you want, however you will have me. But when the Herald dies I want him to bring your name to the grave, Dorian Pavus. I'm no Trevelyan. I'm no Inquisitor. I'm but a man devoted to you and I want to go as one."

There are tears, Dushan can't see them gleaming in the dark but Dorian chokes on his breaths like he can't find his voice or any air around them. He hits his shoulder last time, then slides down to the ground until there's nothing but his limbs and chest and the oh so familiar smell of his oils as he grips Dushan so hard that neither of them can breathe now.

Merely a whisper, "You cannot say such things. It's cruel."

Dushan nods and kisses his lips pressed together in a salty line.

"I know. I am."

"You're not," comes out as a louder cry.

"Now you're talking nonsense."

"The whole castle just heard you pledge allegiance to my father's name. Don't nonsense me."

"I did no such thing. I asked you to marry me."

"And I told you I won't."

"No trouble," Dushan says contently, leaning against the base of the throne. "I will ask you again."

[offbrand-deltatraveler]

After rewatching the first episode of Onegai My Melody’s first season,

I feel like I honestly may have misjudged Hiiragi

Don’t get me wrong, he is still an irredeemable villain. His actions towards Kuromi & Baku, Jun, even Sebastian at times, and basically everyone else he comes into contact with are inexcusable and he feels no remorse for them

But at the same time, he didn’t start out completely heartless. The Hiiragi that quit playing the violin and literally prepares booby traps for his fans that they realistically shouldn’t be able to survive isn’t the same Hiiragi that helped Uta back onto her feet time and time again, and gave a motivational speech to a group of aspiring musicians that he absolutely wouldn’t have had to if he didn’t want to. And with such a genuine tone of voice compared to his more clearly manipulative and detached side that shows in later episodes

When thinking about this, his amusement at the dream of that one kid in Season 2 (The one he speaks to before revealing that he was Bunny-Eared Mask) makes a lot more sense. With him talking about how that dream reminded him of times long past when he could afford to think about things like that. Even going as far as to say that he would be glad to be glad to be his friend if they were to meet again in the future

He’s not an irredeemable villain in the way of “Some people just don’t want to change”, but rather that it’s just too late for him. Whatever his deal is, it developed behind closed doors. One last unresolved problem that flew under everyone’s radars and turned him into the monster he is today. Which, maybe if someone did manage to catch onto it, they could’ve helped him be a better person. But that timeline just ain’t this one

Overall, Hiiragi wasn’t born evil. He is a genuinely semi-tragic character, or at least that’s what the show wants us to believe, we just can’t see it so easily because of how hard the themes of his story clash with the themes of the overall show. Meeting the Girls’ Dream Defense Squad’s optimism with unfortunate realism: Sometimes there are bad situations that are completely unsalvageable. Maybe they could have been salvaged had someone attempted to do so earlier, but that didn’t happen. Whoever that hypothetical someone could’ve been missed that chance, and now the only thing anyone can do is accept that there’s nothing they can do

Does this mean that everyone likes to think of the world in a way that’s too positive for their own good and that in reality everything is and will always be perpetually immutably terrible?

No. It just means that Hiiragi in particular is a bitch

[cetaitlaverite]

What I Always Say

a belated christmas gift, for you, @sergeant-spoons merry christmas!!! i hope you love it <3

pairing: don malarkey x oc

word count: 10k (i got a bit carried away)

synopsis: it’s christmas eve and both of their flights have been cancelled due to the snow. everything is a disaster. but just when clara thinks things can’t get any worse, the universe finds ways to surprise her. but perhaps, from some angles, this christmas isn’t all bad. maybe there’s someone who can salvage it for her.

***

“Any news?” Don asked, eyes hopeful above the lid of her laptop as she clicked refresh over and over again. 

Clara tried her very best to keep the tears stinging in her eyes back. She would not cry. Because that would be pathetic. And she had worked much too hard building a reputation for herself in this new city as someone who was happy and positive and optimistic to ruin it all in one fell swoop by crying. 

“No,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes glued to her screen resolutely. But she needn’t have been so concentrated; she’d refreshed the page at least twenty times in the last minute and it had always loaded back up the exact same as it had been before, with that one terrible, terrible word printed in red where her gate number should have been. 

DELAYED.

“What about you?” Clara asked, once she had a little better of a hold on her emotions. She sniffled as quietly as she could manage before peering down at Don where he was camped out on the floor at her feet; the airport was packed full of people on their way home for the holidays, it seemed, and, probably, a great deal of them wouldn’t be getting there. Herself and Don included. Oh, god, this was just horrible. The whole situation was a disaster. It was Christmas Eve! She should have been at home baking cookies by now, clad in her fluffiest pyjamas and sipping hot chocolate which was more marshmallow than anything else, dancing to whatever cheesy Christmas classics the local radio station was playing and silently critiquing the choices. 

“Just says ‘delayed’,” Don informed her after a beat, presumably wherein he refreshed the webpage pulled up on his smartphone. He sighed loudly but when she glanced over at him he was smiling - only a little, a tiny smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, but it counted. And why the hell was he smiling right now?

Clara didn’t ask. As she mindlessly clicked refresh once more a new flash of text caught her eye. Her eyes darted over to it immediately and her heart was bold enough to leap with hope, only to fall right down to the floor and roll out among the piles of her bags and Don’s limbs. 

The tears returned and this time there was nothing she could do to stop them. “It’s been cancelled!” she cried. Her voice was wobbly and strained and full of sorrow and she didn’t care, because her flight had been cancelled and she wouldn’t be going home for Christmas and it was snowing so hard outside she didn’t even know if she’d be able to make it back to her apartment. She was going to spend Christmas in a goddamn airport and she was just as furious about it as she was devastated.

Don turned around lightning fast upon hearing her despair. “Hey, hey, hey,” he attempted to soothe, resting both of his hands on her knees. “It’s alright.”

“No,” she snapped, because she just couldn’t help it, “it’s not alright. I’m going to spend Christmas Day in a goddamn airport because I can’t get home and I can’t get back to my apartment and I’m so mad about it that I’m fucking crying!”

Don wanted to laugh so bad. It was terrible, because she was clearly genuinely distressed about the entire situation, but she was so cute sitting there like that, with her hands in fists on her hips and her cheeks puffed out and her eyebrows furrowed, that he couldn’t help it. And though he counted himself among the people who knew her the best, he’d never known her to be like this. Usually, Clara was all sunshine, smiley and joyful and polite; her preferred brand of humour was dad jokes, which Don secretly thought was both the stupidest and most endearing thing ever, and nothing ever seemed to get her down. But now? Now she was like a different person entirely. She was pushing back tears with all of her might but it wasn’t really working, and she wiped furiously at the few which dared to slip out of devastated brown eyes and track down flushed cheeks. Her hands were shaking in their fists and her feet were fidgeting where they rested on the floor behind where he was sitting, and the whole thing was so surprising, so unexpected, that he wanted to laugh. He also wanted to take her into his arms and smooth back her messy hair and whisper to her that everything was going to be okay, but that was not something he was ever going to do - whilst he was not a proud man, he would like to return home with some shreds of his dignity intact, thank you very much, and being rejected by the single most angelic creature on the planet because he’d been arrogant enough to try it on with her was not something he wanted to experience for the holidays. When he’d fallen hard on his ass during ice skating last weekend had been perfectly painful enough. 

“We’ll get a hotel,” Don suggested quietly. He frowned when she covered her face with her hands, clearly trying very hard not to sob. “Hey, Clara, it’s alright.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said, her voice muffled through her hands. “This’ll be the first Christmas I’ve ever not been at home.”

Don let her have a moment to come to terms with the situation. Meanwhile, he opened up a new tab on his phone and searched for the next flight to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. All of them were cancelled. It didn’t look optimistic.

“Is your flight cancelled too?” Clara asked in a small voice once she’d had a moment to process the disaster. She lowered her hands and looked at Don with wide, tearful eyes. 

He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. All cancelled.”

Clara looked down into her lap. “Should we go find a hotel then?” She shut her eyes and scoffed bitterly but didn’t say anything else. 

“Yeah,” Don replied quietly. He locked his phone and tucked it back into his pants pocket, then pushed himself to his feet and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He waited patiently while Clara packed her laptop away and got her coat back on, taking the time to look around for any signs pointing them in the direction of the airport hotel. He found one just as she informed him that she was ready, and after giving her a smile he led them towards it. 

They walked all the way to the hotel in silence, focusing all of their energy on wheeling their suitcases behind them as they zigzagged through the crowds and not losing each other in the hubbub. When they reached the hotel lobby they found it heaving. It seemed they weren’t the only people who’d decided to set up camp for the night. 

“Excuse me,” Don called to one of the women working behind the desk. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the noise but that wasn’t a problem; he’d never struggled with being loud. “We need a room!” he went on when he had her attention.

The woman scoffed. “Yeah, you and everyone else who decided to try to fly home on Christmas Eve.”

“Have you got a room free or not?” Don called back, not entertaining her remark.

“Hey, buddy, get to the back of the line!” said the man in front of him. He was tall and broad shouldered, with dark eyes partly concealed beneath thick dark eyebrows, but Clara didn’t seem to care. She stepped up to him until they were toe to toe and said something to him, and a moment later he stepped away. 

The woman behind the desk spoke, drawing Don’s attention back to her. “We have a double room still free on the third -”

“We’ll take it,” he declared. He filled out the paperwork she handed him and paid for the room, with Clara in his ear the entire time promising to pay him back, before they finally found themselves navigating the quiet hotel hallways, on their way to room 312.

“This is it,” Clara said once she found it. She turned back to Don, pointing at the door, and his heart squeezed when he caught sight of her smile. 

He got the door open in record time after that, and allowed her into the room first before shutting the door behind him.

“Oh.”

Don turned around. “Oh?” he asked. 

“When she said double room I thought she meant…”

She’d thought she’d meant two beds. But here they were, in their hotel room, with what was not, in fact, two beds, but one. One double bed. One double bed with rose petals on the sheets and heart-shaped decorations everywhere. 

“Oh,” Don said as he took it all in. 

“Oh,” Clara agreed. 

“Well,” Don said, picking up one of the heart-shaped room service menus on the desk, “at least it’s festive?”

“For Valentine’s Day!” Clara exclaimed. She dropped her bags and collapsed into the small armchair by the window. “Why is everything going wrong?” And now she was going to cry again. This was all like some sick joke from the universe. First her flight is delayed, then it’s cancelled, then she cries - in the middle of a crowded airport, no less - and then the only hotel room available is for couples. Yes, this must have been a sick prank pulled by someone with no soul. If she was with anyone else she might have laughed and she definitely would have brushed it off and got on with it, but with Don? Oh, it was cruel. It was more than cruel, actually, it was spiteful. Because her traitorous heart wanted nothing more than to spend this horrible night curled up in his arms in a comfy double bed, while her logical mind knew that he would be repulsed by the idea, would have to reject her and crush her dignity and then the friendship would be ruined.

“Aw, come on, Clara,” Don said gently. He, too, had dropped his bags, and he came to kneel on the floor in front of the chair, resting his hands back on her knees. “It ain’t so bad,” he attempted to soothe. “I’ll just sleep on the floor, I don’t mind. At least it’s carpeted.”

“No, you won’t,” Clara argued. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Like hell you will.”

“I will!” she insisted. 

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will!”

“Clara.” He groaned, frustrated. 

“Don,” she replied, resolute. 

“We’ll talk about this later,” he decided, shaking his head and meeting her eyes once more. “How about dinner?”

“I don’t want dinner.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

Clara scoffed, but she knew he was right. She was throwing a tantrum. She didn’t want to be stuck in California in this couples’ hotel room with the man she loved who she knew for a fact didn’t love her back, she wanted to be at home in Florida with her sister and her mom and their golden retriever, Lucky, baking cookies and getting snuggly ready for the big day. 

“I always have cookies and hot chocolate on Christmas Eve,” she mumbled after a beat. 

Don smiled. In fact, his entire being brightened. His eyes lit up and his shoulders lifted and he grasped onto the rope she’d offered him with both hands. “Cookies and hot chocolate,” he repeated.

She nodded.

“Sounds perfect,” he declared. “Let’s go find a coffee shop.”

It was not fair that he was this angelic. Not fair at all. His flight had been cancelled, too, and he also had a family to get home to, and yet here he was, doing his best to make her smile. Her heart ached as she met his warm brown eyes, eager and excited, and she wanted more than ever to reach for his hands and tug him close and burrow into him. She bet he was warm and that he smelled nice and that he gave the best hugs. She bet he would make her feel like she was home. 

“Really?” she asked quietly, pushing all of those thoughts away. 

Her eyes were so hopeful, her voice so small and dejected, that Don felt his heart crack clean down the middle. How badly he wanted to scoop her up and cradle her to his chest, rock her from side to side until she felt like the world was a happy place again instead of a sad one. She should never frown and she should especially never cry. And if he had to trek out into the snow and freeze his ass off trying to find a coffee shop which was still open at 5pm then he would do it. If it got her to smile then he would do anything. 

“Would you like that?” he asked. 

She nodded. 

He smiled and patted her knee where his hand had been resting on it. “Then let’s go.”

He looked up the locations of some local coffee shops online before they headed out into the blizzard, and they went to three before they found one which was still open. It was cosy and quaint, small and homely, and when they walked inside a little bell jingled above the door while a blast of hot air hit them both in the face. 

Don went to order while Clara secured them a table - a circular table for two nestled in a corner by the Christmas tree, with a heating vent set into the ceiling above them. The two chairs were armchairs, hers red plaid and his green, and she settled back into hers with a sigh.  

Don flopped into the chair opposite a little while later. “He’s bringing it all over,” he said by way of explanation when Clara found him empty handed. He inclined his head in the direction of the counter, behind which was a man, likely around Don and Clara’s age, grinning to himself as he made their order. 

“He seems nice,” Clara remarked softly as she watched him work. He had one of those kind faces, one that made you want to trust him, and he was humming along to the Christmas song playing on the radio.

Don looked back over at him, too, and chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. Nice guy,” he acknowledged. “He kept saying, ‘That’s what I always say,’ after everything I said.”

Clara looked back at Don with a small laugh. “What?”

Don grinned. “No shit,” he insisted. “I ordered your hot chocolate and he said, ‘Nothin’ like hot chocolate on Christmas Eve, that’s what I always say.’ Then I ordered my coffee and he said, ‘Coffee’ll always keep ya warm, that’s what I always say.’ Then I ordered the cookies and he said, ‘Can’t go to a coffee shop without trying their cookies, that’s what I always say.’”

Clara giggled, looking over at the worker with new eyes. “Well,” she said as she watched him, “at least he was being nice. That’s what I always say.”

Even though the joke wasn’t all that funny, Don downright cackled nonetheless. He tipped his head back and laughed into the ceiling, and the sound chased sunlight through Clara’s veins. 

He was so alive, she thought, marvelling at his beauty. She’d never met anyone who seemed to live as much as he did. Anyone else would need to jump out of an airplane to get get as much enjoyment as he got out of a good cup of coffee. She loved that about Don, and loved how infectious his love of life was. When she’d first moved to California and was still deciding who she wanted to be she’d toyed with a lot of ideas, but she’d decided on being smiley because of Don. When they first met on her first day at the radio station he’d stuck out a hand and declared his name with the widest grin she’d ever seen, and she’d immediately felt safe. She’d felt seen and accepted, and she hadn’t even known him back then, and she’d thought that it would be magical if she could make someone else feel like that, too.

It was exhausting, though, she’d come to find. Being that joyful and that alive took effort and energy which she wasn’t used to expending. Probably, that was why her mask was slipping now. Don might have paid witness to her brief moments of rest now and again but he was seeing her as she really was now, when she was tired and irritated and frustrated and upset. How he managed to take everything on the chin and shrug his shoulders she would never know, and forever be envious of, but she didn’t have it in her. She was a fraud in that way. A fraud who had fooled even herself into believing she might contain even half as much happiness as he did. 

The man who had prepared their order skirted around the counter and approached them with a tray, and he set out their mugs and plates with practised precision. “There ain’t no better place to be on Christmas Eve than a coffee shop, that’s what I always say,” he told them once he was finished, standing upright once more. “Enjoy the cookies.”

“We will,” Don answered. He waited for the man - whose name tag read Frank - to get back behind the counter before he turned to Clara and said, “Nothing like having a catchphrase, that’s what I always say.”

Clara laughed and Don’s smile widened. He pushed the plate with two cookies on it towards her. “I didn’t know which cookies you have at home, so I got chocolate chip and double chocolate. I’ll get you more of whichever one you prefer.”

“Don,” Clara said with an almost dreamy sigh. He watched as her eyes went soft as she looked down at the plate on the table before her, and his heart clenched before it began to race. She made even the simplest things seem beautiful, he thought. A plate of cookies might have been nothing to anyone else, but she was looking at it like they were offering her three wishes. He wondered if she knew how even just being in her presence made the world feel infinitely more lovely. He hoped she did. Every time they were together he drank up her energy like water, like he’d been stranded in a desert and didn’t know when he’d next find a reservoir, and still it would never be enough. He wanted to live in her presence, bask in her sunlight forever, but he pushed that thought away; she didn’t want him like that, didn’t like him like that, so he would have to be content with the time she did allow him to spend with her. Even that much was generous. 

“What would you be doing if you were at home right now?” Clara asked, breaking off a piece of the double chocolate cookie and lifting it to her mouth. 

Don opened his mouth to reply, pleased that she’d asked him about home, before she gasped and exclaimed, “Yummy!”

Don laughed.

Her cheeks flushed but she didn’t apologise. He loved that about her, too; even when she was embarrassed, she still didn’t apologise for who she was. And he was glad for it, because he found everything she did so terribly endearing that he sometimes thought she must have planted magnets in both of their clothes, for he felt almost inhumanly drawn to her. 

“The question still stands,” Clara said once Don’s laughter had settled a little. “But you should try a cookie, too.”

Don did try a cookie - and it was, as she had declared so enthusiastically, ‘yummy’ - and between bites he explained his family’s Christmas Eve traditions. Usually, he explained, he’d be helping to put the presents beneath the tree and then place the star on top. They would all sit down to have dinner - usually a casserole or something to that effect - before they’d each pick one gift from under the tree to open early. Don told her that he always picked the gift which looked like it was wearable, and last year he struck gold in picking a gift which contained a pair of new pyjamas. He slept in them that night and they were now his favourites - a gift from his mom, he said - but usually the gift he picked for Christmas Eve turned out to be socks. 

“So,” Don said when he’d finished speaking, “besides having hot chocolate and cookies, what do you normally do on Christmas Eve?”

“We bake the cookies,” Clara explained, somewhat defensively, and Don raised his hands in mock surrender just to make her laugh. “And we drink the hot chocolate at the same time. And we play the local radio station and listen to all the Christmas songs, which are usually terrible but we don’t mind, and then we all sit down to watch White Christmas.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Don declared. His eyes were alight with mischief, like he knew this would outrage her. 

“What?!” Clara exclaimed, outraged. “You’ve never seen White Christmas?!”

“Never.”

“Don!”

“Clara!”

“You have to watch it!” she exclaimed. “If it’s on Netflix then we’ll watch it together when we get back to the room.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Don replied, grinning. 

Clara and Don remained in the coffee shop for a long while after that - until it closed, in fact - talking and laughing and eating so many cookies they felt sick afterwards. When Frank finally asked them to leave so that he and the other workers could clean up - “The sooner we clean up, the sooner we can get home, that’s what I always say!” - Clara and Don exchanged a look, then had to look away before they laughed, then pulled their coats back on and headed back out into the cold. 

Somehow, and she had no idea how, Don had managed to raise Clara’s spirits. He had managed to work miracles. Before, she’d felt so sad she might just have cried her way through the rest of the night. Now, she followed him through the snow with a smile on her face and, when he was distracted telling her about the gift he’d forgotten to buy for one of his sisters, Clara bent down and scraped up some snow, then pelted it at the back of his head. 

“What the fuck?!” Don exclaimed when the snowball made impact. He smacked a hand against the back of his head and whirled around, not registering quite yet what had happened, before his eyes found Clara, doubled over and laughing, and he came to understand his situation. “Oh, it’s on,” he vowed. 

Clara bent back down to make a new snowball as quickly as she could but her laughter slowed her down. Before she had even stood back upright a snowball hit the side of her face, and she shrieked, hastily rubbing it away. “It’s so cold!”

The next instant, she threw her new snowball at Don with all of the force she could muster and threw herself back down to the ground to form another, then was hit by two consecutively in her distraction. “No!” she cried. 

They threw snowball after snowball at each other before running out of good snow on this side of the street. The both of them ran further up the street, collapsing to their knees to form their next weapons, but when Clara jumped up to throw her next lot of ammunition at Don her ankle gave way.

“Oh shit!” Don shouted. He was with her in an instant. “What happened?”

All of the air had left Clara’s lungs in one great big gust. She couldn’t seem to get any oxygen in, was gasping and sputtering as she tried to breathe.  

“Clara?” Don asked, a note of urgency in his voice. 

“Did I snap it?” she asked when she finally had enough breath to speak. “Did I snap my ankle?”

Very carefully, Don uncurled her leg and drew down her sock. Clara hissed anyway. 

“No,” he eventually decided. “You didn’t snap it. You probably just tore a ligament or something.”

“Oh my god, it hurts so bad,” Clara said as the adrenaline started to wear off and the pain started to rush in. “God, this day is so fucking shitty!” Just when it was starting to be okay it just had to go and get bad again. Not only was she in pain, she was embarrassed, terribly embarrassed, that she’d fallen right in front of him and now she didn’t think she’d be able to get up without his help. So stupid! How stupid could she get?

“Hey, no, it’s alright,” Don reassured her. He rolled her sock back up and eased both of her legs out in front of her. “It’s not so bad. When we get back we’ll just elevate it and we’ll put some ice on it and you’ll be good as new come tomorrow.”

“Oh my god, Don, it hurts,” she complained, hearing him but not knowing how else to reply to his kindness. And there were the tears again, back with a vengeance. “And I can’t believe I fell in front of you!”

Don laughed and then coughed to cover it. He tried his best to hide his smile. “It’s alright.”

“All of the people in the coffee shop probably saw me!” Clara persisted, sniffling and crying and trying not to sob. Her ankle was throbbing, white hot flashes of pain shooting up her leg, and the snow beneath her was starting to hurt where she was sitting in it. Her head was starting to pound and her stomach starting to turn. “I’m so embarrassed,” she lamented, even when her head began to spin. 

“Hey, come on,” Don said, and though she could hear the smile in his voice she didn’t say anything about it. “It’s not embarrassing.”

Clara clapped a hand over her mouth, and then she started to gag. 

“Okay!” Don exclaimed, getting out of her way and easing her onto her other hip. “Lean over, there you go,” he advised as guided her into such a position where she wouldn’t get too much vomit on her clothes. He pulled her hand away from her mouth right before she began to throw up, and held her hair back as she did. 

“You’re alright,” he soothed as she threw up from the pain. He ran his free hand up and down her back. “You’re okay, Clara. Just let it all out.”

The moment she was done, she sat back up and wiped her mouth, then turned dead eyes on him. “I’m mortified,” she said.

He was powerless to prevent his laugh from exploding out of him.

“Don!” she exclaimed. “Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, still laughing, his shoulders shaking with the impact of his chuckles. “I’m sorry. I’m trying really hard not to laugh, I swear.”

She had no energy to be angry with him. Instead, she let her head fall back until it rested on his shoulder. “I think you’ll have to carry me back to the hotel.”

Again, he laughed, but it was a lighter sound this time. Gentler. More uncertain. “Everything’s falling into place, isn’t it?” he said quietly. 

“What?”

“This is all part of your masterplan,” he explained, “right?”

Weakly, Clara laughed. She couldn’t help it. He’d always known exactly how to make her laugh, even when it was the last thing she wanted to do. “If it is,” she replied, playing along, “I think I’ve gone above and beyond, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah,” he agreed. She could feel him nod where her head was resting so close to his neck. “You’re real dedicated.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled. 

Though she didn’t see it, he smiled. 

Her tears had slowed now, thank goodness, and her breath was starting to ease. The cold seeping into her clothes was making her bones ache, as she was sure it was doing to him, too, and she hiccuped as she lifted her head up off of Don. 

“You alright?” he asked, rubbing his hand up and down her back again.

She nodded, sniffling and wiping at the tears drying on her cheeks. 

“You wanna try to stand?”

Again, she nodded. And, though she tried her very best, she couldn’t. 

“Walking on my own is not part of my masterplan, Don,” she informed him when they’d both tried, and failed, for the fifth time to get her to stand. 

He laughed, surprised by the joke, and wrapped his arms around her for a single instant. The next instant, however, he withdrew them, as though burned, and sat back from her. 

He was horrified. He’d just hugged her, essentially, without consent, without her giving him any sort of indication that she wanted his arms around her. Horrifying. She’d just been too endearing that he’d forgotten himself. He needed to screw his head on straight.

“Okay,” Don said on a long, low exhalation. “I’m gonna lift you up, is that alright?”

“Yes.” Her voice was quiet and her eyes were wide and earnest when she looked back at him. In the light of the streetlights and surrounded by snow she looked like an angel, all soft edges and gentle features, the picture of elegance and grace even if she had just fallen on concrete and hurt herself. 

Don nodded and steeled himself, then wrapped his arms back around her and lifted her into his hold. He rose to his feet a little unsteadily, thanking his former self for all of the hours he’d spent working on his upper body strength in the gym, and then began to walk the both of them back to the hotel. 

“You’re so nice to me,” Clara mumbled as he walked. Her head was turned at an angle so she was looking at the street ahead of them, though where her arms were coiled around his neck her face was very close to his. 

“Are there people who aren’t nice to you?” Don asked. His voice was almost a whisper. It seemed a moment which called for quiet. There was no one else out on the streets, everyone either at home, getting ready for Christmas Eve night, or else fighting their way to a hotel room or a hopefully-not-cancelled flight. Out here, with the snow and the streetlights and the darkness and the stars, it was just the two of them; two plumes of white breath on the air in front of them, two racing heartbeats, one pair of footsteps.

“No one’s as nice to me as you are,” Clara replied. 

“They should be.”

“Yeah.” Maybe if they were she wouldn’t love him as much. Maybe if everyone was as singularly sweet as him then she could turn her attention elsewhere. As it was, that had been a losing battle from the day she’d met him and would continue to be for, probably, a good long while yet. 

The hotel lobby was still bustling with activity when they arrived inside, but at least it was warm. Clara’s ears were aching with the cold and her nose felt like it was burning. Her fingers, long since buried beneath the collar of Don’s coat, were tingling with the desire for movement and her ankle was starting to really, really, really hurt. 

“Alright, trooper,” Don said as they waited for the elevator. “Nearly there now. How’s my brave girl doing?”

Clara thanked the heavens above for the cold, for her cheeks were already rosy and thus disguised the terrible, white hot blush which vaulted into them. “Alright,” she squeaked. 

Don wanted to die. He could not believe he’d just said that. How’s my brave girl doing? Really? He wanted to punch himself in the face. Repeatedly. Maybe bash his head on the wall a few times, as many times as it took to forget what he’d just said. 

The ding of the elevator arriving was like music to his ears. He all but charged in, grateful for the distraction, pressed the button for floor number three and then hummed so he wouldn’t have to speak. 

They were joined by an elderly couple. While the man pressed the button for floor number four, the woman’s eyes widened as she took in Clara, perched in Don’s arms like they were on their honeymoon. 

“I twisted my ankle,” Clara hurried to explain. “Or pulled a ligament, or something like that. And I can’t stand up on my own.”

“She threw up,” Don added.

Clara’s eyes shot over to him, wide in her horror.

He flushed under her scrutiny and shrugged. “What? You did.”

It was the longest elevator ride of his life. Three floors and yet it felt like an eternity. When they finally arrived at the third floor he all but sprinted out of the elevator, careful to keep from banging Clara’s feet against the walls. 

Their hotel room was warm and familiar and had somewhere soft for Clara to sit down, and she no longer cared that it was a couples’ room. She refused to sit on the bed, since her wet clothes would make the sheets wet, but the armchair suited her just fine. And, true to his word, as soon as she was settled Don headed down to the hotel bar to get some ice for her. 

In his absence, Clara tilted her head back until it hit the wall behind her. She breathed a deep sigh. Her foot was throbbing where she had it resting on the bed, she was cold all over, even though the room was warm, she was tired and still felt a little bit sick and her head was pounding and, above all, she missed home. She was supposed to be there by now. It was seven o’clock in the evening on Christmas Eve and she was supposed to be snuggled up on the couch in her living room, watching White Christmas with her mom, her sister, and her dog. But no. She was stuck in a lovers’ room in a hotel room in California, with a sprained ankle or whatever it was she’d done to it and the worst FOMO she’d ever experienced. 

But, she reminded herself, at least there was Don. At least the universe had seen fit to line their flights up so they got to the airport at the same time. At least his flight had also been cancelled. And at least he was sunshine personified, kind and selfless and warm and safe. Everything felt just a little less bad because he was experiencing all of it with her. 

Although she would never forgive the universe for giving them this room. That was still, and would always be, a sick, sick joke. 

Don returned with the ice pack, the big light in the room turning the red strands of his hair to gold, and he took care to place it against Clara’s ankle as gently as he could. After that, he pottered around the room, doing this and that, until he wheeled Clara’s suitcase up to her and presented it, with the zipper undone but the lid closed, to her. 

“I thought you might wanna change,” he said, blushing up to his ears, “but I didn’t wanna go through your stuff. So, here.”

Clara smiled and opened the suitcase, and Don looked away as though he was expecting to find all sorts of unmentionables in there. She made quick work of searching for her pyjamas, then sighed as she informed Don that she would need to shower before she could change into them. 

So, like a true knight in shining armour, Don set the desk chair in the shower and then carried her in. He shut the door for her to undress and shower in peace, of course, but informed her he was there if she needed anything. 

Unbeknownst to the other, each of them had blushed furiously as he’d said as much. They then both quickly set about making themselves busy so as not to have to linger on the thought for too long.

By the time Clara emerged from the shower, hobbling as she attempted to walk on her own, Don had loaded White Christmas up on Netflix on her laptop and was chatting away with what sounded like Skip and Alex on his phone. Clara smiled as she watched him talk, gesturing animatedly with his hands as the three of them argued about something minor, until he saw her in his periphery and his jaw popped open. 

“Gotta go,” he hurriedly informed Skip and Alex, fellow co-workers of both Clara and Don, down the phone. A second later, he was on his feet and crossing the room, scooping Clara up into his arms to take the weight off of her ankle. 

“You should’ve called me!” he was scolding her as he carried her to the bed and got her settled. He went to fetch the ice, then fretted about whether she needed more, before she laughed and assured him that she was okay and encouraged him to calm down. It took five minutes’ more reassurance to talk him down until he finally, eventually, relented and went to take a shower of his own. 

Clara took the time to call Hoobs, who must have been snug at home by now after having taken a few days off of work before Christmas break to ensure he got home on time. You know, like someone smart. 

“Clara!” he greeted down the phone when he picked up. “Merry Christmas Eve!”

Clara smiled softly, fiddling with a thread on the bed sheets, before replying, “Merry Christmas Eve, Hoobs.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. She could hear his smile fade. He always was unreasonably good at puzzling her out, even when their voices were tinny through the phone connection, even when they were on opposite sides of the country. 

“I’m stuck in California.”

“What?”

Clara sighed. She explained everything to him as quickly as she could - the delayed flights, the hotel, the coffee shop, the snowball fight, and finally the ankle - and he listened well, never once interrupting, until she exhaled to let him know she’d finished. 

He paused, silent on the other end of the line. 

“Hoobs?” Clara asked warily, checking to make sure he was still there. 

He inhaled, and then…

He burst out laughing.

Clara scowled. “Stop laughing!”

He only laughed harder. “You must have the worst luck of anyone on the face of the planet!”

“Hoobs!”

“Or the best,” he went on, undeterred by her admonishment. “You and Malark in a couples’ hotel room. There’s only one bed but it’s mighty cold outside…”

“Stop!” 

“One thing might lead to another, and then…”

“You are the most unsupportive best friend in the world, you know that?” Clara asked, though there was no real bitterness in her voice. It was impossible to stay mad at Hoobs for long. 

“Whatever you say,” he drawled in reply, still grinning. “You have a nice night, though, alright? Wrap it up and all that.”

“I’m hanging up now,” Clara told him, cringing at the innuendo. 

Hoobs laughed. “Merry Christmas, Clara.”

She smiled, sighing quietly to herself. “Merry Christmas, Hoobs.”

Don emerged from the bathroom just as she was putting her phone on charge, a cloud of steam from the shower following him out. His hair was wet, some of the bright red strands hanging in his eyes, and his pyjama shirt was sticking to him in certain places where he hadn’t dried all of the water off of his skin. He ran his hands through his hair to push it back from his face, oblivious to the eyes on him, and Clara turned scarlet. Her breath had stopped entirely, gotten stuck somewhere in her throat, and it was all she could do to drag her eyes away from him the instant before he looked over at her. 

“Who was on the phone?” he asked casually, crossing the room to sit in the armchair by the window. 

“Hoobs,” Clara replied quickly, perhaps too quickly, her voice perhaps too strained. “He went home early so he’s having a great time back in Ohio, the lucky bastard.”

Don cracked a smile at this. “Must be nice.”

Clara hummed her agreement. 

“So,” Don said next, his eyes on her laptop, “are we ready to watch the movie?”

Clara’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm which she tried her best to stamp out. “You don’t have to watch it,” she assured him.

He frowned. “I want to.”

She brightened again, and his heart lifted. Such a beautiful smile.

“Okay,” she chirped. She shifted along on the bed and let him retrieve the laptop. When he had settled, somewhat awkwardly, beside her, he set it on his lap and pressed play. 

Clara fell asleep twenty-five minutes in. 

Don had no idea what to do. 

This position he was in was incredibly uncomfortable. His thighs were burning where his legs were extended out in front of him, and his left shoulder blade was digging hard into the bed frame. His arm felt awkward where it was trapped beneath Clara, but he wouldn’t dare to move it. She was sleeping so peacefully, her chest rising and falling in an even rhythm, her cheek pressed to his chest and her arms wrapped around his middle. She’d only moved there after she’d already fallen asleep but the thought that she was seeking comfort from him still made him feel warm inside. So he would not move. Under any circumstances. He would stay like this for as long as she needed to sleep, even if that was until tomorrow morning. He would wake up stiff as a board if he needed to if it meant he got to leave her undisturbed, snuggled up to him and dozing on his chest. 

But Clara woke with a start just before the movie ended. She sat up, then winced as she disturbed her ankle, then glanced at Don, then frowned. 

He expected an apology, even though he really didn’t want one, or at least a sheepish smile before she scooted further away from him on the bed, reestablishing their personal space. What he didn’t expect was for her to snuggle right back in again, nuzzling into his neck and twining her hands in his pyjama shirt, before immediately falling back asleep. 

He could feel his heart racing in his chest.

She must have only been half awake, he realised, when she’d sat up. She certainly hadn’t been thinking straight. But even in her half-conscious state she’d felt comfortable and safe enough to snuggle right back in again, cuddle up to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. And, he realised, it really did feel right. It felt so natural to have her sitting like this, and so easy, that he let his arms wrap around her and keep her close. 

At some point he fell asleep like that, too. Into a deep sleep, in fact. The laptop was left to cycle through episode after episode of some Spanish TV series Clara must have been halfway through watching while they settled in close to each other, shifting and adjusting until they were both curled into each other. 

It was 6am on Christmas morning when Clara woke. She startled, forgetting where she was for a moment, before settling again when she remembered. Then she startled again, because why was she cuddling Don Malarkey like he was her boyfriend? And why was he cuddling her back? And how had they landed themselves in this position? And was her laptop playing an episode of Élite?

Don groaned and mumbled something, starting to rouse, and Clara shifted away. Or, rather, she attempted to. His arms - damn those muscles! - curled tighter around her waist and became as solid as concrete, not letting her go anywhere, and after a fruitless struggle she conceded and sagged against him. 

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled sleepily into her hair. 

Clara blinked. “Merry Christmas.”

“Your hands are so cold.”

Her hands were beneath his shirt, holding onto his back.

“Sorry!” she squeaked, immediately withdrawing them. 

He groaned a complaint. “What’re you doin’?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. Did he know who he was talking to? If he didn’t, she’d be mortified. Even more mortified than she’d been last night, when she’d fallen over and then vomited. Oh, god, had that really happened?

“Don,” Clara began tentatively, pushing her memories of last night away, “it’s me,” she informed him. “It’s Clara.”

“Clara,” he repeated. There was a lazy smile in his voice. He nuzzled into her hair. “Merry Christmas, Clara.”

“Merry Christmas, Don,” she repeated, her voice slow and confused. “Do you want me to move?”

“No.” In fact, those arms of steel of his only tugged her closer. “Want you to stay.”

“I’m probably heavy -”

“You’re perfect.”

“You’re… asleep?”

“I’m - oh.”

He was finally starting to wake up properly. 

“Hi,” he muttered. “Sorry.” And then those warm arms were gone. Even though she’d been campaigning for their removal, Clara missed them immediately. 

“Hi,” she replied, sheepish, as she shifted a little away from him in the bed. 

“Is someone speaking Spanish?”

“It’s Netflix,” Clara explained. “We left it on last night by accident after we fell asleep.”

“Right.”

He was blushing so hard his cheeks were on fire. How long had he been imprisoning her in his iron grip before he’d woken up? Just when everything started to go smoothly he had to go and stuff it up again. Idiot! She was probably desperately searching for an excuse to get away from him without seeming rude. 

On her side of the bed, Clara was desperately searching for an excuse to get him to hug her again. She was so cold and her ankle still hurt something fierce and was it too much to ask to have a proper, awake, hug on Christmas Day?

“I should probably shower,” Don said awkwardly into the silence. 

Clara’s eyes fell resignedly shut. Of course he didn’t want to hug her again. How many times did she need to be told he didn’t like her like that? Jesus.

“Okay,” she mumbled in reply. 

A moment later, he pushed himself up from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom with his suitcase. 

Clara buried her face in her pillow and groaned. 

Her family wouldn’t be awake yet and neither would Hoobs, so she couldn’t call anyone. And she couldn’t get up from the bed to start creating an outfit because her ankle was still… Well, whatever it was. And she couldn’t reach her bag to retrieve her hairbrush or her deodorant or anything. 

So, on her first Christmas morning away from home, Clara simply lay in bed, staring at the love hearts painted onto the ceiling of this couples’ room she was sharing with a man who didn’t love her, at least not like that, trying to pretend that everything would be alright. 

After Don was finished in the bathroom, he carried her in and then brought in her bags, too, and she got ready as best as she could. She brushed her teeth and showered and did her hair and even put on some makeup, a last ditch attempt to make herself feel better, before changing into the outfit she’d intended to wear at home on Christmas and mourning the fact she wasn’t there as she looked at herself in the mirror. When she hobbled back out again Don was lingering by the door, his hands buried deep in his pockets, and his face lit up when he saw her before he squashed the expression in place of concern.

“Stop trying to walk!” he scolded, crossing the short distance between them and sweeping her up into his arms. He was so perfectly the picture of the male romantic lead in a Christmas romcom, standing there with his hair combed, wearing his jolly Christmas sweater, that she actually wanted to sob. Anyone else might have landed in this situation and ended up with a boyfriend, but all she was going to get was a heart even more irreparably broken than it already had been. 

“Should we get room service?” Clara asked quietly as he shifted her in his arms. 

“No,” he replied, “I’ll carry you downstairs. We can go see all the Christmas decorations. I’ll bet it’s damn festive down there.”

Clara let her head fall to rest on his shoulder. “Okay,” she replied, too tired to argue. 

The hallways of the hotel had been decorated overnight to be even more festive than they had been the night before; green wreaths with fake snow and white berries hung on each door, and great big red bows had been tied to all of the lights set into the walls. In the elevator, there were even snowflakes painted onto the mirror, and Clara smiled as Don turned them both to show her, looking instead at his awed smile and not really noticing the pretty snowflakes at all. 

The hotel restaurant was almost empty at this time in the morning, and Clara and Don got their pick of the tables. Clara picked one on the edge, close to the window so they could see the snow outside, and he set her down in one of the chairs before asking her what she wanted from the breakfast buffet, and then retrieved it dutifully. 

When he sat down with his own plate, he grinned at her for a moment. “Festive, huh?” he asked, his eyes hopeful as he sought her approval. 

Clara smiled back at him. “Very,” she agreed. “It’s really pretty.”

“What do you wanna do today?” he wondered around a mouthful of waffle. 

Clara considered the question while she chewed on a strawberry. She didn’t want to be a downer, but most places they could have gone would be closed, and with her ankle…

“How about,” Don began after a moment’s consideration of his own, “we see if the hotel has a spare wheelchair or something, and then we go for a walk? How’s that? We can find a nice little park and I can sit in your lap while we feed the ducks.”

Clara couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re made of sunshine, do you know that?”

He grinned, but his eyes were surprised. “What?”

“Nothing ever gets you down,” she explained. “It’s one of the first things I loved about you. The whole of last night and this morning I’ve done nothing but complain but here you are, making plans and being wonderful, because that’s just what you do. You’re made of sunshine.”

He smiled wide. “You’re made of sunshine,” he corrected.

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Yeah.” He leaned over the table between them and pointed his fork at her. “You are. You’re allowed to have a bad day and be mad about it. And, by the way, you haven’t complained about that ankle even half as much as I would’ve if it was me. So, you know, I think you need to cut yourself some slack. I’ve caught you smiling more than you probably realise over the last twelve hours.”

Clara dropped her chin to her chest, smiling and blushing and not knowing what to do with herself. “I was only smiling because of you,” she muttered, then shovelled a huge mouthful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. 

She wouldn’t dare look at him, couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to.

Out of her line of sight, Don was full on beaming, awed by her confession as he gazed at her adorably flushed cheeks. “Well, if you were smiling ‘cause of me then that was only ‘cause I was happy about getting to be with you.”

Clara sighed silently. Once she’d swallowed her eggs, she said, “You’re so kind to me.”

His smile softened, recalling how she’d said something similar last night. “You’re just the kind of person who inspires kindness, I guess.”

Clara steered the conversation to different topics after that, because as much as his compliments filled her with warmth, they also made her heart ache, knowing he was only being nice. They talked about their families and about work and about their favourite Christmas movies, and then talked a little about how good those cookies had been last night. Before long, Clara was paying for breakfast - she had insisted, since Don had paid for everything else - and then Don was scooping her back up into his arms and heading for the lobby, ready to demand a wheelchair if they had one. 

The hotel did, in fact, have a wheelchair to hand, and the man behind the counter looked too disgruntled at having to work on Christmas morning to bother to ask them why they needed it. As soon as Clara was settled into it, Don steered her outside and they began their hunt for a park, preferably one with a pond. 

The streets were empty, as quiet as a ghost town, and the fresh snow from last night crunched underfoot. Their progress was slow, since the wheels of the chair didn’t want to push through the snow all that easily, but it gave them time to talk and look around. In the houses they passed they heard the muted sounds of Christmas joy, children screaming about their gifts and parents telling them to be quieter, televisions playing Christmas movies or else radio stations cranked up loud to play Christmas songs.

The sky above them was just starting to turn blue as the last of the orange of sunrise chased the night away. The sun was warm even though the wind was biting, and when Clara glanced around at Don she found him with a pink nose and rosy cheeks, his hair windswept, grinning at the world like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be living in it. 

The park they stumbled upon didn’t have a pond but it did have a lake. Don pushed Clara as close to its edge as he dared, setting the wheelchair beside a bench and sitting down beside her. There was a huge tree beside the bench, its branches stretching over their heads and sheltering them some from the harshness of the wind. And they sat there in perfect silence, staring out at the lake and the swans on the far side of it, both of them wondering how to express just how happy they were to be sharing this moment with each other but finding themselves too embarrassed to ever actually say anything.

Clara opened her mouth to remark on two of the swans, who were swimming together in the lake with their heads bowed together, creating a heart out of their necks. She was intending to make a joke about all of the heart-shaped decorations they’d come across since leaving the airport yesterday, first the hotel room and now these swans, when a bird landed on the branch above her head. She looked up and smiled, watching the robin hop idly across the branch. 

Until it jumped onto the space right above her head and sent snow crumpling into her face. “Oh!”

Don laughed loudly when he saw what had happened. He helped her clean the snow off, still laughing all the while, then looked up to see where the robin had gotten to. 

His smile faded.

“What?” Clara asked, following his gaze. 

“Mistletoe,” he murmured, flushing crimson. 

And, indeed, on the branch above the one which was now empty of snow was tied a cluster of mistletoe. And it was tied there directly above both of their heads, a warning and a promise in one.

“Mistletoe,” Clara breathed. 

Don’s eyes sought hers and found them already waiting for him. His breath caught in his throat. 

“Do you…” he started, and trailed off. He was finding it a little difficult to breathe, having her so close. 

“Do I…?” she asked.

It was the hope in her voice, the tiny smile wanting so desperately to tug at her lips, that got him to finish the question. “Do you believe in traditions, Clara?”

She laughed, a gentle, tinkling sound, and it filled him with warmth from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “Absolutely,” she replied. “Do you?”

“Of course,” he replied, starting to grin. He tried to hide it, because this was a moment for being smooth, not for grinning like he’d just won the lottery, but he couldn’t help it. Whenever she was around he wanted to grin. 

“What’s the mistletoe tradition again?” Clara asked softly, gazing at him with wide, doe eyes. Because she wanted to be sure that he was sure, wanted to give him a way to get out of this if he wanted to. 

He lifted a careful hand and rested it against her cheek. “I’ll show you, if you want.”

Clara nodded, her breath caught in her throat. “I’m a practical learner,” she said. 

He laughed, and then he kissed her. Softly, slowly, very, very gently. And for the first time she really did feel like she was made of sunshine, as he had insisted she was. 

The kiss went on and on, becoming more insistent when they each gained confidence. There was less uncertainty, now, as he lifted his other hand to bring her face closer to his, as she placed both of hers on the back of his neck to keep him there. And he only pulled back when he needed breath, only to have it stolen away again by how she was looking at him, content and surprised and so, so beautiful he wanted to remember this moment forever. 

“Was that… alright?” Don asked after a beat, still just a little bit uncertain.

Clara laughed softly. “Well, you have to kiss under the mistletoe, that’s what I always say,”

Don laughed and smiled widely. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I’m so glad your flight was cancelled.”

Clara smiled. “I’m so glad your flight was cancelled.”

Don smiled sheepishly. “My fight wasn’t cancelled.”

“What?!”

“When the girl you love ends up stranded on Christmas Eve, you don’t leave her to spend the holidays alone,” Don said. He held his breath in the wake of his confession until he watched the biggest, most beautiful smile light up her face. “At least,” he added, reaching for her hand and weaving their fingers together, “that’s what I always say.”

[sadfruittheatre]

Whoops

"Deeji isn't home right now," Dulze explained to the god standing at her door. "She's been out with her father today."

             "...Oh," replied Bragi, the god in question, frowning a bit. "When do you think she will return?"    

             "Probably not too long from now," she answered. He was immediately smiling again.

             "Oh, excellent!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "Would it be alright if I waited here for her?" Dulze hesitated a bit.

             "...I guess," she sighed despite her better judgement as she opened the door a little more. "Come on in."

             "Thank you!" Bragi bowed to her slightly before following her inside. Almost automatically, Dulze made a beeline for the refrigerator and grabbed the boy a juice box.

             "Here, help yourself," she said, handing it to him. He accepted it graciously like it was a precious gift and not a juice box for preschoolers. She hoped it would keep him quiet for a little while until Yamcha returned with the kids. In the meantime, she decided to pour herself some coffee.

             And for a time, it did keep things quiet. However, the silence between them grew painfully awkward as they took turns glancing at each other between sips of their respective drinks and looking away the minute they made eye contact. Bragi took note of the necklace Dulze was wearing. It was the one her husband had him make for her. He smiled to himself, quite proud of his handiwork. Perhaps this would be a good topic to break the silence!

             "Oh, Mrs. Dulze, that is a very lovely necklace you're wearing!" he said slyly (or so he thought).

             "Thank you," Dulze replied, trying to resist the urge to roll her eyes. "My husband got it for me."

             "Did he say where? The craftsmanship is incredible! I imagine you must be very happy!"

             "He didn't, but I think I can hazard a guess," she mused, giving him a knowing look. "...Thank you, Bragi." His eyes widened a bit in surprise.

             "Eh? How did you know?" Now she was rolling her eyes.

             "One, Yamcha can't afford something like this on his salary, and two, you're being about as subtle as a brick through a window."

             "...Oh." He felt his face heat up a bit, so he glanced away, fidgeting. "W-Well, umm... I figured it's the least I could do, since you're like family--" He froze, eyes wide. "I mean--" He went to cover his mouth with his hands, but it was too late. Dulze raised an eyebrow as she wondered if she'd heard him right.

             He hadn't meant to say it. He hadn't even meant to think it, but after their last major talk, it had been an idle thought that found itself continuing to grow until this moment, where it had managed to work its way out of his mouth. In that moment, he wished he were an angel so that he could rewind time to just before he made this fatal error. Unfortunately, without that proverbial undo button, there was only one other option: lie his butt off.

             Unfortunately, Bragi was a terrible liar.

             "Whatever you just heard-- whatever you thought you heard-- I didn't say that--" he babbled. "It was a slip of the tongue! A verbal typo! A conspiracy! Slander and lies! I didn't didn't mean that, I didn't say it, I didn't--"

              Dulze had admittedly been caught off guard as well, but she was much better at hiding it. Unfortunately, now that he'd gone and pointed out the elephant in the room, there was no choice but to deal with it.

             "So, that's how it is, hmm?" she sighed, resting her chin in her hand.

             "Y-Yes--er, no--umm, d-depending on what you mean by 'it,' I mean--" Bragi was squirming, practically flailing his arms as he tried in vain to salvage the situation.

             "Hey, slow down a minute," she said in the sort of gentle, yet firm tone she usually had to reserve for her preschoolers. He froze, looking like a deer in headlights. "Come here and sit down." He hesitated, so she urged again, "Come on." Despite feeling like his legs suddenly weighed a ton, Bragi finally did as he was told, sitting stiffly in the chair across from her. Dulze sighed again, taking a deep swig of her coffee.

             "Calm down, you're not in trouble," she said as she set the #1 Mom-Sensei mug back down.

             "I-I would certainly hope not!" he replied, trying (and failing) very hard to play it cool. "It was an honest mistake! That was definitely not the phrase I wanted to use whatsoever! I don't even know where that came from! I would never be so presumptuous as to--"

             "Please," Dulze interrupted, holding out her palm. "I have five year olds who are better liars." Bragi went quiet as he stared down at his lap.

             "I-I'm sorry..." he mumbled, unable to look at her.

             "What for?" she asked, with a bit of a smile in her voice.

             "Because-- I-I mean, you already have your hands full as it is, and... and I am well aware you only tolerate my being here for Deeji's sake, so, umm..."

             "Well, that was true..." she hesitated a moment. "...At least, at first."

             "Huh?"

             "Well, yes, you've been surprisingly good for Deeji, but think about it. Do you think I would go out of my way to find stickers you like, or increase my juice budget to accommodate you? Do you think I would sit and offer you advice if I disliked you that much?" Bragi looked up at her.

             "...Oh," was about all he could muster.

             "Don't get me wrong, you're absolutely a handful, maybe even two,  but that talk we had made me realize that you're really not all that different from the rest of us."

             "...In what manner?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

             "You're covering up a lot. Under all that pomp and circumstance, you're a bit lost, aren't you?" There was that awful feeling in his chest again; the kind that he'd get whenever Maraschi called him out on something about himself that he didn't want to think about.

             "I--" he immediately began to protest, but Dulze cut him off.

             "It's okay! I'd say it's probably a little normal, even. I was the same way at your age." She paused for a second as she remembered he had a good few thousand years on her despite his young appearance and overall demeanor. "...Well, relatively speaking."

             "...Really?" he asked hesitantly.

             "Mmhm. I had to figure a lot of things out on my own, but that's a story for another day. The point is, as much as I hate to admit it, you've... kind of grown on me. A little," she made sure to emphasize. "And, well... I don't think you should have to figure things out on your own either. So, if you ever want to talk about anything, I'm always open."

             "So you mean..." Dulze nodded.

             "...Just think of me like... your cool aunt. Or something." As honored as she was, she was definitely not going to make it a full time job, at least.

             "Aunt..." Bragi murmured under his breath. That wasn't a word or even a concept he'd considered until now, but with it, everything sort of fit into place. He could at least stop worrying about betraying Flann's mothership... Overwhelmed with relief on many different levels, Bragi felt tears start to well up in his eyes. "Thank you...!" Dulze couldn't help but smile a bit and shook her head.

             "Don't start doing all that now! If Deeji walks in the door, you'll make her worry!"

             "I'm trying not to, but...!" he protested, wiping his eyes. But suddenly, his eyes widened in realization. "Wait, Deeji..." Like a switch had been flipped, he suddenly stopped crying and looked toward Dulze excitedly. "Do you realize what this means?!"

             "...I'm afraid to ask."

             "This arrangement makes Deeji and I cousins!" he exclaimed, barely able to sit still. "Isn't that exciting?! I wonder what she'll think? I hope she comes back soon! I can't wait to--"

             "H-Hey, hold on a minute!" Dulze attempted to interrupt, but Bragi was far too excited to pay any mind. All she could do was hope he'd calm down before Deeji arrived.

[neko-naruto]

Sanctum

Summary: Trunks is gifted the terrible honor of regaling the tales of how important his Son Goten was, in turn, he ends up helping another Son Goten get his head clear and figure out how too bite the bullet

Warnings: Check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: I started rewatching GT with my little bro and my dad because hey, why not, and then this ended up in front of me.

"What was I like in your future?" Goten asked excitedly, and it really, really stung to hear him use 'was' instead of 'am.' He's sixteen now, he definitely understands the concept of death, and the idea that Trunks had the worst timeline.

Trunks gave a sigh, well, he did suppose that his Goten was probably dead at this rate. He can't help but bring a hand to brush through faded lavender locks, "Where do you want me too start?"

"Was he actually in your timeline, cause, mom told me that he wasn't," Goten asked, and those words forced the air from Torin's lungs.

"He almost didn't exist in my timeline, when my Chi-Chi died my own mother took it as her responsibility to try and salvage the unborn. She managed to do so just barely and then he was passed around and raised by each of the survivors a little bit. He did his best and we trained with each other under Gohans watch, helping around the lab while trying to not die. He was great," Trunks heaved a heavy sigh, shoulders dropping and gaze trained on the ground, "I don't know what else there is too tell you."

"Did he use weapons?" Goten asked, tone shifting to one of an interrogative nature, "How did he fight?"

Trunks nodded to the first question, "He had some spiked brass knuckles, he couldn't coordinate with an actual weapon. He was always more of a brawler than a speed fighter, he never learned instant transmission and he was bad at using his ki in projectile attacks. But I've never seen anyone bash open skulls like he could," He almost sounds wistful as he speaks, he represses anything intense from showing on his tone.

Goten gave a hum, "Do you think he's worried about you?"

"I," There's a pause, "I don't even know if he's still alive. Black is ruthless, unrelenting, if he gets a chance to kill either of us, he'll take it."

"He is worried about you," Goten said, and he said it so confidently that Trunks believed him entirely. He stared at Goten, he could lose himself in the obsidian depths of his eyes, it's missing the glaze of fire that's yet to be ignited. Trunks wonders what the spark will be for this Goten, for his Goten it was having Gohan die.

"You think?" Trunks asked as tugged at the hem of his jacket, a deep navy hue, leather fabric. He nearly lost it in the first fight with Black, when he brutally interrupted his first chance to go on a picnic. His first chance to breath easy, and he planned full well on enjoying it. But the rage Goten displayed right then and there, the sound of bones shattering and sinew snapping as he went absolutely feral? It almost made up for it even though it put a massive target on his head.

Goten nodded, "He fucking loves you man, he's definitely worried about you, he's not going down unless you're going with him," His speech is picking up pace the further he gets into it, his tone is growing agitated. He looks up from the ground and forces a smile, "I mean, I'd think so at least."

Trunks is merely stunned into silence at the sudden exposition into this Goten's head. A hundred doors just swung wide open and Trunks gets to look into all of them whether he likes it or not. He swallowed thickly, "No, you're right, he isn't gonna go down easily."

"Fuck no. He's me, he needs you to be there to hold his hand even when you're in the dirt," Goten said, voice petering off to a tone much quieter as he spoke until he mumbled.

Trunks stood up and held out a hand, "Wanna spar?" He isn't good at feelings, no one in his timeline is, but he does understand the universal language of fists.

Goten took his hand before standing up, "Yeah, let's go spar."

-/-/-/-

"You fight just like he does!" Trunks exclaimed as he caught both of Goten's fists.

The younger Saiyan was shaking, teeth grit and tail thrashing back and forth. He kept his eyes locked with Trunks' and watched for a single sign he'd move, for anything. There was none, they were locked mid-air and he couldn't escape. With an aggravated scream he tried to kick at the olders ankles, the hit was receptive and gave Goten just enough time to slide out of his grip.

His full body shuddered as he got in a stance, staggeringly rhythmic heaves up and down as he tried to breathe. His everything ached as he tried his hardest to form one Kamehameha with what little he had left in the tank. And Trunks? Trunks was fine, aside from the brief stumble here and there he was fully practiced in lethal combat. Goten knew that he was going easy, but it was pissing him off a bit more than it should've.

He dropped his hands, dispelled blue energy sparking up his arms, hair raising like static electricity. He launched himself at Trunks once more, the flat end of the blade raised to block the fist. And then the second. Fingers wrapped around razor sharp iron and gripped as hard as they could before wrenching away the blade. Shock showed with ease on the warriors face as a shoulder came into contact with his sternum, a full on ram down.

The impact on his spine and shoulders would've been enough to kill a human, he's pretty sure something is fractured. Crackling energy comes to the collar of his shirt and he stares up at Goten. The ravenette just looks wrecked, confused, absolutely ruined, he's almost crying.

"If I'm so much like him, then how come you're nothing like my Trunks?" Goten questioned, "How come he's nothing like you?"

Trunks doesn't even know what he's supposed to say.

"You fucking loved him, you loved your version of Goten," The ravenette managed to choke out.

Trunks still stays silent as the grip on his collar loosens and Goten rears back.

"How come my Trunks doesn't fucking love me?" His voice absolutely shattered as he dropped down next to the older Saiyan. He drew his knees too his chest, "What am I doing wrong?"

Trunks took a moment to try and breath, "To be fair, he's a fucking idiot."

"No he's not," Goten managed weakly.

"Yes, he is. I'm almost him, he is an oblivious fuck," Trunks said sternly, "Trust me, I am too."

"... I hate you," Goten spat bitterly.

"Yep," Trunks answered with, he forced himself onto his elbows and glanced warily for his sword. He couldn't see it, "Nice thing you did with the sword, not many can pull it off successfully."

Goten gives a hum, almost a laugh, "Thanks, my Trunks picked up swords since the last time you were here. Had too figure out how to deal with it so I wouldn't actually get hurt."

Trunks refrains from stating the obvious.

"He did too, didn't he?" Goten asked.

Trunks nodded.

"Of course he did," Goten said on a sigh.

"Look," Trunks said as he sat up, "If you want him too see you as anything other than a friend, you have too make the first move."

"But-" Goten tried too say.

"What do you think my Goten did?" Trunks asked.

"He made the first move," Goten said dejectedly.

"That he did, and then I could fucking see everything. I've seen you and Trunks, no matter how obvious you think you're being, he's oblivious, you got that? As receptive as he is to everyone else saying he looks good, he can't see you making the same comments," Trunks explained, "It's fucking shitty, and I know that I missed years because of how oblivious I was. My Goten didn't confess until what? A year before Black arrived? I was thirty, and I spent almost twenty of those years pining for him."

Goten just listens.

"I could've spent so much more time with him as more than just a friend, but I was too fucking oblivious, and now he might be dead while I'm here. Don't wait for your Trunks too notice," He took a heavy breath, "He won't notice unless you tell him directly."

"What do I even say?" Goten asked.

"My Goten said," Trunks paused, did he actually want too tell this to Goten? Would it be too personal? No, it wouldn't be, "He said I was all he had, he said he would already be dead if it weren't for me being there for him, he said that even before Gohan died he looked up to me more. I was his everything, he was my everything, I don't know what I'd do without him."

"Make it personal?" Goten asked.

Trunks nodded silently, partially afraid he'd start crying if he opened his mouth, but mostly aware he'll probably say something that could shatter this timeline if he goes any further. He reaches too the ground, and plucks at sprouts that have yet to blossom. He gives a small sigh, "I would've liked flowers, but they weren't enough left for it to be safe too pick a bouquet."

"You should bring him home some flowers, even if he is dead- which I know he isn't -it'd be nice to bury him with flowers," Goten said quietly.

"I'm gonna do that, any ideas on what he'd like?" Trunks asked, giving a gentle smile. Time travel humor. Often unnoticed by many, or maybe he has a twisted sense of humor.

"He'd like the smell of fresh cut lavender," Goten said.

[orlaithrose]

"Well," Orlaith said with a shrug as she next threw some balsamic vinegar into the pan - for depth she'd once read on a recipe- and watch it bubble into the meat, "If you're happy to take the win on the back of two shaky arguments that perhaps wouldn't stand up in court on the grounds that when I first knew you and couldn't stand it whenever you opened your mouth to speak but was attracted to how tall you were, then I suppose that's your prerogative. You can have this one, since admittedly I do like your height, even if I think it's less normal than my height."

Orlaith threw him a sheepish look. "Well now, please manage your expectations there. Even if this doesn't become an all day endeavour, that doesn't necessarily mean it'll turn out right. Like I said, terrible cook. Baking I can do. If you want a chocolate cake at two in the morning, I'm your girl, but this—" again, she stared dispiritedly into the pan— "is not my forte. So it'll either be shit and we'll have to get something from downstairs anyway, or since you've just revealed you know a few things, maybe you can salvage it." She looked at him hopefully, as though begging him to come and turn things around.

"That's all I need, really. The animals looked after and the pasta place to provide the food. It would be a disservice to my memory if the food at my funeral isn't the best it can be, and I will haunt you."

Tristan rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, if you're going to group me with a height group 'd be group with the six foot tall people s'all 'm saying," he said. "And 'm not one because 'm actually considered almost too short for the game. At least professionally." Tristan raised an eyebrow. He was usually the one that gave in to their bickering, though less so on the grounds of granting her her point and moreso that he was just got tired much quicker. He felt rather pleased with himself on this one. "Wow, we might have to start keeping a tally now of who wins which arguments."

At least Tristan knew her well enough for that. He'd like to think he knew her more than just her food habits, but if nothing else, he certainly had learned enough so the he didn't get accidentally bit (which might have been humorous if it weren't basically true). "You're right, better to get it right the first time otherwise this'll become an all day endeavor."

He looked surprised at that. Of course he knew her schedule might make it harder for her to cook and of course he knew she had grown up in a rich family where someone else could simply be hired to do the cooking, but he supposed in his mind her love of food also equated to being able to cook as well. "'M no chef or anything, but I could teach you a few things." Tristan had tended to cook more than eat out because it cost much less. As someone who grew up needing to economize, it was the cheaper avenue. "Once you know a few basics, you kind of realize it opens up a whole avenue of cooking all sorts of food."

Tristan couldn't stop the eye roll. He tried because it was a lot for one conversation. "Should've known." He shook his head. "Leave me a list for you funeral proceedings and 'll make sure it s'at least one to remember."

[lem0nshark-writes]

"The City of Ruins"

Thranduil x Male (elf) Reader

Word count: 2344 Summary: Lost lovers reunite 🌙☄

Warnings: angst at first then fluff w/ smut later on, the begining of smut is marked tho so don't worry, reader's a bottom

🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄

After the battle for Erebor you stayed behind in the city of Dale, it wasn't on your own accord, no. If it were up to you you would have returned to Mirkwood with your king, but you were banished from your home.

Such events came to be because you defied your king's orders to fall back and leave the dwarves to deal with orcs on their own. But you weren't gonna let your friends die, you weren't gonna let them fight on their own, even if it meant going against your king's will.

So you stayed behind, betrayed look on your king's face coming to haunt you more often than you'd like to admit. But you knew you did the right thing.

Many moons passed since the battle and you managed to fix yourself a home, it wasn't much, just a lower floor with a fireplace and a spot to lay on, but it's all you could muster up from the city in ruins.

You took it upon yourself to slowly clean and build around yourself, salvaging what you can of the city. And short trips to Laketown took care of your need for food and liquids.

It was a decent life, but terribly horribly lonely.

Your only friend being your thoughts and a bittersweet longing for your rín meleth*.

(*crowned love)

You feelings didn't come as surprise to you, they've been lingering for a while now but you've never acted on them, fearing he wouldn't feel the same and you'd cross a line. And besides, you were just a regular elf, no royalty, why would you ever be a match for him.

Dark stormy clouds gathered around the mountain and the city of Dale, heavy rain moments from being released.

You rushed to your small home in the heart of the city, arms full of twigs and branches, racing the time against the rain. And you made it in in the last second because just as you closed the door the sky came crashing down in big droplets.

You let out a sigh of relief and made your way to the fireplace, placing the newbrought wood at the side of it and started the night's fire. After making sure it's well lit and strong, you moved the remaining wood on the side for later.

You got up and took off unnecessary layers of clothes and your boots as the room started to fill up with warmth, setting them on their spot near the door.

Fixing your hair up in a messy bun you sat down on your bed and just as your were about to lay down for your daily rest, an unexpected knock on the door broke the comfortable silence mixed in with the crackling of the fire.

You looked up at the door and slowly got up, wondering who could it be as no guests announced themselves for the following days.

Creaking the door open your eyes widened in surprise. There in front of you, soaked in rain head to toe, stood none other than your ex king.

Your shock was soon pushed away by reminiscence of betrayal and old memories that came flooding your thoughts.

"How could you do that to me?.." pained expression pushed it's way through on kings face, trying to overcome the angry one that he tried so hard to keep.

"I already told you, but I guess you've gone deaf on your ears, I wouldn't and I won't let my friends die because you were too much of a coward to fight!" you started slow and calm but by the end of the sentence got louder and angrier, fire of the old argument rekindling fast.

"I am no coward! I did that to save the lives of our people! To save your life!" he growled back.

Anger gushed through your body but you said nothing, staring at his icy blue eyes.

"You might be-You maybe were my king, but my friends' lives are more important than your orders," you turned away, walking deeper into the house.

Thranduil followed, doors closing after him, and looked around a bit, feeling bad seeing how you lived since he threw you out of your home.

"You're so stubborn.." he sighed heavily, "What if something happened to you? What would I do then? What would I do without you??"

You turned around slightly and looked over at him. Worry of past events and what-ifs ridden across his face mixing with anger towards your stubbornness.

"You did just fine.." you muttered almost inaudibly, looking back away to hide your tears, old feelings starting to become too much.

He looked at you in shock for a few moments before regaining his ability to speak, "What… You think I enjoyed banishing you?? You think I enjoyed returning home without you and spending months an months with you nowhere in sight?? You think I like that?? .. When people ask me where you are?? .. Not seeing your face ever day??…"

"You think my soul isn't tearing into pieces without my meleth.." he looked at you, sadness twisting his face into a pained expression.

Your eyes widened at the last part and you turned around swiftly, standing there with your mouth agape for a few moments before speaking, " . . . Your meleth?.."

Thranduil's eyes widened a bit as well after he realized what he had said but then closed slowly as his expression melted into one of saddened agreement.

"You loved me?.." you asked softly.

He nodded, ". . . I still do.."

"Why didn't you say anything?.." you took a few steps towards the taller male, closing the gap between you two almost completely, and searched his eyes with your own.

"I feared you wouldn't feel the same.. and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you if that were true.." he finally gazed back at you.

"Silly king," you muttered through a slight smile forming on your face, " I loved you for hundreds of years, and I still do," you took his hands in yours and held them to your chest.

At your words his face lit up like forest in spring waking up from a long winter dream and he leaned I swiftly, locking his lips with yours, something he's been yearning to do for so long.

Without thinking you returned the kiss, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace and he did the same, his strong arms washing away all the worries and making you feel like the whole world around you disappeared.

"Return home with me my meleth, rule as a king by my side, let's never part again," he whispered into your neck.

Your lips spread into a warm smile as you gazed upon his eyes, "I'd like that very much."

((smut continuation from here on))

The two of you settled down on a crapet by the fireplace, setting your journey back to Mirkwood for tomorrow, when the storm hopefully calms down.

You forced the king to take off the outer layer of his clothes to put to dry by the fire and he undid his wet hair too, allowing it to dry easier on the warm air.

The two of you rested in each other's arms for a while, letting the fire warm you both up as you chatted exchanging some old stories and talks of your lingering feelings.

He smiled down at you, arms wrapped around your body as you rested your back against his chest. You looked up at him, returning the smile, "What?"

"Nothing. I just am wondering why we didn't confess sooner," he placed a warm kiss onto your jaw.

"Me too," your eyes instantly closed as he did that, "I guess we are two completely oblivious idiots," you added with a chuckle.

He let out a chuckle as well, "That we are." He grinned and kissed you deepy, passion spilling out from his lips.

You smiled into the kiss and returned just as passionately, cupping his cheeks in the process.

The bigger elf moved slightly, allowing your bodies to face each other, before wrapping his arms around you again.

The two of your kept on kissing, the kiss turning from slow and passionate to yearning and with a lot more tongue.

His hands started roaming your body and soon enough your vest was off, and shortly after your shirt too.

At the motion you parted your kiss and the two of you exchanged a knowing look. And just as quickly his lips were back on yours and your hands now undoing his top.

Once you won the battle with his shirt he moved his lips to your neck, tracing kisses and licks before the same turned into bites and sucks, leaving hickeys behind that ended up littering your neck and your chest.

You moaned on his actions, running your fingers through his hair and giving it a gentle thug on each bite he left on your soft skin.

He moved his attention to your lower stomach, leaving warm kisses there as he slipt your pants off with a single swift move.

You looked up at him, the two of you locking eyes, as you bit your lower lip. His gaze trailed around your body, taking in every bit of it, "Y/n.. you're beautiful.." he said, lust-laced desire dripping off his words.

The tone he spoke in made you shiver under his touch. He gave you a deep kiss and then proceeded to take his pants off too and soon enough both of yours undergarments followed.

He laid you down and got on top of you, kissing you deeply once again.

Your eyes stayed locked with his abs and, well, lower parts, being slightly taken aback by how good he looks.

He quickly caught up on your thoughts and smirked, making you in return blush like mad.

"Like what you see?" Thranduil smirked at his smaller lover who by the looks of it was about to burst into flames from the redness his cheeks reached caused by his words and that smug smirk Thranduil proudly wore.

He chuckled at his lover's sudden shyness and let his hand trail to his already errect memeber.

You gasped softly at the feel of his fingers on you and your eyes closed from pleasure, hand rushing to your mouth to silent the escaping moans.

Thranduil's hand reached for yours and moved it from your mouth, pinning it above your head, "I like your moans, don't hide them," he smirked and left kisses across your yaw and neck once again, as his hand worked magic bringing you all the way to the edge before abruptly stopping.

You looked up at him in wonder, unpleased and yearning for the pleasure to come back. He smirked softly at you and pulled you by your thighs closer to himself and his face went down.

You looked up at what he was up to and gasped in pleasure when you felt his slick tongue move against your hole. You fell back and your eyes rolled in sweetness as his tongue made it's way into you. It twisted and turned inside you, sending waves of pleasure all throughout your body, his hands squeezing your butt cheeks as they held onto them.

Once again you were on the edge of an orgasm and once again he pulled away just as you were about to reach it.

You whined slightly this time, pouting at his repeated action.

"Shhhhhh you'll like what comes next better-," he smirked at you and sat himself up again, grabbing at the sides of your thighs as he positioned himself at your now wet entrance.

You propped yourself up just enough to reach his lips and kiss him deeply, which he gladly returned, one of his hands reaching up to cup your cheek.

"Ready?" he smiled at you warmly as you two held your faces close to one another. You gave him a soft nod, bracing yourself for what's about to come.

He slowly started pushing in, giving you enough time in-between each little push to adjust to him in you, moans rolling off your tongue along with rugged breaths.

Once he was all the way inside you he kissed you deeply, distracting you from any lingering pain till it all melted away into burning pleasure.

Holding at your sides he slowly started moving his hips pushing his big length in and out of you, at first slowly before picking up the pace. Moans streamed out of both of your mouths mixed up with muffled breathing between kisses.

"Ahhhh hhhhhngggg…" moans left your mouth one after the other as he picked up the pace even more, hand back on your ass and squeezing it.

Your finger nails raked his back in pleasure causing him to moan your name out between paced breaths, "Y/n… ahhh-."

You moved your lips to his neck, leaving the tall elf an even bigger moaning mess as you left hickey upon hickey against his skin.

He slapped your ass in the moment as he pushed in even deeper, reaching that sweet sweet spot, making you moan his name out even louder than before. He picked up on that and started hitting that spot repeatedly with even greater strength making you melt completely underneath him.

He could tell you were very close and so was he, and with a few more strong thrusts both of you came hard, moaning each other's names and spilling, you on his and yours stomach and him inside of you.

Panting he brought himslef down and placed a loving kiss on your lips, exhausted with pleasure and still riding your orgasm you returned.

He gently pulled out and plopped down next to you, pulling you close into his warm embrace.

You two stayed like that for a while, hugging and unable to reach your breaths.

Once your breath returned to your lungs you snuggled up into his chest and kissed his yaw, "I love you my king."

He smiled down at you and hugged you tighter, placing a long kiss onto your lips, "I love you too meleth."

[fairymascot]

have you caught up to the last eat bang kill tour? if you did, do you think they managed to salvage the characters or nah

i read it, yeah. alas, i was not impressed. started listing my issues with it and it turned into a bit of a novel, lmao, so i’m gonna stash it under a cut.

like... first of all, i'm tired of seeing harley in the damsel role. this is a near identical retread of the harley quinn & birds of prey comic miniseries, where harlivy's falling out is resolved through harley winding up in a near death situation and ivy heroically saving her. i didn't love it then and i don't love it now. it's only marginally less sexist to shove powerful women in damsel roles when other women are doing the rescue, and it's equally as painful to see women undergoing horrible torture for the sole purpose of evoking an emotional response in the reader -- yes, even if the payoff is lesbian romance. it's trite, cheap, and it feels innately disrespectful to harley's character. not to say she needs to be infallible always -- but even, for example, when she was joker's captive in the s1 finale, she came in with a goal, a plan, and fighting spirit. it was a pretty desperate situation, and he had most of the power, but she wasn't rendered as helpless and pitiful as she was in the comic finale, nor were we subjected to any gory, graphic details of her torment. i mean, gore is fine. violence is fine. i am not some delicate flower. but played like this, it just feels like torture porn.

on top of that, i was absolutely rolling my eyes at ivy's whole 'redemption arc'. first of all: it was written extremely stupidly. 'i'm mean to harley because of my emotional issues that all stem from my abusive dad, so i'm gonna go in my head and kill him. boom! normal now'. what a ridiculously reductive view of ivy's character and human psychology on the whole? like, killing your childhood abuser in your head gives you nothing. it does not magically solve all of your mental problems.

not to mention, while he may have been the root of her original trauma, ivy has so many other issues piled on that have nothing to do with him?? she's a social outcast, she can barely stand the company of other people while also extremely concerned about how she's perceived, she's scared of opening up and showing vulnerability, she's wishy washy and has a hard time making decisions about her future, etc etc. those are issues that are caused by more than just her dad-- there's her peers at school, her repressed sexuality, her (presumed) trauma and transformation at the hands of woodrue, the future she planned with kiteman blowing up in her face... so explain to me how going in her head and killing her dad is gonna solve all that. lmao.

also, just the way franklin went about it, 'ivy hallucinates harleen and goes into her memories with her while on the outside she just appears to suffer a massive brainfreeze' -- again, just a cheap retread of events from the show, and it barely even makes sense in this context because franklin just slapped em on willy nilly. HARLEY hallucinates harleen because she is her past self, and her consciousness was splintered when she became harley quinn, trapping her previous persona as some sort of ghost figment in her head. why would IVY hallucinate harleen. when has there been any indication of that happening. it's yet another part of franklin's approach to this whole series -- lazily recycling ideas, scenes, word-for-word lines from the show to make for a cool reference, without remotely grasping the logic behind those scenes or the purpose they originally served. like, genuinely, this woman Does Not Get It.

even ignoring how stupidly the 'redemption' was executed, though, the fact is... the very fact that ivy NEEDED a redemption was terrible characterization. that's not to say harley and ivy's relationship doesn't have issues they'll need to work on-- while she's already started on this path, ivy still needs to work on establishing boundaries, communicating her feelings clearly, and allowing herself to be vulnerable. harley's been working on her selfishness and recklessness, but that doesn't mean she's completely outgrown them. and neither of them have ever been in a healthy, equal relationship with someone who deeply loves them and is GOOD to them, which i'm sure will lead to some interesting stuff in season 3. but you know what issues they've NEVER had? ivy treating harley like she's human garbage! ivy belittling her at every turn, scolding her like she's a child, getting angry at every little thing she does, flat out ignoring her when harley tries to talk to her. this is not their dynamic, this is not who ivy is. when ivy in the comic looks at vixen and her gf and goes 'omg, this is what non toxic love looks like, i should be more like that!' all i can say is, fuck off. ivy knows what non toxic love is. it's her love for harley. franklin just totally destroyed those characters and their relationship for the sake of a halfassed, completely unnecessary two-minute redemption arc.

god, what an absolute waste of time.

[sentimental-darkness]

One thing that I don’t get about the entire “searching for terrible Sauron” premise from Rings of Power is that I don’t get the idea they may possibly have here for how the reasoning behind this search works... let me explain...

Sure, some elves can kick ass and Galadriel would be exceptional one too, nevertheless here she is a younger version without the power of her own ring and above all else, no matter how hard you stretch it, Sauron is a goddamn Maya. Not yet bound by the powers of the One Ring... like when Isildur managed to cut his finger off and defeat him. So what’s this supposed to look like in RoP? According to Galadriel ??? In First Age it took Beren and Luthien and the OP magical beast’s help (Huan) to put Sauron in his place and even then he wasn’t really beaten, just shamed and thus persuaded to retreat under threat. Even if beaten, as a full-fledged Maya (unlike the willingly limited Istari) he would be able to take on a new form and body, in time. That’s why he was such a terrible adversary, he is just heavily OP and one of the last remnants of such OPness in Second and then Third ages of Middle-earth, the other ones but to a lesser extent being a Balrog and Smaug, for example.

This is also why - while it’s pretty undetailed - it kinda does make some sense in Tolkien texts that the elves wouldn’t really be mentioned actively concerned with combating Sauron in earlier days and not even later after he begun seizing power in Middle-earth and continued Morgoth’s legacy. First of all, it was the Valars who ignored the threat of Sauron to Middle-earth even though he didn’t arrive for the judgment in Valinor. So why would the elves in Middle-earth bother? At best they thought Valars had it all figured out and at worst they just didn’t perceive Sauron as a vast political threat, some of it undoubtedly their hubris as proven by the devastation of Eregion and almost lost war that inevitably happened (because they didn’t expect that kind of deception with the rings and maybe thought Sauron would be satisfied with his Eastern men? if they cared enough to look into Southern or Eastern affairs of “savage” peoples of Middle-earth to begin with...?) but some of it legitimate calculation of military forces at play since Numenoreans under Ar-Pharazon actually managed to prove the final inferiority of Sauron’s armies and political organization - so he was never really a threat here on Morgoth’s level of apocalyptic.  

In any case, that’s the thing - in early years they wouldn’t even conceive of the idea to go on a suicide mission to try find Sauron and then “defeat” him (it would be an equivalent of some veteran Roman legionaries coming up with a “grand idea” to try to hunt down and permanently get rid of the Devil, for example! pretty dumb!), and in later years when Sauron made himself known again it was just too late to even consider such a folly (that wouldn’t be possible anyway) and how they failed there was feeling too secure and isolationist, kind of - basically letting the willing men of the South and East rot and fester under Sauron’s influence, too ignorant of Eastern affairs of distant men probably and too willing to watch the battle of influences in Middle-earth unfold between the powers of Numenoreans and Sauron. But... actually... defeating Sauron or chaining Sauron was never an option... he was only chained by Ar-Pharazon after that military encounter in later years because it was already a part of his ploy to salvage this big defeat but from what we know about him he could have just turned into a bat and escaped from the Numenorean host not letting them drag himself to Numenor. Soooo...

I beg your pardon but... what RoP Galadriel thinks she is going to do once she finds Sauron? 

I’m literally lost here... because this entire premise... is THAT nonsensical to begin with... apparently.

[teamxdark]

He’s Not Here

More masquerade content but what’s this at the end???

In the grand castle ballroom, surrounded by soft golden light and the countless nobles clad in shimmering fabric, King Arthur was so bored he could cry.

This wasn’t what this night should have been; it was a masquerade party, an opportunity to hide away his identity and mingle among the people 一 okay, the nobility, but he would take what he could get 一 like he was a person instead of a king. Finally he had a chance to dance around until his legs ached, to eat food without worrying about the repercussions to his image should he dare speak with his mouth full or use the wrong spoon, to hold conversations that weren’t about politics or finances or how he was doing the best-or-worst job looking after an entire kingdom with a myriad of people with different needs and opinions. 

So how was it that, out of everyone in that room, he was stuck listening to some dull-voiced stag drone on and on about the rising price of grain?

“This is why pricing is tricky, you have to account for the pests before you ship it out and…”

Arthur fought the urge to dash away, but the instant he tried, he knew he would give himself away. His speed was renowned throughout the land, alongside his golden armor and brilliant blue spines. Those, at least, he had taken care of; Merlina had spent the better part of an hour adjusting his coloring to a warm orange and growing out his spines to disguise him beyond the limits of a simple mask. She had tried so hard to give him a chance to have a night off without people instantly worrying for his favor or trying to get something from him… only for him to be trapped all over again.

Arthur would have happily made an excuse to leave, if the stag would only let him get a single word in. His conversation “partner” seemed not to need to breathe, droning on and on in an endless monotone, offset by the cheerful music and bright lights and flashy costumes.

I’ll never be free of this.

“And now that the price is rising, it leaves me in a strange spot, you see. On the one hand, I sympathize with the people who cannot afford my wares, but on the other hand, it means more profit for myself and my own family.”

Chaos above, Arthur wished he hadn’t bumped into this man. His fingers tapped restlessly against his leg, mildly quelling the urge he had to just flee, to drop everything and everyone he had ever known and flee into the night and into the unknown.

“Not to mention, the cost of labor--”

“Mind if I cut in?”

Arthur’s head snapped over to the new voice, endlessly relieved at the interruption, though the stag continued to drone on, the odious voice still grating his ears even as the king faced the bold newcomer.

It was a tiger clad in elegant black clothing with silver accents, extending a hand out to him, and even though Arthur was eager to take it and be whisked away from this living nightmare, something about him made him take pause. His eyes took in the white fur streaked with blue, the slowly flicking tail that reminded him of Sir Percival 一 was it common among all cats? 一 and the eyes looking gently back at him.

He trusted those eyes. It was the look that they held, a look that reminded him of… 

Arthur mentally slapped himself. He’s not here, he reminded himself as he finally took the hand offered to him.

“Yes, please.”

The tiger seemed to brighten just a fraction at his approval, and he led him away from the trappings of boring conversation to the dancefloor, and Arthur had to try hard not to think about how this felt like being rescued by a knight. Especially not…

He’s not here.

The king was jostled from his thoughts as his new partner started to fit him into a hold, and a brand new anxiety washed down upon him as he tried to remember how to reciprocate the hold. Dancing lessons had never been high on the list of priorities when it came to running a kingdom, and yet somehow Arthur was expected to be able to social dance like a pro when his days were filled from dawn to dusk with meetings and drafting decrees and submitting notices of approval until he passed out on his bed. Arthur swallowed, trying to remind himself that stumbling during a dance was still preferable to listening to that one-sided conversation…

...but his partner didn’t dance like a professional. Well… he did, there was no denying his grace and timing, but he didn’t dance like he expected Arthur to be one as well. The steps were simple, the turns basic, and Arthur’s mind swam in relief as he realized that, somehow, this stranger was leading him through steps that he had managed to pick up on through trial and error.

This chance encounter was proving to be everything he needed.

The stranger led him carefully around the floor, maneuvering slowly around other people rather than weaving expertly between them like so many other couples did. If Arthur closed his eyes, he could easily pretend that he was practicing his basic steps with his brother, or his friends, or his--

He’s not here.

And yet…

Yet it was so easy to picture it, even as the peals of laughter surrounded him and washed into his subconsciousness like a spark of delight for him to enjoy. The strong hold, the careful footwork, the calculated rhythm…

Lancelot…

Arthur’s eyes opened, and though he saw stripes they were the wrong ones, and the bittersweet feeling of missing someone dear to him almost caused him to heave a sigh.

He had it bad, and he knew it. His greatest knight and closest ally and dear friend… Sir Lancelot was beyond compare. From questing as youths to his coronation, and in every disaster thereafter, Lancelot had been there, his pillar of strength in a tumultuous world, always standing nearby to passionately defend him or to spare him a quiet gesture of support. Lancelot had protected him from danger, defended his honor, strived to keep his spirits up for years and years…

Arthur had never considered himself one for romance, but as years went by, Lancelot had claimed more and more of his thoughts, attention and affection until the knight unknowingly held the king’s heart firmly in his hands. Too many times to count had Arthur been struck by the urge to grasp his hands, to sing out the words in his heart to him, to draw him close and see if he could make such a powerful knight’s knees buckle below him with a kiss alone…

One song changed into the next, and Arthur, too swept up in his fantasy, didn’t let go of the stranger, didn’t notice the slight lull in their dance, and so the dream kept going.

Lancelot wasn’t there, but Arthur could lean into this stranger’s hold on him, follow his dance, focus on his attire, concentrate on the energy he exuded, energy that reminded him so strongly of his Lancelot, and Arthur’s mind could so easily turn his dream into something more substantial. An illusion for him to drown in, just like this masquerade offered.

The music kept swelling, the sweet notes tickling his ears and driving him even deeper into his dream like he was in a trance. He kept dancing with the man that reminded him so much of his beloved that a second dance turned into a third, and Arthur clung on to his dream, not even registering that it might seem strange until--

“I mean no offense, but surely there are others who would want to dance with you?”

Arthur blinked, and the dream shattered as the man in his arms shifted back into a stranger. The king’s feet stilled, his gaze dropping to his feet. Arthur had to fight back waves of embarrassment and disgust at himself before he could answer.

“Forgive me, but the way you dance…”

HE’S NOT HERE!

“...it reminds me of someone dear to me.”

“O-Oh.”

His companion seemed at a loss, and Arthur held back another sigh, counting the beats in his head before pulling him along for the next dance, leading him in a very basic, repetitive step around the floor.

“I apologize,” Arthur murmured, knowing that there wasn’t much he could do to salvage the situation. At this point, he could only offer his apologies and an explanation. “I know it’s not fair on you, to imagine you are someone else, but…”

A look of hurt passed over his dance partner’s face, and goodness, even that reminded him painfully of Lancelot.

“...but you remind me so much of him.”

Arthur’s eyes swept over his partner, taking in the paradoxical way that he looked completely unfamiliar and yet he still somehow managed to feel so much like his dear knight. Perhaps the dream hadn’t fled from him quite yet, because now Arthur’s yearning mind was searching for any and every chance to convince himself that this was, somehow, Lancelot whom he was dancing with.

“You dance like he does,” Arthur thought aloud, as his partner remained silent. “Careful and precise.”

Your movements… I know them like I know my own.

“Pardon my asking,” the stranger returned, “but why do you not dance with him tonight?”

Like a weight to his soul that would never truly leave, Arthur’s melancholy came back to embrace him. “Ah… he isn’t here.”

He’s not here he’s not here he’s not here--

“Or at least…”

Arthur looked into the stranger’s eyes, his desperation to go back to his dream nearly choking him with emotion as the tiger’s eyes widened at the sudden look directed at him.

“...I haven’t recognized him, yet.”

Arthur knew it was terrible to put such a fantasy on a stranger at a party, but he wanted so badly to believe that this man was Lancelot. Arthur wanted to believe the ludicrous ideas his mind was supplying him with, that somehow this was Lancelot in front of him, disguised beyond all normal means. The tiger in front of him appeared to fluster, his mouth parting as though wishing to speak, though no words came forth.

“You have stripes like he does, too,” Arthur murmured softly, thoughtfully, and yes, he truly was reaching for every last detail in his pathetic attempt to turn what he had in front of him into what he wanted to see.

“If it pleases you,” the tiger finally said as the third song changed into a fourth one, “I… am not opposed to you pretending that I am he.”

Arthur smiled at that, feeling suddenly hesitant at the idea, now that the stranger, as kind and helpful as he had been, had given him his consent to mentally transform him into someone else, to be a player in this dream of his. It was sad, and unfair, but Arthur knew sadness and injustice. He tried to battle it every day, slowly changing and updating laws as they became outdated, but everything went so slowly and people only kept crying out in pain and Arthur wanted just one day, just one, to take ahold of something that he wanted and to cherish it.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered as he stepped further into the stranger’s hold, feeling warmth overtake him as he confessed his truth. “I have loved him for a great long time and… perhaps this is the closest I shall get to what I dream of.”

Because that was all this would ever be: a dream.

He’s not here.

Arthur’s eyes closed as his head dipped down to rest on the tiger’s shoulder, a soft smile spreading over his muzzle as he noticed that he was of a similar height to Lancelot, and the dream came back in full swing. Arthur’s arms wrapped around his partner, blocking out any consideration to the lack of spines on his back, and the king focused on his heartbeat as it hammered in and out of sync with the other’s.

“I understand the sentiment,” his partner whispered in response, and Arthur had to hold back what was either a laugh or a sob, morphing it into a hum on its way out.

You speak like him, too.

And so the king held his partner as tightly and tenderly as he would a lover, humming along to the song as the masquerade around him faded into nothing. There was nothing, nothing in his dream, but himself and his Lancelot as they spun around slowly.

He’s here. He’s here, I can feel it.

Arthur’s dream permeated his mind, overtaking his consciousness, and as the fourth song faded into oblivion, he finally let out the sigh he had been carrying all night.

“Lancelot…”

Two pairs of feet stilled as both parties realized what had just been said, and one final word jolted the king from his dream.

“A… Arthur?”

He was here all along.

[peridot-dreams]

beautiful people | shawn mendes

Shawn sees a familiar face at the awards show, and learns the value of realness.

The setting sun leaves the Hollywood sky pink and full of possibilities. Shawn finds himself looking out the window at it, still in a daze after the events that had unfolded that day. He’d won several awards for a song he was proud of. He thinks of the look on his parents’ faces in the audience when his name was announced and smiles. That’s who I do this all for, he thinks to himself.

His limousine rolls up the venue. It’s already teeming with people, Lamborghinis, and cameras. Shawn is used to such commotion, but the second he opens the car door, he’s bombarded with excessive noise - noise so loud that he can barely hear himself think.

He’s still riding his post-awards high when he walks in, still dressed in the same red carpet outfit as before. He has a girl on his arm, but not by choice - rather, an unfortunate PR stunt planned terribly and executed even worse. He greets his celebrity friends as he passes by, offering a small smile and a thank you when they congratulate him on his win.

He’s just about to ask the girl on his arm if she’d like to come with him to the drink bar when he sees a flash of silver in the corner of his eye. Shawn realizes who had just walked past him; he feels his heart began to pound in his chest and his breathing gets shallow. “Sorry, can I go to the bathroom?” he tells the girl on his arm, not bothering to wait for a response. He detaches himself and follows the silver blur, around a corner and into a dark hallway.

The silver blur is standing in the dark, scrolling aimlessly on her phone. Shawn sighs and takes in the sight: the silver dress on her is absolutely stunning. Her hair and her makeup is perfect; he feels lost in her presence, stunned by her beauty. He’s never seen her like this, and it only adds to the pain of it all. His mother had once said that losing a best friend is worse than a break up and right now he completely understands what his mother meant.

“Y/N,” he breathes. When she looks up, he feels like running away - she’s looking at him as if he’s the dirt under her silver heels. He wishes she would stop, that she would run to him and hug him and make everything alright between them again. She’s standing right in front of him but he misses her, misses everything about their friendship and support for each other.

“What do you want, Mendes?” she mutters under her breath. She turns her attention back to her phone, tapping her toe incessantly. Shawn can’t stand the sound of her heel hitting the ground because he remembers that she tends to fidget when she’s upset; the clacking sound is only a reminder of their friendship that had crashed and burned for reasons Shawn still fails to understand.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Shawn blurts out. “I don’t get it, Y/N. We used to be best friends, and one day you just started hating me and I still don’t understand why.”

“Because,” Y/N spits, shoving her phone into her bag. “Because you’re like them now.”

“Who’s ‘them’?”

“All those fake people out there!” Y/N exclaims, her eyes glancing over to the party-goers with a disgusted look plastered on her face. Shawn feels her gaze coming back to him, judging and critical. He feels like he could wither under her stare like a plant in a drought. “Shawn, you’ve changed. You used to be so down to earth, so genuine, but now you’re caught up in the money and fame and corporate bullshit.”

“Am not!” Shawn crosses his arms as he unconsciously clenches his teeth. “That’s such bull-”

“Shawn, you’re the epitome of fake. You’re in a fucking PR relationship.”

“W-What-”

“Don’t even try to argue. It’s so obvious and even your fans know what’s going on.”

Shawn closes his eyes. He wishes that he could argue with her, but arguing in the dark hallway outside of an after party wasn’t the ideal setting to do so. From the outside looking in, he knows it looks like he’s changed but he needs her to know that it’s not true. He needs his best friend back in his life again.

“Look,” Shawn speaks, taking a deep breath. “Let’s ditch this party. I know you don’t like these kinds of events anyway, so I don’t even know why you’re here…”

“My manager made me come.”

“Right. Whatever, let’s just sneak out. Let’s hang out like we used to, okay? I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t you need to get back to fake-dating your ‘girlfriend’?” Y/N snaps, giving Shawn the most sarcastic air quotes she can muster.

“No, fuck that,” he says. Against his better judgment, he takes her hand in his. He’s relieved when she doesn’t try to yank her hand back. “Let’s just go.”

✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Thirty minutes later, Shawn finds himself sitting across from Y/N at a dingy old diner on the other side of Hollywood. He watches as she twirls the straw in her chocolate milkshake. She hasn’t said more than three words to him since they left the party, and Shawn feels like trying to salvage their friendship is pointless at this point. Shawn knew from their now-dead friendship that Y/N was a champion at holding grudges - he just never expected to find himself at the other end of one.

“So how’ve you been?” Shawn asks softly. He wants to kick himself for how awkward and nervous he sounds, but he hopes that Y/N will take his nerves as a sign of his genuine interest in rekindling their friendship.

“Fine,” she mumbles. She takes a tiny sip of her chocolate shake. “Slow year.”

Shawn knows that isn’t true. He Googles her name every few weeks and watches every single interview she appears in on YouTube. Y/N’s acting career had taken off in the past few years, and she’d been getting tons of lead roles in TV shows and movies lately. He always gets a pang of jealousy in the pit of his stomach when he sees pictures of her with friends on Instagram, because he knows full well that it could have been him travelling the world with her, experiencing new things with her.

He doesn’t tell her that he’s been keeping tabs on her. “Yeah,” Shawn mutters. “Okay.”

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. It doesn’t help that the diner is completely empty, save for the old man who owns it and is busy complaining about how “millenials are killing the restaurant business” under his breath. Shawn tries to focus on the owner’s mutterings, desperately wanting to think about something other than the fact that Y/N is totally not into him or the conversation that he’s been trying to keep going.

“I don’t hate you, by the way.”

Shawn’s head snaps up to look at her, eyes wide with shock. “Well, you stopped talking to me out of the blue, so I just assumed you did.”

“Well, I don’t.” She stops twirling her milkshake straw and drops her hands into her lap. She meets his gaze, eyes still hard and lips pressed together in a straight line. “You’ve just...changed.”

“I think we’ve both changed.”

“No.” She shakes her head, letting out an indignant laugh. Shawn winces at the sharpness of her tone. “You’re the one who started doing brand deals, ripping off fans with overpriced tickets and merch, signing PR contracts and betraying your fans…”

“Y/N.” Shawn’s hands are starting to shake; he rubs his thighs over his jeans in an attempt to calm himself down. Her words are cutting deeper than a knife; he can barely stand it.

“You’ve completely betrayed your fans, Shawn. You’ve sold them out to every company that has approached you, taken advantage of their trust. Damn it Shawn, you’re even endorsing overpriced water now, like how stupid is-”

“That wasn’t fucking me!” Shawn slams his hand on the table. The old man stops mumbling about millenials and looks in fear at the angry boy. Y/N is barely fazed, her hard glare still targeting Shawn.

“Oh really?” She narrows her eyes at him. “‘Cause your ass is everywhere these days, every time I turn on the TV-”

“Do you remember how my career started?”

Y/N stops for a second, but rolls her eyes immediately after. “Yeah, at some overpriced convention marketed towards prepubescent teenagers.”

“Before MAGCON,” Shawn interrupts. His eyes plead with her to understand, to see where he’s coming from. “I was just a kid, sitting in my room with a guitar. Singing cover songs and making six second videos even though no one was listening. Because I felt like it. Because it made me happy.”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“Yeah. That’s the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.” A sigh leaves Shawn’s mouth; his eyes drop to his lap as he tries to calm his shaking hands and voice. He’s never felt so heated in his life, like every emotion is about to burst out of his chest. “And then everything just took off and suddenly I was signing with a record label and being thrust into the public eye. I was just a small town kid from Canada, but suddenly people were starting to expect things from me.”

“Shawn-”

“No, please. Hear me out.” The suit on his body was tailored to be comfortable, but in the heat of his rant it feels like it’s suffocating him. “It all went so fast. It was just one song after another and interviews and TV shows and concerts and tours. Everything was just going by so fast and every day, I lost a piece of myself. I was on autopilot, and my team was just signing me up for everything and I would let myself be led by them. Even now, I just sign contracts without thinking and allow myself to be molded by people who only care about money.”

“Shawn, why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Y/N’s eyes are soft now. She suddenly notices how tired he looks under the makeup that he was forced to wear to the awards event: his sunken eyes, the dark bags under them, the lines that furrowed into his skin between his eyebrows. He looks like he’s barely hanging on to life, like the walls are caving in and he’s been trying to hold them up. She wishes she would have noticed earlier how lifeless he looks. “We were best friends, you could have told me about this.”

“Because,” Shawn starts, holding back the sob forcing itself up his throat. “I can’t ever tell anyone because I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I’m grateful, I really am...I’m lucky to have my passion be my career. But I’m so tired, Y/N. I just want to go back to being that kid in his bedroom, playing guitar because he feels like it, not because he signed a contract or because someone else wants him to.” He closes his eyes, sighing, letting his head fall back slightly. He reminds himself to relax his shoulders and take deep breaths. “When I’m on stage, I get to go back to being happy for just a moment. I get to forget about everyone’s expectations, about contracts and brand deals and PR and all the bullshit. I get to be me. Completely free.”

She’s stunned and he knows it. He’s just unloaded all of the burdens he’s been carrying; Shawn doesn’t know how Y/N is going to react, but he feels lighter, he feels better. He just hopes, so desperately, that she’ll understand his brokenness and the wreckage that has been left in his mind as a result of the stress and anxiety of the last few years. He hopes that she’ll understand him for what he is, not what he appears to be.

“So I haven’t changed, Y/N. I’m not like them; I’m like you. Money and fame, it’s just not who we are.”

“Shawn, I’m so sorry.” Her tear-filled eyes move in a frenzy as she realizes the falsity of her words and accusations. “I should have realized that you felt this way and that you were struggling. I’m so sorry for severing our friendship and for not knowing what was going on.”

“No, it’s not your fault. I just…”

Shawn groans as he sees the group of people that have congregated outside the windows of the diner. They both gaze into the parking lot, bombarded by bright flashes and deafened by the sound of cameras shuttering.

“Fuck. It’s the paps.” Shawn groans again, head rolling back in frustration. “How did they find us?”

“They were following your famous ass,” Y/N says, laughing. Shawn smiles; he resists the urge to point out that she’s famous too, and has more followers than him on Instagram.

“Should we leave?” Shawn asks.

“Hell no. They want pics, let’s give them pics.” Shawn watches in awe as Y/N stands up on her seat despite the loud protesting of the owner. She starts waving at them crazily, her peace signs occasionally replaced by a middle finger.

“Fuck you!” she yells in between her laughs. Shawn grins; he finds himself copying her and standing on his own seat. He starts waving at the cameras, reveling in the flashes and dancing like an idiot to the music inside his head.

“Fuck you!” he yells. He’s never felt so liberated in his entire life. He starts posing with her, each pose more ridiculous than the prior. They pretend to tango on the table, screaming when they nearly topple over the edges. He twirls her around, smile growing bigger and bigger with each giggle that leaves her mouth. “It’s been two years and you still suck at dancing,” he cackles. She pretends to gasp, then sticks her tongue out at him and at the paps outside.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, his lips are on hers. She doesn’t kiss back at first, shocked, but when Shawn is about to pull away he feels her hands on the back of his head pulling him closer. Suddenly, there’s nothing else in the entire world besides her; they’re not standing on top of a diner table anymore. It’s like they’re floating and Shawn’s body is leaning into hers and he’s never felt so complete before. The smell of her conditioner makes him forget his own name and he realizes that her lips taste like chocolate and friends aren’t supposed to know how each other taste but he doesn’t care because it’s her and it’s always been her.

When they finally pull away, Shawn’s gasping for breath and Y/N’s eyes are as wide as saucers as she realizes what has just happened. “S-Shawn. Your PR contract…”

“Fuck the PR contract. Let’s give the world something real.” And their lips connect again, for the paparazzi cameras and the whole world to see.

[alch3mic]

Cheshire please.

“Are you sure you’re alright dear?”

Your eyes gazed up from the floor to glance at your elderly neighbor who seemed to stare you in concern.

Well, you certainly couldn’t blame her for asking considering you were still probably flushed with the fever that caught you by surprise this morning- all of which was neatly wrapped underneath your face mask, glasses and hood that had been pulled up over your head and tied tight.

Your ensemble of slippers, sweatpants and that dingy old hoodie also didn’t help to dissuade the fact you looked absolutely terrible, especially under the harsh hallway lights of your nice apartment building. You smiled regardless though, forgetting she might not see it.

"Yes, I'm alright," you said brightly, though your voice clearly strained as you bent down to take the garbage bag near her door. "I'll get these to the trash shoot and then climb right back into bed, so please don't worry about me Mrs. Chaput."

She at the very least smiled at you too, concern still aching in her brow, but she seemed to let it go. You had been taking the trash out for her and the rest of your elderly neighbors for the past two years now anyway, rain or shine, and you certainly weren't about to let some fever stop you from helping them today.

It was just in your nature to persevere.

"I'm grateful as always," she said softly, "but are you absolutely certain you don't need any help? No offense dear but you look scarier than usual! I believe that new tenant is all moved in, the one next to you? I finally saw him the other day! He's a young looking fellow, much like yourself. Perhaps he could give you a hand with all of those?"

"It's fine. Wouldn't want to both him since he's just moved in," you said with a shrug, trying to ignore that 'scarier' comment. You already knew you weren't exactly a bundle of smiles and joy.

Besides you hadn't even had the chance to meet your new next door neighbor, the last thing you wanted to do was show up to their door and ask them to help you take a bunch of garbage...

That just had awkward encounter written all over it.

Personally, you'd much rather die of a cold than over social embarrassment, so you'd suffer through the walk to the trash shoot.

"Aright, I won't argue," your neighbor sighed, "that'll just keep you out of bed longer. Go on now, shoo.... and thank you."

"Anytime Mrs. Chaput," you said, giving her a small nod as she smiled at you again and closed the door.

Seems like your sickness got you out of another cheek pull from her at least. She always liked teasing you like that, but really you didn't mind. It was nice to have what felt like family when you were so far from home..

A sigh slipped out as you tried to chase away those thoughts, turning to waddle your way through the rest of the hall.

There was just one last trash stop back near your own apartment where Mr. Salt lived. Despite his name he was a kind man if... not a little forgetful. He often forgot to put his trash out for you to take, so you usually stopped there first to knock on his door and remind him and then made it your last stop on the way out.

...He always seemed to jump in your presence too... probably because you were so much taller than him and had a resting bitch face only your mother could love, but before long he’d always melt back into that friendly personality of his.

After rounding the corner and glancing down the hall you could see he finally set a few bags outside. Thank goodness, you really weren’t in the mood to remind him again with how awful you felt. Slowly you trudged over, letting out a small groan as your muscles ache with fatigue, but you kept pressing forward.

Another step. And then another.

Almost there.. just.. keep going!

Then you can head back home and flop yourself into bed without a care in the world!

..Maybe after you took some cold medicine..

Finally you managed to make it down that endless hallway, giving your arms a small break by setting everything down and leaning against the wall.

Man, screw being sick This shit sucked! You could hardly believe you just stumbled around most days perfectly fine without properly appreciating it!

..Right now you’d give anything to feel better again...

If your mom were here she'd probably be scolding you while making something like.. a warm batch of potato soup..

...Maybe you'd call her.. when you're feeling better...

.......

......Ah.... You were.... dozing off a bit.

...That’s... not good.

C’mon wake up, you’re almost done.

You let out another groan as you barely managed to push yourself up off the wall, bending down to pick up all the bags including Mr. Salt’s and—

Holy shit it was heavy!

Your whole face scrunched, your arms barely lifting up the bag while letting out a painful, straining grunt. What the hell was in there!? It was double.. no.. maybe triple bagged? How were you supposed to carry this by yourself?

“Fucking hell..” you hissed, trying to take a deep breath and just coughing instead. “I swear of all fucking days to pull this kind of shit.”

Ugh, you felt too awful to knock on Mr. Salt’s door to complain.... not that you’d do that even if you were feeling well, but.. You’d like to think you’d give him a piece of your mind in your fantasies.

“Maybe then next time he won’t decide to dump an entire goddamn body out...”

Somehow not even your darker jokes could make you feel any better, especially with how much you were sweating with the added labor. You turned with all the bags in hand to head back down the hall and-

...Hm?

Someone was standing there.

.......

You couldn’t really tell who it was through the haze of your fever, but you squinted at them regardless, thinking if you stared at them harder you might be able to identify them.

That’s when you realized three things.

Number one, they were a monster.

.....Or at least you thought they were? It was a little hard to tell with their hood up.

Number two, you had never seen them before in your life.

And number three..

They looked....

...terrified.

......

Wha..?

“H-Hey...” you said between labored breaths in some kind of greeting.

The monster jumped, now looking a bit panicked as they retreated farther back.

"...Wh-what are you..?”

“don’t..!”

Their voice was so quiet that you barely managed to catch on to what they were saying, confusion now mixing in with the fever and irritation inside your head.

“What?”

Well that came out a lot harsher than intended. Nice job.

It's no wonder the skeleton squeaked, nervously pressing themselves to the apartment door next to yours.

‘I believe that new tenant is all moved in, the one next to you?’

.....Oh.

Oh no.

“You... I know you...”

Again, delivered much more abrasive than you would have desired, especially with the way it made them flinch again, now fumbling with something.

...This was bad.

Clearly you were scaring them, and the logical part of your brain told them to just leave them alone because there’s no way you could salvage this encounter with how much of a feverish mess your head is.. but the other, much more controlling part of your brain, just told you to keep pushing forward and clear up this little misunderstanding.

“Wait.”

The monster froze at your tone, staring at you with widened eye.... sockets?

“You..”

C’mon dummy, use your words!

“You’ve got the wrong idea.. this.. isn’t what it looks like.”

......

Well it’s no wonder the skeleton doubled down on their efforts to get the key into their lock before slipping through their apartment door with how stupidly awful that statement was. The click of the door closing was immediately followed by the sound of several locks being put into place, cementing the fact that you somehow really fucked this up.

...Wonderful.

Just stellar.

Your very first interaction with your new neighbor and you don't have the slightest doubt in your mind they think you're some kind of criminal body collector.

....So much for not dying of social embarrassment.

check out my other writings | feel free to drop me a ko-fi!

[demcnsinmymind]

therebekahmikaelson​:

“I don’t appreciate your calling me a Star Trek person. Yes, I’ve been around long enough to know about that little green booger one and the big ole teddy bear-looking creature, who I do not resemble.” Now fully dressed, Rebekah frowned and folded her arms, facing Lance with a defensive glare.

“Secondly, I am made for that life. It is only this body that prohibits it. Why shouldn’t I be? Our condition may not be human, but it does not remove our ability to love and care for family. If it did, you think I’d be standing in this very room? I’d be half-way across the world to rid myself of my idiotic brothers without a thought. A thousand years old and I still care deeply for Thing One and Thing Two. I’d say enough proof a human heart remains.”

At the mention of the cure in Lance’s possession and then Marcellus (the latter a subject which she chose to ignore), Rebekah’s fury grew. The Original’s voice rose an octave. “If you were to obtain the cure only to escape your stupid situation, you would be a coward! I want it to live and you want it to die! I would never forgive you. No. I would find a witch, and bring you back to life, and punch you in the nose and make your second coming a terrible hell.”

With a shake of her head, Rebekah brushed past the man, hastily returning downstairs. She was done with Lance’s over-dramatics and mockery. Yes, the sex had been grand (this was not the time to think over that), but he was incessantly frustrating.

“I meant it as in chewing Rebecca. Y’know. Because you’re a vampire. Teeth. Biting. Chewing. Though I realize now that was a dumb one” Lance tried to save the capsizing ship, but it was too late. She was starting to visibly become upset and he knew that even if he tried to explain to her how he’d meant it all, the damage had been done already. Worse still, she misunderstood what he was saying about the cure almost completely, didn’t leave him any chance to clarify, just brushed right past him.

And sure enough. There still was a second there where he honestly considered just leaving, like back in the old days. Not bothering to deal with any sort of complications or clarifications because it was easier, because what was the point, because it was a waste of time anyway.

But her earlier words kept bouncing around in his head now.

You are a friend. 

He didn’t have many of those these days. Truth be told, he had none. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that that was fucking horrible. So in the end and as a first, he actually went after her to try and salvage the whole thing. After all, this was what he was trying so goddamn hard to do now, ever since he’d gotten out. To be better than his old self. To do better.

“Wait” he said after turning up in front of her within the blink of an eye, keeping some distance between them because he didn’t fancy getting his neck broken by her, given how mad she obviously still was at him.

“You make it sound like there’s only one cure. I didn’t know that when I said that just now. I thought it’s something where you put some ingredients together or, I don’t know, use spells or whatever and that you can do it more than once. Like a cure to any other disease” he tried to explain, previous cheekiness and smiles and smirks completely gone within the blink of an eye.

“So for the record : I would never take that from you, okay. Given how much you want it and that there’s only one - I’d let you have it if I stumbled across it. Just so we’re clear. I know I’m an asshole. But I’m not that kind of asshole.  Not anymore. I don’t want to make things worse for people just on the off chance that it might slightly improve my situation. Let’s face it, that cure’s not gonna change shit for me anyway. And I know that. I can always die without it if I want to too, so there’s that. I’ll manage without it just fine. I always do.”

He looked at her a moment longer to make it clear that he was perfectly serious and genuine with it. He thought about saying other things, too. Vehemently denying the idea that he was a coward after everything he’d done to survive, everything he’d gone through. And other parts that kept lingering around no matter how ridiculous and paradoxical they were, given his beliefs and usual attitude. Maybe living like this forever is what I fucking deserve anyway. I had it coming. I killed someone. Took a life. Indirectly caused more to end, too. So who the fuck am I to want mine back.

But he said none of that.

“I’m sorry I upset you. It’s the opposite of what I wanted.”

And now, that just made him snort somewhat miserably, angrily. Story of his life for the past ten years. “I’ll leave you alone” he said and with that turned around, eager to increase and increase and increase that distance as quickly as possible.