#anyway happy birthday to this idiot that has bringed me so much joy and has made me cry so fucking much (*looks at Sanji's Backstory*)

[diamondsheep]

Happy Birthday to the Best Cook Ever 💛💛💛

[sweetestpopcorn]

I had been watching a certain show and I was already frustrated by it but I recently found all the leaks and I decided to stop because there was no saving it.

I was still bitter and angry over it so I went back to reread your fic during the weekend and it brought me so much comfort. I love your story and your writing itself is amazing. It was actually because of you that I ended up reading Fire & Blood few months ago - which led me back fully into the asoiaf brainrot.

Anyways I just want to say a huge thank you for dedicating your time and love into continuing your story. I always admire authors who write such long fics and are able to even maintain the characterizion.

Your story was a rollercoaster of emotion; you've made me laugh, you made me angry, you made me tear up and jump from joy even with my second reread, and I can't wait to see what else you have planned ♥

Hi there!

First, let me give you, your eyes, and your brain my sincere condolences for having been subjected to that. And yes there's no saving it. I read everything before it came out, still managed to actually be worse than the leaks were saying so kudos?

To me everything that made the Dance and these characters interesting was completely erased and now we have these weird parodies of the actual story and characters walking around. I don't recognise anyone. Not one character. They have just been stripped of what made them be X and what made them compelling. Which to a point is good, because with this sh:t for plot it would hurt me more if I actually saw the characters. Because I don't, and because it has been made very clear we have two canons, I will stick to the asoiaf canon which is much better and does not need to erase femininity to make women "strong" nor does it need to turn men into simps and emasculate them in order to push for women to be the extra version of show"Arya" (lol sorry book Arya). If people like it though, whatever. Just as long as they don't mistake this for actual canon, go off queens and be happy. And sorry for being such a hater.

Man can't wait for my birthday! 🥳

I'm very happy my story brought you comfort, and Fire and Blood should bring it as well. It does me. It feels so good to just open the books read the passages and to just see all the sh_t that was absolutely ignored. Never thought I would say this but Mushroom, come back here you! Let me hug you and kiss you, you are forgiven 😌

I'm also very happy that it made you read Fire and Blood! Jokes and issues aside I love the book, and I love it even more now <3

Awww it's an absolute pleasure and if I have been doing it for so long is because I really have a lot of fun! Lot of work as well, but also a lot of fun! It's people like you that make all the hours I put into this worth it and knowing I make you feel all those things (especially making you laugh!) is really amazing to hear!

I actually have a bit of a confession to make. Recently someone reached out to me because they wanted to translate my fic to Portuguese. And because that's my native language I was like "of course! I'll help you with that!". Pretty much the person translates it and then I review it (and continue to spot embarrassing mistakes in my fic like *taking deep breath* why are you such an IDIOT sandwich?!). We are done with the first two chapters and it was very weird because I felt like I was reading something I didn't write. It was "new" to me in a way and it made sense because she did the translation not I.

When I am writing I am thinking in English, I never translate things in my head, I just switch languages on and off. And it has been shown we are more emotional in our native languages and boy that must be true because I was reading the first Daemon chapter and thinking "Oh dear lord was this what people felt?!" And if it was XD I am pleased.

Or maybe it's just that the PT words for wh0re are very funny 😂 My favourite line so far:

"Agora chega dessa conversa tediosa. Passei muitos anos f_dendo vadias estrangeiras. Vamos para a Rua da Seda para que possamos relembrar os velhos tempos, e para que seu príncipe possa praticar para o Prazer do Reino. Afinal, a mulher mais bonita dos Sete Reinos merece que eu seja capaz de atuar com toda a minha habilidade."

fkatherinep you the MVP for knowing how much the word "vadia" makes me laugh! Yes, I am 5 sue me.

Thank you so much for your words <3

[natasha-romanoff-deserved-better]

The Day The Music Died

Summary:

“This’ll be the day that I die,” Yelena had sung those exact words in the car that day, and no lies were told.

Natasha never wanted to hear that song again.

Word Count: 3437

Also on Ao3 here

~~~

Natasha stares at the bandages wrapped tightly around Clint’s left wrist, eyes locked in on the red spots where extra blood had been soaked up by the gauze. Clint’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, softly drumming along to the song playing from the radio as he maneuvers the car around a bend in the old back road.

“I can feel you staring.” He says, snapping Natasha out of her trance. Clint takes his eyes off the road for a second to catch her gaze. “Nat, I’m fine. I promise.” It’s not going to change what happened, but he still tries. These types of missions were always hard on Natasha, and it’d only been made that much worse when one of the target’s bodyguards had managed to catch Clint’s forearm with a knife, dangerously close to critical veins. There had been a lot of blood and although Nat was easily able to stitch his skin back together, the close call had scared her - even if she refused to admit it out loud.

“I know you’re fine, idiot. It’s impossible to get rid of you.” She snorts and sends him a small smile. The radio cuts into a commercial, advertising their station and morning talk show before launching into another song.

A long, long time ago

I can still remember how that music

Used to make me smile

Natasha frowns at the song as an alarm bell begins to blare in the back of her head at the notes that drift out of the speakers. She furrows her eyebrows at it, a sinking feeling coming over her. Images from another time threaten to overtake her, and she’s too weak to stop them.

And I knew if I had my chance

That I could make those people dance

And maybe they'd be happy for a while

A blonde little girl, only five years old, prances around the front yard. She’s barefoot and wearing her pink sparkly sundress, hair pulled up into pigtails as she tries to catch a ladybug. Natasha watches from her perch among the tree branches. Mom Melina is kneeled on the ground as she works on the garden in front of the house, planting new flowers to replace the dead ones. She’s brought her portable stereo out, sitting it on the porch and playing at full volume. Natasha isn’t even aware of what song is playing until Yelena is running up to the porch, begging her to play it again. Mom Melina does. And then plays it again with an amused smile and quirked eyebrow when Yelena asks for a third time. Yelena cheers with joy as it starts again and rises to her tip toes as she begins to twirl and dance to the music.

Nobody knows what it is about the song that Yelena likes so much, but she loves it. She constantly asks for it, so much so that Melina loads it onto a cassette tape and keeps it in the car just for her. Natasha doesn’t quite understand what most of the lyrics are talking about, but she decides she doesn’t mind the song for Yelena. In a way, it fits- Yelena is the picture perfect little all american girl, apple pie personified.

Natasha’s frozen in her seat. She pleads with herself to move, to turn off the radio. She doesn’t want to hear this. She knows what verses are coming next, and her breathing catches in her throat as they start. These words hold no comfort for her anymore.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry

And them good ol boys were drinking whiskey and rye

Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die

This’ll be the day that I die

Her sister’s high-pitched voice singing the words, a beat behind as she moves her hands cheerfully, lost in the rhythm of the song. She’s buzzing with excitement- ready for her promised big adventure, too young and oblivious to notice their parent’s anxiety or her sister’s internal crisis happening in the seat next to her. Natasha can’t look at her sister, she doesn’t want her to see the panic she knows is written over her face. Instead, she keeps her eyes locked out the window, trying desperately to commit everything to memory. The red, white, and blue lights that light up the night, the football game where a band plays and people cheer, the abundance of restaurants where families are sat enjoying dinner. The normalness of it all makes her angry - how can all these people be so casual when her world is falling apart at the seams? Yelena begins to sing the verse about dying, and it takes everything within Natasha to not snap at her. She can’t bear to listen to her little sister singing about dying, so blissfully unaware of the possibility of the verse becoming true at any moment now. Natasha should say something to her, tell her to stop, tell her what was happening. But the lure of pretending one last time is too great for her to give away. She doesn’t say anything.

Did you write the book of love

A photo album, thick with pictures of them all sit on the shelf. It’s Natasha’s favorite thing in the house, and she often sneaks out of bed to stare at the photos. Realistically, she knows they’re all fake. But if she tries hard enough, thinks long enough, she swears she can recall the events. Thanksgiving had been fun; the food had been the best she’d ever tasted. Their summer vacation had been at the beach, and she swears she can feel the sun warming her face and the sand between her toes.

And do you have faith in God above

If the bible tells you so?

She and Clint had gone to a church once, as part of an undercover mission. She’d ended up having to walk out in the middle of the service. It had been too much. She could never believe in it, even if she wanted to. No loving God would ever create the horrors she had seen before her 13th birthday or give her a family purely to steal it all away so violently.

Can music save your mortal soul

And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Natasha’s feet hit the ground, still en pointe, as she lands the perfect Grand Jete. She tosses her arms out in the landing pose and holds it for a second before excited clapping breaks her concentration. Yelena sits there, smiling wide as possible, clad in her own black leotard and pink tights. She’s in the younger classes, not as advanced as Natasha yet, but it doesn’t stop her from trying. Yelena scrambles to her feet, crossing the floor to stand next to her sister.

“Teach me, teach me!”

It’s a complicated step, and Natasha knows she’s not ready for it just yet. She doesn’t want her to get hurt.

“I’ll teach you when you’re older, okay?” Yelena nods, and turns to the mirror, copying Natasha’s arm positions.

Natasha tries to force another breath into her lungs, but it’s harder now, her throat and chest constricted. She squeezes her eyes closed, trying to block out the flashbacks that continue to assault her.

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own

And moss grows fat on a rolling stone

But that’s not how it used to be.

Fifteen years. It had been fifteen goddamn years since Natasha had seen her sister for the last time. She refuses to let herself think of what might have happened to her. It pains her to think of her baby sister, who had once been so full of life, in such a horrid place.

Natasha wraps her arms around herself, arms holding each other tightly. She digs her fingernails into her skin, attempting to give herself something else to focus on and ground her. It doesn’t work.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the Levee but the Levee was dry

Them good ol boys were drinking whiskey and rye

And signing this will be the day that I die

This’ll be the day that I die

Natasha doesn’t know how long they’ve been stuffed into this shipping container, crowded against a hundred other little girls. They’re all dirty, all starving, all terrified. The scent of sweat and urine threatens to suffocate them, the air hot and heavy.

She has tugged Yelena into her lap, arms protectively crossed over her torso to hold her close- hasn’t let go of her since the second they were put into here for fear of losing her amongst the other girls. She’s so tiny, and Natasha doesn’t trust any of the others.

Yelena stirs, a small whimper falling from her lips. Natasha tries to shush her gently, but it doesn’t work, and her sister keeps squirming. Her cries are starting to grow in volume, and one of the girls next to them sends them a dirty look.

“Yelena, Yelena. I’m here. You’re with me.” It’s the only words of comfort Natasha can offer her. She wishes she could tell her they were okay, that she was safe, that they were going to be fine. Instead, all she can do is assure her that her older sister had her. Yelena had stopped calling out for her mom a while ago, after her calls went unanswered and she finally realized no one was coming to rescue them. Natasha shifts them around, turning her back towards the others and away from prying eyes. Natasha turns Yelena on her lap, so that Yelena is facing her. “Yelena, look at me.”

Yelena shakes her head, so Natasha gently cups both sides of her face, titling her face up so that she has no choice. Yelena doesn’t resist, just locks her tear-filled eyes onto Natasha.

“I’m scared,” Yelena sobs through hitching breaths as her body trembles.

Natasha clutches her tighter and brings her closer, so close their noses are almost touching. “Don’t cry, Lena. Just sing with me.” Yelena frowns at her in confusion, and Natasha starts to sing under her breath, quietly, so that Yelena is forced to quite herself down and focus to hear the words.

She starts with the chorus, the part that Yelena knows and likes the best. “Bye, Bye, Miss American pie,” Natasha sings. The corner of Yelena’s lips quirks up in recognition. Nat pauses, prompting Yelena to sing the next line herself.

Her voice quivers, but she sings it anyways. “Drove my chevy to the levee…” Natasha nods in encouragement and joins her for the next verse. “But the levee was dry.” They sing the next few lines together. They near the last two lines of the chorus though, and this time, Natasha can’t allow her to sister to sing the last line. They hurt too much, they’re too real.

So she interrupts Yelena, skipping forward past the “Day that I die” line and jumping right into the next verse. Yelena doesn’t even question it, just follows her sister’s lead and allows herself to be completely absorbed in the whispered song.

Natasha sings almost the entire song to her sister, doing her best to remember as many lyrics as she could, and then starts over. She keeps singing, over and over again, until her voice starts to crack, and Yelena’s eyes are slipping closed in exhaustion.

“Tasha?” Clint calls, picking up the tension in his partner. She doesn’t respond, just stays frozen in her seat, locked in her own little world. “Hey,” He calls, a bit louder this time. He takes one hand off the wheel and places it on her shoulder gently. “Nat. What’s going on?” She’s shaking.

Instead of answering, Natasha claps her hands over her ears and leans forward, bending at the waist so she can rest her head atop her knees. She’s shaking her head, muttering something under her breath.

We all got up to dance

Oh, but we never got the chance

“Teach me, teach me!”

“…When you’re older.”

Natasha never got the chance to teach Yelena that ballet move. She wonders just how many other promises to her baby sister she’s broken.

“I’m going to pull over, Nat, okay?” A male’s voice comes from somewhere close by. His hand moves from her shoulder onto her back, to rub small circles on it.

Do you recall what was revealed

The day the music died?

She had never felt so stupid. Standing on that airway strip, holding a gun out in front of her, blocking Yelena. She had let her fall into the lie, childishly believe that maybe, just maybe Dad Alexei loved them like he said he did. As Alexei kneels before them, showing no sympathy to his daughters tears, she realizes that had never been the case.

The chorus starts again, and she feels bile rise in her stomach. “Bye Bye Miss American Pie” Natasha remembers how she had stolen that gun from a solider, shoved her sister behind her and threatened to kill numerous grown men for touching her. How desperately she had clung to Yelena when they’d been ripped apart. She hadn’t been ready to give up her sister, not ready to say goodbye to the American dream lie they had built side by side. “Drove my Chevy to the Levee but the levee was dry” The memory of Yelena’s face during those few days had haunted Natasha’s dreams for years. It had frightened her- even more so than the men with oversized guns. She had never seen her sister, who laughed at everything and loved the world with everything in her, look so despondent. She had tried telling her jokes to pry some kind of smile out of her. It didn't work. “This’ll be the day that I die” Yelena had sung those exact words in the car that day, and no lies were told. That day, when dad Alexei handed them back to Russians soldiers, they had both died. Died only to be remade and ruthlessly forged into something new, nothing more than weapons of mass destruction and trained killers.

There’s cussing to her left that pulls her back halfway to the present. She’s in a car, and she’s covered in vomit that runs down her front and onto her chest and lap. Clint has a hand on her, and he’s telling her just a second, Nat.

“Clint?” She asks, still slightly confused. She can still feel the weight of a smaller body on top of her, feel the soft blonde curls against her chin.

“I’m here, Tasha. Hold on.”

Oh, and there we were all in one place

A generation lost in space

With no time to start again

Countless little girls standing in a straight line, blank expressions, awaiting their next commands. They’re all mirrors of each other, no identity left for any of them to cling onto. Natasha scans over each girl, searching for the blonde waves she knows so well. She can’t find her.

The song drags on as Clint navigates the car off the road, coming to stop. He jumps out and jogs around, flinging Natasha's door open. She doesn’t move, so he reaches in and unbuckles her before slipping his hands into her armpits and pulling her out of the car. She tumbles to the ground, falling onto her knees.

And as I watched him on the stage

My hands clenched in fists of rage

No angel born in hell

Could break that Satan’s spell

Natasha catches Dreykov’s eyes on them, and she tightens her hold on Yelena’s hand. Her sister makes a small noise - she’s going to have bruises with how tight Nat is holding her- but doesn’t pull her hand away. Natasha curls her free hand into a tight fist, ready to swing if need be.

Dreykov says something to the men with guns next to him and points a finger at them. The soldiers start moving forward, and Natasha backtracks, tries to back up but Yelena stumbles at the sudden change in direction.

I saw Satan laughing with delight

The day the music died

Natasha screams her sister's name, gripping onto her as tightly as she can. Soldiers have hands on them both, ripping them away from each other. Dreykov is standing several feet away, a tiny smile on his face. Yelena is shrieking, hands desperately trying to keep her grasp on Natasha with all the strength in her six-year-old frame.

They lose their grip on each other and are dragged apart. Yelena’s voice dies out as they carry away the only thing Natasha had left.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie -

“Turn it off!” Natasha pleads, before promptly vomiting even more onto the ground. Clint’s hands support her head, keeping her from falling. “Off, please. I can’t. Turn it--” Clint’s hands leave her for a second as he scrambles over her, reaching through the open passenger door and slamming the power button on the radio.

Natasha lets out a breath, thankful for the silence. With the song no longer playing, her head is beginning to clear, the painful images retreating somewhere she could lock them away again.

“All done?” Clint asks her. She spits out one last string of bile and nods her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as Clint helps her sit up and lean against his leg. He doesn’t rush her, just allows her to sit and try to regain control of her breathing as he combs his fingers through her hair.

When Natasha can finally think again, she frowns at herself in disgust. “Sorry,” She apologizes.

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” he tells her. Clint reaches over and opens the backdoor, grabbing his go bag and digging around until his fingers find one of his clean T-shirts. He yanks it out, closes the door. “Can I help you change, or do you want to do it yourself?”

He’s honestly not even sure if she could change herself right now, with how much she was still shaking, but he gives her the choice anyways. She shrugs her shoulders, her way of accepting help without actually having to accept. “Okay, arms up.” Natasha raises her arms, and Clint carefully tugs her shift off her by the collar, making sure the filthy outside never touched any of her skin. He crumples up the shirt into a ball and tucks it in a bag. He bunches up his shirt at the neck hole and slides it over her head before gently guiding her arms through. It takes a lot for his partner to get to this state, and his concern grows with every passing second that goes by and Natasha is still out of it. He fixes the shirt over her torso, making sure she’s completely covered and then sinks down to the ground, leaning his back against the wheel of the car. There’s a soft breeze in the air, the slight chill nipping at their skin a welcome distraction. “C’mere,” he says, and guides Natasha into his side. She tenses for a moment, but then lets her head drop onto his shoulder, allowing Clint to take her weight. He wraps an arm around her to hold her close.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha repeats, and this time Clint doesn’t say anything. He knows she’s not apologizing to him, but someone not in their presence. He doesn’t push it. She’ll tell him when she’s ready, on her own time. He has guesses though. Clint had an older brother, and he knows what a protective but burnt-out older sibling looks like. He’s seen the way her eyes linger on certain little girls in public before snapping back, caught the way she had once brushed her fingers over a fabric doll with pink hair on a store shelf, heard the way she is able to understand children’s speech without any effort. She’s never mentioned a younger sibling before, but sometimes in her sleep, she mumbles a girl’s name, her hands clenched in fists as if trying to hold on to her.

He presses a kiss to her temple, a silent promise. He won’t push her- He doesn’t need to know exactly what happened. He knows how to support her and how to take care of her when she needs it and for now, that’s enough.

Years later, Natasha will press her forehead to an adult Yelena’s, both panting from the fight, Yelena upside down and laying in the wreckage of the red room. Dreykov is finally dead, by Yelena’s hand. Yelena cracks a joke, and Natasha smiles. They’ll never again be those little girls they once were, but they’ve finally found each other.

[fandomscombine]

It's the Lease I Can Do

Platonic! Weasley Twins x Reader

BG: The Weasley twins are so close to having their joke shop become a reality. They had found the perfect location but they had hit a minor problem that could cause them everything. You want to help, but how can you when they, the birthday boys themselves had given up?

a/n: I had this idea for a almst a year now and waited til ther twins bday to write it. I hope you enjoy.

WC: 2111

>>>MASTERLIST<<<

Fred and George causing a ruckus in the common room is a daily occurrence that everyone is accustomed to. However ever since the start of Year 7, the amount of commotion these two had caused can be counted in one hand.

At first glance, it could be attributed to NEWTS or in this year's case-to a pink toad acting as High Inquisitor. Still, more and more nights the twins had claimed the back corner of the common room.

~

The last remaining batch of students were making their way through Filch's checkpoint (an added security protection which also serves for Umbridge having a list of names on who comes in and out of Hogwarts). You glanced down at your watch- 2:27pm, they’re late. Weird, the twins never pass a chance to go to Hogsmeade.

You hear the castle door open behind you. Thank Merlin, you thought but instead you were greeted with a disheveled Angelina. “I’m coming! Wait!”

“Have you seen Fred and George?” You called as she ran past you.

“I think I saw them in the common room!” Angelina shouted back.

The common room? “What are they up to now?” You sighed. Stomping heavily up the stairs. “Ditching me….”

~

“Oi Weaslebees! I know you’re in here!” You rounded the corner of their secret spot. “AHa!”

You caught them red handed, midway into shoving papers into their “Weasley & Weasley'' Trunk. Though what they were hiding, you weren't exactly sure.

“Y/N!” Fred greeted, grabbing onto your shoulders, effectively covering George and the table. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Narrowing your eyes at him. “Really?” Hands on hips you blatantly say “2:15 am, courtyard?? Ring any bells?” Fred shook his head.

Meanwhile George’s head shot up. “Oh shit, y/n we’re so sorry!”

Fred turned to his brother, still clueless on what the heck George was talking about.

Abandoning the trunk, George gave his twin a classic smack on the head. “Hogsmeade, you idiot! We were supposed to all go together.”

“OHHHH FU--” Fred knew he was screwed. “I’M SO SORRY! WE’RE SORRY.” Seizing the messy trunk, he strategized. “Right, here’s the plan: I’m gonna quickly drop this off back in the dorm while you two make your way to the gate. If you run, I guess you can make it. I’ll catch up with you two then.”

“Fred….. We’re not gonna make it” you argued.

“Not if we don’t try.”

“It’s almost 3, Filch would be closing the gates by now.” You sat down on Fred’s empty seat. “Besides we can go to Hogsmeade next time, we could just hang out here. I miss having my best lads around.”

“Awww…we’ve been upgraded from annoying pricks to best lads!” Gushed George, pulling you into a side hug.

“Yea, I could help in whatever it was you guys were doing before I came. I don’t mind.”

At that, you could feel George tense up, his arm around you dropping. “Uhhh…” He looked to the older twin, silently conversing.

You gaze between the boys, sometimes they get so caught up in their scheming that they don’t notice that to others, especially those who had known them for years that their non verbal communication is not so sly.

In the end, Fred gave his brother a subtle shake. “No, that’s alright. I’ll just put this back and we could play gobstones or something, anything you like.”

As Fred headed up to his dorm room, you noticed a piece of paper under the table. Picking it up, the header caught your eye. RE: Lease Agreement. Were the twins looking for a new home after graduation? You didn’t mean to pry. You were close friends, they would tell you if they were moving right? This is big news….you decided to brush it off until another line caught your attention. The shop premise located at Number 93 Diagon Alley. Shop? They are trying to set up shop? That’s brilliant! The twins would get to showcase their inventions to the world! You could feel your pride swell. Leasing Agreements would not proceed if tenants, Mr. Fred Weasley and Mr. George Weasley, are unable to provide an endorser by the date of 31st of March.

“Where’d you get that?” George standing across from you, gobstones on one hand and another pointing at the document. There’s no backing out now.

“It was under the table.” You explained. “I didn’t know you were this far along with the shop.”

“Yea, well it’s not happening now is it?”

“What?”

“Cmon y/n. I know you read it.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s alright. We aren’t getting the place anyway.”

“Wait what? Why?”

“No endorsers.” George stated matter of factly but you sense the pain in his voice.

“How about your parents surely-”

George laughed. “As if mum would suddenly have a change of heart. You knew how she disapproves of our inventions, calling it a waste.”

“Arthur then.”

“Mum won’t let him.”

“Anyone then?” George huffed in defeat. “How about me! I could back you up.”

“You have to be an adult with a proven financial stability.” He stated, effectively shutting you down. “Forget it y/n. The hold ends in 3 days. We’ve tried everything. Just don’t let Fred know that you know. He’s devastated. Promise?”

“I promise.”

“And no pity, sad eyes!” He added as footsteps are heard descending the staircase.

“But I suck at poker faces!”

“Then let’s hope that Freddie is distracted even to not notice.”

~

It’s been 4 days since you had sent the letter to your father.

“Dear papa,

I know that this is a huge favour to ask but I believe it would be worth your while.

So remember back in the summer when you caught Fred Weasley, George Weasley and me snooping around with the Extendable Ears but let us go because you were so enamored?

Well turns out the twins and trying to get a shop up and running! How amazing is that?

The only problem is that they need an endorser to back them up in order to proceed with the lease agreements. The are currently on hold for the Shop Number 93 in Diagon Alley until the 31st.

This is where the huge favour comes in. Could you please be their backer? You did say that you’d love to help in some part in their invention, be an investor of sorts. Please papa. I would love to do it myself but I have to wait a couple more months to qualify. Plus it’s their 18th birthday on April 1st. Imagine their surprise if it were to come through.

I’d love to hear from you soon, regardless of your choice.

Your favourite child

y/n.”

The twin’s 18th birthday was spent with absolute love and madness.

Lee had unloaded his stash of butterbeer and firewhiskey, Fred had slipped Angelina with one of their new prank inventions- which changes the person into a sickly color of vomit green, a perfect way to ditch class or events.

Upon learning that the color would last for a few days and would only fade with the ingestion of an antidote, antidote that George said they still had yet to create. Angelina (understandably) threw cake at them. The Gryffindor chaser with perfect aim, hits its mark. However, Fred using his beater skills, instinctively blocks the incoming cake.

Resulting in a wide splat zone. Fred’s arm was covered in frosting, having sprayed everyone around him in whipped cream during the impact. George wasn’t safe too, despite being across from Fred, the rebounce of the cake had made him the new target.

You had just changed into your pajamas when a tapping sound came from your window.

Your family owl, Lanny, was outside carrying a large yellow envelope.

Quickly letting him in, you gave Lanny a gentle pat and brought out some owl treats for the tired bird.

Unscrolling the note tied to his leg, you begin to read.

“My dearest y/n,

My sincere apologies for the late reply, it’s been quite hectic at work.

In regards to your favour, you need not worry. Everything is taken care of. I had met with the landlord of Number 93 Diagon Alley and had all the documents settled. I had also gone and checked to make sure the two lads aren’t being ripped off. Fred and George had picked a nice prime location.

Greet them a happy birthday for me alright? And tell them that I look forward to witnessing them succeed in their endeavors.

They would undoubtedly be bringing a lot of much needed joy into these darkening times. The people would be thankful for them.

I also had Lanny bring the twins’ copy of the Lease Agreement.

I can’t wait to see you all soon.

Much love,

Papa.”

~

Fred was grateful that their friends had retired into the night, leaving him and George to sulk into the dreadful reality.

“We were this close Georgie, this close!” Fred winced, pinching his fingers close without touching.

“I know but there was nothing else we could have done.” consoled George but even he himself was having a hard time. Number 93 was the perfect location for their joke shop. But now it’s gone.They are back to square one, scouting for locations.

“Fred! George! There you are! I have great news!” You yelled, not caring if you could wake up the other students.

“Oi Y/N! Be careful!.” Even in a bad mood, Fred Weasley couldn’t help being protective.

You banged the envelope on the table. “Surprise! Happy Birthday! From papa and I.”

“Another gift?” wondered George.

“So you don’t want it then?” You challenged, crossing your arms. You tried to look intimidating but the pajamas weren’t doing any good. “Cause I bet a hundred galleons that you’d shit your pants if you were to reject it.”

“That confident eh?” Smirked Fred, taking the contents of the envelope out. “ What do you think is so grand that Georgie and I would---BLOODY HELL! Y/N!” Fred kept looking down at the paper and up to you, unbelieving.

“What is it Freddie?” asked George leaning over to read whatever it was that left his brother speechless.

Re: Lease Agreement

Mr. y/l/n has submitted his endorsement to Mr. Fred Weasley and Mr. George Weasley.

The turnover of the leasing property of Shop Number 93 Diagon Alley would begin on April 1st …..

“Oh My- Y/n? Is this real?” George whispered, afraid that if he were any louder this dream would end.

“Yes, absolutely, 100%.” You affirmed. “The shop is yours! Opff-”

George embraced you tight, catching you off guard. You could feel your right shoulder getting wet. “Heyya big guy, don’t cry.” Running a hand up and down his back.

“But how?” Fred with brows creased was still stuck in a trance, you could see the paper shake in his grasp.

“You left the agreement noticed a couple of days ago. I might have accidentally read it. George said to not let you know cause you might get angry-”

“YOu KNEW?!?”

“George only knew I saw the paper. Nothing else.” You defended. “I thought i might try and help, so I called in a favour with papa. You knew how much he was impressed with the Extendable Ear, so I mentioned if he wanted to back you up. I only got his reply just now, said he’d love to and got onto ironing out the paperwork and viola!” Pointing at the document. “Oh and he also said Happy 18th Birthday, looking forward to your success and the people would be thankful for bringing a lot of much needed joy into these darkening times.”

“Thanks Y/n but this is a lot we can’t possibly-”

You cut Fred off before he could say more. “Oh please, you have done countless things for me. And I know what you’re gonna say- but see you would do the same for me. Besides think of this as your first investors. We want to help. We see your potential, we know you two, Fred, George, are gifted with bringing laughter and joy to people with your inventions."

"Thank you, truly y/n and to your dad too." Fred admitted, opening himself up. "No one's really backed us up with our inventions before, we've been always told off for being childish. It really means a lot."

“Hey, it’s the lease I could do.” You replied, causing the twins to chuckle immediately lightening up the mood.

It's great to see them relax again after weeks of stressing over the shop. Times might be changing but at least tonight, you got your best lads back.

~

Everything Taglist : @gruffle1

HP Taglist: @onlyfreds

[herstarburststories]

He didn’t make it to 42

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: it’s Dean’s birthday, you go to visit him with some news and things that need to be said.

A/N: Happy bday, De.

Warnings: so much angst, mentions of sex, hopeful/happy ending (?)

Dean’s dead. It’s Dean’s birthday and he’s dead. You can’t argue much.

Sam denied the demon blood inside him, and that didn’t stop its evil nature from growing and gasping for his fresh air to the point he was almost shocked alive. Dean denied his dad’s destructive methods’ results for the longest time, and that didn’t stop the cicatrixes in every emotion he had ever shown. You denied the absence of Dean and that didn’t stop the bricks cracking in your soul. There’s only so far you can go with your eyes closed.

So here you are. Standing in front of an empty grave. You are bigger than the dull tombstone, yet you can’t help but not to feel tall, at all. How can you even start to talk? Talking to Dean used to be easy even when it got hard and now you’re feeling like a lost kid in a supermarket. Your snide thinking spells out his name with venom, saying it isn’t easy for you to open your barmy mouth and spill out contrarian shit because this isn’t Dean, just another meaningless symbolism that Sam promises that will help. The real Dean died almost a year ago, he was burned in a hunter’s funeral, the flames dancing over his body as the smell of burnt meat invaded your nostrils. Whenever you try to remember his fragrance, that manly aroma which you loved to scent each morning, all your brain can come up with is the odor of his skin and guts burning. The smell lingers like bad perfume, it doesn’t matter how many times you wash yourself with his soap-- that only broke your heart worse.

But today is Dean’s birthday. He deserves a visit, even if it’s not him. Then you go and attempt to deal with the desolation, push it away just a little, and pick up something from the enormous pile of things you wish to tell Dean. You glance at the cold tombstone: Dean Winchester. 1979 - 2020. Beloved son, big brother, and husband. Hunter. A hero. Simple definitions that can never make it up for who he was and what he meant. You purse your lips and cough a little, a gentle wind touches your cheek so tenderly. If you were still a believer, you’d think this is some sort of sign, Dean’s presence or some other pious hoax. All you do now is to remain in quietude, a deep breath. Ultimately, your voice comes:

‘’You didn’t make it to forty two, huh?’’ You scoff humorless, reminiscing to the multiple days that Dean said he wouldn’t go past 35. He did live each year like it was the last--- you aren’t sure if it's such a good thing. If you carry on like your days are outnumbered, you are silently entertaining yourself until death's knock on your door. ‘’I always hated when you were right. Let’s be honest, you had the words of a pessimist and the wants of an optimist. Still, if you were to be right about something, it would be about a bad situation. A nest with too many vampires, how crappy the motel’s bedroom would be, or how that third glass of wine would make me tipsy. So yeah, I always hated when you were right. And look at you now! You aren’t right, you aren’t wrong. You are dead! And I’m the crazy girl screaming at an empty tombstone.’’

You let out a laugh empty of joy. That’s how a hunter’s life is: you die and people stop talking about you because it’s too sad or too long gone to hold any pity, meanwhile the ones who recall about you go loud with all the spirits in their heads. You put your hand in the pockets of the heavy leather jacket that once belonged to a green eyed man who would be turning 42 today, some strange force causing you to speak again.

‘’Wow.’’ You shake your head to the blue way you paint the scene until you notice that you never greeted him. ‘’Hey.’’ The simple word adds a comical insult to injury. ‘’Guess the dead don’t care about manners, huh?’’ You arch your eyebrows with a grin that demonstrates anything but happiness. ‘’Miracle died. Sam digged a hole next to the bunker and buried him there. He isn’t the same since you died, you know? Not the deceased dog-- Well, he wasn’t the same either. Always whining and scratching your door like a fucking cat, and sniffing your old boots. He made me company in your bed and I whined as much as he did when you didn’t come back home that day. He stood by the door most days, waiting for you to appear. I can’t judge him, I did the same.’’ You shrug, not caring about how risible that confession may look. It's true. You became as irrational as a loyal dog at some point in this sorrow. ‘’And Sam, your baby brother… I think he died with you right there, Dean. He didn’t try to bring you back as he promised, but I shouted and screamed so much. I said I would burn the bunker and throw Baby over a cliff if he didn’t-- if he didn’t let me try. I lived up to the mad woman title.’’

You are crestfallen, pacing on top of where the eldest Winchester - Sam’s brand new nomination -  supposedly was buried. You know your boots barely touch an infected land, there's no deceased man under your steps. The dead thing is in you.

‘’I spent days dragging your body everywhere and nowhere, anywhere I could catch a crumb of relief in hope to bring you back. But I couldn’t. Jack could, but that ungrateful idiot doesn’t wanna follow his grandpa steps and get too attached to mere humans, the creation or whatever. As if we are just some skin and bone to him, as if you are just another human.’’

You sit down on the tombstone, some tender solace in being close to a thing that's supposed to represent him, like sleeping hugged to a pillow or waking up to a photograph of his. Your nails sink against the gelid concrete at the thought of screaming into the sky for the new God that seemed as deaf as the last one. His calm answer to your burning pain. How he dared to tell you he knew what he was doing— as if he was the original lord and not a three years old. You can't make him do it, so you hold on the fury of some overthrown nation.

‘’Anyway, I couldn’t bring you back. Your body, well, you know how human anatomy works. Your body started to smell like death. We tried to stop with human and magic ways, and it wouldn’t work because you were dead. You should’ve seen the doctor’s face when we got you in that fancy hospital tha night. I think we traumatized the doctor with so much violence and trauma. She didn’t even give us a false hope or anything, you know? She just asked about organ donation of what was left. She just wanted to take every little thing out of you, as if you were just another accident on a Tuesday night.’’ Your shake your head as the memories and your points start to mix, it's hard to discern things and keep a straight line when you have an open wound in your insides. ‘’Well, they couldn’t bring you back to life, and neither could Rowena or whatever I looked for. Don’t be mad because I tried, Winchester. You know I’m too stubborn for my own good. I had to try.’’ you refuse to apologize, yet adds the playful words in his eulogy. ‘’But then your body started to stink and God, how could I continue to be so violent to your corpse? That was when I decided to listen to you for the first time and to Sam, so I let you go. I hate you for asking that.’’ What an ambiguous, contradictory truth to bare. You are glimpses of a person for months because of Dean Winchester, still have the energy to argue his selfless logic, just to love him even more. He's got your devotion, but man you can hate him sometimes. ‘’I hate you for going on that stupid hunt. I hate you for being dead, you giant idiot that I love so much.’’ You can't bring your mouth to say loved. "I was always telling you to let the past go and now I’m in love with a dead thing. What a comic way to end our history. I told you that Miracle died, right? I don’t know if dogs go to heaven, but I hope he’s in there with you. I wonder what your heaven is like. I bet it has Whiskey.''

Your dry chuckle makes your notice the tears in your eyes, glistening your orbs as they go like a waterfall to be absorbed by the thirsty land after leaving your cheeks.

"Sam and I-- We tried to make some sense out of this cruelty, but we can’t. You are dead and I can’t seem to put it past me. I still sleep in your bed, and I can still taste your body burning on the roof of my mouth in the quiet nights. I cried this morning because someone asked for a burger, can you believe that? It was so stupid since I used to shake my head and argue with you about cholesterol. Suddenly I was crying at lunch in a restaurant because some stupid kid asked for a burger with extra bacon. They sang Happy birthday to this dumbass child, and I interrupted with my awful crying, and wished that you were celebrating your birthday and not that kid. I guess you could say I wish death upon an innocent child with a problematic eating routine.’’ That was a whole new level of low, as if you are the one wrapped with the sentiment of laying six feet under.

‘’Everyone tells you about how grief is singular and particular with similar emotions that bring people who went through this together. They even have that crap stages thing and all that. You know what they don’t tell you?’’ Your mouth shuts for a moment, like you are waiting some response. You nod as if whatever you were expecting is handed to you. ‘’Grief can be fucking ridiculous. Who cries because of a burger full of oil and cardiac diseases? Who cries because they found a grocery store recipe under her dead boyfriend’s bed? Who falls on the ground screaming in the middle of the mall because they saw a flannel? Who? Those things are so stupid.’’ You smile like there's no tomorrow and the laugh leaving your lips is a treacherous tone. Perhaps you just aren't build up to express joy anymore. ‘’You see it in the movies and in the books and you think, you know, you think to yourself that grieving is being sad on special dates and randomly remembering the loved ones because of some screaming memory, like a flannel or their perfume. Thing is, it’s not just that. All your body seems so small, so tight for all the ache and agony inside it. Your senses go wild, you are not just one person in one place. You’re just the pain everywhere, like being pulled apart and you beg to jump in the fucking grave with them. At least you would be together, at least you would feel like one person and not suffering edges of a broken earthy thing. And--And you start remembering things you didn’t even know you had mesmerized. I look at the ceiling and remember you saying you’d paint it someday. I look at the kitchen and remember me screaming at you for giving Miracle the rest of the food. I smell Sam’s clothes and started crying because hey, they don’t smell like alcohol. You don’t iron them while drinking anymore, so of course they don’t smell like cheap beer.’’ You are chuckling through the tears and it only makes it more monstrous. ‘’Everything is you now that you are gone. Every man has something similar to you, every garden is green as your eyes, and each step sounds like you are coming home. They didn’t prepare me, not for this.’’ You said breathless. A soft single follows. The knife cuts both ways; the empty breeze and the words hurt. Where's the middle term? Where's the limbo? Where's the only safe place for you to rest your weary head?

Out of nowhere, you blurt out, ‘’I can’t masturbate,’’ I know it’s something stupid and even selfish to say, but I think you’d like to know. I can’t masturbate. That’s a part of the whole losing someone process that people are too ashamed to discuss, or maybe they don’t have the urge to be touched anymore because after someone you love dies, after someone-- the hands who touched are dead and cold, you become a haunted object. That’s how I feel most days, like I’m a haunted house because you touched me and now you’re dead and some days I believe I am too.’’ You look around the places. It's beautiful. It's lonely. It has trees and flowers and green. Not as green as Dean's eyes, but it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even have eyes at this point. ‘’Well, I can’t masturbate. I can’t touch myself. And I can’t ask someone else either. I tried and ended up punching the guy, Dean. I swear. I panicked when he was between my legs and just punched his nose. You’d have liked it, you were always the jealous kind. I won’t admit that, but I thought it was kinda hot. Especially when you got possessive in sex.’’ A dirty grin appeared on your lips, the echoes of luxury lasting in your eyes for a brief moment. ‘’I don’t think I can be cared for anymore, honestly. Sam tried to hug me when Miracle died and I… It was like I wasn't there. I got frozen in time, and I live in my sleep. In my nightmares you are alive. I  dream about the day you died every week and I used to wake up screaming, but now those nightmares are the only proof you were alive now that you’re as dead as the police report says this time. It was the most painful, calamitous moment for you and I swear it was a nightmare for me, but then I realized that at least I had you there, egoistical or not, I made my nightmare into a dream.’’ You aren't sure which opinion Dean would have on that. Would he understand? Would he shake his head? You wish you can ask him just this one more thing, just beg him to write it down for you on how to be without him here.

You raise on your feet, glaring at the name craved in the concrete. The tears go by still, although they're as usual as the blood in glir veins at this point. ‘’Death is so silly. What it takes, anyway?" Each word conquers more inches of pure wrath. ''People die because they stumbled on their own feet and hit their head somewhere, or they drove their car too close and too fast to the cliff, or because they were giving birth, or because they dated the wrong person, or because they were hunting a fucking vampire and got impaled. What are the chances? How stupid, and idiotic is death? Always creeping and waiting to bite and chew a piece of you-- Taking every scrap of you from me like that’s its right.’’ You are screaming, starting to kick and punch the tombstone with any piece of straight you have. Your limbs hurt and the blood is visible, but you keep going. ‘’YOUR STUPID DOG DIED, DEAN! AND YOU DIED! AND I DIED! SAMMY DIED! YEAH, IS SAID SAMMY! GO AHEAD, TELL ME ONLY YOU CAN CALL HIM THAT.’’ Another punch, your knuckles are ripped. Another kick, your boot as a hole. ‘’DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.’’ Kick. ‘’SAMMY, SAMMY, SAMMY!’’ A punch to each name. Anything to get a reaction, to get comfort. Anything. ‘’YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU ARE DEAD.’’ Gasping for something you don't need anymore, sweet oxygen, your eyes are on the tombstone again. And the definitions. And the trees. Your body is sore and aching. It is the kind and coercion no person wants which you needed; the freedom of feeling outside the exact pain that was inside. ‘’You can’t because you are dead. I’ve been playing some sick games in my mind, you know? Sam stopped hunting and had his closure. He was always better at letting go than you and I, but he’s still hurting. I never saw him hurting so much. I think he knows you won’t come back this time, how could you make us promise something like that?  Well, my twisted game is a bunch of misleading what ifs. What if you hadn’t gone after John? What if you hadn’t gone on that last hunt? What if you had stayed with Lisa? At first I didn’t like her much. Jealous, I admit that. But she grew on me. She gave you something I couldn’t back then and I’ll always be thankful for that. And even though it would rip me apart, I’d rather you to die at sixth after living your suburban dream with her. Have another kid besides Ben, maybe a girl this time, and just have that apple pie life. You and Sam would live close and your kids would always play. They’d be as close as brothers. Maybe I’d get a guy and bring my own kids and we could’ve a barbecue and everyone would be happy. But we don’t get soft epilogues here. It ends how it starts, right? Bloody and desperate. I thought maybe, maybe Lisa could understand what’s going through my head now. I drove to her new address and parked close to her house. I must have spent hours there, thinking if I should come in or not, If she somehow remembered after Castiel died or if I could make her brain work again if I told her the truth. But then I just drove back home and fell asleep wrapped in that stupid lumberjack flannel of yours. The one I always mocked, yeah? She may understand me, but I know you wouldn’t want that. You want her, you want me and Sam to be happy. I don’t know if I can do that, Dean. It’s like myt brittle soul shrewd and my body is just waiting to collapse.’’ You signed, overwhelmed by the battle without an anthem. The victory with no triumph. Is it still a win when you don't have someone to come home too? ‘’Your dog died, it’s the first birthday you didn’t live to see, and I bought all the things you told Mrs Butters you wanted for your birthday because it’s your birthday. I just don’t know how to celebrate it with you dead. People stop counting after they die, right? They just say he’d have been 42 or he died at 41. They give melancholy smiles when they wake up and check the day on their phones and a woe atmosphere swallows them for the rest of the day. Then they get better the next day. I think everyday is your birthday.’’ You attempt to wipe away your tears, which only causes your pulsating hand to stain your face red. ‘’Dean, for the first time, what died stayed dead! Congrats.’’ Once again, a hysterical laugh. ‘’I wish but no. What died didn’t stay dead, you are alive, so alive in my head. I swear you are there some days. I wake and watch the door, so sure you’ll come back. Sam says I’m living in delusion and I have to wake up and keep going since that's what you would want. That's enough to make him keep going, but it only makes me angry. Everyone we know and some strangers looks at me like I'm a house on fire and no longer a warm home, like I'm a car accident. They think I don't notice but I do.’’ You look at your boots, the whole is rolling out blood like your hands. You feel closer to Dean. How sick.

‘’Help, I’m still right where you left me." You plea, his love lingering like a bruise. ''I think gravity is overwhelming and it keeps me here. Sometimes it’s like I’m one of those dusted books Sam used to read. Or those Bukowski ones that you hid, so we wouldn’t see how smart you’re. You tried so hard to hide your intelligence because you didn’t think you were entitled to it. You saw yourself as the protector and never the valuable one for protection. You, the man who made an EMF out of an old radio, who rebuilt the Impala from the ground multiple times, and who knew patterns better than any detective. The man who showed me I could rely on someone other than myself. The dude with a lopsided grin, tough hands and a heart of gold. I miss you so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing all those classic rock songs and Taylor Swift pop hits, while I drove here. I would think you were home, smelling like guts because you wanted to eat before taking a shower after a hunt. I would think that you are in the Deancave, waiting for me to curl up on your lap to watch Scooby Doo or Doctor Sexy MD until we aren’t watching anymore. If I didn’t know better I would think no death could take you from me. There would be no tear us apart in our vows.’’ The only thing that keeps your organism working is that Dean died knowing how much you loved him. You never let this talk for later or never. No tomorrow is promised. That's a nice comfort, maybe that's what will help you to let go in the future. ‘’But yesterday your stupid, skink dog died and I lost the last living thing that I had from you. You know what’s more angerting? I cried and Sam cried and I noticed we were the living things you left behind and all we have is each other. All your closets of backlogged dreams were left for us-- so yeah. Sam is done hunting and he’s met a lovely girl, and they are moving in like in your domestic dreams. I’m taking care of the family business like your other contradictory dream and making sure Sam is safe enough to be normal. Because I have to, we have too. Stupidly enough, I still wait for the day you’ll burst out the door and tell us to hit the road again. I still watch every episode of your dumb tv shows to make sure I’ll know everything that happened when you ask. I still drive around in your car and close my eyes when the street is calm, only picturing you driving as Baby’s engineers go wild but those are my hands on the steering wheel. If I didn't know better, I’d think you are still around. But I know better. I still feel you all around. I love you.’’

Your monologuing ends as astutely as it stated. You get up, press a kiss to your ruined for the next weeks hands and place it on the rock with writings. You turn around and walk back to the car that you parked near, only in case of Dean wanting to see Baby. How knows? You and your clandestine faith. You lick your lip and get in the car.

You swear you the AC/DC cassette wasn't there before, but when you turn on the car and the radio it starts playing. It's the first true smile that comes to your mouth, it's bloodstained and you look like a shameless woman. With that you can deal.

It hurts a bearable hurt for now. You didn't think it was possible. Maybe someday.

The end.

(she takes a little longer to arive in heaven than sammy. his baby brother says that women are most likely to live around six years more than men. it doesn't ease him up, though. dean waited sam for too long, his platonic soulmate. and now he has to wait his romantic one too? the eldest Winchester considers it the best earthly present when the he sense you around, that smell of orange and apples. it's you, he knows before even turning around. he can't wait to love you again. your name rolls off your tongue so naturally, as if you had seen each other just yesterday: ‘’hey, y/n.’’)

But then again, nothing ever really ends, does it?

REBLOG AND COMMENT. Feedback is magic and helps me!

Starburst's footnote: It just didn't feel right to make an author's note on the top. I wanted it all only to be an arrow to the story. So, this is my side note: it's six am and I'm up writing this after inspiration kissed me with a bruise in the middle of the night. Or more like grabbed my throat. Anyway, I had to write and finish this one to post today, even pushing sleep aside. Hey, we are writers, that's what we do! I've been watching the show since I was eleven and I cried like a baby with the finale. This series was just so important and crucial to molde aspects of relationships for me. The song marjorie by Taylor Swift was used here, and so was the line "you got my devotion/ but man, I can hate you sometimes" by Harry Styles. I told you guys I would use it somewhere! A special thanks to @msmarvelouswinchester​ who helped me with her encouraging and opinon. You are the best! And with all of this I wanna say: Happy bday, Dean Winchester!

REBLOG AND COMMENT! Feedback is magic! Especially about this fic, I’d like to know your opinion. Tags in the reblog! Send an ask or dm to get in the taglist.

[funkylittlebard]

Hey, @too-many-fandoms-no-social-life ! Happy birthday!!  I wrote you a thing, hope you like it!

edit 18/05: Ao3 link

CWs: Geralt’s predictably awful self-esteem, there’s a literal monster at one point, but that’s about it

Geraskier hurt/comfort-ish, getting together shenanigans 

They had been wandering side by side down the trail when it had happened. Geralt had left Roach in the stables of the last town, deciding that the narrow winding path overgrown with thistles and thorns that lead to his next contract would be too difficult for her to navigate. So it had been just the two of them together strolling along in the shade avoiding the bright afternoon sun. It had happened slowly, at first. Geralt had stiffened and froze, nose twitching as if he had smelled something, and Jaskier had been turning to make a joke that was certain to be in poor taste right as the creature descended on them. Geralt had his sword out instantly, pointing it straight ahead of him, ready to strike at any moment. Jaskier, however…

It wasn't as if he hadn't been trained to use a sword as a viscount's son. It was just that he’d never paid all that much attention, and what little he had taken in had been forgotten over the years. He hadn't even told Geralt he knew how to hold a sword, for god's sake. As it was he didn't carry one, just a few daggers he kept hidden about his person. 

He had been reaching for one when it happened. It had taken a moment between seeing Geralt's horrified face, spotting the threat, and making a move for his dagger. His fingertips were just dusting the top of his long dark leather boot when the giant centipede had hit him square in the chest with its mandible, pushing him back down onto the ground. Wide-eyed, he had watched in horror as the thing mounted his chest and hissed at him, rearing its back ready to strike again. Sucking in what he had thought would be his final breath, a panicked thought registered in his head- I never even got to tell Geralt I-

The head had flown off landing centimeters from his own with a sickening squelch and squeal of breath from the creature. Before Jaskier could even think to move, Geralt had been there, piercing yellow eyes boring into him, searching for something. He had let out a ragged breath, and pulled Jaskier up to his chest, holding him close and tight. 

Which brought them up to now, with Jaskier sitting in front of the witcher, watching meticulous fingers tear off strips of bandage to wrap around Jaskier’s battered head. He found himself thoroughly entranced by the way those same hands were able to do something so delicate as efficiently as they had wielded the sword that struck the centipede’s head clean off. Geralt hummed and Jaskier peeked up at him again. The frown on Geralt's face hadn't left since he'd placed Jaskier down from their impromptu hug. It seemed unlikely that Geralt was cross with him, but then again, he had a habit of blaming Jaskier for problems of his own making. An involuntary whimper escaped him at the thought, and suddenly he could feel the weight of Geralt's gaze pinning him in place. 

“Jaskier-” Geralt rushed forward, slotting himself between Jaskier’s knees and staring up at him, concern etched into every pore. Jaskier felt shaking hands settle tentatively on his knees. “Jaskier, what's the matter?” 

They locked eyes and Jaskier’s stomach felt liquid. What if he had died? How could he go on now, knowing that any opportunity to tell Geralt the truth could be snatched from him without even a moment's notice? He felt sick.

“Geralt, I,” he paused, swallowed, and continued. “Geralt I have to tell you something.'' The other man grunted and continued searching for any sign of further injury. Jaskier gasped as his hand slid gently around his face, grazing one of the scratches on his forehead with his fingertips. He stared as Geralt poured a little water on the rag before swiping it across the cut. Jaskier held his breath as Geralt continued his gentle ministrations. He had to tell him, it was too much. 

He drew in a deep breath, let it out, and opened his mouth to try again. “Geralt, I-”

“Don't talk.” Geralt silenced him with his gruff reply as he daubed some tincture on and spread it across his forehead. “Makes it harder for me to tell what I'm doing.”

Something about that seemed… off to Jaskier, Geralt could focus on much more difficult tasks in much more taxing circumstances. Instead of questioning it, he swallowed and waited for Geralt to be done, his left foot tapping a frenetic beat on the forest floor as he waited. 

After what seemed like years, and as Jaskier could feel the very last of his patience fraying, Geralt finally pulled back. He peered at Jaskier, eyes darting about with a look of intense concentration as he assessed his work. He nodded sharply and turned away. 

“You should be fine now.” Jaskier didn't miss the way Geralt's shoulders quaked as he bent down to pack up his supplies. Gathering himself up to his feet, Jaskier padded across the clearing and set his hand down cautiously on Geralt's shoulder. He felt more than heard Geralt suck in a shocked breath. It didn’t matter- he had to do it now, or he might lose the nerve. He tightened his grip ever so slightly on Geralt's shoulder. 

“Geralt. Can I tell you what was bothering me now, please?”  Jaskier was not above pleading- his eyebrows pulled together and a slight pout emerged on his face. Geralt’s fist clenched, and he ducked his head against his chest with a strained sigh. Although he seemed angry, Jaskier had gotten very good at reading Geralt's moods over the years- this was an anxious sound, not an angry one. Well, that made two of them then. 

The possibility that in telling Geralt how he felt he might push him away was not lost on Jaskier. But he had tried silently enduring. He had tried distracting himself with sex and flings, with wine and poetry. Nothing changed how he felt, it just made his heart ache all the more. He would rather lose Geralt than carry on without telling him how he felt. He took in a final steadying breath before letting the words all rush out of him all at once.

“Geralt, when we part it feels like my soul has been torn in two, I cannot stand not to be by your side, ask Essi, I’m tragic without you every winter, because dear heart, I love you.” 

He took a moment to breathe, reeling a bit from his admission. The forest seemed to spin around him as he sucked in a nervous breath, in a dizzying rush of dark greens, ochres and browns all spinning into one. He stumbled back a little as his vision settled. Geralt stood in front of him, completely still. Jaskier could feel his eyes beginning to water. Why wasn't he moving? Why wasn't he saying anything? Why wasn't he-

“Jask, you can't.”

What? Jaskier studied Geralt's back as he tried to understand what Geralt meant. He could feel his hands getting clammy and his knees shaking minutely. He thought he had been prepared for rejection, but to hear Geralt spell out that he wasn’t enough for him so clearly...  

“Well, it's good to know how you really feel Geralt, thank you for telling me,” Jaskier said forlornly, looking down at the ground and blinking rapidly trying to keep the tears at bay. At least he had had all those years with him before Geralt made him leave.

He cleared his throat and went over to stand in front of Geralt, ready to say goodbye, head back to their room at the inn and collect his belongings to make a hasty exit off into the sunset to anywhere but here. Instead, he found himself stopped short at the sight of Geralt. His hands clenched tightly closed, jaw trembling as he tried to keep it jammed shut. His head was resting against his chest and his hair was falling in a state of disarray that obscured his expression from Jaskier’s view. He took a step closer and reached one arm out in front of him like he did when trying to get Roach to accept his love, cantankerous as she was.

“Geralt?” he said, edging closer. “I understand that you don't feel the same way, that you don’t think I’m good enough for you-”

“That's not it.”

They stood frozen for a moment as Geralt's words settled in. Jaskier blinked and tilted his head in confusion. Nobody moved. Jaskier could still feel the tears prickling in his eyes, threatening to fall at a moment’s notice. He pressed on anyway- he might as well know what the problem was now, having come so far. 

“Then what is it, Geralt?” The clearing fell silent again. Geralt haltingly tilted his head up from his chest, and the expression on his face was so raw that Jaskier’s stomach jumped, butterflies fluttering through it. He watched as Geralt swallowed, and frowned as he stared back down at the ground, knuckles turning white where he was clenching his fists impossibly tighter.

“It's me, Jaskier. I'm not good enough for you,” he said it so softly that Jaskier wasn't quite sure he'd heard it at first. Surely this strong, capable, considerate individual in front of him didn't truly think that. He paused a moment. No, that was of course entirely possible. Geralt's view of himself had never been especially reliable. It wasn't surprising, what with how so many other people treated him, and the man’s own views on his ‘mutant’ status, but that didn't make it any easier for Jaskier to hear. 

“You're an idiot.”

Geralt didn't move from where he was, didn't blink, didn’t protest. Jaskier sighed- that wasn't what he had meant. 

“Of course you're good enough for me Geralt, why ever wouldn't you be?”

Geralt flinched away from Jaskier’s touch. His shoulders hunched, and it took a moment before he spoke again. 

“Jaskier… I, I’m nothing compared to you. You have your words, and your songs are… fuck Jaskier I can’t even explain. I-” an irritated sigh ran through him and he scraped his hand through his hair. He winced and tried again. “You.. all I do is kill things. You bring joy to people's lives, and they can’t even look at me. You are so much better than me in so, so many ways.” He stepped away, tension clear in every part of him. Jaskier’s heart melted. How could such a wonderful man think so little of himself? It hurt.

He ran his hand very lightly across Geralt's arm. Then he snatched up his wrist and spun the man forcefully round to face him. A little surprised at his success, he blinked but carried on regardless. He clutched Geralt's hand and brought it up to his chest over his heart, willing Geralt to notice from his heartbeat that he was not lying. He angled his face to try and catch Geralt's eye, and when that proved difficult he reached up with his right hand and caught Geralt's chin, tugging his face so their gazes met. Geralt’s amber stare wavered and flickered, eyes glassy. Jaskier tugged roughly until Geralt's eyes focused in on him.

“Geralt. Darling. I am not too good for you. I'm sorry that you feel that way, but I promise, I will do everything in my power to help you see yourself the way I do.” He let his grip on Geralt's hand and jaw soften. He inched back, let his grip slowly fall completely free, and made to slip a step away. He found he couldn't, because there was a sudden, surprising grip holding him in place. 

Geralt's gaze had not moved from the floor but he took in a shuddering breath and looked up once more. His golden eyes glinted in the light, shining with unshed tears. He nodded and moved a step closer. 

“Jaskier,” he whispered, reaching very slowly for his hands. “I’m... I’m not good for you. But I…” he sucked in a breath, his anticipation apparent. “I want to be.” He finished firmly. 

Jaskier smiled. He could see Geralt's mouth moving slowly towards a smile as well. Nervous but determined to take the opportunity while destiny offered it to him, he looked Geralt dead in the eye and said, 

“May I kiss you, my love?”

Geralt nodded cautiously. And then he leaned in. Jaskier couldn't help but notice the way his eyelashes brushed his cheeks as his eyes fluttered shut. Unable to wait any longer, Jaskier surged forward to press their lips together. He sighed, content, as they leaned into each other, and he let his hand fall to rest on Geralt’s waist. He felt Geralt’s smile push up against his mouth and his arms loop across Jaskier’s shoulders. With the sun starting to dim behind them, and the rustling of leaves in the breeze, Jaskier didn’t think he could remember ever feeling so elated in his life.

[artificialqueens]

What Baking Can Do (Rosnali) - Athena2

Summary: Rosé keeps making food for Denali as a way of expressing her crush, not knowing that Denali feels the same way.

A/N: Writing has been slow for me lately, but I'm glad I was able to finish this! It's basically just pure fluff, and I hope you enjoy! Please leave some feedback if you'd like, I really appreciate it! Thank you to Writ for betaing!

Title from the song from Waitress because I'm basic.

Rosé might live in the city now, but in the small southern town where she spent most of her childhood, every woman had an arsenal of pie and casserole recipes to whip out at a moment’s notice for birthdays, funerals, and new neighbors.

Rosé just so happens to have a new neighbor, and as she knocks on the door, a fresh strawberry pie in one hand, she feels the pride her mother must have felt in welcoming someone new, giving them a nice gift.

Even if she’s already friends with the new neighbor she’s welcoming.

“You didn’t have to do this, Rosie,” Denali says as she takes the pie, a huge smile on her face showing her dimples. “I mean, we’re already friends. Hell, I should make you something for telling me about this apartment in the first place.”

It’s true that Rosé had gone right to Denali when she found out the apartment was up for sale, knowing that she and her roommate Kahmora hated the tiny apartment they had, with the shower that always broke and the heat that never went on. She was just helping out a friend. A friend she’s just happened to have a crush on for a year now, since the night Jan introduced them at some club.

“It’s nothing,” Rosé insists. “You know I like to bake.”

“Why complain, Denali?” Kahmora asks. “It’s food that’s actually edible.”

“My food is perfectly edible!” Denali sputters. She bites her lip as Kahmora stares, and nods in admittance to herself. “Look, no one’s ever died from eating my cooking.”

“No one’s ever really enjoyed it, either,” Kahmora mumbles under her breath.

Rosé holds back a smile. Denali’s struggles in the kitchen have been well-known in the time Rosé’s known her, with Rosé’s favorite being the pancakes that Denali somehow burnt and left raw at the same time. She’s always been so busy with skating and work that she never got much practice at cooking, and Rosé pushes away the thought of teaching her, of her hand curling around Denali's as they mix ingredients.

“Keep mumbling, Kahmora. Maybe I’ll eat the whole pie myself.”

“I’ll see you, Denali.” Rosé leaves them to fight over the pie and heads back down the hall, passing apartments full of people she’d welcomed with food at one point. There’s Kylie and her roommates Ra’jah and Scarlet, who loved the peach cobbler Rosé made. Then Brooke and Vanessa, who demolished her chocolate cake, next door to Raja and Manila, who she still makes almond tarts for from time to time. It’s Rosé’s favorite part of making something, really--to have someone love it so much. Rosé thinks of the smile on Denali’s face and knows this won’t be the last time she makes her something.

—-

Rosé’s normally much smoother, more confident. If Denali were anyone else, Rosé would’ve been open about her crush and already asked her out months ago. But there’s something different about Denali, something that makes Rosé hesitant to take such a leap, to confess her feelings, because if it ruins things between them, then she’d lose a friend she really cares about.

Food is safer than feelings, so Rosé ignores everything and busies herself in making dinner, not realizing how much spaghetti she’s making until it’s all piled in the bowl. There’s enough to feed a village, even after she and Jan eat. Rosé stares at the bowl and figures Denali wouldn’t mind some.

Her heart leaps into her throat when Denali opens the door. Her hair is up in a bun and she looks adorable in her tie dye sweatshirt, soft and sweet in a way that makes Rosé’s chest hurt.

“I made way too much food,” Rosé says, handing Denali the bowl. “I didn’t want to waste it, so I figured I’d give you some.”

“Thank you.” Denali flashes her dimples. “Hey, do you want to come in? Kahmora’s out with some friends.”

“Sure.” Rosé follows close behind Denali, moving past boxes she hasn't unpacked yet on their way to the kitchen. The apartment feels like Denali already, with sneakers by the door and video games in the living room.

Denali hums with joy as she eats the first bite, and Rosé grins, her body buzzing with that rush of someone loving what she made. No matter how many times it happens, it will always be special to her.

“How was work?” Rosé asks.

“It was good! My coffee tasted so good this morning, and all my lessons went well, and I saw this adorable dog—not as adorable as you, Donut,” Denali adds to her dog, who’s curled up under the table.

Rosé just laughs as Denali talks, and it’s easy. So easy. Easy being friends like this, just talking and laughing. Watching Denali’s eyes widen and listen to her laugh just makes Rosé like her more, but it also makes her want to hold back on admitting her crush a bit more. Because the more she likes Denali, the more she has to lose if things go wrong.

Denali bursts into laughter as Rosé shares stories of her day, and it’s enough.

—-

It’s nice, knowing Denali is open to accepting leftovers. Rosé usually makes small recipes for her and Jan, and it’s nice to make whatever she wants, even if it feeds a crowd, and just bring some down the hall instead of giving herself a headache trying to halve fractions of ingredients.

She makes chicken and potatoes and cookies and brownies, extras carefully wrapped up and delivered to Denali, each one letting them have time to talk and just be around each other. They talk about work, about friends, about funny things Donut did that day. And Rosé loves every second of it.

Rosé finds herself making more things than she probably should, but she can’t help it. Cooking started out as a stress reliever for her, when she and Jan were up to their eyes in paperwork trying to open the dance and vocal studio. Jan suggested she make something to relax, and Rosé remembered how much she had loved to be at her mother’s side when she was little, watching her roll out pie crust. She remembered how much she loved creating something out of a pile of ingredients, the soothing repetition of mixing batter, the joy of watching someone eat what she made.

She’s made things all the time since, and part of her knows she’s making more now just so she can give them to Denali. Jan’s always teased her for baking enough to run a bakery when she’s in love, and Rosé doesn’t want to admit how true it is. Because baking is a form of love for her, a way of transforming her love and work into something people can eat. A way of caring for them and loving them at the same time.

Not that Denali knows any of that.

---

Denali sighs as she shuffles to the elevator after the skating class from hell. She had parents almost fight her because costumes haven’t come in yet, like Denali controls the mail, then yell at her some more for not giving their kid the solo in the group performance.

Rosé slips in the elevator with her, and Denali smiles a bit just seeing her, with her big green eyes and soft red waves. Rosé always makes her happy, since the night they met, and being around her just feels right to Denali. So right that Denali likes to invite her in when she drops off food, just for an excuse to spend more time with her. So right that Denali wishes they could do it all the time, that they could always be close, maybe even close enough to kiss--but no, they’re nothing more than friends. Especially not when Denali is standing here in old sweatpants and smelling like a skating rink locker room. How could Rosé ever like her back anyway? She makes fancy pastries with fancy names and Denali almost set ramen on fire once.

“Rough day?” Rosé asks.

Denali groans as her answer. “If I ever become a parent, please don’t let me be like the ones at the skating rink.”

Rosé snorts. “Tell me about it. I’ve had parents follow me to the parking lot because their kid isn’t famous yet.”

Denali manages a smile. It’s nice to know she isn’t the only one, that someone else understands.

“Is there anything I can do?” Rosé asks.

Denali’s heart flutters at how she’s always so caring, so kind. Just friends, they’re just friends. “I don’t think so. I’ll probably just take a bath and watch TV. Thanks, though.”

“Of course.”

They head to their own apartments, and Denali soaks in the tub until the water runs cold, the stress of the day leaving her.

There’s a knock on her door as she turns on the TV. Denali groans and throws the door open, only to find a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the welcome mat.

Still warm.

---

Rosé turns down the hall and almost smacks into her neighbor, Kylie, who’s on her way to walk her dog. Gizmo licks happily at Rosé’s ankle, and she would pet him like she normally does, but her hands are full of the pan that might be just a little too big, if Kylie’s staring is any indication.

“What’s that?”

“Mac and cheese I made for Denali.”

Kylie blinks at her. “Hun, are you sure that’s for Denali and not a school cafeteria?”

“Well, I mean, she can freeze it if she wants,” Rosé stammers.

“I hope she’s got a big freezer.” Kylie looks at her thoughtfully. Rosé’s always thought Kylie has some sixth sense, able to figure out your feelings and what you need to hear just from looking at you, and she’s about to be on the receiving end of it. “You should tell her,” Kylie says softly.

Rosé doesn’t bother to ask how she knows. “I don’t—I don’t want to lose her if she doesn’t feel the same way,” Rosé says, eyes on the floor.

“I don’t think you have to worry.” Kylie heads for the stairs, and Rosé stands in the hall like an idiot before taking a breath and going to Denali’s door.

Someday. Maybe someday she’ll tell her.

—-

Denali knocks on Rosé’s apartment, trying to calm her heart. There’s no reason for it to be racing like this, not when she’s knocked on Rosé’s door to bring back her food containers a dozen times. Not when she talks to Rosé almost every day.

Denali isn’t sure if she’s disappointed or relieved when Jan opens the door.

“I just wanted to bring Rosé her plate back,” Denali says.

Jan nods. “I’ll give it to her. You can come in, if you want. There’s some leftover blondies on the counter.”

Denali follows her inside, taking in the apartment with wide eyes like she’s never seen it before. Being in the kitchen feels special, like she’s in Rosé’s sacred space. Denali peeks at the soft pink stand mixer and utensils beside it, at the worn recipe box and well-used cookbooks on the other counter. She thinks of Rosé standing here, carefully measuring out ingredients, flour in her red hair, and her heart tugs painfully. What she would give to be around Rosé in her element like this, at her side while she cooks. “She really likes cooking, huh?”

Jan rolls her eyes. “You have no idea. She loves cooking for people, especially when she really likes them. It’s basically her love language. When she was with her last girlfriend, this place was like a freaking bakery. Not that I’m complaining, because her stuff is amazing. Even if she makes a giant mess of the place.”

“It is,” Denali says, but then she freezes as Jan’s words hit. Especially when she really likes them. Does that mean Rosé likes her? Likes her as more than a friend, if she cooks this much when she really likes someone? If cooking is her love language? It’s normal for Rosé to cook a lot, Jan said so. And Rosé still cooks for other people, has her friend Lagoona over for dinner every week. But Denali thinks of how many carefully-wrapped plates and full containers Rosé has given her the past few months, juicy chicken and thick soups and buttery shortbread cookies, and knows it’s more than anyone else has gotten. Rosé likes her, and the food is her way of showing it.

Denali usually isn’t so oblivious. Then again, she usually isn’t so hesitant around her crushes either. But maybe she was so oblivious and hesitant with Rosé because she didn’t possibly think Rosé could like her back.

But Rosé does. She likes Denali.

And if food is love to Rosé, then Denali has an idea.

---

Rosé hums as she unlocks her apartment. Jan has a date tonight, so it’s just her, and she’s really in the mood for takeout. Maybe she’ll order from that Chinese place--

Rosé drops her keys when sees someone in the apartment, and she drops her heart when she realizes the person is Denali. Denali, who’s standing in her living room for some reason.

“Um, not that I’m not happy to see you, Denali,” Rosé says, easing her way inside, “But what the hell?”

Denali’s cheeks are flushed and some hair has escaped her ponytail, and her smile is one of the brightest she’s ever seen. “Jan let me in so I could surprise you.”

“Well, I’m definitely surprised.”

“But not surprised enough,” Denali gloats.

“There’s more? Haven’t I had enough near-heart attacks today?”

Denali just smirks and leads her into the kitchen, where Rosé sees the table laid out with candles and a fancy tablecloth and huge platters of food.

“I thought I’d cook for you for a change,” Denali says. “I’m not the greatest, but they’re my mom’s recipes and I had her FaceTime me to help, and I don’t think you’ll get food poisoning or anything—“

“You cooked for me,” Rosé says softly, looking at Denali in awe.

“I did.” Denali bites her lip, and her cheeks flush even more. “Rosé, I--I realized how much cooking means to you. And what you were trying to tell me with your food. I want to tell you that I...I feel the same way. I like you, I’m trying to say, and that’s why I wanted to cook for you.”

Rosé reaches for Denali’s hand, squeezing it gently for proof that this is real. That Denali really does like her too. That Denali took all the love Rosé puts into her cooking and gave it back to her. “I like you so much, Denali. For a while now. I just wasn’t sure if you--”

“Well I wasn’t sure if you would like me,” Denali laughs softly.

Rosé snorts. “We could’ve done this a while ago if we weren’t idiots.”

“But we’re doing it now.” And then Denali is leaning in, her lips meeting Rosé’s like coming home. Denali’s kiss is soft and sweet, just like her, warm and passionate yet still gentle. It’s everything Rosé has dreamt of, and she can’t resist going back in for another.

And another.

“Hey, the food’s gonna get cold,” Denali says, and they laugh all the way to the table.

[blushing-starker]

Cold mates and black coffees

For @starkerfestivals prompt of mates

There is, he supposes, something beautiful about a world such as this, primitive yet advanced and sophisticated. Children no taller than his knee carry around super computers that fit in the palm of one's hands, talk to friends thousands of miles away whenever they want. It used to take him months to receive his preferred concoction for the early night wake up call, now stores inhabit every corner of every city. They patiently wait to receive their dependents, all sorts of people relying on some version of the simple black coffee to jolt their system. Convenient, sure, no doubt about that. A quick stop at a Starbucks and violá, five hours of productivity guaranteed. But nothing builds character like swimming laps through a freezing lake infested with piranhas to keep away the urge to rest for just another five minutes. Unfortunately, sleepless days were the norm for him and Rhodey whenever they endeavored to race each other underwater.

There are clothes, too. Clothes for each season available year round. Fox fur adorns a lanky mannequin next to a twin showcasing how breezy summer fabrics can be. Riding boots that he would have spent a small fortune on decades ago shine below man made light for the cost of a nice meal over at Pepper's. Jewels fine enough for the family vault enchant any who take so much as two steps in either direction. Everything is for sale; it just means swiping a plastic card, presenting a number off a super computer or giving the cashier the remains of ancient trees. He could buy an ice cream cone (with sprinkles, of course, he's not an idiot) and immediately wander over to a restaurant selling sizzling curry. It's what his father dreamed about, a thousand years ago. How odd then, that his only heir couldn't be more nonchalant to all this.

It's his what, first month back from sleeping for half a century? He got accustomed to this whirlwind of a consumerist world by the first week. The soft purr of self-driving engines, flashing neon street signs, a melting pot of twenty, thirty languages, glittering clothes clashing with garish makeup, an overwhelming scent of smoke, perfume and money is as familiar as the palm of Rhodey's left hand or Pepper's right. Is it fantastic, being alive for the wild ride that is the twenty-first century? Yes, of course it is. But it's his father's dream; not his. His dream is the same as what drove Maria Stark into the world: finding his mate. Which, logically speaking, won’t happen until time has colored his hair with quite a bit more starlight and streaked thin lines around not too shabby cheekbones. (Rhodey’s teasing words.)

Going along with logic, there is a chance his mate will never show up. It was mere luck his father met the only woman besides Peggy that could stand his whole. Well, that could just stand him, period. A mate is found by scent, identified by touch and only bound with words. If his father had gone for one more drink, he’d probably be as real as the tooth fairy. In the back of his head, there lives a voice. And this voice he named Miss Lucky. She told him how lucky he would need to be in order to find a mate not too close to cradle or grave, a person that saw eye to eye in the majority of the basics and was open to his predilection. Someone that wouldn’t fear or expose him, wouldn’t want to strike the killing blow themselves. And Christ, with or without Miss Lucky, it’s a fool’s idea, thinking that in the middle of New York amidst one of the coldest winters to ever grace the city, his mate, his soul’s match, his other heart will chance upon him and actually accept the fact that he barely exudes a scent. Let alone something useful enough to help others recognize his class.

That’s the one downfall to living in this time; so much tension regarding one’s class. It is infinitely better than before when there were only three possibilities and the social restrictions could very rarely be shattered. But now it’s about pulling rank, percentages listed on a piece of paper could be used against you or signify one’s survival. A double-edged sword. To be a nurse, any applicants must be less than thirty percent alpha. Soldiers were forbidden from entering foreign countries if they had more beta characteristics than not. Lovers, in some parts of the world, could marry exclusively when their percentages were compatible. In the old times, if you smelled like an omega, you were treated as such. That could entail being thrown into a whorehouse or perceived as royalty destined to bring life into the world. Once puberty came, a simple prick and a vial of blood determined one’s next decision regarding the future.

He took the test. Just out of curiosity and it’d be rude not to provide a mate with information so readily accessible merely because of an unjustified fear over his identity. He is an alpha. And if the test had said otherwise, it would have been no problem. Of course not, he would have been proud to identify as a beta or omega. His mother was a beta and his nanny, basically his second mother, was an omega. No shame would’ve clouded his mind at receiving such news. The matter was this, though, he had believed to be an alpha the entirety of his life. If the paperwork said that was his lowest percentage, different rules and procedures, updated to today’s society, would need to be learned.

And he’s so tired of it all when only a handful can smell the fact he’s an alpha. What was he supposed to do, carry the results in his pocket in case a bigot searched for a fight? No, that would be, as Pepper had made very clear before, extremely silly.

He carries the test in case his mate considers such matters important. Or their family. Yes, it’s not because he worries that society will somehow doubt his identity. In the end, being an alpha is an integral part of who he is. It shouldn’t be that way and he barely knows what that means, but it’s true. Miss Lucky comes back around swiftly now, what if his mate isn’t interested in him because of his percentage? What then? Learn what the other classes represent to that person and behave in ways they believe suit said classes? Could his match be with a pureblood, intent on “staying true” to their highest percentage? Would he be able to, cinnamon. Wait, cinnamon and honey? Is that rain and sunlight? Since when does Starbucks incorporate those smells? And how the hell does he know what sunlight smells like? He’s insane. There’s no other explanation, oh that must have hurt.

A young man has just barreled into him. Slammed into his arm like a linebacker. A linebacker that weighs a feather and a half. How is he this light, a breeze had more force. What should he, what’s the proper ritual here, oh my god

“Your nose is bleeding- “

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking. I’m just late for class and- “

“Calm down and let me buy you some coffee; you’re half dead- “

“Shit, your coat. I will pay you back, I swear.”

He hums, looks down and apparently he was too involved in his quest to find a mate that he completely bypassed the thought that this man had accidently crashed into him while holding a coffee…

A mate. He doesn’t know what sunlight smells like. How could he? Unless that’s what his mate smelled like. The young man inhales sharply, lets out a little “oh, I think, I know it’s you.” and, on further reflection, he notices this kid has the voice of an angel. Soft and kind while not being so lilting he’d think it weak and demure. Ah, he looks like an ethereal entity too. Of course he does.

It’s the eyes that do it for him, enchant him enough he wants to kneel and propose right there in the hopes of waking up each night to those amber pools as familiar and mysterious as the universe itself. The rosy lips, pink cheeks and sweeping lashes are also quite nice. He has the body of a being from the old tales, a nymph or a muse destined to bring light and joy to the world. And black coffee to coats older than his father and grandfather combined.

“Could I touch you properly? I think spilling sugar over that coat didn’t really give me the chance to feel my mate, Mister?” Rhodey’s gonna annihilate him. This is a child, twenty-one at most. They could exchange numbers; communicate when his best friend wouldn’t be tempted to take one look and accuse him of going for jailbait. He could make a plan, organize a way to gently explain how he’s an undead creature of the night whose low circulation means that somehow his hormone production slowed and therefore he barely smells like wood let alone an actual human being. They could make it work. If he’s lucky, Angel here won’t fall for another. If he’s lucky, lots of things won’t happen. Or they will anyway.

“Stark. Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you, all things considered. When I learned one’s mate smells like something unknown, I didn’t quite expect literal sunshine to be what I noticed. And don’t worry about the coat; it’s nothing.”

Marie Antoinette gave him this coat as a gift on his sixteenth birthday a few years before her death. It’s fine.

“Oh. I, I wouldn’t have thought I smelled like that. It’s really nice, actually. You smell, and please don’t take this the wrong way, like alpha. And home. I know it’s weird, but I can’t explain it any other way. I’m sorry if it’s too- “

At least he already knows he dislikes that worried furrow on such a happy face. He surges forward, clasps a soft hand and lets slip a shocked gasp, sees the mirrored reaction because Jesus, it’s as if he licked his finger and then stuck it inside a power outlet. Every hair on his body stands on end and when was the last time his heart beat that fast? Surely it was the night his old flame left or when they, no. No memories of a past lover when his mate is right here, clutching his hand like a lifeline.

“I don’t believe I know your name. Seems a little unfair, don’t you think? Wanna even the odds?” It’s meant to make the young man smile and he does.

It’s only when he grins that Tony notices the sharpened incisors and the slight cold coming from the small figure. The same fog that follows him around even on the hottest of days. The exact shape of teeth Tony cleans in front of his bathroom mirror each night.

“Peter. My name’s Peter. Nice to meet you, Tony.”

[shadyladyperfection]

The New Year Fic Writers & Readers Ask Game 2020

 I was tagged by @homoose and @specialagentsergio for this, thank you so much ❤️

FULL DISCLOSURE: I got carried away with the fics that lifted my spirits this year and basically turned this into a fic rec list. And it is a long long list, so just brace yourselves, I guess? I put it in the end so you won’t have to read it 

What was your biggest writing/reading achievement this year?

Okay, I have always been a silent reader. For some weird reason, I couldn’t bring myself to interact with a fic or the writer. So, I guess my biggest achievement would be letting the writer know how much I enjoyed reading their work. It counts, okay?

What did you learn about yourself as a writer/reader this year?

It is so SO important to leave comments or reblogs on fics or any medium of art that you enjoy. I’ve been a silent reader for years, okay? And while likes help, letting someone know that their writing made your day or completely gutted you will make them appreciate you like no other, and I say this from experience. Creators are simple people and deserve all the love you can give them. Even a keyboard smash helps, btw. 

Did you dive into something familiar or try something new this year?

I started reading Criminal Minds fanfics this year, does that count as something new? I don’t know. 

What are you grateful for?

Personally? I’m just glad my family and I got through the pandemic so far while staying healthy.

Reading wise, I am forever grateful fanfiction exists because it’s the only piece of literary work I have been able to read consistently.

Have your style (writer) or tastes (reader) changed this year?

I was not an avid fluff reader. It sounds weird and I always say I hate angst but I tended to gravitate more towards stories that left me aching rather than reading fluff, so I think that has changed.

What’s the first thing you want to read or write this year?

My textbooks would be nice 😂 But uh, I’d like to work on this story idea that I have had for month now.

Anything you want to try in 2021?

Like I said, writing my own fic would be nice but I know me so I’m good as it is 😂

Do you have any fic resolutions?

Not really, nope 

Share a comment (if a writer) or story (if a reader) that lifted your spirits this year?

Ooh mama, I have so many fics and I am going to list them all. Yes I am. This is in no particular order because I am messy like that and I am not even going to try and keep the list short. Bear with me, or not. It’s up to you. Also, I only added fluffy masterpieces here otherwise I’d have over 600 fics here and I am lazy xoxo

 Starting with @justfangstvdto  ‘s  Waking up to Klaus painting you imagine. This is an all time favourite. Open Coffin is also, one of her best works!!

@moon-light-jukebox ‘s Angel is very close to my heart and I also enjoy Morning Coffee because who doesn’t love a coffee shop AU?

@imagining-in-the-margins has so many fics to choose from. It’s like a reader’s nirvana  Anticipation  Impromptu  Pumpkin   Fairytales Sunflowers   Sweet Cherries   Breakfast Run  

@erin-bo-berin writes the cutest Dad!Spencer fics (great smut too but we’re not talking about that here) I’d start with Cabin Fever and Cupid 

@definitelynotkatesblog ‘s 6 AM and Something to Cry About have a special place in my heart

@veraiconcos ‘ Kiss it Better  was the first Criminal Minds fic I ever read so it’s special in its own way 

@gubler-me-up  is very difficult to choose from but Fact Check would be my pick 

@mggpleasedontlookhere ‘s Helping  Heart and Insignificant Being are absolutely delightful!

I read @criminalmindzjunkie ‘s Unlucky in Love weekly for clear skin 

Promise Me by @gayouijaboard is a gem, I swear.

@zhuzhubii has an extensive list of amazing writings but I had to pick so here you go- Sleepyhead About Ethan (a little angsty but worth it)  I think i love you and hugging you

A Lick of Paint ,  Moi Je Joue and I Would Do Anything You Asked Me Too   by @differentkettleoffishalltogether are technically smuts but I feel nice after reading them and that’s what is important 

@brywrites ‘ Focus  Flight Risk   Happy Tears    Troublesome    and frankly, everything they’ve written is wonderful!!

@specialagentsergio ‘s Sweater Weather   Baby Kiss it Better  and Last Christmas  are all amazing 

@spacedikut ‘s entire masterlist is a delight and it is hard to choose, okay? But I did anyway    how to ask a girl out   you look good   nurse reid   words that wound   the disaster dream date  (Hotch says, “They’re our idiots.” What more reason do you want for reading this fic?)   everything happens for a reason   the very insecure dr reid 

Also @matthewsbitches is rewriting Criminal Minds with the reader as Gideon’s daughter, you should read that as well!!

@reidscanehand  is another writer whose every work is just an incredible read. I am pretty sure I have their entire masterlist linked here: Line of Fire  Twenty Percent   Cooling Our Heels  In the Shadow of Harmony   That Tiny Instant of Eternity  The Statistical Probability of Falling in Love   Rather Ardently

Atlas  Happy Birthday Genius  Hype Man   Lighthouse  and A Very Moosey Ficmas  by @homoose  fill me with so much joy, every time. I also love TMSIDK 

@dreamwritesimagines ‘ Twisted is a brilliant story with amazing twists and turns but does not hold back on the angst. Like, at all. D likes to make people cry. But she’s also one of the sweetest people on here <3

Tagging: @ineverhaveanynormalfans @girls-andcats @moon-child-writer @spencerscoven and everyone mentioned above

[ibelieveinharrystyles]

Chapter Two: Secret Love Songs

Always Golden Masterlist

Harry was on Ashley’s mind, it’s all she could think about, the way Will was with him, the way Harry tried to defend himself without causing conflict. It was all she could think about, as she stood at the kitchen counter, stirring the sugar into her tea. “Morning gorgeous, sleep well?” Will asked, snaking his arms around her waist as he stood behind her.

“Fine, yeah,” She sighed, “I’ve got to get Daisy ready.” She told him, pulling away from his embrace and taking her mug of tea upstairs, after working on the breakfast show for almost three years, you would think she’d be used to the insanely early mornings, but suffice to say, she wasn’t. She got Daisy fed and dressed, before doing the same for herself, leaving the house to drop Daisy off at nursery on her way to work, without so much as a goodbye kiss for Will. 

Once she had dropped Daisy off she hopped on her regular tube into work, having moved to North London at the beginning of the year, the journey was far more enjoyable. “Morning Ro,” Ashley smiled as she buzzed herself into the offices.

“Morning Ash, how are you on this fine morning?” He replied.

“Not bad, you seem very cheery.” Ashley said as the duo made their way into the studio.

“It’s a brilliant day, it’s Friday, Harry’s dropped a new song-”

“Has he?” Ashley asked, not aware of this brand new information.

“You do have twitter don’t you? The fans were going crazy about it this morning. We’re playing it on the show later, you can hear it then.” Roman explained.

“I had no idea, me and Will were binge watching netflix last night. Guess I’ll hear it first on the radio.”

“Good morning, you’re listening to Capital Breakfast with me Roman Kemp and Ash Hanson. We’ve got some great music to come your way this morning, with some shiny new releases too.” Roman said into his microphone.

“That’s right, for the first time on the Capital network this is the brand new single, Lights Up by Harry Styles.” Ashley sat back in awe, admiring how much Harry’s sound had matured, the song itself was a masterpiece and she was so proud of Harry for being so honest in his music again. She quickly pulled out her phone, hesitant to send him a message of congratulations, but in the end she did.

Harry lay anxiously in bed, staring at his phone screen as more and more notifications pinged onto his screen. He didn’t bother to open them until he saw Ash’s name pop up on his screen, he opened it to see a text from her, his heart now full of joy; H, it’s incredible, you never fail to amaze me, I’m so incredibly proud of you my rockstar, love A x

For the first time in almost two years, he felt at peace, for it seemed his Ash had forgiven him, she was ready to move on, as was he. In a haste he replied quickly; Do you want to come for dinner at mine later? I’ll cook our favourite, H x

Ashley wasn’t expecting him to reply so quickly, and she wasn’t expecting the reply she got either. For Harry to invite her over, when until August they hadn’t seen each other for two years it seemed like a big deal. She was meant to be going out with Will and Daisy, but they could do that any night. Sounds like a lovely idea, I’ll bring a bottle of something, shall we say 7pm? x

Ashley wasn’t really sure what she was doing, or why she had agreed to it, but she cared for Harry more than she cared for their animosity. She found herself looking back through old photos on her phone, pictures of Harry and Daisy, pictures of Ashley and Harry at various one direction shows, along with some of her favourite pictures of Harry she had taken over the years.

[insert pinterest picture]

“So this is a girl from work you're meeting up with tonight?” Will asked, sat on Ashley’s bed as she curled her hair. He was meant to be staying the night after their family trip out for dinner, but Ashley decided to put that on the back burner. 

“Yeah, her boyfriend’s been cheating on her, she found out last night.” Ashley lied, somehow thinking up a complex web of lies was easier than explaining she was going for dinner with Harry. 

“Couldn’t you just go another night?” Will asked, massaging her shoulders.

“She needs me now Will, they were together for almost seven years, and he goes and shags her best mate. She’s distraught, we can go out literally any other night of the week.” Ashley explained, topping up her lipstick, “How do I look?” 

“Probably just as well you’re meeting up with this girl from work, if there were lads about I wouldn’t want them to so much as glance at you.” Will’s tone surprised her, it was almost territorial, she knew what Harry was like, he was a sucker for dishing out compliments, and Will would absolutely hate him for it.

“Well Holly is very much straight, so there’s no worries there.” Ashley assured him as she buckled up her heels, checking herself in the mirror, the sheer black shirt over a bralette with a leather mini skirt was a risk, but she felt confident, and it was only polite to make an effort for Harry. “I should head off now, I’ll just say bye to Dais.” Ashley made her way into the kitchen where Daisy was munching on fish fingers and potato faces. “Be good for Will my lovely, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Have a good evening baby, love you.” Will whispered, kissing her out of nowhere.

“See you later.” Ashley smiled, before leaving her flat promptly.

In all the years Harry has lived in his massive Hampstead home, Ashley had never got used to the sheer size of it. She felt lucky that she could afford a two bedroom flat in Hackney on just her wages, but this was something else. She rang the buzzer and the gates swung open almost immediately, she made her way up the crazy long driveway, her heels crunching into the gravel. As she arrived at the door, Harry was already there waiting for her, dressed in a shirt, only buttoned halfway of course, with a pair of loose fit trousers, “Don’t you look lovely?” Harry smiled, greeting Ashley with open arms, it had felt like an eternity since Harry had embraced her, his arms made her feel safe in the same way they always had.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, Styles.” Ashley smiled up at him, “Oh I bought wine,” She continued, realising that they had slowly become lost in each other’s gaze.

“Oh right, thank you, come through to the kitchen.” Harry stuttered, taking the bottle from her and leading her into the dimly lit kitchen. “Do you want a glass then?” He asked, taking two from the cupboard.

“Oh of course! Feels like an eternity since I’ve properly let my hair down.” Ashley replied, kicking off the heels that were already giving her blisters.

“Is Will not the partying type then?” Harry asked, sliding her glass to her.

“Do we have to get into that again?” Ashley sighed, remembering the fallout on her Mum’s birthday.

“I’m sorry,” Harry held his hands up, “He’s definitely jealous though.” He smirked.

“What’s there to be jealous of?” 

“Our inexplicable connection,” Harry smiled, “Anyway, this food isn’t going to make itself.” 

“So what are we having?” Ashley asked.

“Your favourite.”

“Which is?” Ashley teased.

“My homemade roast dinner.”

“Is the right answer!” Ashley shouted.

“I don’t think I’m going to need to eat for another five years after that,” Ashley announced as the pair took a seat on Harry’s massive sofa.

“I do my best,” He smiled, “So how’s life been?” 

“Busy, work’s chaotic as always, but I love it, me and Dais moved to Hackney at the beginning of the year, Lou and Lux literally live two doors down from us which Daisy loves. She started nursery last month, she loves it so much, she’s such a little performer, look at this.” Ashley pulled out her phone, turning it to Harry, it was a video of Daisy dancing to a One Direction song that was playing in the middle of a supermarket, she looked up to see Harry wiping his eyes, “Hey, why are you getting like that for H?”

“I was such an idiot, I let you down, both of you,” He sniffled, “I missed all the important bits, when she was born I promised you I’d protect you both, and what did I do? I ran away at the first sign of trouble.” 

“I don’t blame you, at the time I was mad at you, but I could never stay angry at you,  we both know that.” Ashley assured him, taking hold of his hand, “You will always be my best friend, till my very last breath, I promise you that.”

“What would Will have to say about that?” Harry asked.

“Why should his opinion matter? You’re part of my life, and that shouldn’t hinder our relationship in any way at all.” Ashley assured him.

“Do you love him?” Harry asked out of nowhere.

“Of course I do, he makes me happy, and he’s great with Daisy.” Ashley couldn’t help but feel as though she was lying to Harry, she cared for Will, of course she did, but even eight months into their relationship, she hadn’t said that he loved him off her own back.

“As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Hours had passed and Harry and Ashley had been talking non-stop, about life when they were teenagers, life now and everything in between. “Do you want to hear some music from the new album?” Harry asked.

“Are you sure? I know how much of a perfectionist you can be.” Ashley replied.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want you to hear it,” Harry led Ashley to his studio, a room in the house that Ashley had never really spent much time in. He pulled up some of the tracks, playing an upbeat one first, Harry sat back in his seat, trying to read Ashley’s emotions. The lyrics echoed through the room, “You’re so golden, I'm out of my head, and I know that you're scared, Because hearts get broken.”

“It’s beautiful H, all of it is.” Ashley told him, Harry’s expression was lifeless, like he didn’t want to have to tell her the truth about something, “Wait hang on, no, surely not,” Ashley was slowly piecing together the truth, “Please tell me that song is not about us.” 

“I can’t lie to you Ash,” Harry whispered.

“No, don’t do this, things are alright between us now, this doesn’t need to happen.” Ashley muttered as she slowly stood up,

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way Ash, you can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it too.” Harry sighed, following after her as she made her way from the studio into the hallway where she left her jacket and shoes.

“We can’t do this Harry, we can’t be those people.” Ashley told him forcefully.

“We could be though, deep down you know it too.” Harry replied softly.

“Harry, I know how this works, you find someone, its sunshine and roses for a couple of months and then one day you shatter their heart into a million pieces.” Ashley cried, tears streaming down her cheeks, “And I’m not going to let that be me.” 

Ashley slept badly, the following morning she woke up to the sound of Daisy’s hysterical laughter coming from the kitchen, she threw on the first hoodie she could find and made her way downstairs to see Will and Daisy making cupcakes. “Morning you two,” She smiled, filling the kettle up with water.

“It’s the afternoon,” Will replied bluntly as he helped Daisy ice her cupcakes, “You got back late Ash, I was worried about you.” 

“Holly needed me there, she got drunk and I put her to bed.” Ashley lied.

“Could’ve texted me though.” Will replied,

“My phone died.” Ashley explained, pouring herself a cup of tea.

“Yeah I realised, hence why I put it on charge,” He unplugged her phone and slid it forcefully across the counter to her, “Might want to check your messages, a certain someone was really concerned whether you got home last night.”

Ashley’s heart fell to the pit of her stomach, “Dais go play in your room for a bit please.”

“But I’m busy.” Daisy replied.

“Just go please poppet,” Ashley smiled, causing Daisy to hop off her chair and run upstairs to her room.

“So are you going to tell me why he wants to know you got home safely?” Will asked.

“I saw him last night.” Ashley whispered.

“So Holly doesn’t exist?”

“I didn’t tell you, because I knew it would make you angry,” Ashley explained.

“Well how do you think it makes me feel that you lied to me?” 

“He invited me for dinner, it was just two old friends having a catch up, nothing more than that.” Ashley assured him.

“I don’t know whether I believe you.” Will huffed.

“Will I promise you, nothing happened, we ate dinner, talked about old memories, that's it.”

“Fine, if that's the truth, I believe you. Just don’t go doing stuff behind my back again.”

[mordoriscalling]

The Life (of) Surprise (2/4)

Jaskier lies to his family about being engaged to Geralt for the second time… and there are way too many surprises involved.

Part 4 of the Singer and the Sailor AU that no one asked for but I wrote anyway (again). This fic happens a little bit more than a year after Geralt returns home from his last deployment. Warnings: referenced alcoholism and trauma.

(Part 1)

II - A Surprise Is Uttered

The day begins with a sleepless night. For Geralt, not Jaskier. Jaskier is a heavy sleeper, so he has no idea about it until nature’s call wakes him up at half-past three in the morning. The bed is empty so, after relieving herself, Jaskier looks around the house and finds Geralt sitting by the kitchen table. His face is hidden in his hands and there’s an empty mug next to him. It’s the third night in a row that he hasn’t slept at all and Jaskier’s heart breaks for him a little.

They’re supposed to take a little trip to Brighton and return in the afternoon, before Yennefer drops Ciri off at Geralt’s after school. Now, Jaskier decides that the plan changes. In half an hour, they’re both ready to set out. Geralt drives because he already had coffee.

The drive passes in silence. Jaskier dozes off in his seat for some time but after the sun rises, it’s too bright outside for sleeping, and he wakes up slowly. They arrive in Brighton a few minutes after six. Save for occasional joggers and people walking their dogs, the streets are blissfully empty, and so is the beach.

It’s just a quiet, sunny morning like any other. In short: perfect. Jaskier doesn’t have to worry about someone photographing him, or anyone (quite) possibly seeing his proposal being rejected.

The air is slightly chilly as they stand at the shore, the waves almost touching their shoes. Geralt doesn’t say anything, only looks at the water. Jaskier watches him bask in the closeness of the sea. The delicate morning sunlight accentuates all his wrinkles in a stunning way and his white hair is lit up like a halo, gentle breeze ruffling it slightly. Jaskier takes in Geralt’s strong profile, his pretty stubble and his tired, tired eyes, and he thinks to himself that he loves this man so.

Jaskier can’t help but recall everything that happened since Geralt’s return, the good and the bad. All the times Jaskier pushed too far or Geralt was too gruff. The piano lessons with Ciri, and the adorable look on Geralt’s face when he concentrates on playing. The quiet weekends they sometimes manage to squeeze into their lives. Geralt chuckling at Yennefer’s disgusted expression after Jaskier asks her if she’s off to do “hot girl shit” again. (Jaskier knows she actually loves that phrase). How Geralt’s insecurities get better of him some days and he turns into a brooding idiot. The way the two of them are able to have a conversation without words, the way their bodies move against each other when they have sex. The smell of Geralt's sweat after he works out.

How, when they stay over at Geralt’s house, Geralt is always annoyed that Jaskier doesn’t wash the dishes right after using them. How, when they stay over at Jaskier’s house, Geralt always forgets to take his shoes off, much to Jaskier’s dismay. How Geralt is an annoyingly good cook but he’s also really shit at paying the bills on time. How he doesn’t allow Jaskier anywhere near kitchen appliances, which wounds Jaskier’s pride.

All of Geralt’s mannerisms. How he’s grumpy by default but then sees a dog. How Jaskier sometimes wants to talk very much but Geralt doesn’t. How Geralt delivers freaking sermons sometimes. That one time they managed to go out for a drink with Aiden, Eskel and Lambert, and Eskel started talking about his retirement plan involving goat yoga. Lambert nearly went batshit crazy, insisting that there was no way that something like goat yoga existed. Eskel and Jaskier tried to demonstrate how that would work, with Jaskier pretending to be a goat. Lambert, Geralt and Aiden almost pissed themselves laughing. The following day, Ciri woke Geralt and Jaskier by blasting a techno remix of Her Sweet Kiss so loud that the windows rattled. Then Yennefer made them go grocery shopping despite their killer hungover.

How Geralt holds him when unpleasant memories haunt him. How Geralt’s brutally honest when some of his songs suck. How he looks at Jaskier when he sings. His smothering gaze when he calls Jaskier his siren. How he makes sure that Jaskier eats and drinks when he forgets about it himself. How Geralt stands by him and supports him in his career, withstanding all the paparazzi nonsense even though he hates it with passion. How Geralt doesn’t want to know him for who he knows, how he’s always there for Jaskier and never asks for a thing in return.

All of this, and Jaskier suddenly doesn’t know where to start. He only knows that he wants to keep this man in his life so much that there’s hardly any air left in his lungs. His heart is hammering in his chest, his hands are sweating, and he decides to begin with what’s safe.

“Hey, Geralt,” he says, “I love you very, very much, you know that?”

Geralt hmms an affirmative and looks at him. There’s a smile on his face and warmth in his gaze as he answers, “I love you too.”

His golden eyes stand out against the blue of the cloudless sky. Jaskier slowly drowns in them, only the sound of the waves reaching his ears. It seems like only the two of them matter in the world and the reality is a safe distance away. In this state, almost hypnotized, Jaskier simply does what he has to do and gets down on one knee.

“What are you doing?” Geralt demands with a sowl.

His tone isn’t exactly a good sign. Jaskier flashes him a shaky smile and reaches for his hand. Then, he slides the buttercup ring halfway down Geralt’s finger. He didn’t buy a new ring; there’s no need for it really. He only needs to give their old rings new meaning on this seemingly meaningless April morning.

“Geralt, I-I,” he stutters out. His heart is beating so fast that he can’t breathe. He makes himself look up at Geralt, who stares down at him with a frown. Jaskier smiles nervously and forces the words out, “Will you... will you marry me?”

Geralt’s eyes widen and his mouth opens in shock. The silence drags on like eternity and Geralt doesn’t move a single muscle. When he finally does, his lips slowly quirk upwards and his whole face lights up with the tiniest, shiest joy. Jaskier is about to sigh in relief but then Geralt’s answer comes.

“Jaskier,” he grumbles, “get up, you’ll ruin your trousers.”

His trousers are white and it’s indeed a bad idea to kneel on the wet pebbles. As Jaskier gets up, his heart sinks and his head hangs low. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “This doesn’t have to mean anything, I just–”

He’s still holding on to Geralt’s hand and the ring, so he starts taking it off Geralt’s finger completely. Geralt stops him, though. Jaskier watches in amazement as Geralt’s muscular hands guide his own so that he slips the silver band back on Geralt’s finger.

When the realisation hits him, Jaskier gasps. He looks up at his fiancé, for real this time, and sees Geralt’s whole expression is alight with happiness. The sight takes his breath away. “Geralt...” he begins, but what Geralt does next takes away his ability to speak.

Geralt fucking kneels. Then, he takes Jaskier’s hand and slides the golden wolf signet off Jaskier’s finger. As Geralt looks up at him, he raises an eyebrow in silent question. Jaskier, still rendered speechless, only gives a jerky nod. Geralt grins like he almost never does, sharp teeth on display, and slides Jaskier’s ring back on.

The next moment is a blur. Jaskier, blinded by joy, wants to throw himself at Geralt. Geralt seems to want the same thing because he meets Jaskier halfway. Their bodies collide and they almost fall into the water but Geralt steadies them. Then, they’re standing up, and Geralt holds him tight, so tight that Jaskier may get bruises. Jaskier doesn’t care about that. He’s laughing and Geralt is smiling, truly smiling, and they pepper kisses all over each other’s faces.

“Please say it,” Jaskier whispers hoarsely, “just that one little word,”

Geralt huffs a laugh. He pecks Jaskier on the cheek, then murmurs into his ear, “Yes.”

It’s just one word but it’s said it the gravelly baritone Jaskier will never be tired of hearing, and his heart almost bursts with all he feels at that moment. The need to kiss Geralt stupid is stronger than ever, so he does exactly that. Burying his hands in Geralt’s hair, he brings their mouths together. Geralt lets out a pleased hum and sneaks his strong arms around Jaskier’s waist. The kiss resembles their very first one during the birthday party – it’s deep and slow, the best kind of passionate.

It takes them some time to break apart. When they do, they take off their shoes and take a walk along the shore, ankle-deep in the cold water, holding hands and talking. When Jaskier sees a little fish, he starts naming all the fish that he knows while Geralt laughs at him. Then Geralt wets his hand in the sea and puts it against Jaskier’s nape because he’s a bastard. They’re a moment away from splashing war when Jaskier’s stomach rumbles loudly. The two of them realise that they’re both hungry, so they embark on a search of some nice restaurant. Eventually, they find one and treat themselves to a big breakfast. Jaskier drinks coffee but forbids Geralt from having one, to Geralt’s immense displeasure. He steals a sausage from Jaskier’s plate as revenge but Jaskier physically can’t be mad at him today. His grumpy expression makes Jaskier melt.

The drive back passes in silence. Jaskier sits behind the wheel; the coffee Geralt had at night is wearing off and he’s too tired. Geralt sits in the front passenger seat with his eyes closed the whole way back but he’s not sleeping. His thoughts often don’t let him sleep, Jaskier knows.

They return before noon. Walking into Geralt’s house feels different somehow, now that they’re truly engaged. As soon as the front door closes behind them, Jaskier drags Geralt in for a kiss. Way too soon, Geralt breaks it... because he needs to yawn.

Jaskier laughs and says, “C’mon, my jolly sailor bold, you need a nap.”

Geralt grunts but doesn’t argue. They go to Geralt’s bedroom upstairs and change into comfortable sweats and "for home" t-shirts, stealing some kisses in the meantime. Geralt closes the thick curtains and they lay down in the bed, facing each other. Jaskier shifts closer until he can tuck Geralt's head under his chin and run his hands through Geralt’s hair while Geralt rubs his palms up and down Jaskier’s back.

It’s one of their favourite ways to cuddle. They say nothing for some time, simply enjoying the closeness. Jaskier’s lost in his head, picturing how Geralt’s family is going to react to the development in their relationship, but then he suddenly remembers what he said to his own family yesterday.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“What would you say about marrying next spring?”

Geralt opens his eyes and squints at him. “So soon?”

“I’ve always wanted to have a May wedding,” Jaskier answers. It’s not even a lie. After he and Geralt got together, he’s started fantasising about his own wedding for the first in his life and, in his mind, it always happens in May.

Geralt watches him closely, clearly sensing that there’s something he isn’t being told, and damn him for reading Jaskier so well. Jaskier tries not to squirm under the golden stare, as unforgiving as the sun, doing his best not to let his fear show. Jaskier will have to tell Geralt about the circumstances of their engagement one day, and when he does, Geralt may take it extremely the wrong way.

“I’ll think about it,” Geralt says finally.  

It’s not a no but it’s not a yes either. Jaskier can’t have that, so he brings out the big guns and innocently suggests, “We could marry at sea, you know.”

A pause.

“Hmm.”

It’s definitely an intrigued hmm. Jaskier presses on, “I could rent us a yacht. Or a boat. Or a big ship, even. Whatever you want.”

There’s a moment when Geralt doesn’t even breathe. Then, he heaves a long, resigned sigh, and Jaskier smiles in victory.

“Damn you, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters tiredly, “Damn you.”

Jaskier chuckles and kisses Geralt on the forehead, earning himself a happy hum. He keeps running his fingers through Geralt's hair and begins to sing softly. It's the first song Jaskier wrote for Geralt; Jaskier knows that his fiancé has a particular fondness for it. As he croons lyrics about woods and the Fae, Geralt's breathing starts slowing. After he finally falls asleep, Jaskier lets himself doze off too.

***

“Dad!”

Jaskier jerks awake, opening his eyes just in time to see Geralt do the same. There’s a moment when they stare at each other in confusion. Then, Cirilla’s wails reach their ears, and Jaskier’s blood runs cold. In an instant, there’s pure, unadulterated terror written all over Geralt’s face. He gets up lighting fast and rushes out of the bedroom. Jaskier follows right after him.

“Dad!” she shrieks again.

“Ciri!” Geralt shouts, completely frantic, as they run down the stairs.

Cirilla meets them at the bottom of the stairs. Her face is red from crying, her cheeks wet. She falls into his arms and buries her face in her father’s chest, sobs tearing through her frame.

“Ciri,” Geralt breathes out, running his shaking hands all over the girl’s body in search of any injuries.

Ciri appears physically unharmed but still, something is definitely very, very wrong. The girl keeps bawling her eyes in Geralt’s embrace while her father strokes her head soothingly. Jaskier finds it to be a truly gut-wrenching thing to witness, and he isn’t even Ciri’s relative. He can scarcely imagine what Geralt is feeling, though a good portion of his fear and worry shows on his face. Jaskier, in an attempt to comfort Ciri and Geralt, puts his arms around them both.

“What happened?” Geralt asks, his voice hushed and gentle.

Cirilla cries harder and Geralt’s face scrunches up in pain he feels for her. Jaskier’s heart breaks for them both.

“Dara,” Ciri finally chokes out, “He wasn’t at school today and didn’t text me back and... He called me just before I walked in and told me... “ Her body starts shivering. “There was a fire at his house, dad, only he...” She trails off and wails. “His parents and brother didn’t...”

Jaskier gasps and Geralt curses.

“He has nowhere to go, dad,” Ciri adds, “no relatives in the country, he has nothing....”

Ciri weeps on while Jaskier looks at Geralt helplessly. He silently asks Geralt what to do and Geralt answers with a slight shake of his head. Jaskier purses his lips and racks his brain while Ciri slowly begins to calm down. Finally, he gets an idea.  

“Sweetheart, did he tell you where he is now?”

“Yeah,” Ciri replies, her face still hidden in Geralt’s chest, “Why?”

“Well... My house has more than enough room for two.”

***

The day ends in a sleepless night. For Jaskier, not Geralt. Geralt, just like Ciri, collapsed from exhaustion around an hour ago in one of the bedrooms in Jaskier’s house. Jaskier, unfortunately, can’t say that about himself. Too much has happened for one day and he still hasn’t processed even half of it.

It’s almost midnight. Jaskier sits on the couch in his living room, strumming his acoustic guitar idly and trying not to think about the dead look Dara had in his eyes the whole day. When Jaskier pictures what kind of trauma the boy has just gone through, he wants to scream.

The sight of Dara himself snaps him back to reality. He acknowledges Jaskier with a nod and goes to the kitchen, which is open to the living room. Jaskier watches in the corner of his eye as Dara pours himself a glass of water and drinks. The air around is still, awfully so, and Jaskier itches to break the oppressive silence.

“You can’t sleep too?” he says.

“Yeah,” Dara answers quietly.

“You can sit here with me if you want.”

Dara hesitates for a moment but then comes over and sits down next to Jaskier awkwardly. He and Jaskier did meet before but they never talked much. Usually, Ciri would just say that the two of them are going somewhere before dragging Dara away. Jaskier’s aware that he’s a stranger to him and he certainly has no idea how to act around a person who’s currently experiencing the worst kind of nightmare that they can’t wake up from. Still, if there’s one thing he knows, it’s the fact that music can be a cure for many ailments.

“Any requests you’d like to make of this humble bard?” he asks, gesturing at himself theatrically.

“I like Metallica,” Dara replies with a shrug.

Jaskier smiles. “Ah, good taste!”

After a moment of thought, his fingers strum the strings and the first notes of The Unforgiven ring out in the air. Dara tenses but Jaskier decides to go on. When he sings, he pours all his emotions into it: how much his heart aches for the boy, how he wishes to ease his pain. His voice is mournful but strong and Dara listens to him carefully. During the second chorus, the boy’s eyes glaze over. Jaskier’s voice cracks. A tear rolls down Dara’s cheek, then another, and another. Jaskier plays on and Dara starts crying in earnest.  

The same couch that Ciri and Geralt sat on when Jaskier met them for the first time, the same couch that Jaskier and Geralt sat on when they exchanged their rings before the birthday party, now Dara sits and weeps, his face hidden in his hands.

Jaskier almost breaks down in tears himself but he fights it – he has to finish. His voice is loud and clear as he sings the last verses, openly but unapologetically raw because that’s how the song should be sung. That’s how this moment should feel.

After the last notes of the song die down, only the sound of Dara’s sobs can be heard. Jaskier’s looks at the mourning boy, only sixteen and left with nothing, and wants to help.

“Do you need a hug?” he asks hoarsely.

Dara nods and Jaskier moves closer, putting his arms around the boy’s shoulders. Dara leans against him and cries, and cries.

As they sit there, Jaskier thinks to himself that he has lived a life of immense privilege. There were times when it was bad, like his serious health problems in childhood. There were moments when it was even worse, like when his dad’s drinking spiralled out of control when he was a teenager. The memories of that time still make him shudder. Yet, all ended well in the end. Jaskier’s a healthy man, his dad is sober. Jaskier's career pays very well. He doesn’t have greater problems than pursuing his dreams, and he realises there are scarcely any people with similar lives in the world.

People like him, Jaskier muses, should learn to put their own wants and needs aside more than anyone.

“Hey, Dara,” he says, feeling shy possibly for the first time in his life. He swallows down the nervousness constricting his throat and says, “I know this can be a weird question, you don’t even know me, but... Would you like to stay? You could live here, at least until everything, well, settles down. ”

Dara doesn’t reply for a long time. When he does, his answer is just, “Okay.”

The single word is said so quietly that Jaskier almost misses it. When he does catch it, and it feels so monumental that his breath is taken away.

[calypsoff]

Ten. Part 4

I shushed Mel as she yelped out, turning the volume down on my phone as I cackled lowly, I don’t want to be too loud or he will wake up “bitch, hey!” lifting my phone up and then we both laughed together “you are a mess, look at your pixie cut whore. Like flatten that shit down” I shrugged smirking “let me see the neck” lifting the phone up and lifting my chin “can you see? He likes my neck; I am wearing his top but yeah. I am so fucking sore; I still feel it. The orgasm knocked me the fuck out, bitch he ate me, he sucked me dry, he suckled on the juicy meat. Chile, he got me good. I am shook to the core; he was so good at it. I felt his tongue vibrate; I am just so fucking crazy. I am losing my mind, like the sex was amazing. I came downstairs to pee, the bed is upstairs. It’s open cabin thing and he came down and he just picked me up, took me to bed and fucked me to sleep. I was knocked out; I just woke up to your messages. He asked me to be his girlfriend too, so it’s official but I want to marry him, I want him to eat me out again. He has too, his tongue is so good” Mel squealed out with me “chile, you deserve some good dick. You look so happy, so he’s taken you to a cabin?” nodding my head “yeah, I am just making breakfast” Mel choked “breakfast? Oh he got you good, you’re making breakfast on your birthday time away, chile he got you. My god. You quitting music too?” I shrugged “possibly, if that means I get that type of dick, yes. Mel, he just hits every part, he makes love to me, he fucks me. He is everything and more, I am in love. I love him so much and I will feed him with my hands if I need too” Mel’ mouth flew open “you are awful!” Mel shouted, I jumped and then realised it’s just Chris. He wrapped his arms around my neck “morning” he kissed the back of my head, I just grinned so hard “morning” I giggled “you making food? I was going to do that for you” shaking my head watching him walk off, biting on my nail watching his juicy butt just wiggle his way “you’re sick!” Mel spat, I forgot she is there.

Placing the plate down for Chris and pressing a kiss to the back of his head “I was going to cook breakfast for you, you didn’t need too?” I shook my head “you want anything else? Do you drink coffee?” Chris snorted laughing “nah OJ is fine, sit down. Come” he held my hand “I am, I am just going to get my drink, I will be quick” I am so in love with Chris, it’s sickening but true. Pulling the chair back “are you ok?” sitting down on the chair “I am ok baby, I have never felt so happy to be here” I admitted “I can tell, who was on the phone? You woke me up with the laughter, it’s fine. I need to wake up anyways” reaching over and wiping the side of his eye “you look so sleepy still, I have had the best night sleep with you. You hugged me and I woke up and you still was, but I was on the phone to Mel. She wanted to know I am ok, I said yes I am here and fine. And that I received the best dick of my life, she is happy for me but they ain’t seen me in love like this, she is shocked. I can tell with the lock on her face she is shocked to see how giddy and happy I am. I really want to spoil you but eat” Chris grinned at me looking down at his plate.

I can’t help it. I am just here touching him constantly. I can’t help it “you stop” Chris laughed, I poked my bottom lip out “I am joking, it’s ok. So for your birthday, oh the breakfast is nice. I could get used to your cooking, thank you but uhm. What are you doing on the day? I hope you’re being good right?” placing my fork down “uhm, I think Barbados, but I can’t be sure, but I will let you know. I think Barbados may be an after thing, so could be elsewhere first you know but I will be good. I am a taken woman now” Chris sat back in the chair “and you know what I love about that? You look so happy to be with me, I am just sat here like what the fuck? Me? I ain’t nothing good but to see you’re joy; I can feel you. It’s a little surreal baby, not going to front. But yeah, just let me know please. With whatever you do let me know, I am a an easy going man Robyn, just that if like I see Rihanna seen doing something else then I am going to be annoyed, we are in a relationship and I want us to work, we can, and I just like to be in the know. I know your life is busy, just a text yeah? I am not telling you off” I feel like he was then “I will Chris, I am happy with you. It’s not even about the sex, maybe it is. But that is besides the point, but I will and same with you. I mean you’re not a bad person but if you want to do something and you’re with other girls, then let me know. You’re a very sexy man Chris, trust me” Chris laughed, he finds that funny “are you going to come and beat the girl up though?” he got me there “mhmm, possibly. I can always get Rich to do it for me, I mean I won’t get my hands dirty” Chris chuckled at me.

“I wanted to ask, well bring it back up. Are you really thinking about moving to Texas? Not a joke?” I need to know these things “uh yeah, it’s cheap there. I can get a nice ass apartment there. I was looking and it was in Houston, it was so nice. It had a pool and everything there, and it looks way better then what I got now, if I am thinking right. I can just start off new there, Barry did say he would want to move too. TJ has things here, but Barry may come with me so then we can split rent, it will be cheap for us both” I really don’t want him in Texas “can’t you just come to California, if Barry is splitting the rent you can afford it Chris. You can be closer to me; I want you closer to me” Chris shook his head “closer to you when you can be anywhere at any given date? Where you staying at right now Robyn?” he questioned “nowhere right now, we packed up in Miami. Mel is in Cali with my stuff which she will then meet me to pick me up and go” Chris sniggered “there we go, so be in California for what? Wait until you come back” Chris sat forward leaning against the table “I am not being harsh with you, maybe I sound it but it’s like I get you want me there but I am, here and there. I don’t want to be in California, shit is expensive for no reason. I am not going to stress myself out for it either” I must remember he is hard headed with things “then what are you going to do to make money? Tell me, or you just going to go back to Amazon?” I need answers from him “me and Barry are coming up with something, it’s not drugs but just remember I am renting the apartment in Texas, it’s rented for a reason, yeah. So I am not saying I won’t come to see you, hell yeah I will. If you in America somewhere and you got time then I will come to you, and you got the bear, anyways. Enough of that, we need to get ready” watching Chris get up, I wish he would wasn’t hard headed and he just, I don’t know let me look after him.

Sat on the bed watching Chris put his hoodie on “yes?” he knows me so well, looking down at the bear “I just wish you was close to me always” Chris gripped my arms and pulled me up “can we just enjoy this time together? This aint’ how badalriri acts, you ain’t even dressed, have you washed your face or anything?” shaking my head “deadass? We have somewhere to go too, you been walking around all sad for what? Stop being stupid now” he is so annoying “be quiet, I smell like you and besides. I have been cleaning after you and then you left me with the washing. Be a modern man and help me next. Look after son son, that’s his name. You better be holding him when I come back too” resting the bear against Chris’ chest and then grabbing his arms so he can actually hold him “I mean it, you better hold it. I want it to smell like you too so do it” that beat is going to be going places now, that is my baby.

Chris did a slow clap back, looking behind me “you finally are ready” I laughed looking back at the mirror “I thought I would hide the mess you made of my neck, what are you. A vampire” this shit took so long to do “do I look nice? I am not sure where you’re taking me so I didn’t wear nothing fancy, kept it simple” getting up from the bed “you always look beautiful, that is amazing. Your neck looks like nothing has happened to it? Can you do that to my freckles” I shushed him “never, those are too adorable, I love them about you” zipping up my makeup bag, grabbing my phone from the bed “picture time and you’re holding him, see. You can listen to me” Chris threw it on the bed “don’t be rude!” I spat, flipping the camera around to take a selfie of us. Holding the camera up facing us, Chris hasn’t even moved he is just smiling in the back like an idiot “don’t piss me off” he snorted laughing walking over to me, watching him lick his lips through my phone and I kept taking picture of that “smile please” Chris shook his head, placing his arm around me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, I am sure I have taken thirty or even more picture of that “I am literally dying to post you, but I won’t” turning to Chris “I prefer not to be seen with you actually” he said before moving back, he lucky he did “pick me up, I have an idea” Chris groaned out “we might as well have sex then” he just never listens to me, opening my arm to me “fine” he walked over to me, I yelped out as he picked me up with ease wrapping my legs around him “mhmm, sex might be a good idea you know” pecking his lips, placing his hood over his head “now turn me around, back facing the mirror. Last thing and we can go” Chris didn’t say anything and did as I said, wrapping arm around his neck and resting my chin just on his shoulder, aiming my camera at the mirror and took a picture “bingo” I now can post this “no!” I shouted as Chris flung me onto the bed “now can we go” my hair is a mess again so he can wait until it’s done,

Chris is too cute, he has bought me wine tasting on this wine yard here in Virginia, I love it actually “because you threw me on the bed I didn’t get to post this now” adding a caption to the picture ‘Loving Life’ pressing send on the picture “I did mention that you are coming here, I had too. Because I wanted it to be private for us, you know” locking my phone “I understand” A man in a suit and jeans walked over to us “good afternoon” he said and smiled “my name is Mitchell and I'll be your guide for today. We have Chris” he held his hand out to Chris “yeah” Chris shook his hand “and Rihanna” shaking his hand “hi” I am glad he isn’t the weird people that stare and shake my hand “If you'll follow me, we'll begin the tour” looking up at Chris, he held my hand. He held my hand first without me having to do it, he did. Things like that make me so happy.

We have reached the floor where the wine tasting would take place, the best part to me. There is five bottles of wine in front of us. I hope we can drink all five, I mean of course not “if you both would just wait here, I will get the things together” nodding my head, looking over at Chris “no buying anything, I don’t do that over here” that is the first thing he says, “if it tastes nice you are buying me a bottle, we drink it and then have some really sloppy sex, what you think?” Chris shook his head “we save the money and have sloppy sex either way” I scoffed, he is extra ugly and annoying to me “this is for you Robyn” I didn’t know the guy came back “for me?” he bought out a boxed bottle of wine “yes, the best for you. The finest we have” he already got me wine “I just told them to give me the finest wine, that is it” opening the box “awww, I mean I will drink most things” pulling the bottle out, seeing the label “the finest wine for you Robyn, love Chris” I read out “you know me so well, he sits there and acts he is not going to do something, and he does. Thank you” looking over at Chris “ma’am the wine we gave you is this tester” the guide pointed out “thank you and thank you Chris” Chris acts to calm like it’s nothing to him, like he doesn’t do the most for me but he does, I love that about him.

[rustdream]

Mustache Kid makes a New Friend hee hoo

Yea! A smol story for @promisedangel‘s roleswap AU! I wrote this at night so some things may be grammatically incorrect. I hope this is good!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The air was full of tension as Mustache Kid stood infront of the ice walls that surrounded her destination. By some sort of miracle, they were perfectly intact, despite the immense heat the forest gave off daily. While it’s a neat discovery all on its own, it would mean that she would have to bust her way in. She was taken out of her thoughts when she heard a chuckle behind her. The voice belonged to none other than the Matriarch, the ruler of Subcon and the pain in the butt that’s been threatening her into doing favors for her. “It’s quite the feat, isn’t it?” The shadowy being asked, floating besides the girl.

Mustache Kid sighed in annoyance, causing the ghost’s angelic features to distort. “Now don’t take that ton with me, child. This will be different than the other favors you’ve done!” The passive aggressive tone had set in, as she feigned cheerfulness. The Matriarch clasped her hands together, “You’ll be delivering a gift to my special Prince for his birthday!” Mustache Kid turned to her as the gift box was born from red flames, the embers forming the luxurious bow. As much as she hated to admit it that box had a pretty darn cool shade of red. “Okay…but why don’t you do it? Since it’s your gift.” Mustache Kid questioned, as the Matriarch’s expression softened. “Oh, how I wish I could give him the gift myself! Unfortunately, my temper had gotten the better of me and…we got into a fight. Now the poor thing’s scared of me.” It was clear that queen of Subcon was being exaggeratingly dramatic right then, as she had no qualms about threatening children with execution twice fold. Still, the kid didn’t have much choice, as the box was shoved into her hands. Mustache Kid had a couple of moments before she realized that her bombs were gone. “Hey!” 

“Oh and, by the way. The Prince is very finicky, so these,” The Matriarch held the bag of bombs in her hands with the heat threatening to set them off, “are out of the question. Now get to it.” As Mustache Kid jumped through the ice pillars infront of her, she could her the cold-hearted monarch say something about burning her if she was to break the box. But she was used to those threats, and there wasn’t much to worry about anyways. She continued, occasionally having to break the walls with the fiery fruits and Dwellers hiding around. Eventually she had made it to the other side of the labyrinth of walls and was immediately hit with the extremely cold weather. She adjusted her cape to cover herself and waded through the thick snow, in the direction of the manor in the distance. When she neared the front porch, she could see glowing yellow eyes peer at her through the attic window for a quick second, before blinking out of sight. Hopefully, this ‘Prince’ wouldn’t be as much as an immoral jerk as the Matriarch was. She went to knock on the door before the wood had turned to ice and being rendered unopenable. Mustache Girl groaned as she kicked an ice statue near, but her attitude quickly changed to fear when said statue came to life and tried to smash her head open. Running from living creatures of cold terror, she had ducked into the cellar in the back and shut the doors. While one might think this wouldn’t stop them from breaking in, it did. In fact, they seemed to leave as soon as the door had locked!

Well, she already made it in the house, might as well deliver it personally. She skidded through the cellar floor, the spilled wine having been frozen over the years. Managing to make it upstairs without busting her bust on the slippery ice, she was relieved to find that the rest of the house’s flooring wasn’t in the same state. Mustache Kid wandered down the hallways, the carpeted floors keeping her footsteps quiet. Suddenly, she had heard the sound of glass breaking coming from the room besides her. In an act of impulse, she opened the door, leading her to the library. There didn’t seem to be anyone in here. A broken vase sure, and an ice sculpture that was whispering to her. Wait. On closer inspection, it was a Wally! Though, he was frozen everywhere but his head. “Hey, Little Mustached Child, why are you here?” He asked, his voice shaky and low. Before she could answer, the air grew darker as footsteps could be heard. “Quick! Hide, Get out of Here!” Mustache Kid wasn’t about to question it, she simply slid under the low bookshelves, the gift box conveniently fitting through with her. Just in time too, as a shadowy figure entered the room. It had the same aura that the Matriarch gave off, but its figure was slightly deformed and monstrous. It was safe to assume that this was the Prince that she was referring to. His yellow eyes scanned the scene, panic present in them. 

His head snapped towards the Wally as the frozen man panicked. “H-hello Best Friend! I was being clumsy and um, knocked it over-” He frantically tried to explain, as the shadow interrupted him. “You promised, you promised that you wouldn’t break any more stuff last time you broke these. You broke my things, gifts to you last week and you said, ‘Wally will fix that’, ‘Wally won’t break stuff again’. But did you live up to that? No nononono, you didn’t you just lied and lied, and you know how I HATE liars.” The Prince ranted, as the ice on Wally’s body consumed more of him. Mustache Kid watched as he was frozen completely and smashed to pieces by this raving lunatic. The shadows mad shrieks soon dissolved into tears, burying his head in his hands. Mustache Kid slowly crawled out of her hiding spot, placing the gift behind the sobbing mess. She then tried to tip toe her way out of the room before a voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Who are you?” The Prince spoke through sobs, as the girl turned to meet his gaze. She seemed to stammer quite a lot, obviously nervous. The royal’s gaze slowly drifted to the nicely wrapped gift between them, the sight swinging his mood straight into a happy delirium. “Did you bring this gift, a gift for me? I’m good enough for gifts?” He asked hopefully, pure joy blooming inside his chest when she had nodded. The Prince chuckled as he suddenly swooped both the box and Mustache Kid in his arms, straight to a bedroom. This caused the kid to become upset, not understanding why he was doing this. But, he simply placed her on a pile of pillows, as he ‘sat’(more along the lines of coiled on) the bed with the gift in his lap. As he tore open the wrapping, Mustache Kid looked around to determine her situation. Everyone but the two of them were frozen solid. Some of them are seals, cats, a lot of them Wallies. “Great, this might as well happen.” She mumbled, as she heard the Prince gasp in surprise. Well, she’s kind of stuck here, might as well find out what the gift was!

A pile of bacon. That was literally it. It wasn’t even good, all of it was charred to crispy charcoal. However, the Prince was very happy to receive this gift. He started scarfing it down quickly, as if as soon as he stopped it would be all gone. He then froze up suddenly. He could hear them. His friends, they were hungry too. They deserved this gift more than he did, and he’s just hogging it like the selfish friend he is. He doesn’t deserve such a nice thing as this, with how horrid he was being. Of course, Mustache Kid didn’t hear any of that. She just looked on in confusion as the Prince went around the room, trying to shove bacon down the ice statues’ throats. Though that went as well as you’d expect it to, as it either fell out (with the Prince eating it anyways) or it just stayed in the mouths of the frozen creatures around him. He made it to Mustache Kid, offering her a handful of burnt bacon. “Oh um, no thanks. I’ve already. Eaten on the way here you know and, snacks aren’t my thing?” She refused, thoughts of an elaborate escape plan flooding through her mind. The Prince sat back on the bed, facing away from everyone as he consumed the rest of the food on his plate. After he was done, he turned to Mustache Kid and held her hands in his freezing cold hands. “Thank you, thank you, thank you for this wonderful gift. I’ll cherish it, I’ll love it. Never forget it, thank you new friend!” He repeatedly thanked her, his breath hitching as he started to mumble incoherently to himself. He then stood upright, seeming to have snapped back into reality. “It seems like it’s getting dark! None of you, none of you are leaving, r-right? GOOD! Good, I guess that means that we can have a slumber party. You – YOU will join us, won’t you New Friend?” He asked the child, as ice started to form on her legs.

Mustache Kid sat on the pillow pile on the floor, bored out of her mind. Since her bombs are gone and this guy can freeze her in an instant, fighting her way out is out of the question. So is straight up running for the exit. For now, she just has to play along with it. However, the only entertainment right now was watching him start up conversations with the frozen people besides him. And even then it wasn’t really funny. Just sad. She would perk up whenever he spoke to her though. Mainly because he could kill her if she didn’t answer. “Oh, sure! I agree! No way!” After a long while of talking, the Prince stood up. “Okay everyone! I’ve gotten everything prepared for tonight! A nice view, snacks…wait. No, no snacks??” His head rotated 180 degrees (grossing the kid out a bit), facing the empty table meant for housing the refreshments. How could he forget? He should have thought this through! He has a new friend he needs to impress, and this is his first impression? A forgetful dumb stupid idiot who disappoints everyone he meets? He could feel the hateful stares burn up as he backed out of the room. “I’m, I’m going to go get the, snacks. Friend! New Friend, can you come with me?” He practically tugged Mustache Kid out of the room, and downstairs into the kitchen. 

Mustache Kid gathered up what small amount of treats she could find in the abandoned cabinets on the table, as the Prince got ready the tea. A couple of crackers, and some preserved fruits. She turned to the Prince, who was shaking as he continuously stirred the tea. At the very least, he was a lot nicer than the Matriarch. “Not many snacks…are there?” She questioned, more out of concern for how he’s been living all this time. While she figured that ghosts don’t need to eat to live, it seemed to cause the Matriarch pain when she missed a meal, imagine living with only this. The Prince put the tea kettle on the tray, along with the cups, before answering. “Hang on, there’s more, I’ll get them.” He walked hurriedly to a hollow spot in the walls, before sliding it aside to reveal some bigger snacks, such as a bag of fish chips of the CC brand and a slice of velvet jelly cake. All of it seems to have been frozen to last, the velvet jelly was absolutely solid when he placed it on the table. Mustache Kid grabbed the snacks, as the Prince carried the tea tray upstairs. “By the way, I’m sorry for being so forgetful. It’s really awful on my part, I hope you can forgive me.” He told her, as they set the tea and snacks down. Of course she’d forgive him, it’s not like he has anything he needs to apologize for.

The night seemed to have gotten better. The two were now talking about law, and frankly hearing about this planets views on justice and law enforcement was pretty interesting. Until he got into the nitty gritty details of it. Not that it was boring, it was just the simple fact that they have all these policies and fallacies and such. But it isn’t complex! There are bad people who need to be arrested, like the Matriarch, whole there are good people who arrest the bad, like herself! Still, she listened intently to his rambles about law theory. Something the Prince isn’t used to! Usually when he rambles to people, they ignore him. It always made him feel like he didn’t matter but when he asked Mustache Kid if she was listening she actually responded! Mustache Kid took a sip of her tea, and grimaced. The tea was ice cold. Which was understandable since the person who made the tea could freeze things with his bare claw hands. But there was also the fact that she actually wasn’t a tea person. The Prince caught on to this. “Is there something wrong? Is it not good enough? I’m sorry I’ll make a new kettle if you hate it-“

 “It’s good, it’s okay!” Mustache Kid assured him, almost becoming numb from the ice that had formed up to her knees. It was thin, luckily. She placed a hand on the Prince’s shoulder as he calmed down. “Oh, I’m sorry I just got worried and…” He eventually stopped talking as he leaned into her arms, humming as she petted his head. He liked this, it’s nice. She’s nice. Most of his other friends didn’t hug him like that, they didn’t even tell him nice things. He’s heard of BFFS, Best Friends Forever. Maybe people that nice are BFFs? The Prince never had enough friends to tell. He’ll need to hide her from Vanessa. She’ll come and burn him again, and maybe even burn his new BFF like everything other bit of happiness he hoarded. He didn’t want to think of that. Whenever he did his mind devolved into this dark place he can’t get out of. “So what’s the next event on our list of fun?” Mustache Kid asked, distracting the Prince from his thoughts. “A dance.”

[it-takes-acquired-minds]

Chapter 3: Anne

((TWs: Thievery/robbery, mentions of violence, mentions of dead bodies))

“Okay, I know that you’re not proud of me, but I’m proud of me,” Boleyn announced as she pushed open the door to the hut and placed a large bag onto the sole piece of furniture in the room, a long table. She beamed at it like it was her newborn baby. 

The person sitting on the floor, a slender woman with dark curls, and a complexion like burnt gold, scrambled to her feet at the sound of Boleyn’s entry. “Boleyn!” she exclaimed, rushing forward to seize the treasure. A shocked laugh tore through her, filled with anything but pleasure. “You’ve just picked up a new job. Why did you need this?” 

Boleyn shrugged. “It’s a birthday present.” 

The woman’s eyes, a lovely shade of hazel, narrowed in annoyance. “My birthday was weeks ago. I bet you did this because some idiot gave you the chance. ” 

“It’s a birthday present for me. My birthday’s in two months.” The woman shook her head, and Boleyn shrugged again. “At least I was successful,” she said, plopping down onto the floor. “Could you imagine how embarrassing it would have been if I’d tried and failed?” 

“I would have been happier if you had,” the woman remarked, folding her arms and examining the prize. “What’s in it?” 

Boleyn grinned. “Curious, are we?” 

“Fine, don’t tell me.” 

A moment passed. Boleyn stuck out her tongue. “It’s a statuette I picked off of some passing merchant.” 

“Which merchant?” 

“So many questions!” she whined. Her friend stared her down, waiting. “Ugh, you are such a bitch, Cather. Honestly. It was...um.” She hesitated, only partially prepared to admit her crimes. “It may or may not have been a merchant who goes by the commonly well known name of Nycolas.” 

Surprisingly, Boleyn’s companion, Cather, did not explode. She nodded solemnly, sealing her lips together, and then picked up the bag and handed it to her. “Uh...Cathy. What are you doing?”

“Don’t call me Cathy, and I am not doing anything,” Cather said. “You are returning that statuette.” 

Boleyn scraped herself off the floor rapidly and carelessly, barely managing to keep the statuette in her hands. She saw Cather wince. “I am not returning this! It is mine, rightfully stolen!” 

“Nothing is rightfully stolen,” Cather argued. “You know how dangerous Nycolas is, Boleyn! He will find you, hunt you down, break his statuette and use the broken pieces to slit your throat!” 

“He’s not that dramatic,” Boleyn scoffed. “And he’d never break this little thing. Art is Nycolas’s pride.” 

“So why didn’t you take a horse or something? No one would have blinked twice if Nycolas lost some stallion, and you could sell it for a great price!” 

Boleyn sniffed. “I don’t like horses.” 

Cather visibly cooled herself down before speaking again. It was too fun to annoy her. “You are unbelievable. You’re an avid equestrian around any Acelainer, but when Nycolas rolls around, suddenly you have a passion for statuettes?”

“What I have a passion for is the trade,” Boleyn said. Cather couldn’t say anything to make her feel any less smug. She’d lifted a real piece of art off of the most prestigious curator in the Eaves, possibly in Tudor. A task that would have daunted many lesser thieves, she had achieved easily. “Once you’ve got a reputation, you can’t keep lifting wallets. Acelainers adore their big bronze thoroughbreds to the point where you never know if their next monarch will be a king or a horse. You know what Nycolas going to do with that statuette? He was going to gloat over it and place it in his private museum with all of his pristinely preserved corpses. That little figure’s a lot more breakable than me. I took it to show that markling creep what I’m made of.” 

“You can’t show any mark what you’re made of if you’re two meters under the ground, Boleyn! However unbreakable you think you, or that statuette, may be!” 

“No silver shovel’s gonna dig my grave before I’ve pocketed the handle,” Boleyn teased with a smile. 

“I’m glad that you think this is a joke,” Cather said coldly. “You have to return that statuette!” 

She planned to. But first, she wanted a reaction. She’d had a long week of waiting for something to happen and stealing the statuette had barely been a challenge. It hadn’t been enough to burn off any amount of energy. Boleyn wanted a fight. And fighting with Cather could get entertaining. “Don’t be like that, Cathy.” Her jaw clenched. A good start. “It’ll make a perfect decoration for my funeral pyre.” 

“Your funeral might be coming sooner than you expect, Boleyn.”  Cather said, almost mocking. 

“Can’t wait. It’s gonna be some kind of party,” she said, rashly cradling the statuette in her arms. Cather stiffened. “What? Thought that you said this thing was unbreakable.” 

“I never said that. If we repeated this entire conversation, you would see that I never once said anything about the statuette’s fragility.” 

Boleyn placed the statuette down beside her and rested elbows on her crossed knees, her chin on her knuckles. “I love it when you get all factual.” 

Cather shook her head. “That wasn’t factual. That was me being annoyed with your constant antics!” 

 “You? Annoyed with me?” Boleyn mockingly placed her hand to her chest in a faked horror. “I never!” 

Cather’s distressed expression flickered into a glare. “Why do I put up with you?” she asked resignedly. 

“Because you love me,” Boleyn said simply. “Almost as much as I love putting proud rich lily-livers in their place by lifting worthless statuettes.” 

“Worthless? That thing could probably pick up a good three hundred silver pieces!” 

“Then maybe we ought to sell it,” Boleyn suggested. “I’m in the mood for an auction, aren’t you?” 

“Always,” Cather muttered. “But I’m not selling stolen property.” 

“Why not? We’ve done it before.” Many times. Even with Cather wasn’t around, Boleyn made a good portion of her profits off of selling her picks. 

Cather shook her head. “I’m not selling property that was stolen from an incredibly powerful and dangerous merchant, particularly not in a public auction, where anyone and everyone could report us and land our heads on the chopping block!” 

“I use the chopping block as a pillow,” Boleyn said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “And we should sell it! It’d be safe and have more benefits. Returning the statuette means that we might get caught, but if we sell it, then someone else has to deal with it.” 

Cather pressed her hands together, as if pleading, and pouted desperately. “Please, Mr. Nycolas, sir, the statuette isn’t mine! No, really! Don’t hurt me! I bought it off of that thief Boleyn! She’s the one you want! She’s always hanging around the South Border, and really, she’s the one to blame!” She dropped the act to glower at Boleyn. “Any buyer would give you up to Nycolas in a heartbeat to save their own skin.” 

“They’d end up dead anyway,” she pointed out. “And what evidence would they have?” 

“It doesn’t matter!” Cather fretted. “You don’t think that a rich mark far too used to getting and keeping exactly what he wants won’t tear you to shreds simply because he knows your name?” 

“Please. I’m unbreakable,” Boleyn said, jumping to her feet and scooping up the statuette. Addressing it instead of Cather, she spoke. “Do you really want to spend all of your time with your proper buyer’s pile of bodies? You like the attention now, but it’ll go away. Don’t you want to belong to someone who can take care of you? Make you into someone really special? Someday, you’re going to be the dust underneath Nycolas’s feet. I could make you a very important statuette, yes. You could fetch a pile of silver pieces large enough to make me into a queen, and then you would be my king. I’d take you back again and you’d become a marvelous little thing.”

“Shut up before my ears fall off,” Cather growled, and threw open the door to the hut. “I assume you’re going to bring that back?” 

Boleyn pouted. “Fine. But Otselot and I are not happy that you’re sending him back to that mean old man.” 

Cather stared. “Did you really name it? 

Boleyn smiled. “Nope. Nycolas did. Look at the base.” She pushed the statuette in Cather’s direction to display the writing at the bottom. Otselot - Ainsley Nycolas, sculpted by Ainsley Nycolas, purchased by Ainsley Nycolas. “Did you know that his name is Ainsley Nycolas?” 

For the first time that morning, Cather laughed. “Ainsley Nycolas. The vainest markling creep in the Eaves.” 

“And the most artistic markling creep in all of Tudor!” Boleyn declared. She patted the statuette’s head. “I know, Otselot. I know.” 

“Oh, for crying out loud, Boleyn. It’s called Otselot because it’s an ocelot. That’s why. Not because it’s named Otselot,” Cather said. 

“Let me have my fun,” she clucked, and noticed the quiver of arrows strung over Cather’s shoulder. “Where are you going?” 

“Don’t pretend like you don’t need backup,” Cather said, and grabbed the tall bow by the doorframe. “Then I’m going to sweep the Fence. Could you grab us something to eat?” 

“I thought you didn’t want me stealing,” Boleyn said as she flitted past Cather and through the door. The sun burst onto her face, thick and white, exploding against her eyes. She rose her hand to her forehead to act as a visor and turned back to an annoyed Cather. 

“There’s a difference between picking up a loaf of bread and a savage merchant’s pride and joy,” she said as she joined Boleyn outside. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour or two.” 

“Let’s see who can finish up first,” Boleyn said, and walked away without a second thought. 

Heyyyy it’s finally here!! Chapter 3 of Guiltless Ghosts, (for all you who didn’t know, that’s the title) and we’ve got two new characters wrapped in! This one was a lot of fun to write, mainly because it was entirely composed of Parrlyn banter. They’ve got a very different dynamic from Catalina and Jane, and that’s probably been my favorite part of writing this, besides building the world of Tudor and the other kingdoms. The relationships between the queens are so much fun to write!! Let me know what you think!! Chapter 4 will be up as soon as possible. 

Tags: @theatergirl06 @silverpetals97 @timetoriseabove

[andersoncharm]

Don’t Read The Last Page- October 24, 2020

MiniPara: - Don’t Read The Last Page

Rating: PG.

Pairing: Seblaine. 

Sebastian: smythesm

Blaine: andersoncharm

When: October 24, 2020-  Two days after Blaine’s 24th Birthday.

Location: Sebastian’s Apartment- Boston, MA

Notes: Sam visits Blaine for his birthday week and gets to know Seb a little. He gives Blaine some unexpected news that could change Blaine and Sebastian’s lives…

Warnings:  Mentions of death. Parental Death (Blaine’s Mom), Mentions of toxic past relationships. Mentions of brief past Klaine.

Extra Warnings: (This hasn’t been brought up for a bit but, this RP is not Kurt Hummel friendly. You’ve all been warned.)

Blaine’s POV:

Blaine tipped a sip of his tea attempting to hide the smile that had overtaken his face as he watched his boyfriend and his best friend place the freshly carved pumpkins out on the balcony. The visual brought him a joy that he’d not felt in a long time and he wanted to hold onto the moment, freeze it in his brain and save it for a darker day. They’d done six squash and each one had a dreadful grin or the face of a pup, or little cat whiskers carved into the shades of orange and yellow. He, Seb and Sam had spent the crisp day doing various autumnal things that Blaine wanted to do in sort of a birthday weekend celebration and Blaine’s perpetually worried yet happy demeanor over the last few days, had somehow evolved to an even bigger degree of happiness that balanced somewhere between being thrilled to downright ecstatic. Sam being here had brought a little slice of his childhood into his new world and Blaine was over the moon with the feeling of having them both near. If only David and Nick could be here to make it all even better.

He fought the urge to light each of the pumpkins from his spot in Sebastian’s apartment, but refrained- Sam would be leaving soon to go back to Ohio with his family for a few days before leaving for Japan and Blaine could wait before he used his favorite bit of spooky magic. Sam had been in America for almost two weeks now and he’d been in Boston for four days, Blaine only wished he had more time here. He sat his cup down and went over and opened the balcony door as Seb and Sam turned to come back in, the purple and orange glow of the Halloween lights backing them as they stepped into the room.

“I know Sam’s got a long drive ahead of him so I’ve made a kettle of hot water for tea and a pot of coffee, the two of you can take your pick. And yes, Sam, there are about six different types of creamer to choose from.” He rolled his eyes at Sam’s grin and sat down to wait for them to come back. Sebastian came first and Blaine’s face once again threatened to crack open into another smile as his boyfriend snuggled into him, shivering from being outside. Blaine wrapped his arm around him and pulled him even closer before pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s not that cold, baby.” He mumbled teasingly. Seb just grunted in response.

“God the two of you are so gross.” Sam mused with a smile as he came back into the room with the biggest coffee cup from the cupboard filled way too full and slightly sloshing over as he sat down at the end of the couch. “Gross, but like way better than the dude you dated in high school for those few months. Kurt? Did I tell you that I ran into him when I first got to Ohio? Still has major uh, god complex energy. God complex? Did I use that right? Yeah.”

Blaine’s stomach dropped a little at the mention of his brief, witch ex-boyfriend and he pulled Seb a little closer. Whether it was to keep himself calm or Seb safe he couldn't tell.

Sebastian’s POV:

Seb liked Sam well enough. He had brought him a plethora of Japanese candy and a Sailor Moon manga. Sebastian was touched by how thoughtful it all was even if the blonde man wrapped him in a giant bear hug that had lasted a little too long for his liking. Sam laughed at pretty much everything Sebastian said (“your voice is so monotone, dude! It’s hilarious!”) and was Blaine’s biggest cheerleader, had a giant grin and even bigger arms so what wasn’t to like? Ras liked him, too (probably because they had almost the exact same demeanor and ecstatic energy.) Sam fully embraced Blaine’s autumnal themed birthday weekend and didn’t make things seem third wheel-y. 

Sebastian nestled the last grinning jack o’ lantern on the bannister as Sam stood back and wiped his palms on his jeans. They had carefully carried all six of the pumpkins they had carved with Blaine out to the balcony to display. Blaine had made a show of making sure each pumpkin had a little white votive candle inside of it though Seb knew that he would just use his magic to make sure they shone bright and long all season. 

He nodded at Sam as if to signify that their work was done and they headed back into the warmth of the apartment. Sebastian immediately snuggled into his boyfriend’s warm arms, the scent of coffee and cinnamon candles instantly comforting. He wasn’t ready for the nights to grow colder and darker but he knew how much Blaine loved the colder months and so he welcomed the chilly air and tried not to grumble about missing his beloved sun too much. 

Seb peeled himself out of the other man’s strong arms, flipped Sam off and poured himself a cup of coffee with a little half and half. He clasped his mug and reveled in the feeling of the hot ceramic in his hands. Sebastian joined the other men in the living room and tried not to audibly sigh when he noticed Sam’s coffee (kind calling it that, it was mostly caramel creamer) slosh onto the arm of the couch. He knew Blaine would magic it but his Virgo tendencies were itchy with the want to spray the spot down with cleaner and scrub vigorously.  

His ears perked at the mention of Blaine’s ex. Sebastian felt the other man pull him a little closer and could feel the energy change around them. He sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat, “God complex, huh?” Sebastian took a drink of his coffee and watched Sam who seemed very chill as he sipped on his drink and gave Ras’s hair a ruffle. He could feel Blaine’s body tense to his side. “Humor us, Sam. What did he have to say?”

Blaine’s POV:

Blaine’s heart thudded in his chest as he waited for Sam to reply to them. This familiar icy feeling of dread that he’d grown accustomed to ignoring over the past couple of years slowly crept over his body even before Sam spoke what had been said into the atmosphere. He tried his hardest not to react, tired not to grip Seb’s arm too tightly as his stomach fell to the floor. Sam’s perky, nonchalance made Blaine feel crazy about his internal struggle, but one quick glance at Seb told him that he wasn’t alone in his struggle. All at once he was happy that Hunter and Tony had already left a couple of days ago after meeting Sam and weren’t here to hear this. Wouldn’t it be their obligation to the Order to do something about it? Kurt was a Witch. A Witch that now knew about Sebastian and Blaine’s very forbidden relationship… He was especially thankful that Freya was out in the moonlight so that she couldn’t tell him she told him so. No matter how much she cared for Seb and of course, Ras.

“Well, he was like standing there, looking like he stepped out of some magazine, you know how he was, remember? And then he just casually asks how you are. So I tell him how happy you are and how you’ve got this awesome boyfriend named Sebastian that treats you like an equal and not like, you know, a trophy wife like he did and this fucking dude just keeps smiling at me. His eyes got all big and crazy looking and man, ooh, he looked like that cat from Alice in Wonderland, you know? Anyway,  I’m glad you got outta that one as quick as you did.” Sam took a big swig of his too hot drink and winched but still managed to look so proud of himself for talking Seb and Blaine up. He really was a good best friend. But, all Blaine could feel was that shrinking dread. 

Blaine licked his lips, a permanent chill settling into his bones as he sat his tea cup onto the coffee table in front of them before leaning back against Seb. His body tensed and ready for a fight as if Kurt or the Order and Council would bust through the door at any second. “That’s so strange. We dated for like two or three months, I can’t see why he’d even care what I’m up to.” He forced a laugh and reached out for Seb’s hand, linking their fingers and squeezing tightly so as not to float away. “How long ago was this?”

Sam took another drink of his coffee and shrugged. “Like when I first got into Ohio.” He shook his head. “I saw him about three more times on my trip, he didn’t talk to me or anything, just seemed to be at a few places I went to, I wouldn’t worry about it, dude. Like you said, you totally shouldn't give a shit about what he thinks anyway.” His best friend stopped and looked up at the clock with a sigh. “Ugh, I guess I should go soon. I promise the next time I come though that I’ll stay longer than four days, alright?” Sam stood up and not so carefully went into the kitchen to discard his cup into the sink. He pulled Seb into a hug that looked like it hurt before standing up and pulling Blaine into an even stronger hug, crushing him against him. Blaine knew he was tense and that he was distracted and he hated that he wasn’t able to say a proper goodbye to his best friend, but his heart was thudding so fucking hard in his ribcage that he wanted to scream.

He was such an idiot. How could he have been so careless? How could he have forgotten that Sam’s family was from Ohio that sweet, oblivious Sam would have no clue that all the Facebook and Instagram and Twitter posts had been glamoured so that it looked like Blaine was still single to Witchfolk? The high from his Birthday weekend crashed down hard and he couldn’t even bring himself to speak after Sam had left. His body felt heavy as he made his way back into the bedroom to get dressed for bed. He ignored Ras’ pitiful look which made him feel worse. He was working on autopilot as he changed his clothes and he could feel Seb’s eyes on him, searching for answers that Blaine didn’t have. His hands were shaking as he ran them through his curls before finally looking up at Sebastian, lost.

“Fuck, Seb…”

Sebastian’s POV:

It was a good thing that Sebastian was in law school and had been trained not to wear his emotions on his sleeve and had a pretty perfect poker face because his stomach was tied in knots. He knew that he and Blaine needed to remain calm while Sam was around. Kurt was a witch. A witch knew about them and it wasn’t just any old witch, it was Blaine’s ex. Sure, they had only been together a few months but they way it had been explained to Sebastian, he was sure there was a grudge. He could feel his boyfriend’s rigid body and slight shake. “Fuck him.” The words were meant for Blaine’s feelings as well as a reply to Sam’s story.  

Sebastian awkwardly patted Sam on the back as he bunched him up into a hug. Blaine hugged his best friend and gave a half hearted goodbye and Ras gave him a few kisses and he was on his way out. Seb walked Sam to the door and wished him a safe trip. He watched Blaine silently head into the bedroom and sighed. 

“What does this mean, B? What do we do?” He pulled open the top drawer on his dresser to find the pack of cigarettes he had nestled in amongst his boxers. He felt too agitated to get into his sweats or get undressed for bed. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to sleep at all. Sebastian sat on the bed next to the other man, his cigarette in between his lips. “Can I get a light?”

Blaine’s POV:

Blaine gave a half hearted smile and reached out his hand and with a surge of energy and a flick of his fingers Sebastian’s cigarette was lit. Seb rarely let Blaine use magic with him aside from sex and he knew this was an attempt to make him feel better. He watched as his boyfriend took a long drag, his eyes blurring from staring at the reddish orange glow of the magic lighted ash. He worried his bottom lip as his thoughts raced through his head. What would he do? He could go to Hunter and Tony, warn them that someone may know about him and Sebastian. Someone that could do something about it, that might dislike him just enough to turn him in. But, would Kurt? They’d only been together a few months and while they hadn’t had the best break up and Blaine had gotten angry about the way Kurt had controlled every aspect about their relationship right down to what Blaine wore sometimes, surely that didn’t mean he’d try to have him killed. Right?

He blinked remembering the disdain in Kurt’s eyes when he said he didn’t want to be his legacy, descendant prize. He remembered when Kurt had reminded Blaine that some witches never found their fate and that they should just settle for each other since Kurt understood what it was like to lose a parent. Blaine remembered how upset he’d been when Kurt threw his mother's death in his face and suddenly it was all too much for him at once. He shook his head and turned back to look at his boyfriend. 

“Nothing. We’re not going to do anything, okay?” He knew it sounded insane and saying it out loud scared the hell out of him, but what was he supposed to do? “If we tell Hunter or Tony or my dad it will only expedite everything and I want to hold onto us for as long as I fucking can.” His voice was sharp, like he needed to convince himself and Sebastian. “Kurt has known about us for two weeks, surely he would have gone to the Council or the  Order by now, right?” Or he’s just biding his time…  He shrugged that thought off, knowing it was going to haunt his thoughts for the rest of his life, leaned in closer to Sebastian. 

“Whatever has to happen is going to happen. All I know is that I’m not leaving and I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay? My top priority is keeping you safe and I plan on sticking by that.” He reached for Sebastian’s free hand and brought the back of it up to his lips and pressed a kiss to it, his eyes falling closed as he breathed him in. The overwhelming feeling of how much he loved this man and how much dying for him and them would be worth it overtook him and he wanted to scream and cry about how unfair the world was but Sebastian needed him to be calm and he needed to be calm for himself or he’d panic and where would that leave him?

“It’s going to be okay.” He mumbled the words, his conviction whooshing out of him as he scooted so that he was as close to Sebastian as he could get, his head pressing into his chest as he tried to steady his breathing and convince himself of the words' truths. It had to be okay.

Sebastian’s POV:

Sebastian took a long drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. He stared at the ceiling fan for a few moments, the light making little blue dots swim in front of his eyes. Seb squeezed Blaine’s thigh and held the cigarette out towards him. “Hopefully this kid has grown up some.” He took a deep breath and his lungs wavered a bit from the smoke and the fear swimming low in his belly. Sebastian didn’t like the sound of any of the words Blaine was saying. It all sounded detrimental and uncertain and scary. “You’re my top priority, too, you know. I need you to be safe, too.” He bit his bottom lip and looked into the other man’s warm eyes. Blaine looked scared and sad and that made Seb’s stomach knot up and his anxiety spike. “We can get through this.” Sebastian didn’t want to turn his courthouse tricks on with Blaine but he wanted to calm the other man down and reassure him somehow. 

“Maybe we should lay in bed and watch a movie. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep and I don’t want to mindlessly stare at my phone all night. You can pick what we watch.” Sebastian stood up and grabbed the sweatpants he had set out for that night off of his pillow. “The water is probably still warm in the kettle. I’ll bring you some chamomile tea.” 

So, even though his body felt sick with anxiety and his throat felt dry and his hands wanted to shake, he forced his voice to stay even and his hands to calmly grip the maroon mug that he filled with hot water for Blaine. Sebastian turned off the lights and plugged in the heating pad for Blaine, snuggled into his side as they watched Tangled and West Side Story. He drifted off to sleep before anything bad happened to Tony and Maria and wished on any star that happened to be out that he and Blaine would be okay.

/fin.

[anotherdayinchuckletown]

They’re Funny That Way, Chapter 2

A/N: Hey, guys!  I’m pretty happy with the feedback I received on Chapter 1, and I’m so so thankful to everyone who took the time to read it (especially those of you who offered me kind and encouraging words, ily!)  So, the story continues!

I’ve found over the years that dialogue is my biggest strength, and scenes with little to no dialogue stretch and challenge me a bit.  So this chapter was a touch longer in development than the last. But I hope to get a consistent update schedule going pretty soon here because I have a very fleshed-out plan for this fic.

That said, I hope you enjoy!  Please like, reblog, and comment if you do!

(cross-posted to my AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/users/marie_deneuve)

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Arthur Fleck has seen an angel. There is no other way to describe it.

Things are especially tedious since he returned from his latest stint at the psychiatric ward. The same things, day in and day out, until each day begins to blur together like a watercolor painting. No clear lines separating one grueling day from the next, every shape hazy and undefined beyond the smoke of his cigarettes. He himself disappears into the smog and goes about his life unseen. Unknown. Not to mention, he's now on thin ice at work – Hoyt, his boss, made that much clear to him right off the bat. "You've missed a lot of days, Arthur," he had said the morning he came in to pick up his belongings. "Just try not to be a pain in the ass. No fucking up, you got that?" Arthur can't remember how he responded, if he responded. Only that the voice in his head (it's his mother's voice that time) told him to Smile. At least you got your job back. It's so much easier to smile when he's Carnival, and not just because the expression is painted on for him. He loves his job, honestly, he does. Every once in a while, when he's working gigs at birthday parties or at the children's hospital, when he's able to make the kids laugh, it seems worth it. For just a minute, it seems as though he's good for something after all. As though maybe when his mother used to tell him his purpose was to spread joy and laughter in the world, she was right. And maybe he could actually do it. Then he takes off the wig, the brightly-colored clothes, the greasepaint...and the illusion is broken. Sometimes it's easy to forget the husk of a man that lies underneath the makeup. Arthur Fleck. Who is Arthur Fleck? Hard to say. Carnival is easier. And so Carnival stays that evening as he walks home. Also because he's just so fucking exhausted. Not changing out of his clown costume at work means a little less dealing with his coworkers and a little more getting home to sequester himself from the rest of the world for the remainder of the evening. The woman on the elevator is not part of the plan. She holds the door open for him and retreats silently into a corner. The air between them is still as death as they ascend, her eyes burning holes in the back of his coat all the while. Arthur initially avoids looking back at her, afraid that if he does, she'll vanish into thin air. He's becoming too used to his lonely, damaged psyche playing such tricks on him. She never even pushes any of the buttons for a specific floor – if she's a hallucination, she's not even a convincing one. The trip is not smooth by any means – surprise, surprise – and the woman seems more than a little perturbed. "Does...that happen often?" Her voice, gentle and feathery, suddenly drifts over him, covering him like a weighted blanket. He turns to face her fully, intending to respond, but pauses when he feels his heart stop. She is undoubtedly the most beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes on. She instantly evokes images of those actresses in the black and white films of his youth. The same powerful air of sophistication as Grace Kelly. The same allure as Rita Hayworth. Only she's in vivid color, and they're not separated by a screen, and she's so close. Even in the elevator's dingy lighting, her blonde curls glow like a halo. Her full lips are pulled into a concerned frown, and her icy blue eyes are trained quizzically on him. Right, that's because she asked him a question. And he's so far done nothing but stare at her like a depraved creep. Carnival, his work persona, doesn't generally speak - and thank fuck for that. Arthur doesn't think he could power out a single word if he wanted to, his mouth has gone so dry. In the end, all he manages is a shrug. Idiot. She must not think he's a total loser because she keeps talking to him anyway, even pays him a compliment – a compliment! When's the last time that happened? He's definitely glad he kept the clown costume on now; interacting with her this way is safer, gives him less of a chance to screw it up. Less of a chance for her to see how pathetic he really is underneath it all. All good things must come to an end, however, and they do eventually reach the eighth floor. And when they do, she surprises him yet again. "I'm new to the building, by the way – my name's Emma. It's a pleasure." Emma. Emma. Emma. She extends a perfectly-manicured hand, and for a moment, Arthur just stares. This is most likely when he finds out that this woman, this magnificent vision in his hallway, this Emma, is nothing more than a fantastic dream. And if she is, in fact, a dream, he's not so sure he's ready to wake up. Nevertheless, he gingerly returns the gesture. Their hands connect. Soft and tentative, but tangible. Warm. Light. So light that Arthur feels as though he's floating, hovering just above the tiled floor, and he could continue to float forever, as long as he just holds on. To his disappointment, she is the one to let go. Arthur crashes back down to the floor, a chill running through him at the sudden loss of contact, simple though it was. She bids him good night and takes off down the hall, the click of her heels in perfect sync with the thrumming of his heart against his ribcage. Emma. Emma. Emma. He gets the feeling he won't forget that name for as long as he lives. Arthur Fleck has seen an angel. And she is so, so beautiful. _____________________________________ "Hey, you look like shit." "Thanks, motherfucker." On her way to the kitchen, Emma totters past the open bathroom door, where Eddie is busy shaving his face. Apparently not too busy to comment on her fresh-out-of-bed appearance, though. She will admit, she's not surprised if she doesn't look her best at the moment. Almost a week of sleeping on a rapidly-deflating air mattress on Eddie's living room floor has not done her back any favors. The bags forming under her eyes make her look like she hasn't slept since the seventies, and her hair has become stringy and unkempt since the last time it was washed. To top it off, she still has none of her clothes or other belongings. So she's currently sporting an oversized Creedence Clearwater Revival t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both borrowed from Eddie. They hang off of her smaller frame, giving her the appearance of a sickly child who will be hard-pressed to survive the coming winter. "You making breakfast?" her brother asks, poking his head into the foyer. A glob of shaving cream drips onto the tile below him, and Emma grimaces. She returns her focus to her previous mission of rifling through the freezer, pushing past an assortment of cheap vodka and TV dinners until she finds his deposit of frozen waffles. "Eggos!" she calls out. "Cool! Pop an extra one in the toaster for me, yeah?" Emma complies, setting an extra plate out for him as well. As the toaster whirs quietly atop the kitchen counter, she begins her morning ritual of planting herself on the sofa and burying her face in the job listings section of the local newspaper. The job hunt so far has yielded results that are...less than stellar. So many applications, so many interviews, and so far...nothing. "We'll call you if something else opens up" here and "we'll keep you on file" there. Even a "your educational background is good, but we're looking for a little more experience". It's starting to take a toll on her self-esteem. The only real offer she's gotten is from a dive bar across town called The Harlequin. She's familiar with the bartending world – it's how she put herself through college. And she likes to think she's damn good at it, too – hell, she had mastered the Bloody Mary with only a couple weeks' practice! Run-of-the-mill margaritas and martinis? Piece of cake. Not to mention, studying psychology at the same time has granted her an uncanny ability to manipulate a conversation, bend it to her will. Sniff out how to get the biggest possible tips from each kind of patron. Yes, she's a master, all right. But she's really hoping to move on to something with a more...prestigious title. "Any new prospects today?" Eddie emerges from the bathroom just as the toaster lets out a soft 'ding!' He quickly joins Emma on the sofa, a plate of waffles in either hand and bottle of syrup under his arm, completely bypassing the dining room table as per usual. She hasn't seen him eat a single meal at that table yet, instead opting to bring his food into the living room and spill his goddamn crumbs all over the furniture. "Nothing yet, besides The Harlequin thing," Emma grumbles, taking the fork he offers and muttering a quick "thank you" as he sets a plate down on the coffee table for her. "I'm tempted to accept it, just so I can end the madness." "Didn't Sophie recommend you at the bank?" Eddie goes to town with the syrup, drowning his breakfast until the golden-brown liquid threatens to spill off of his plate and onto the coffee table. "She tried. Nothing was open." Emma puts down the newspaper for the time being, feeling the beginnings of a migraine creeping along her scalp. She instead grabs the remote and flips on the TV across the living room, the background noise helping her to relax her mind. Eddie shovels in a forkful of his syrupy concoction. "Sorry we couldn't get you on at the record store. We had a spot last week, but Ron's back from rehab now..." he says with his mouth full. "That reminds me, you still thinking about medical school?" That gives her pause. Honestly, she hasn't thought about medical school in quite a while. More pressing matters to attend to. Besides, it's been years since she last studied. Who's to say that she could pick up where she left off now, even if she were to apply? In the end, after a moment's hesitation, she shrugs. "Maybe. I'm a little rusty, you know?" She takes a meager bite of her own breakfast, chewing carefully. "Aw, come on, that's a cop-out!" Eddie abruptly stands and rushes to the kitchen, leaving his plate behind. As he begins to rummage through the fridge, he continues. "You gotta at least try! You're smart and talented, you work your ass off – where the fuck? – oh, there it is..." He returns with a can of whipped cream and unleashes about half of it onto his plate, and the other half directly into his mouth. "Plus!" He grins. "You look like me, so you know you've got it goin' on." The fraternal twins did bear a striking resemblance to one another as children, but age has individualized them greatly. Where Emma remains on the shorter side, Eddie is now a solid six feet tall. Eddie has also experienced a little more horizontal growth; although Emma suspects his rampant drinking (more so than his atrocious diet) is the cause. "I'm not sure what looks have to do with anything..." Emma scans her brother's plate for the waffle. She can't see it - it's forever lost to the sugary onslaught. Maybe it is his diet after all. "Looks have to do with everything, Em. Not fair, but true." His eyebrows furrow, and he scrutinizes her face. "Speaking of which, you really do look terrible." "You mentioned." "No, like...have you been sleeping at all?" His eyes narrow with concern, meeting her own sunken ones. "I know that air mattress is a piece of shit - you can get yourself something nicer if you want." Emma sometimes forgets how observant Eddie can be when he focuses. She really hasn't been able to sleep a wink since she arrived in Gotham several days ago. He's right, the air mattress is an awkward and lumpy piece of shit, but that's not the real reason sleep evades her. The walls of the tiny apartment seem to cry in anguish at night. Sirens blare outside the window near constantly; they're sometimes accompanied by flashing red and blue lights, the colors piercing through the curtains and waltzing unsettlingly across the floor. People wander the streets until the wee hours, shouting at each other, their combined voices drifting toward the sky in an unpleasant cacophony. Emma can easily understand why folks here on the East Side are so exhausted. The only person who sleeps less than she does is the man who lives next door. She's never seen him, but she's definitely heard him. At least once every night, when she least expects it, he bursts into sudden uproarious laughter. Normally, Emma would march right over and ask the man what could possibly be so fucking funny at three in the morning (only a bit more tactfully, she's not an animal), but she never brings herself to do it. Truthfully, she's scared to. Something is not right about that laugh. It's discordant and jarring, as if clawing its way into the apartment like a demon prying frantically through the drywall. It lacks joy, and in fact, actually sounds pretty damn miserable. A part of her wonders if the man is all right. Regardless, a better mattress couldn't hurt. "Yeah, I might do that," she says. "I probably should prioritize getting some clothes of my own first." Satisfied, Eddie returns to demolishing his waffle creation. "Get whatever you want, as long as you can make the space for it. Want you to be comfortable while you're here, however long that is." He chuckles. "With your money, I'm sure you can spoil yourself much better than I can." Emma snorts, gesturing wildly at herself and at her surroundings. "Money? What money?" "You kidding?" He looks genuinely surprised for a moment. "Your ex is a millionaire! You mean to tell me you haven't hopped on that alimony pony?" "Oh, don't be ridiculous, I don't give a shit about Daniel's money." Emma rolls her eyes. "Not to mention, we only separated a week ago. We have to set a court date, fill out the paperwork-" "Yeah, yeah," Eddie drawls, waving her off. "When that check comes, you remember who took your ass in, no questions asked. Got it?" It's nice to know his sense of humor hasn't changed. Emma nods once. "You got it." They eat in peaceful silence for a while, the distant voice of the news anchor on TV the only sound in the room. Something that doesn't happen often for the siblings. After a few minutes, Eddie speaks up again. "Hey, Em?" "Yeah?" "...Glad you're back. Missed you." "Hm." A faint smile plays along her lips. "Missed you too."