#choosing peace actually maybe its really registering in my mind now

[brunetterightsactivist]

i rebuke any and all coworker crushes past present and future oh my god i just know this is the reason i can't meet my soulmate i've been too preoccupied with these bum ass losers

[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: epilogue (reader)

Summary: An early morning, a doctor’s appointment, a new beginning.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: pregnancy (including like… probably incorrect math and science but my degree was in English and this is fanfiction okay)

Word count: 2.7k

a/n: I’m actually so emotional don’t look at me thanks ♥️

Series Masterlist

———

The sound of Spencer’s ringtone pierced through the early morning quiet, shrill and disconsolate. Y/N hummed against his chest, shifting as he clumsily reached across to the bedside table to answer it. 

“Hey,” he croaked, voice still smothered in sleep. “Mm... When?” He paused, and she could almost make out the answer on the other end. “Got it. Yeah.” 

He carefully set the phone back on the bedside table, and then his arms came around her shoulders. He let out a long sigh, the one she’d gotten quite used to over the last year and a half— the one that meant he had to go. She squeezed him around the middle and let out her own sigh. “Case?”

“Yeah.” He ran light fingers down her arm. “Jet’s taking off in ninety minutes.”

She glanced at the bedside table to the alarm clock that read 4:57am. They both knew he needed to leave within the next half hour if he was going to make it on time, but neither one made any effort to move. Instead, they breathed together in the pre-dawn stillness— a single moment of peace before the world and all its ugliness could crash through the fortress they’d constructed around their space and around each other.

“I don’t wanna go,” he whispered. 

“I know.” She pressed a kiss over his heart through his t-shirt. “I know.”

“I’m gonna miss everything,” he lamented. “Appointments, and milestones, and firsts, and I— I’m gonna miss all of it.”

She lifted her head at the tears in his voice. “Hey.” She shifted in the circle of his arms to prop herself up on his chest. “You’re not gonna miss all of it. You’ll miss this one appointment. And it’s— it’s not even an important one,” she assured, gentle fingers swiping away the lone tear that had managed to escape over his lash line. 

“Yes, it is.” He shook his head. “They're all important.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile, leaning forward to press a quick peck to his lips before sitting up and deciding to reassure him in the only way she knew how. “Okay, doctor. Eleven weeks. Tell me what we’re gonna find out today.” 

She pulled him up out of bed, interlacing their fingers and pressing their shoulders together. As she led him to the bathroom, he explained, “Dr. Layton will do the first ultrasound, and Baby will look more like a baby now. At around ten weeks they made the transition from embryo to fetus. They’ll be about two inches long.” 

She handed him his toothbrush and turned to grab his toiletry go-back from the linen closet, stifling a yawn. “Mmhm. What else?”

“Did you know they’re breathing now?” he asked, and she smiled at the way the excitement crept into his voice. “Between weeks ten and eleven, the fetus starts to inhale and exhale small amounts of amniotic fluid, which aids in the development of their lungs. It’s kind of like they’re breathing underwater.” 

“I didn’t know that,” she admitted, turning back to set the bag on the counter. “That’s pretty amazing. What about the heartbeat?”

He nodded vigorously as he applied toothpaste to the bristles of his brush. “We should be able to hear it, although sometimes it’s too early— depending on the accuracy of the estimated date of conception.”

He ran the water over the toothbrush before popping it into his mouth. She kissed his shoulder and then moved back into the bedroom, shuffling into their closet for his go bag. She checked it over on her way back to the bathroom, ensuring it had been fully repacked after the last case. She set it on the counter and placed his toiletry bag inside, leaving it open for him to pack his toothbrush and then sitting on the closed toilet lid. 

He rinsed his mouth and put his travel cap over the head of his toothbrush, gesturing with it and then dropping it into the bag. “They’ll do some routine lab work to test for things like gestational diabetes, and we can also choose to do additional screeners for chromosomal abnormalities and possible complications.” He looked at her then, and she saw the despondence creeping back in. “I should really be there, just— just in case.”

“Honey.” She stood and held out her hand to him, smiling a little when he accepted it with a squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

He let out a breath and pulled her into his arms, and they held each other in the silence, the soft light from the vanity washing over them. His phone buzzed with an incoming message, and she knew he needed to get on the road. Still, she held him for a second longer, and then they shuffled through the door and into the bedroom together. 

Y/N made her way back to bed, scooting down under the duvet to preserve the last remaining notes of his body warmth. She watched as he dressed silently, pulling on trousers, socks, a button up and cardigan. He skipped the tie in favor of coming to sit on the bed, bringing his hand to rest lightly over top of her belly over the covers. 

She covered his hand with her own and laced their fingers together. “Maybe you could ask Luke if you can FaceTime with his phone. You can probably take twenty minutes, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” He rubbed a tired hand over his face. “Maybe I should just upgrade my own phone.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Oh, I see how it is. Couldn’t upgrade for me, but once a baby comes along you’re ready for an iPhone.” 

“That’s not— you— you shouldn’t have to do all of this alone,” he huffed, and she realized her joke didn’t land when his voice cracked at the end. 

“Spence, I’m— I’m just teasing.” She lifted her hands to his face, pulling him closer and meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry; you’re upset, and that wasn’t nice.” 

She leaned up to kiss his forehead, letting her lips linger and breathing him in. “But I’m not alone. With you, I feel— the opposite of alone.”

“Irritated?” he offered. 

“No,” she laughed. “Supported, and cared for, and loved,” she corrected with a smile. “You’ve been all of that since day one. And I know that’s not going to change, whether you’re physically present in that doctor's office or not. Right?” 

When he nodded, she continued, “I love you. The most. And you are easily the best baby daddy on planet earth. Okay?”

The term of endearment dragged a smile from him, as it always did. “Okay.”

She leaned forward to press her lips to his, both sets upturned and a little dry from sleep. “Now, you need to go, or you’re gonna be late.”

“I know.” He kissed her again, long and slow, and then pulled back to lean their foreheads together. He hesitated for another ten seconds before standing to grab his bag from the bathroom. 

When he re-emerged, she reminded him, “Ask Luke about the FaceTime thing. I’m sure he won’t mind, and we can trust him to keep the secret. The appointment technically starts at 1:00, but I probably won’t be seen until at least 1:30.”

He crossed to give her another kiss. “I love you.” He crouched to press a kiss to her tummy. “And you.”

“We love you, too,” she smiled, fingers tangling in his curls. “And we’ll talk to you in a few hours.”

She kissed him one more time— couldn’t help herself. And then his warmth was gone from the bed, and the house was suddenly much too quiet. She snuggled back down under the duvet, her head on his pillow and the scent of his shampoo shrouding her senses and easing her mind.

Spencer really was supportive— endlessly so. Not overbearing, but interested and involved in every moment: reading all the newest research, bringing home her favorite treats, writing out a color-coded timeline of all the appointments and milestones. She wasn’t lying when she called him the best baby daddy. He was always there for her. So much so that the apprehension she’d had at the beginning of this surprise journey was nowhere to be found. 

As she drifted back into sleep, there he was again— she could almost hear the jangling of his keys in the bowl in the entryway, his feet on the stairs, the rustling of his pants and sweater being discarded onto the floor of their bedroom. 

And then she felt the warmth of his palm low over her tummy, coming to rest over the barely-there bump. She felt his lips on her shoulder and his chest pressed against her back. When she went to cover his hand with her own, her exhausted brain registered that it wasn’t a dream at all.

She turned her head, blinking her eyes open to see him smiling at her and drew her brows together. “What’s going on?”

He pressed another kiss to her shoulder, snuggling even closer and rubbing his thumb along her belly. “I’m, um— I told Emily I’m gonna consult from home on this one.”

…

“Okay, Mom, this’ll just be a little bit cold.”

Dr. Layton smoothed the gel over Y/N’s lower abdomen, and Spencer moved to thread their fingers together, shifting to stand even closer to the examination table. The ultrasound machine gave off a low hum as the doctor adjusted the wand over her tummy. She felt Spencer press a kiss to her temple and turned to smile brightly at him before turning back to the black and white screen. 

At her first appointment five weeks ago, she’d been by herself— alone and uncertain and terrified— and she’d declined the option of the ultrasound. It felt wrong to see the baby before Spencer even knew about them. Now, together with him, with her soon-to-be husband— she was more than ready to see their baby for the first time. And she could practically feel Spencer’s excitement next to her, his body nearly vibrating with it. 

“Ah, here they are. Hello, Baby Reid.” Dr. Layton pointed to a small, white figure on the screen. “Okay, right here, you can see their big ol’ head— perfectly normal size for this stage of development,” she assured, eyes deftly scanning the image in front of her. “Everything looks great! Now, I’m just trying to find…” 

She adjusted the wand over Y/N’s tummy, and suddenly a wub wub wub came over the tinny speaker of the machine. “There we are,” Dr. Layton smiled. “Very strong heartbeat.”

Spencer squeezed Y/N’s hand, and she felt the drop of a tear on her shoulder. She brought her other hand over to cover their tangled fingers, rubbing her thumb along the skin of his wrist and kissing his arm. 

Dr. Layton made a slightly perplexed humming sound, moving the wand again and losing the sound of the heartbeat, only to pick it up again— this time slightly faster. Y/N’s own heart stuttered a little as the doctor moved the wand again twice more, and then cleared her throat. “Is something— is everything okay?”

She turned to Y/N with a kind smile. “Yes, yes,” she confirmed, and then she raised her eyebrows. “Just— do you hear the difference?” 

Spencer tilted his head in consideration, drawing his brows together and straining to hear. The doctor shifted the wand once more, allowing them to hear the two distinct patterns. 

Two distinct patterns, Y/N realized. 

Dr. Layton pressed the wand a little more firmly into her abdomen, moved it just slightly. “Those are two different heartbeats.” She pointed to the screen. “And those are two different babies. There’s a matching set of Baby Reids in there.”

Y/N couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. “Is there—” She turned to Spencer incredulously. “Do twins run in your family?”

He shook his head silently, eyes wide. “Yours?”

“Nope,” she squeaked. 

“This obviously changes things slightly,” Dr. Layton explained, cleaning up the residual gel. “I’d like to see you every three weeks rather than every four. Then at twenty eight weeks, we’ll see how we feel, okay?” 

She smiled gently as Y/N and Spencer nodded dumbly. She removed her gloves and stood. “I’m going to give you two a few minutes. I’ll be back with your photos in a bit, and we can talk about any questions you might have.”

The door closed behind her, and the room was bathed in silence. Y/N sat up carefully and swung her legs over the side of the examination table. She looked down at her tiny, unassuming bump and felt a tear slip over her lashes. 

“Are you— are you okay?” Spencer whispered. 

She brought her gaze to his, found them teeming with barely restrained joy and yet the ever-present worry. “Well,” she started. “I, um— I always imagined two kids.” She brought her hands up to her sweaty cheeks and held her own face between her palms. “I guess this is— you know— just a quicker way to get there.”

Spencer immediately wrapped her in a hug, pressing kisses over her hair, her forehead, her shocked mouth. “Two babies. We’re having two babies.”

“Twins, Spence,” she breathed. “Twins.”

He replaced her hands with his own, cradling her face and kissing her sweetly, sighing all of his joy and adoration into her mouth. “I love you. So much. The most.” He lowered himself to press his lips to her belly. “All of you.”

She used gentle hands in his hair to tilt his face up, meeting his smile with a watery one of her own. “We love you, too, baby daddy.”

She could see the gears turning as he stood, his hands coming to rest on her hips. “About that.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Do you, um— how difficult do you think it would be to get everyone together this weekend?”

She paused. “You wanna get married this weekend?”

“Yeah, that’s probably too soon, huh?” He huffed out a sigh, then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, what about next weekend?”

“That’s just as soon!” she laughed. 

He furrowed his brow. “No, it’s not. There's a seven day difference.”

“You’re really in a rush, huh?” she teased. 

“Well. I just— I figure you should really be on my insurance anyway,” he reasoned. “Especially now that it’s— now that it’s twins.”

“Mm, yes, I’m sure that’s the reason,” she grinned.

He let out a long breath, and she watched his eyes journey over her face— memorizing every curve and angle, every new wrinkle, every last inch of her. And she knew the reason. 

“I know it’s just a piece of paper,” he murmured. “It doesn’t really change anything, but…” He used gentle fingers to brush her hair back from her face. “I just… really want to be your husband.”

She took her own minute to memorize the way he looked in this moment: her fiancé, the father of her children, the best man she’d ever known, the absolute love of her life. And she knew her own reason. 

“The paper might not change anything,” she agreed. “But— you’ve changed everything.”

He squeezed her hips. “In a good way I hope.”

“The best way.” She brought her hands to his face, rubbing her thumbs along his cheeks. “The best way.”

He closed the distance between them to kiss her with all the honey and magic and reverence he always did. He broke away to lean his forehead against hers with all the warmth and devotion and love he always did. She sighed, and it was all joy and vulnerability and contentment like it always was. And she knew their reasons. 

She kissed him again, and then murmured against his lips, “You know I’m still gonna refer to you as baby daddy, right?”

The laugh erupted from his chest and wrapped itself around her heart, tying tight and secure— a shield, and a haven, and a refuge— keeping her safe from every terrible thing. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

…

O no! Love is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

———

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[k-s-morgan]

What He Grows to Be: Snippet 7

Sorry, I know it’s late again, but my laptop went absolutely crazy yesterday! Here’s the snippet. 

---------------------------------------------

At this time of the day, the cemetery was quiet. There were a couple of people present, but they were standing far enough for Tom to know that they wouldn’t be able to recognise him even if they looked his way.

Sighing, he leaned against one of the marble columns, watching the specific grave. It was a bit funny: Charlus Potter had lived so little that it seemed like few people cared about his death. The flowers and small toys remained the same no matter how often Tom came here, so clearly, no one bothered to replace them or add something new. Over the years, he’d seen Charlus’ parents several times, but that was it. No friends, no other relatives. The boy was so unremarkable that in a few short decades, no one would even remember him — he’d be a pale shadow on the Potters’ family tree.

Tom and Harry, in turn, would live forever.

A pleased smile curled his lips upwards. Tom closed his eyes briefly, basking in the afterglow of Harry’s name. The wind threw a strong gust of cold air at him, but he didn’t move.

Every day, every month, every year, Harry was closer. He had almost made his decision, Tom could feel it in his bones. A few more efforts, and everything would be over, everything would fall into its rightful place.

Yet despite his complete confidence, sometimes he regretted giving the Mirror of Erised to Harry. Spending even one more day with it was something he would pay dearly for —  then again, he knew he’d feel like this even before he wrapped it up as a gift. That was the reason why he spent almost six months with it before deciding to fulfil his original plan and send it to Harry.

At least he had a Pensieve and could watch his own recollections again and again. In fact, he would do just that when he came back home today.

Pleased with his decision, Tom straightened, brushing his hair off his face. His eyes fell on Charlus Potter’s grave… and the world stopped. The wind ceased its icy attacks. People in the background disappeared. The whole planet had to have stopped moving — or maybe Tom’s body entered stupor and lost its ability to register the surroundings properly. All his attention, all his focus snapped to one cloaked figure that was slowly making its way towards the grave.    

It was Harry. Tom could only see his back, but it was him. It was his unruly, wild hair, his proud back, his perfect height and his gait — smooth, stealthy, shaped by years of Quidditch and participations in duels.

It was Harry.

For a moment, Tom was certain that he was seeing things. He’d just been thinking about the Mirror of Erised — it wasn’t surprising that his starved mind conjured the image of Harry.

But the figure didn’t disappear. It stopped next to the grave, knelt down, and touched the headstone.

Harry. It was Harry. Only Harry would do this.

The shock rocked him back a step. Something hot welled up in his chest, and a second later, his whole body was on fire. His lungs, his heart, his face — everything was burning. A strange weightlessness replaced his bones, forcing him to grab at the edge of the column to keep himself on his feet.

Harry was real. He was real, he was nearby right now. If Tom wanted… he could approach him. He could see his face. He could speak with him and hear his voice. No fantasies and no recycled memories would ever be enough, how could they even compare? The tangible, real Harry was here, so why was Tom still hiding?

The longing hit him so hard that he almost doubled over. He was trembling — he barely managed to keep his hand on the column. Time transformed into a particularly merciless entity because it felt like only several seconds had passed, but Harry was suddenly getting up and turning, preparing to leave.

His face. Tom could look at his face now.

Even from the distance, he instantly caught every small detail, each little change. Harry looked thinner. There were greyish circles under his eyes, and the light stubble covered his chin. He looked calm, even peaceful, and he was absolutely, entirely mesmerising.  

He continued to walk to the apparition point: the closer he approached, the stronger panic began to break through Tom’s shock.

He had to move! This was the chance he’d been waiting for, this was why he visited this cemetery every week for two years — to catch a glimpse of Harry. Granted, it had been an empty chase that Tom didn’t put much stock in, but now it suddenly went real, and he was still standing rooted to a spot like an idiot.

With a hoarse gasp, he took a step in Harry’s direction… and then he froze again.

Harry didn’t want to see him yet. This was the whole point of their separation. Tom never stopped trying to catch him, but not because he actually planned to do it — it was just a game, a way to distract himself from his ever-present grim thoughts.

Harry didn’t know he was here. He wasn’t back, not officially, which meant that Tom had to respect his decision. He promised he would, and going back on his word now… what if Harry took one look at him and apparated away? What if this encounter made him stay hidden for several more years, nullifying the progress they’d made?

‘Get him!’ something roared at him. ‘Get him now, before he leaves!’

Tom took one more step before stopping again.

But… he didn’t want to “get” Harry. He wanted Harry to come back. Ambushing him now would only be damaging, it wouldn’t change anything, not really. It would undo Tom’s restless efforts to make Harry want to be with him.

He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t.  

His body went into shock for the second time in minutes. It couldn’t understand his inactivity — his brain was at a loss, too. Harry crossed the barrier, and Tom’s mind dissolved into silent screaming.

Still, he remained motionless. Because despite the violent protests of his magic, despite the crazy urge to grab Harry and never let go of him again, doing nothing felt strangely right.

If he had to choose between eternity and this one moment… he would pick the eternity.

He would wait. He would restrain himself magically if he had to.

Harry suddenly hesitated. A small frown appeared between his brows, but his expression cleared quickly. With a small, wistful smile, he apparated away, and Tom pressed his hands to his burning face, unable to come to terms with what had just happened. With what he’d just done.  

Had this actually been real? Had he seen Harry and let him go?

He didn’t know. The thought was too crazy to dwell on it.

[sly-merlin]

KILLING ME- 14

pairing : law student!reader + yuta

genre : (fluff)  angst , mafia au/ arranged marriage au.

warnings of this chapter : cursing, mention of drugs, character death.

words : ~4k

summary :

“life’s never fair y/n. realise it as soon as you can . it is the only secret for living a regretless life.”                                  

or            

“ curiousity got the cat hitched”

K.M masterlist

K.M 13

TAGLIST : @kpop-choco @moon-yuta @kawaiiayasan @btm-taeyong @exfolitae @lanadreamie @cheersskznct ​​ @hyuckiesgf ​​ @theworld-accordingtocasey ​​@simplybree

@yiyi4657 @sorrywonwoo @sillywinnergladiator   @minejungwoo @leesalts @mal-nakamoto23 @ro2424 @itlittlefangirl @nctzens-world @bl–ankhaeji @jeaneteflo @nuoyii @bralessmermaid @minhoseyeliner @tyongpoetry @swimmingkpopblog @jkjkseo @orphicmoon @floralescapes

A/N : this chapter marks the celebration of this blog surpassing 600 followers! thank you so much for all the support! also for minor readers, the sfw versions of nsfw chapters are given at the end of the masterlist so check those properly before reading.

•••••••••••••

y/n! Are you sleeping?”

Registering his words, you replied in a groggy voice,“What the fuck do you want?”

“Your phone. I left mine in the medical room. I need to call Mark right now.” with some authority, he spoke.

Whining loudly, you fell back on the bed. It was only due but flailing your arms and legs like a kid in a toy store, you let out a screech full of annoyance, cursing your fate.

Were you really going to babysit him now?

"Have you suddenly lost your hearing? Stop with this sick attitude and open the door."

A puff of air left your nose, your chest moved rhythmically with your stomach and you relaxed your arms beneath your head, eyes fixed at the fan above and ears ringing with his voice. He kept calling you and after a number of shouts, you started humming to distract yourself, afraid that you'd end up helping him otherwise. That was something, naturally, you were not interested in. Last time he had ignored your voice and now nature had presented you with an opportunity to return the favour. Just with a bit less flavour.

"Are you dead?"

"Hmmm. To you, yes I am." Mumbling, you yawned and pushed yourself up to reach your side table and fishing out your earphones from the bottom drawer, you untangled them and fixed them comfortably in your ear, hiding yourself underneath the sheets.

Sonata no.14 instantly transported you away from the noise and the stress that was your unwanted husband, yuta. The smile playing on your lips widened as you realised that you were his only mode of communication at the moment.

But You were going for a nap. Until then, he could wait. And thrash. And cry. Or die.

Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you rotated the handle of the door to walk outside but your little trip was interrupted when your body collided straight into a wall. No. The obstruction was too soft for a wall.

Opening your eyes properly, you saw yuta standing stiff. Surprised at the sudden appearance, you immediately stumbled back and in hurry, hit your spine on the wooden door. The glare of his eyes, that always spoke more than you could comprehend, coupled with a clenched jaw, was not a very pleasant sight for sure yet you found it harder to dart your own eyes away from him.

"Your phone" he seethed, breathing deeply.

"Huh?" You croaked out.

He raised his brow and in an instant, the previous scenario played like a short movie in your head. Snapping your head down, you regarded his leg with pity. He obviously noticed it immediately but seemed to ignore it and refrained from saying anything. Good for you, you thought.

"Are you deaf?"

Your furrowed brows met his eyes and with a roll of his own, he picked up his finger to force his demand but you managed to walk back inside your room before he could've done that.

Your back faced him as you contemplated your options while slowly stretching your arm to reach for your phone on the other side of the bed.

should you even be giving him your phone?

You had more trust in Taeyong than the man you shared a roof with so there was no way you were doing that.

Unbeknownst to you, yuta was watching your movements intently and the way you bobbed your head, he knew you were scheming something so he decided to be polite for a moment. Only until you were needed. Or your phone was needed.

Once the phone was in your hand, another thought crossed your mind.

"Wait. Where is the house phone?" Crossing your arms, you asked him slyly, already knowing the answer

"You fucking never got it installed. It's still in its stupid package" he seemed rather impatient.

"And you could've called reception through the door telecom. He would have phoned Mark for you. These rich apartments certainly have more hospitality tha-

"I CAN'T GO AROUND DISTRIBUTING AN UNDERGROUND CRIMINAL'S CONTACT NUMBER TO EVERYONE"

He inhaled and exhaled and you just watched until he opened his eyes again, hand reaching out to you.

"Chill. I've every right to be sceptic especially when you are the one asking for it."

Finding Mark's number on your phone, you called him.

Yuta's hand threaded through his rough hair as he noticed what you were trying to do.

"Hey mark!" Your chirpy voice resounded in the room and yuta was sure this was some different spirit speaking. You sounded too bubbly for the way you were investigating him just a second ago.

"Yes yes. His phone exactly.i don't trust him enough to hand over my phone so that's why I'm calling you myself. Just hurry up if you can or you might have to clean up a dead body in the next few hours."

With that you cut the phone. Without meeting yuta's gaze and resting your hand on the handle, you mumbled,

"He'll be here in an hour."

You were about to close the door when he stopped it with the palm of his hand, alerting you with the force.

"Tell him to get some food too."

And limping, he retired back, to the couches.

Sighing, you messaged mark. Had it been for something else, you'd have ignored but your own stomach had signalled you that it needed some good food so you chose not to fight against your own body.

Now, only the taste of the food could decide how many days you were going to tolerate that barbaric human.

"Are you still going to that stupid internship?" Johnny hesitantly murmured from your desk chair while taking big bites from the plate.

"It's not stupid please! I’m just waiting for them to actually pay attention to my awesome capabilities so they can transfer me to the main branch. This is not bad either but”, you stopped to lick your forefinger and tasting the sauce, continued, “but I really wanna go into the criminal unit. That’s where the actual fun is. As long as i’m being paid decently, i’ll suffer with the stupid research work here.”

“With the tongue as sharp as yours, I think you should be getting ready for a demotion instead” he laughed, showing you his fake bunny teeth in the most annoying and childish way.

“Ha ha ha ha. Some well wisher you are! Thank you so much for looking out for me but I'll be fine. Who knows the gatekeeper’s pay package is more than me. So it’d be a win-win in that case too I guess?” when you did a drum roll with your chopsticks to stress upon your point, he laughed harder.

"So being broke is the new black?" Rolling his eyes, he dragged out, "I swear you kids don't know how this world works."

"And you, grandpa of the century, knows?"

"I'm aware of what I need for my survival and from what I've learnt, you can either take risks or look for job security. In your case, " he fake coughed, "where the proportions of risk taking have already exceeded the acceptable limit, a job security is the best and safest option to choose."

"And that would justify my greed and desire to work for the biggest company of this city."

"Kun. The security you need and the independence you seek would be given by kun. Chois are hmm how to say? Cheap? Yeh cheap. They have no work ethics. "

"Have you worked with them, johnny?"

"No. I'm ju-

"Then was your ex a choi?" You saw his eyes comically and cutely widening at your remark.

"No. My ex wasn't a choi and that's not what I'm saying and you know that."

"Oh. So your ex wasn't a choi. Then a lee? Kim? Im? Oh my god! Look at your cheeks seo!" You dragged out. He shook his head as you kept wiggling your brows at him.

"She was a kim but that doesn't mean I would hate all kims dude. That's baseless and stop ignoring the topic. I want you to apply in Kuns. It's the best option. Do it as soon as you-

"Yeah yeah we'll see about that. First take that bitch back. I can't even nap in his presence. "

"Umm. Yeah. You gotta tolerate him. And besides he's injured. Injured yuta is like a gun without a bullet. He's gonna shout for a day or two and then peace out. He'll be sleeping and reading in his room and you won't even know if he's alive or not."

"Now that's bullshit. What is he going to do here anyway? I hope he can hop himself on one leg because even if the sun rises from the north, I am not going to do a single task for him. He can die hungry , for all I care.”

“Do you think you can endure him for some tasty dinners?”

Clicking your tongue, you quipped, “Do you really think you can buy me with a few homemade meals?”

Day 1

Yes. you were sold. The moment the tasty noodles had melted in your mouth, you knew you had no dignity. And you were indeed ashamed of yourself.

Earlier, Renjun had called you to inform you that he had delivered the food and medicines for yuta and had left your dinner box but he had failed to mention the special and endearing note that was pasted on the glass box. In the curvy letters, it read bitchy piglet and you swore the only person you’d be killing before yuta would be jaehyun. But you were going to use jaehyun to build up your tolerance instead.

When you went out to clean your dishes, he was playing some game on his phone, excitement evident from the way he was laughing every other second. Maybe if he remained occupied, he would not be so insufferable.

Day 3

"Oyii! Oyii!"

No. You were wrong. He was very very much insufferable.

At midnight, his voice echoed, disturbing your sleep. You cursed at the cool atmosphere that had prevented you from using the air con which otherwise would have blocked his annoying screeches. But it seemed like bad luck wanted to change its name to y/n instead. With your name being called like a broken record, it was a fight between you and him that you were not going to lose. Shuffling to your side, you covered your ears with the other pillow and tried to drown out the annoyingly demanding and hoarse voice. There was no way you were giving him the satisfaction of having any power over you. He could cry for all he liked!

“What the fuck do you want at this hour?”

Attempting a glare at him through sleepy lids, you spewed with irritation. Unlike you, he was very much awake, breathing with the sole purpose of making you question your whole existence.

“Pillow” scratching his non-existent beard, he mumbled.

Your nostrils flared and jaw clenched at such inconvenient command.

“You summoned me for a pillow? A pillow that can normally be found on a person’s bed? Can you please rectify your demand or did I just simply hear something wrong?”

The opened curtains and the moonlight that drenched the room was the only source that illuminated his face for you and even with drooping eyes, you could see how serious he was and yet you couldn't hold your tongue back because he simply deserved every shit you bestowed him with.

“Turn the lights on and count the pillows on my bed! And when you are done, get me some pillows from your room.” he simply stated.

“Why should i give you my pillow? I need them!”

“Because I don't use a pillow and I need it asap!”

“Then why do you suddenly need one? To disturb my sleep? Oh that makes sense.” and suddenly, your eyes had synced with your body to side with your fight mode.

“I need them for elevating my leg. The bandage is too tight and it’s not comfortable.”

“Then why don't you walk out of the room and get some cushions for yourself!” you raised your volume.

“Because my leg is in pain and i’m unable to get up? What makes you think I'm dying to see your ugly face at this time of the night. I dont wanna have nightmares of you as well but i can't help it ok!”

“you should have kept them near you. And who are you calling ugly hmm? You poop fac-

“Okay scream for all you want! But get me a pillow when your battery dies down!”

“What the fuck d- are you covering your ears? Wow ways to be generous!”

Stomping your foot, you left the room to get the hardest cushion on the couch.

“Here! Next time call Mark if you want anything. Don’t raise your voice ever again to call me because unlike you, i have work in the morning and hence I need some sleep..”

Just when you were about to leave after shoving the cushion in his hand, he spoke up again,

“This is damn hard! I asked for your pillow specifically and not th- AHH!”

A scream left him as you harshly removed the support , leaving his leg to painfully meet the mattress.

“How about you fix your attitude before fixing your leg?” suggesting, you dropped the cushion on the floor and left.

He didn't call you after that. Nor that you cared. However, the sleep in your eyes somehow vanished. Dancing on your sides didn’t help. Neither did drinking a glass of water. So, with a groan, you listened to your conscience and picked up your extra pillow that was sadly too perfect for your enemy.

Padding to his room, you tried your best to scrutinise and hearing his heavy snores, you placed the pillow right under his thigh and the cushion under his calf. Scoffing at his sleeping figure, you internally groaned to remind yourself that you hadn't done it for him. It was just a debt. For the blanket he had once covered you with. Nothing more and nothing less.

Day 5

You just wanted him out of your hair. He was just being a load on your head. At first, only the work was kicking your ass, then jungwoo was kicking you like a punching bag for an hour straight and adding to your distress was yuta.

"I'm not your maid! Stop piling up the dishes for me. I've had enough mercy on you. From today onwards, get a cleaner for yourself or buy disposable cutlery. I'm not going to clean after you!"

With a roll of his eyes, he had ignored you.

And so did you. Pasting a warning note on the sink tap, you had left for the library with a dying hope that maybe the kitchen would be spotless on your arrival or you'd be dialing some numbers in the evening.

For someone who despised the solemn atmosphere of libraries, you had successfully spent 11 hours in the said hellish room. It was 11 p.m and you wanted to sleep, more than anything but here you were, waiting for yugyeom so he'd just pick you up for a good drinking session that you were dying to have.

Fortunately, you weren't the only one who had missed living these past days. Everyone, for different reasons, was suffering so you felt a little less bad for yourself even though you knew your troubles were far more grave than their academic burdens.

"Wake up shorts" someone whispered in your ear. Squirming on your seat, you whipped your head in your sleepy state and found jungkook caressing your head, goofily smiling at you.

"I thought you wanted to hang out till the next morning" air quoting the last words, he picked up your bag.

"Yeah. Let's go. I'm all ready for a night full of vodkas." You yawned out.

"Definitely. No. You are going home. We can have a small get together me and yuggy are done with our final project." He dragged you out into the parking lot.

" I feel like it's been years since we got drunk together. You are never here anymore!" You whined at him, complaining your heart out.

"I will be. Soon. Then we can celebrate your little choi job as well."

"Oh please. Don't even mention it. If I had penny for every time they rolled their eyes at me, I'd be richer than your parents kook." You huffed out and as his gentle laugh surrounded you, you closed your eyes resting your back against the seat, expecting to be up by the time he'd park.

But the next day, you woke up tangled in the sheets of your bed, unaware of the events of the previous night.

When you had warned yuta about the dirty dishes, you hadn't expected him to fill the corners of the kitchen with disposable containers. It looked like you had missed a whole drama while sleeping in the library. The kitchen was shining except for the new utensils. But as long as you were not babysitting him, you were fine with anything. You didn't want to jinx your relief, however, you were glad you would be able to get some work done. finally.

You had spoken too early for your own good. Just when you sat down to write your paper, passionate and enthusiastic howls of that man pierced through your earphones and once again, you opened the window and hopped outside, in the balcony, ready to drown him out. Sipping on your lemonade, you gaped at the scenery the not so distant traffic provided you with and somehow, your thoughts wandered to the only person these horns reminded you of. Johnny.

What are you doing? Your fingers hovered over the text but once again, you deleted the message, declaring it to be too childish for someone as mature as him. Maybe you were just being silly. Maybe you were not. But who was going to put a stamp on your maybe?

Tears pricked your eyes as the harsh words of your senior thundered in the room. He kept shouting and you had no option than to consume each and every word he directed at you. Even if you were being insulted in front of your twenty other co-workers, staying quiet was the best option, you ascertained. so along with your saliva, you gulped your explanations down your throat.

Howsoever unconscious, you were still in the wrong. There was no excuse as to why you had mailed the wrong bills, apart from the headache that was caused by the person possibly lying on the sofa and watching t.v back home. No matter how much you tried to run away from his existence, he had somehow managed to let himself inside your head.

Glaring at the kid who asked for his turn on the park swing, you pushed yourself a little higher, letting the wind greet your stinging eyes as it hit your face in waves. Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you chose to ignore jungwoo for a day as it was the time, you decided, to let all the lessons that the past few months had taught you sink into your mind, to bleed into your soul so you won’t ever be able to deviate from them. Ever.

Only if that was so easy. You knew blaming others for your problems was no solution but trivialising them by not paying heed wasn't a smart move either.

When you reached home, your frustrations had died down. So when yuta simpered and pointed towards your empty container, telling you how he had already finished your supposed dinner, you simply rolled your eyes at him, robbing him of whatever he wanted to achieve by riling you up. Heating up the water, you were about to open the noodles packet when yeong called you.

You stared at the shattered phone screen in disbelief as the endless tears ran down your cheeks. As you verbalised the words to yourself again, your body met the floor with a thud.

Jungkook. Drugs. No more.

Three words had silenced the screeches in your head and your mind busied itself in rejecting what you had heard for it had to be a lie. But what how were you going to ignore the heart wrenching screams that yeong had let out. How were you going to dismiss the truth.

How were you all going to accept it?

••••••••••••••••

next update: Some day between 5-7 June.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

London Rain

Part 2

03/13/2021

Pairing: Henry Cavill x fem!reader (3rd person)

Word Count: 1,694

Warnings: smut, oral (female receiving)

Summary: The reader finds herself in a lucid dream about some morning shenanigans with her man - or doesn't she?

A/N: I’m still over the moon about your feedback for the first part. It seemed this boosted my motivation so much that I was able to finish part two earlier than expected. Enjoy!

Part 1

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms. 

Waking up without him was the worst. Or was it falling asleep without him? She wasn’t able to decide. Yet, the hours in between were the only moments of solace, the only time when she wasn’t conscious and didn’t feel his absence. But sometimes even sleep wouldn’t bring her peace but torture her with the most vivid dreams instead. Only in the narrow time frame between sleeping and waking she wasn’t at the mercy of her longing since she had found that it was then that she could influence her dreams. 

The moment she opened her eyes, she knew that she found herself in one of those lucid dreams again when she saw the familiar view of his smiling face right before her. The vision was so clear that it almost scared her, so detailed and rich in colour that she could even make out the sparkle of pure elation in his steel blue orbs.

Carefully her hand reached out for him, afraid he might vanish into thin air as soon as she touched his face. But wondrously, he didn’t and soon she could feel the gruff stubble underneath the palm of her hand as the tip of her thumb slowly drifted across his moustache.

“I can’t believe you kept that thing.”

A deep chuckle escaped his chest and rolled through the small space between them.

“I can shave it off right now if that’s what you want.”

She took a moment, weighing his offer in her mind. If she told him to do it now, he would leave the bed, probably making her wake up and lose him to the morning once again. So, since this was just her imagination on the loose, why not simply go with it? 

Feeling very bold all of a sudden, she locked eyes with him and by the way he glanced back at her, she was sure he could already sense what was about to come.

“Maybe later. There is one thing I need to find out first.” She shot the Henry vision a seductive smile, burying her fingers in the lush locks that covered his pecs.

“And what might that be?” 

This was too easy. Why couldn’t this be real life?

“I think you know exactly what that is, Henry.”

The lust in his eyes was unmistakable, that hungry flame dancing in his dilated pupils. For a second she could have sworn that he would engage her lips in a heated kiss when suddenly it felt as if someone had altered her script. She had already closed her eyes in anticipation, but all she heard was a deep, “Very well then,” before he was gone.

With a frustrated sigh she turned on her back, letting the cool morning breeze hit her bare chest, making her shiver in the process. She felt stupid for making herself believe that just this one time it might have worked. But it was always the same. At some point she lost control and was hurled back into reality so violently that it gave her whiplash. 

Sulking and angry with herself, she refused to open her eyes, unable to face yet another morning without him. Two more days, it was only two more days, the voice inside her head chanted. Get a grip. 

And to her surprise the self-motivation actually seemed to work when out of nowhere she could feel two strong hands grip her ankles. With a sure touch that she knew all too well, they unrelentingly made their way up her shins, pushing her wide open once they reached her knees, coaxing an audible gasp from her lips.

But they didn’t stop yet and she noticed them travelling higher and higher, getting closer to her aching core inch by inch. Even before he had reached his destination, she could feel the telltale wet heat flood her womanhood. A soft moan escaped her lips as she shamelessly imagined his hungry eyes taking in her folds that glistened promisingly in the morning light.

Heat was rising from her lower body, setting her whole body on fire and when his hot breath finally rolled over her slit, she couldn’t help her walls from clenching around thin air. Unintentionally she braced herself for the impact, every second without his mouth on her seeming like an eternity. She could feel the frustration rise again. Should her imagination choose to betray her once again, in this very moment, she would never forgive herself. 

Pulse racing, her hands clenched into tight fists when finally she could feel his lips on her, releasing the most obscene moan from deep within.

God, this felt good, so familiar yet also with an exquisite touch every time his whiskers scraped her soft flesh. Knowing her inside out, his tongue played her expertly, every lick, every stroke designed to pleasure her just the way she desired.

Perfect was the only word that came to mind to describe the way he tended to her needs, his whiskers the cherry on top, as they stung and prickled in the best way possible while they stimulated her bud in turn with his tongue.

It didn’t take long before he sent her senses into overdrive and she could feel the point of no return approaching. She needed to feel him, immediately, needed to feel his soft locks between her fingers. And before she even knew what she was doing, her fingers wandered down her body. Of course she knew that there would only be the warm sheets to fist her hand into, but as long as her mind imagined his mouth on her so vividly, she didn’t mind pretending that small detail as well.

Fully expecting to close her fingers around the cool cotton, she almost yelped when her fingers actually made contact with a silky tuft of hair. In an instant her eyes shot open and her delusional mind needed a few seconds to register that this was far from a dream after all. 

Right where she had so desperately wanted him to be, he was lying between her legs in flesh and blood, his mouth eagerly lapping at her folds. And then the memory struck her like lightning. He had come home last night. She thought she had dreamed that up as well, but it had been real. He was here, he was really here.

And while she still tried to figure out how that was even possible, she could suddenly feel two fingers pressing up against her entrance. Teasing her a little, he let them drive up and down agonisingly slowly, clearing her mind of all thoughts apart from how desperately she wished to be filled by him.

Before she knew what she was doing, her fingers fisted down in his hair on their own accord. With a slight pull, they drew a heady moan from his throat, the extra stimulation making her dizzy as the vibration rolled over her heated sex, while in the same moment, he let his fingers finally sink into her until they were buried to the hilt.

Fuck, she was so close already and now that he had finally given her something to clench down upon, she could feel her walls tighten around his digits, a violent moan falling from her lips at the sensation. 

Her mind began to cloud over, yet one thought remained clear as day, shining like a beacon through the foggy mess of her mind: she needed him, needed to feel his eyes on her before she could finally let go and let herself be consumed by her lust.

“Henry.” His name fell from her lips like a silent prayer and his senses immediately seemed to catch on to the desperation in her voice. In an instant his eyes shot up to hers, blue as the raging sea, possessed by a hunger that mimicked her own and as they met her gaze, she could finally feel herself fall.

In pulsing waves her orgasm washed over her, her head spinning from the unusually high amount of pleasure. She could feel it falling back into the pillow with a thud, while his fingers and mouth kept working her through her high with a sure touch.

Almost imperceptibly slowly she could feel the surge even out, before he gently retreated from her throbbing core. Instead his lips began to tend to the soft skin of her belly, unhurriedly working their way up, touching and tasting every inch of her sweat-covered skin. Still too blissed out to even move, she watched as he stopped at her breasts for a while, licking and sucking her pebbled nipples, at this point as much for her pleasure as for his own.

He must have felt her eyes on him because he suddenly looked up, catching her staring.

“I missed these two.” 

His cheeky smirk elicited a hoarse chuckle from her throat that made his eyes shine wildly before his mouth finally continued its trail up her body. With a growl he dove into the crook of her neck, his whiskers leaving behind the most wonderful tickling sensation while he began to tend to her sweet spot.

“You know, Hen, I’ve been thinking,” she tried to press out with a steady voice while his teeth bit down gently onto her pulse point, sending a bolt of lightning through her lower body in the process.

“About what?” he muttered into her skin, refusing to leave his favourite spot.

“Maybe the stache can stay for a while.”

Instantly his head shot up and before she even saw his face, she knew that it was covered in a shit eating grin.

“Then I’ll make it my personal duty to ensure you won’t regret that decision.”

And as if to enforce his promise, his hard length suddenly twitched vigorously against her mound, forcing a moan from her lips which he was quick to smother with a searing kiss. Urgently his tongue began to dance with hers, his strong arms pulling her into him and while he continued to worship her body with his lips and hands, it slowly dawned on her that they probably wouldn’t leave the bed for the rest of the day.

[something-fanfiction-ie]

Tips and Tricks

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Spencer scares you for a second. And your mom is disappointed.

A/N: I know I have so many things going at once but I couldn’t help myself with this! I’m sorry. Forgive me. Like, comment, reblog, send me asks and shit. I love you! Enjoy!

___

A true book enthusiast knows that the most beautiful smell in the world can be found in the middle of a book. Whether it’s old and it’s pages are yellowed with age, or its so new that the text wipes off onto your hands when you open the cover, the smell is like a drug that gets your engine running the way no actual drug ever could.

It’s that thought that makes your pull your car into the nearly deserted parking lot of the bookstore as the rain crashes around you. You’ve seen enough ID Channel to know that waiting for the storm to pass while parked on the side of the road is about as dangerous as walking into a serial killer club meeting with a sign around your neck that reads, ‘kill me, I look like every person who has ever wronged you in life.’

Pulling your bag up over your head, you dash inside as fast as you can. The bell rings through the empty store, the smell of books hitting your senses and putting you at ease.

Even with your bag over your head, your hair is drenched and your clothes stick to your body in the most uncomfortable way possible. The store is manned by one forlorn looking teenage girl with short black hair, you can hear the gum she’s smacking behind the desk from four feet away.

Classical music filters down from the speakers, nestling among the thousands of books that take up every available space in the room. While some books fill the floor to ceiling bookshelves, the rest have been stacked on the floor like a maze of knowledge. Some stacks go up so high that even if you stand on your toes and stretch your arm as high as you could, you would still be a good ten five-hundred paged books from the top.

Every turn into the book maze reveals another secret of the store, like the collection of vinyls tucked into a corner beneath a record player that is older than your grandmother. Down a narrow path of towering novels, is a small reading nook with two red armchairs that have seen their fair share of readers.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon the house of an immortal book-lover, the rugs that stretch across the floor feeling just as ancient as the words around you. But it’s peaceful, relaxing. You find yourself humming along to Chopin’s Nocturnes, Op. 9: No. 2, the spines of books bumping under your finger. Unsure how the books are organized, or even if they are, you’ve decided to look at the book your finger is on once the song is over.

When the last notes fade into a brief quietness, you stop on a book written by a ‘David Rossi.’ You can’t help the breathy laugh that comes from your chest in surprise that the first book you look at is a true crime novel.

Ever since you were a little girl, stealing your mom’s police badge to play ‘cops and robbers,’ and sneaking into her office to read case files you weren’t supposed to, you’d been in love with the puzzle-solving of the investigative world. You’ve always had a mind for finding clues no one thought to look for, it was the only reason you didn’t get in trouble when you left sticky notes full of observations and theories in your mother’s case files.

It was this background that made everyone around you so sure you would become a detective just like your mom. It was this same background that surprised everyone when you became an author instead. To say your mother was disappointed was an understatement, she’d been the most shocked when you showed her a four hundred page manuscript instead of an application for the police academy.

“Who gets a master’s in criminology only to write books?!”

Even still, she was the dedication in every book you published. So far, that was two, you’d been in the midst of your third book for four months now. Something about the story didn’t feel right, and no matter how many times you rewrote every page, it still didn’t click together the way the first two books had.

You don’t let the thought bug you as you flip open the hardcover, the pages falling to the side as you read the synopsis printed to the inside flap. The ringing of the bell barely registers in your mind, falling somewhere behind the book in your hands, the sound of the rain beating at the roof, and Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8. After reading the first page, you decide to give the book a chance and you tuck it beneath your arm for safe keeping.

This time, you turn your eyes up to the tops of the shelves, scanning for something that might be interesting. Each binding tells a story of its own, with spines creased from frequent readings or smooth spines begging to be cracked open. There are titles in gold and black, silver and red, the backgrounds varying in more colors than the words.

By the time you’ve wandered back to the reading nook with armchairs strategically placed to face each other at a diagonal, Beethoven is coming to a close. The notes vibrate for just a moment, and you choose the book tucked into the end with a dark purple cover and gold lettering. You can’t quite see the title but something tells you that this is something you want to read, that this books is going to be a good one.

Call it a reader’s instinct.

It’s just that, there are no step ladders to get to the top shelf and you aren’t exactly tall enough to reach it. Climbing the shelf just sounds dangerous, and you aren’t too eager to die at the hands of hundreds of books and a large bookcase. You contemplate moving one of the armchairs to assist you, but ultimately decide against it when you imagine that teenage girl coming to the back with a disappointed look on her face at the sight of you.

Instead you stretch like your life depends on it, your toes cramping a little as you push up on them as high as you can go. The tips of your fingers bump the spine when you curve your hand around the lip of the shelf. The wood digs into your wrist but maybe if you keep pushing and pulling at what you can grab, it will wiggle itself free.

That’s your plan until a warm body unintentionally brushes against you, an arm longer than yours coming up beside you and taking the book from its place up high with ease. Falling back to your feet, you’re quick to turn around and come face to face with a man you’ve never met before.

His expression is kind and gentle, crinkling his eyes and dimpling his cheeks when he offers you a shy smile and the book he grabbed for you. He’s definitely in the department of tall, tilting his head down a little to meet your gaze with eyes that you can’t quite describe as brown but you can’t quite describe as hazel either. Everything about him makes your heart stutter in your chest, from the color and shape of his lips, to the sharp cut of his jawline.

He’s curls himself down a little, his empty hand palm up and open as if he is trying to seem less threatening. It’s such a stark contrast to most of the men you meet, who invade your personal space and eyeball your breasts like they’re human bra size detectors.

You don’t realize you’ve been staring until he clear his throat, a dusty pink color rising to his cheekbones as he shuffles nervously in his spot. Blinking away the cloud of initial shock from the angelic being before you, you grab the book and mumble a ‘thank you.’

“Are you a big fan of David Rossi?” He says, shoving his hands deep into the recesses of his pockets.

“Who?” Internally, your facepalm yourself at the absolute stupidity that must be radiating off of you in waves strong enough to affect the whole population of Virginia.

“You’re holding two of his books.” Sure enough, not only is the book tucked under your arm David Rossi, but so is the book in your hands. The laugh that sputters out of you is even more surprised than the first laugh, the sheer coincidence of grabbing two random books by the same author in this whole building pulling the laughter from the pits of your stomach.

His lips flicker into a confused smile. It makes him that much more adorable.

“I was choosing books my eyes or finger landed on when the song ended. I couldn’t really figure out how everything is arranged so I thought I’d let the music decide for me.” He looks around now, his male-lead, love-interest eyes flying across the room to confirm that there really was no form of originization, his brows furrowing in thought. His bottom lips is sucked between his teeth and the vividness of the lewd fantasies that come from the small action are enough to push you back a step.

Only, you’re already pretty close to the bookcase, and when you step back to get some distance your back bumps into the wood and his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head to keep it from hitting the corner. You’re not even sure how he knew to react so fast, those eyes coming back to meet yours.

“Careful there, your head almost hit the shelf behind you.” Putting just a little pressure on the back of your neck to guide you out of harms way, he doesn’t let go until his back is to the case and you’re standing in his old spot. The new smile he gives you is lopsided, causing your heart to trip over itself. What you wouldn’t give in that moment to capture that smile on camera or canvas, to hold onto it forever.

You don’t even know this man, what are you thinking?!

Pulling the books to your chest like a shield for your heart, which has digressed to the same emotional maturity you had as a thirteen year old girl when you were in love with every member of New Kids On the Block, you tighten your grip around the covers to the point that your knuckles turn white.

“I’m (Y/N).” Somehow his smile brightens even more.

“I’m Spencer.”

“Are you hiding from the rain too, Spencer?” Everything about you hates small talk, you always wanted to jump straight into the nitty gritty of getting to know someone. You wanted to know what made them tick, what made them who they were. But you were willing to do the normal thing and lure him into an actual conversation, if only to keep him talking.

“Actually, I came to this bookshop with a specific purpose.” Spencer schools his features, suddenly all business. The brown blazer with elbow patches and the lavender button up certainly help to make him appear serious. You still imagine reaching for the dark purple tie around his neck and pulling his lips to yours, the severity of his expression only adding to his sexiness.

“I work in the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, I came here because I’m in the middle of an investigation that led me here,” You blink in surprise, all kinds of questions popping into your mind. “You see, I got a tip that I may find it here. I wasn’t sure, but after some looking around it appears they were right.”

You open your mouth to ask him what he’s talking about, thinking of all the local cases you’ve heard about in the last week or so. Nothing that would involve the FBI comes to mind, especially not the BAU.

Between the end of his sentence and the opening of your mouth, Spencer has time to reach out to the side of your head, his fingers brushing against a few strands of hair.

“I only want to know two things; how you got ahold of my favorite pen, and why you thought you could get away with it?” Balanced in his thumb and index finger is a black pen, the writing tip pointed toward the ceiling. He holds it between you, a silly grin stretched across his face as you reach up to touch your ear.

Of course you’ve seen the old ‘coin behind the ear’ trick before, never with a pen but it’s the same concept. It’s just so funny and out-there that you cant help being a little amazed.

“Is this how you flirt with women, Agent?”

“Actually it’s Doctor. Doctor Reid,” he smugly goes about tucking the pen back into the breast pocket of his blazer, you can briefly recall it being there before he distracted you by switching places just seconds ago, “I do work with the BAU, that wasn’t a ruse. I have my credentials if you want me to prove it.”

He isn’t boastful, he’s just trying to distract you from the answer to your question. The answer was yes, this is how he flirts with women. It was the only way he knew how to flirt with women that worked, having stuck to the method since Atlanta, Georgia. You wouldn’t be the first woman who thought it was cute, you were the first woman to call him on it though.

“As long as you don’t try to arrest me for the kidnapping of your pen, I’ll be inclined to believe you without proof.” He chuckles, the first time you’ve heard it since the both of you started talking, and you didn’t realize he could get better. The sound warmed every part of you so much that you felt like you were glowing from inside.

“I knew you were framed. I’ve had my suspicions on the girl running the store.” You nod your head, trying to keep the smile from pulling on your lips as you tuck a piece of your still wet hair behind your ear.

“I knew something hinky was happening with her.”

“My best law enforcement advice is to always trust your gut when it comes to crime, ma’am.”

With the ice broken thanks to the magical Dr. Reid, the conversation flows naturally between you. You both gravitate toward each other like opposite ends of magnets, unaware how close you are to touching until you absentmindedly kick your foot out and hit the tip of his shoe with your own. In an attempt to keep yourself rooted, you sit in the armchairs.

Anyone, FBI profiler or not, would have been able to tell what was going on when they found you both leaned against the arms of your seats, heads together as Reid explained how the serious looking man in the back of your book is actually one of his team members. He names all of his team members, affectionately describing them to you as if they were characters in a new book you were reading.

Normally he would keep all of this information reserved, but something about you made him feel so at ease.

You too, reveal more information than you normally would to a stranger you’d just met. You tell him about your books and your mother, you tell him how you aren’t sure why your newest book isn’t working and ask his advice on it all. He takes each question into careful consideration before answering.

It isn’t until you’ve been there for two hours, talking about anything that you could think of, that Spencer’s phone starts to ring. It’s a case. You want to ask, the young girl from your childhood coming out at the mention of a case you could help on, but you don’t.

“I’m really sorry, (Y/N), but I have to go.” He fluidly rises from his seat, all at once the carefree air falls around him to reveal the intelligent, elegant, crime-fighting, doctor underneath the nerdy, magic-loving young man you’d spent the last couple of hours getting to know.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” You offer, hoping to figure out a way to cheekily ask for his number before you make it there. His answering smile is infectious, reaching out and tugging your own cheeks into a smile that hurts. The books hit the wood of the desk with a thunk, Spencer standing just beside you as the girl, her name tag reads ‘RAveN,’ rings up your purchase.

“Watch out for your pens.” Spencer teases, that boy-like amusement coming out. You’ve noticed that when he tries to make a joke, he looks so nervous that you won’t get it in the seconds immediately following it. It isn’t until you laugh or crack a smile that he visibly relaxes, glad to have someone that understands his humor.

Earlier, he’d told you the joke about the existentialists and the light bulb and had been absolutely elated when you doubled over in laughter. The joke wasn’t even that funny, but he’d been making you laugh for so long that your ribs had started to hurt.

“That’ll be $12.78.” You slide your card across the desk, pulling your eyes away from Reid longer than you wanted to. When you look back, there’s a look on his face that takes you a minute to recognize. It’s just on the tip of your tongue when the smack of pen and receipt paper hit the counter.

Quickly, you sign your name on the stores copy of your receipt. You flip your copy of the receipt to the back, using the pen to scribble out your phone number.

“Call me if you ever learn any new magic tricks you want to show off.” The bell dings when you lean back against the door, your books in a bag that dangle from your left hand while your right hand comes up in a wave.

Spencer still stands at the counter, the one in a hurry being the one who still isn’t out the door. The lopsided smile is back, that look crossing his face again as you let the after-storm sun shine on your face.

“Sir, can you take your longing elsewhere? I’d like to close early. I have a thing to get to.” He pats his hand on the countertop, ignoring the buzzing of texts coming through his phone as he makes his way to the car in a bit of a daze.

[j-pankratz]

The Slumber that Creeps to Me

Geraskefer. 7208 Words. Rated T.  Jaskier pulls an extreme all-nighter (read: 60+ hours) to finish a paper he procrastinated on, and finds at the end of it that sleep does not come as easily as he’d hoped. Tags for: Sleep Deprivation, Self Destruction/Lack of Self Care, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Overstimulation, Hurt/Comfort, Whumping the Bard, very loving partners, and a happy ending. <3 AO3 link in the reblog!

As with most disasters spurned by his own cockiness, Jaskier felt as thought that all in all, the situation could have been worse.

The idea to have Geralt and Yennefer spend the spring holiday break at Oxenfurt was, in his defense, ingenious. His students weren’t around, the weather was gorgeous, they all had varying degrees of business in the city, and they could fuck each other senseless at any hour of the day. In a bed. A nice one, provided he was a legitimate professor, now. Well, visiting. Well, it was complicated. But they were his rooms, and that’s what mattered.

When Jaskier gotten the prestigious offer to write the season’s main article for the Continent’s most respected Bardic Journal, he’d just sort of figured he’d… fit it in, somewhere. He had seventeen months, which was plenty enough for him. Then he’d just work with the editors, and have a centerfold piece. It was an honor. He was excited about it! He’d meant to get to it sooner, but decided the summer before that he’d devote the winter to it. But… he’d… he’d been distracted. It wasn’t often the entire family gathered at Kaer Morhen. So, he thought, he’d do it later.

But the first few weeks after winter were, of course, spent with Geralt. And the week after that, a trip to the coast, where he’d played a festival and met up with Ciri, who was becoming an amateur critic herself. And then by pure, absolute happenstance, after 3 more weeks of travel he happened to end up at an inn that he definitely hadn’t heard Yennefer was staying at. So that more time gone. And then he’d arrived in Oxenfurt, and he’d really meant to get to work on it, but there was so much to prepare for! He wanted things to be right for them.

And then Yennefer and Geralt had actually arrived, and the idea of anything possibly being more important than their presence flew his mind.

And now, here he was. If he wanted to get it in on time (unfortunately, that wasn’t a suggestion in this case, more of an actual, terrifying requirement,) he’d need to submit it in… gods above, less than three days. 60 hours, if he was doing the math.

There was no word limit, nor a minimum. But, ever the maximalist, he knew it was going to be… long, if he was going to do it right. They’d edit it down, but it was the focal point of the journal, they’d been leading up to it for ages now. Ahh. Well. There was only one thing for it, he supposed.

“I’m working through the night on my paper!” He’d announced that morning, sitting straight up in bed, jostling his sleepy lovers. “No one bother me! I will be at the dining table until further notice!” He swung himself out of bed and made for the door.

“Pants,” his lovers chorused together.

“Right!” he'd said, and marched back into the room.

He’d pulled all-nighters in his youth. In fact, he couldn’t count the times he’d worked through the night, deposited a composition or essay on his professor’s desk with some polite conversation and maybe a wink, and then promptly fallen asleep during the lecture itself. Just a 15-minute power nap, really! Then he’d be back up and at it again, working through another night just to sleep through the weekend. He’d done it before, he could do it again.

Well, it’d been 25 years ago, but that didn’t change much, did it? He still felt spry, agile, hearty— hell, he’d spent the better part of the last twenty odd years chasing after a Witcher, and later an additional princess and mage— surely he should be in better health now!

This was completely accomplishable. Admittedly, he could have written this sooner… but he hadn’t, and here he was.

Geralt and Yennefer both set out early on different errands, leaving the bard to some peace and quiet. Relatively.

He spread his work and references out before him. 7 books, 4 pamphlets, his favorite quills, a hundred fresh pieces of parchments, his lute at his knee. “Alright,” he said aloud to his empty Oxenfurt apartment, “Just sit down and write the damn thing. Sitting part, definitely done. Writing next. Just… write.”

He stared at the page.

“No! No, no, do not be impossible about this. Just start the thing.”

The page stared back.

“Ah, blast,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. This was fine. Just… do the awful, disgusting part of beginning, and then he’d be off. The sooner he started, the sooner he’d finish, after all! He took a breath, and put his pen to paper.

xx

Yennefer returned a few hours later, a book and small parcel in hand. Jaskier looked up to see her sweep through the room, a commanding presence, though she didn’t acknowledge him yet. A few waves of her hands and a pot of tea was put on to boil, her hair was put in a bun, and three mugs were floating down from a shelf.

“Lovely to see you too,” he smiled as Yennefer poked through the tea collection. He could practically hear her fond eye roll. She neatly plucked two from one box and looked back at him in question. “Ah… peppermint, if we’ve got it?” and she turned back to the cupboard grab it.

“Any progress?” She finally asked.

“A bit, actually!” Jaskier said cheerfully. It didn’t look like much, but he’d done half a page with almost no errors, and he’d made plenty of notes in the margins of the books he’d need later. It was better than he’d hoped it’d be going by this point, at least. He was kicking academia’s ass. Or, he would be.

The kettle whistled and Yennefer poured the tea, bobbing all three of the tea bags up and down as they steeped. He watched her lean against the counter, casual, relaxed, gorgeous, before realizing she was staring back at him. “Um! Yes, no, definitely good. Got a lot of… those words, you know, they are definitely here. Looking very sexy. The words! The writing is looking… very sexy, very curvy… letters. Sensuous words, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sensuous words.”

“Yeah, yes. Like… contemporaneous… and… iguana.”

“Iguana.” She let out a little huff of a laugh and something in Jaskier’s chest tightened and loosened in quick succession. And in a moment she was there, sliding him a large mug with the carving of a rather playful looking bear on one side, batting at a butterfly.

“Oh! My favorite. Thank you, thank you.”

“Mmm,” she said before waving a hand to cool down their tea a bit. She took a seat opposite him, scanning an eye over the table. “Think you’ll be done by tonight?”

Jaskier laughed. “Darling, I’ll be lucky to be done by tomorrow morning.”

“You’re planning to stay up all night, bard?”

“Unfortunately.” He took a sip. “Should be done by tomorrow afternoon, if I keep steady at it.”

“After tea, of course.”

“Of course.”

Yennefer stretched out a bit, kicking her feet onto Jaskier’s lap and rolling her neck. They sat there a moment, sipping, pausing, drinking in each other. There was something nice about taking a moment of stillness with someone just as frenetic as he was, someone who was usually just as itching for something to do, even if she went about it differently. The grace of choosing stillness, he thought, was not something to ignore.

Yennefer reached the end of her mug and tapped its ceramic walls lightly.

“What’s next for you?”

“I have to refresh my potion stock, so I’ll be at the market for supplies. You sure you don’t want to take a break and join?”

Rat’s ass. He fucking loved the Oxenfurt markets. “I’m afraid I can’t. Academia calls.”

“Who does it call for, exactly? What’s that I hear…” She cocked her head and listened intently. “Who is it calling for… is that… V… Val… Valdo?” Jaskier hefted her feet off of his lap in protest, and she laughed. He plucked his quill from its stopper, and went back to hovering over his paper. Introduction mostly accomplished, now he had to really lead in to his point, give some proper context. He flipped through a book beside him.

Yennefer rose smoothly from the table and went to move her mug to the sink. “When Geralt gets in, tell him I need toadflax and bluebells from him? Might as well put him to use.”

Jaskier flipped through the pages, thumbing through for a note he’d sworn he’d made ages ago, when he belatedly tried to register his mage’s words. He could have his fun, too.

“Blue…Yennefer, you want me to tell Geralt that you need blue balls from him?”

“Bells! Bells, you absolute child!” she said. “Honestly. Blue balls? Really, Jaskier?” He was giggling. “I don’t need to ask to give either of you blue balls.”

“Exactly, Yennefer, you provide that service for us anyway, free of charge!” A balled-up napkin hit him in the head and he laughed joyfully.

“I can’t stand you. I’m leaving, you’ll never see me again.”

Jaskier looked up through his grin and met her twinkling, happy eyes. “Tonight then?”

“Tonight,” she agreed, and left with a quick ruffle of his hair.

xx

“Still working?” Geralt said as greeting later in the afternoon. The desk was neater than Jaskier expected it to be this far in, only a few books open, dog eared and marked in colored ink. He’d written a page and a half since Yennefer left, and it was good, it was, but he’d need to go back and make edits later. His long empty mug of tea sat far across him.

“Mm,” he agreed, continuing to write. “Ah, Yennefer came through earlier,” giving a gesture to the waiting mug of tea on the counter. Geralt made his way over to the mug, and gave it a small igni to warm it. He smiled fondly down at the drink—what a terribly lovely sight he was. Warm here, and safe. Couldn’t it be like this always? The three of them here, comfortable and happy? No, he supposed, but gods how he wanted it.

“She’s at the market now,” Jaskier continued, “wanted me to ask you about...” He lifted his pen and squinted. “Ah, toadflax and bluebells.” He looked up at Geralt, smiling. “Blue balls,” they said together, sporting matching shit-eating grins, Geralt’s albeit much smaller. “I made the same joke myself,” Jaskier added.

Geralt snorted. “How’d she take that?”

“Oh, as well as you’d hope. We’ll never see her again, of course.” He turned back to his work, reading over the last paragraph. He could feel Geralt approach to stand behind him, and while he’d normally shoo his witcher off, he was too deep in concentration to bother.

How long was too long to linger on the progression of oral storytelling to bardship? It’s not like he could ignore it, (Geralt’s hand came to grip his shoulder, a thumb rubbing against it tenderly) as it was a crucial tenant of the argument— but there was plenty to be said for assuming the literacy and foreknowledge of the reader. (He leaned in to get a closer look at Jaskier’s page, the soft warmth of the tea in his other hand bouncing off his chest) But this was to be in a journal often referenced by first years, and he knew how much he would have loved a paper that had everything all in one—

“How’s it going?” Geralt asked softly in his ear.

Jaskier waved a hand over the mess before him. “You know. It’s fine, I’m just not sure at what point I’m lingering on points to excess.”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed understandingly. “Tell the story. Trust your gut.” He gave Jaskier a nuzzle and light kiss against his cheek before taking up the empty mug off the table and walking off further into the apartment.

“I always do!” Jaskier called back. Mm, if only this were as simple as telling a story. Well…Oh—if he spent this paragraph referencing the progression it would end up taking up more room, be a run of the mill lead-in, but if he wrote the actual history as a short story itself, now there was an idea, he could make his point and give the context. Oh, fuck, brilliant—

“Back soon,” Geralt was saying as the front door slipped shut, but the bard was too lost in his work to do more than give a small nod of his head.

The sun was falling, making a graceful bow into the horizon. Warm light spread out over the streets of Oxenfurt like the last pushes of tide, ebbing, and flowing, and sinking back into night.

“Ah, fuck,” Jaskier muttered, crossing out a spelling error with a snarl.

His shoulders ached, and his lower back was going to be the death of him. He was on page 7. All he could see was the work ahead of him, winding off ad infinitum. If he didn’t pick up the pace, he might have to go 60 hours straight—he shivered. Not ideal. He took a breath, stood up and stretched a bit, his muscles groaning in thanks. A quick bathroom break later and he was sliding back into his chair, still warm, his papers grinning up at him, sardonic.

He’d take a meal break at 10 pages, he told himself.

He stood to stretch and his head swam. Well. Plenty of reason to stay seated, he supposed.

Geralt and Yennefer returned at 12 and a half pages. He turned his head in greeting, and when he looked back he got the first real look at the table in hours—it was a disaster, crumbled pieces of parchment, empty quills, and little notes strewn everywhere. Some books propped open, the pile of parchment looking more like a mountain slope, an empty glass from when he’d chugged water hours ago.

His loves were clearly a few drinks deep as they came through the door, and completely unmarred by the woes of academia. Bastards, honestly.

“Hi, hello, hope you had a good evening, I—”

“Come to bed,” Yennefer said, suddenly right behind him. Two small but firm hands came to his shoulders, rubbing deeply.

“Ah! Oh, fuck—oh, yes, darling, right there—”

Geralt came to his other side, tipping his head up for a kiss, which he moaned into. His witcher’s tongue was soft, pleading, tempting him—his mage’s hands pushing almost painfully against his aching muscles. He wanted to cry, it was so good. It was so different than the last… however many hours it had been that he had been sitting here. Geralt pulled away, and Yennefer’s hands came to rest as well.

“So?” Geralt asked, his voice deep and velvety. “Bed?”

“I…” gods, who had he become? “I can’t. I want to, I just—”

Yennefer placed a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s fine,” she said, and he knew it was, but he hated denying them something they all wanted. “Have you eaten?”

Jaskier frowned. “Fuck. Not really.”

Geralt sighed and went to the pantry. “You’re getting a sandwich,” he grumbled.

“Ooo, Geralt, dear heart, would you heat it up? Use some of your,” he wiggled his fingers “your witchery magic?”

Geralt turned and glared. “You’re getting a sandwich.”

“He’s so mean to me,” Jaskier muttered to Yennefer, “I can’t believe he’s so mean to me.”

His mage snorted a laugh into his hair. “You’re really staying up all night, then?” She waved a hand and the curtains around the room swept shut, and his lantern began to burn steadily.

“Looks like it,” he sighed. Geralt retuned a moment later, plated warm sandwich and glass of water in hand.

“Fuck. Thank you.” He took it and took a bite, suddenly ravenous. He looked up at both of them, staring down in fond amusement. “Fank—” he swallowed his mouthful of sandwich. “Thank you both, truly. I’ll be up a bit. If you need something, call, yes?”

They rolled their eyes. “He tells us to call if we need anything,” Yennefer muttered. “Don’t get into any trouble,” she said, and with a peck on the cheek from both of them, they disappeared into the bedroom.

He looked back at his work.

Okay. 12 ½ pages in. He could do this.

x

At 15 pages, he felt ravenous again, and made a second sandwich. Not as good as Geralt’s. Geralt’s sandwiches weren’t even that good, but they were made by Geralt, which added a certain kick, a novelty he adored.

He drank another glass of water and shook his head. Back to work.

At 17 pages, sometimes the world swam before him. He gripped the edge of the table. Fuck.

He was so tired. 23 pages. He kept writing.

It was terrible. The whole paper was a mess. Nothing made sense and people were going to laugh at him. 25 pages.

He heard a sound. Was that Geralt rising for the bathroom? Was it an intruder? Light crept in through the window. 27 pages.

There was a ringing in his ear. His writing was getting increasingly larger. 27 ½ pages.

Geralt gave him a soft nuzzle to the top of his head before padding through to the kitchen. Jaskier’s heart ached. His bones ached. Writing was hard but right then it felt impossible. 27 ¾ pages.

Geralt lingered, and Jaskier felt his nose twitch. He tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for him to leave. He couldn’t have any distractions right now. He shut his eyes tight until he heard the bedroom door close once more.

Yennefer entered hours later, sweeping the curtains over with a flick of her hand. Bright light flooded the room, painting the desk in all its full, disgustingly messy glory. “Well—”

“Could you ask next time?!” Jaskier snapped. “Some of us need consistency to concentrate!”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow, and they stared at each other. Some part of him wanted to slap himself but the rest was just so irritated. Who’d she think she was, anyway?

After a moment, the mage turned and left with a flick of her hand to sweep the curtains shut again.

“Headed out,” Geralt said at 30 pages. “Contract.”

“Good,” Jaskier muttered. “I mean. Good that you’re—fuck. Whatever.”

Geralt stared. “You need rest. It’s been more than 24 hours.”

“I need to fucking finish.”

“Yen said—”

“I’m sure she did,” Jaskier muttered, driving his heels into his eyes. Gods, his eyes burned. Silence hung.

“She portaled out this morning.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Great. Love that. I’m a fucking disaster, thank you for the reminder, Geralt.” He waved toward the door. “Don’t you have a contract?”

He turned back to his papers, shifting around to look for page 11, and didn’t think about how long it took before Geralt left the apartment.

His hand was shaking but he was at 34 pages. He still had so much to say. Fuck. But he was in it now.

He scarfed down some soup that was mostly broth at some point, and he’d under-salted it, but it was something. His eyes kept going blurry; traitorous things.

The bear on his mug was plotting his downfall.

38 pages and Jaskier felt like the gods themselves had gifted him with the knowledge he now bestowed onto meager commoners. He was a genius.

At 43 pages, he had stopped to lay out the entire essay on the ground, so he could see it all. The words sometimes swam before him, and he had trouble remembering what he was meant to say next. Once, he looked up, confused as to where he was. And then, at 44 pages, the guilt of snapping at his dearest loves, the weight of this behemoth paper he wasn’t even sure he could finish, and his own self-doubt crept in and seized him up, leaving him breathless and in tears for… awhile. Everything hurt. He had to keep going.

At 48 pages, he saw a griffon fly through his window, and he named it Kalvin. He turned whatever color Jaskier wanted him to turn, which was very considerate of him. Kalvin was his only friend now, and with a little convincing, might become his editor, too.

At 55 pages his chest seized, and it was hard to breathe for a moment. He closed his eyes but—no, no, couldn’t do that. If he fell asleep now, he’d never finish in time. He tried to relax, got some water, leaned against the counter. Everything was a mess.

He sat back on the floor, his work around him. Keep going.

“I don’t think there’s anything about anything that I have to be doing right now. Kalvin, you’ve… you’ve got to understand, this could be my finest work! It’s good. It’s pretty good here in… in this part, here. In that other part it’s just okay, but that’s why you come in with your big claws and you’re gonna. Rip up the bad parts. Don’t rip up the good parts. Right? Yeah. Do you think they’ve forgotten about me by now?”

He looked down. 57 pages. Took a long blink.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “That’s fair.

He had to write two extra pages so that he could skirt around referencing Valdo Marx’s work as anything other than a contradictory point. Maybe it would have been fun to use his own writing against him but he didn’t want to give the satisfaction of being referenced positively in a centerfold piece.

He lost the essay.

“Fuck—oh, gods, where did—”

He turned around, looked down. Oh, there it was.

“Thank fuck.”

The curtains were still closed and the charmed lantern was still burning, but Jaskier knew it was night by the time he reached 63 pages and Geralt came in.

Jaskier looked up from his spot kneeling on the floor. Geralt looked fine. He was a little dirty. There were some gushy bits. Probably blood. He was tired. Or just mad. Maybe he hated Jaskier.

“You’re still—?!” Geralt asked, looking at Jaskier like he’d just said a griffon named Kalvin had flown in the window earlier and now they were friends.

“I met a griffon,” Jaskier heard himself say. Geralt stared. “We’re friends now.”

“…You need to fucking sleep.”

“No.” Jaskier went back to the margin he’d devoted to drawing circles in. “Sorry ‘bout earlier.”

Geralt sighed. He might have talked but Jaskier didn’t hear, just kept writing.

“How often has that been happening?” he heard Geralt ask.

“What happening?”

“Where you fall asleep for a moment.”

“I haven’t! Fallen asleep.”

“Fuck,” Geralt said. He looked very nice, except for the goop all over him. Well. Even that wasn’t so bad, when the underneath bits were Geralt. His Geralt. Looked so warm, so strong, so able to carry him.

“Later,” Jaskier replied, and went back to his words. The familiar pop of a portal sounded in the bedroom. Their eyes lingered on the direction it came from, but Yennefer didn’t open the door. They looked at each other, and then back at the door which remained very much shut. “She’s mad.”

“Yep.”

“At me.”

“Yep.”

There was a pause. “Are you covered in blood?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh.”

“Not mine.”

“That,” he said pointing to the Witcher, “is good.”

“Mmm.”

“Sticky though.”

“Definitely sticky.”

Yennefer came out of the doorway, and Jaskier blinked. When he opened his eyes again she was much closer than she’d been and was in the middle of talking. Magic, he assumed.

“—yourself very lucky, bard.”

“Yeahh,” he said. “Sorry. ‘Bout… Sorry.”

She huffed and crossed her arms. There was a look in her face. Eyes? And her mouth. It was hard to name. Words were hard, when they weren’t the words he desperately needed to write.

“—for a while,” Geralt was saying. “Jaskier. How close are you to finishing.”

“Soon!” Jaskier said. “Soon! Soon. Due… 1pm tomorrow. What time is it?”

“10pm.”

“Fuck. Psshhh. I can… I can do it.” He looked up at Yennefer. “Sorry. Really. I… I’m just tired,” he admitted. “Shouldn’t have snapped. Not fair to you.”

Yennefer stood there, arms folded, emanating some emotion Jaskier had lost the concept of around page 41. Geralt walked further into the apartment, into the bedroom. Oh right. Blood armor. Ick.

He went back to writing and tried to ignore the desire to cry again, and then suddenly Yennefer’s shoes were in his line of vision.

“Let me read it,” she said.

“Oh.”

They stared at one another. She had such a pretty face. He might have been smiling. She rolled her eyes and then came to sit next to him. She quickly found the first page and began.

Halfway through it, he spilled ink on the bottom half of page 64, and wept. Yennefer gave him an attempt at a comforting pat on the back.

Yennefer had read the pages and risen; “It’s good. You need edits, but it’s somehow decent. Good. Whatever. A little… loose, toward the end, though,” made herself a cup of tea, and entered the bedroom.

Either a few moments, or 20 minutes later, Geralt emerged.

“What are you at now?”

“69 pages.”

“Nice,” Geralt said.

“Ha. Yeahhh,” Jaskier agreed.

“That’s not what I—” Geralt sighed the sigh that meant his face was going all pinch-y. “Close to the end?”

“Mmm. What is the end, really?” Geralt made a different pinch-y face. “Soon.”

“Come to bed tonight, Jaskier.”

“I’ll try,” he said. He blinked, and Geralt was gone.

There are a lot of words in an essay that are very hard to spell.

Jaskier ate the rest of a loaf of bread.

For a while, he swore he walked the streets of Oxenfurt while still warm in his professorial housing.

Kalvin’s accent changed three times and at one point he was on fire.

85 pages.

Geralt woke first, as always; There he was! That was his love. So much of his heart.

With shaking hands, Jaskier had brought himself up to sit in his chair, and sat staring down at his work. He looked up at Geralt with a lopsided grin. “I did it,” he said weakly.

“Need help putting it together?”

The tears fell so quickly he didn’t realize it was happening. “Really?”

Geralt sighed softly and knelt down, organizing the papers.

Yennefer emerged a bit later—There she was! His love, a chunk of him was hers entirely. He smiled. “Look!”

“Mmm. And now you can sleep.”

“NO!” Jaskier cried and leapt to his feet, “No, no, now… now is presenting time. To… the editors. Not Kalvin. But I turn it in… and then sleep,”

He had a sudden burst of energy, and tried to step over Geralt and the papers, but fell into the table instead, before the Witcher steadied him from below.

“Ohhhh, thank you dear. It’s time for… presentation! Mm.” He leaned into Yennefer’s warmth at his side, though she did not wrap her arms around him as he’d hoped. “Help me pick out an outfit.”

He blinked. Yennefer was in front of him now, looking at him with a frown, her hands around his waist. Geralt’s hand was against his forehead. “No! Stop that! I’m fine. I’m fine! See me! Fine. It’s action time. Let’s go!” and he marched off to the bedroom.

The floor was suddenly very close to his face.

“Did I—”

“You fell on your face.”

“Have I—”

“You’ve asked three times now, yes.”

There should have been fanfare when he turned it in, but there was only the grateful smile of Edmond, the young new assistant, a firm handshake, and a promise he’d hear back from them very soon, for a quick summarization of their initial thoughts. Or, he’d used all those words, Jaskier forgot which order they’d come in.

The three returned to the apartment, and everything happened very slowly and so quickly he found it hard to keep track. There was definitely a bath drawn for him—gods, it had been days, hadn’t it— oh, fuck, he was gross, wasn’t he—a full meal, and a celebratory drink. He’d made a few good jokes, and all he could see were Geralt and Yennefer, smiling at him. An empty glass. A bar of soap. A long quill. A messy table. A pile of books and an empty mug. They deposited him on the bed for sleep, and left together.

Jaskier lay there, waiting for sleep to take him.

It did not.

He was so tired he could cry. He did, a few times. He couldn’t think straight. All of it, everything, hurt. His body ached. He tried to soothe himself down alone, rocking himself in the hopes it would work. But nothing.

What if he could never sleep again? What if he would always be awake, forever? What if this was how he died?! Oh gods, he didn’t want to die! He still had edits to approve!

Eventually, he could feel himself getting closer. He adjusted himself, lay on his back and took deep, measured breaths, kept his eyes closed but relaxed. Okay. Okay. Sleep.

He was falling, so violently and so fast that when he jolted awake, he forgot he’d been lying on a bed in the first place.

Fuck.

He tried again. It happened sometimes, it was fine. He’d be fine.

He tried breathing deeply once more, trying to let the distant scents of Yennefer and Geralt now embedded in his pillows overtake him.

A fear so powerful it gripped his heart and twisted, whispered to him, ‘this is what dying is, you’re going to die’ and he once again jolted awake. He threw his head back against the pillow and winced; even that hurt.

Fuck. Fuck.

He kept trying. Over, and over, he’d get so close to sleep and then right at the precipice, something would yank him out of it.

Once, he saw Yennefer falling off a cliff. Another time, he saw Geralt stabbed through the chest. At some point, he saw Ciri screaming, and his hands flew out to pull her close, only to find nothing there. Sometimes it was himself falling, and sometimes it was the world below him falling instead.

He’d really done it this time. Stayed awake so long, sleep had abandoned him entirely.

It felt like twelve years before Yennefer and Geralt returned, slipping into the room quietly. He sat up in bed, startling them both.

“Please,” he said quietly, “I can’t. I don’t know why I can’t I just—I can’t. My body won’t let me, I want to but I can’t—”

“How the hell—” Yennefer started, walking over to him with a palm out to check for a curse, maybe? It didn’t matter. He wrapped her hand in his and clutched it to himself, desperate for her. She was so warm. So alive.

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed, “It’s been nearly 70 hours already, Jaskier.”

“Let me just put him down with magic,” Yennefer started, but Geralt put a hand up.

“We can’t. It’s a temporary fix. if he can’t fall asleep on his own without magic, it’ll get harder and harder for him. We need to get him to fall asleep without it.” They looked down at him. What a disgrace he must look like, how pathetic he was. He turned his face away in abject shame. He couldn’t even fall asleep right.

While he looked away, Yennefer tore her hand from his as she and Geralt discarded their clothes into heaps beside the bed, crawled beneath the covers on either side of Jaskier. They hated him. They must. How could they not?

“It’s fine, you don’t—fuck, sorry—”

Geralt shrugged. “Don’t be. I know how bad it gets. It’s different for a Witcher, but no sleep is the whole reason we met Yennefer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jaskier said softly.

“As I recall, the solution then was to have vigorous sex on the floor.” Yennefer ran a finger along Jaskier’s chest. “Sound appealing?”

“I—yes, Yennefer, it sounds appealing.” He fidgeted, tried to focus on the feeling of Yennefer’s delicate touch. He was oversensitive enough that it felt like fire, but nothing… stirred, and each word he spoke felt like he was pulling honey from his tongue. “I don’t… much as I’d like, I’m not sure I’d be... up for it right now.” Yennefer’s head fell against the pillow and she flattened her hand, ran the palm up his chest to rest above his heart. Pressed a kiss there.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but they were looking at him, he could feel every inch of their gazes and it was all too much. He whined in agony. “I can’t do this. Fuck. I can’t, just put me out. We try it again tomorrow, I—”

“Jaskier. You can. Tell us what you need and we can help you,” Yennefer said, sweet but firm. And that was her, wasn’t it?

He couldn’t think. Wanted to. Wanted so much. Wanted to be asleep.

Jaskier curled up on his side, exhausted of being exhausted, when he felt Geralt slide up closer behind him. “Can I hold you?” he murmured into the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier nodded, and felt Geralt’s arm come around him and under his own arm, felt it slide up his chest and cross it protectively.

“Feel good?” Jaskier nodded, and then cracked his eyes open, met Yennefer’s, concern palpable.

He lifted one arm just slightly. “C’mere?” And she did, curled into his arms and around him, tucked her head under his, kissed the top of Geralt’s fingers. He held her close, and was held by the two in turn. Breathing, somehow, felt easier between them.

“Breathe, bard,” Yennefer urged him softly. Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s hair, took in a deep breath, and Jaskier tried to follow.

They breathed softly, all together, slow and safe. Soon, he was drifting into sweet oblivion.

‘You,’ Fear said, wrapped around his sternum, ‘will crumble, the moment you let go of wakefulness.’ It gripped him, and tugged him back to reality.

He jolted again. “Fuck, dammit, cock wringing—”

Yennefer pulled back to look at him worriedly. “Is that what’s been keeping you up?” she asked.

“It’s, I don’t know, something just pulls me back, I try to fight it but…”

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed. “Sleep starts. Happens sometimes.”

“The hell are sleep starts?”

“They’re… when you’re too on edge to sleep, or just haven’t in too long, brains… fizzle. Keep you awake. It’s a survival instinct—it makes you think you’ve got to stay awake to stay alive. Feels like falling? Or… a shock. Sometimes other things. Hallucinations.” Geralt pressed a kiss to the back of his head. “It’s scary. It’s meant to be. Your body thinks it’s fighting for its life.”

“I am never letting you doom yourself like this ever again,” Yennefer said, and while it was probably meant to come out angry, she just sounded worried.

Geralt hummed and agreement. “Try again, we’ve got you. We’re not letting go.” Jaskier took a breath. They had him. They had him.

Yennefer lifted a hand to Jaskier’s temple. “May I?” And he let her in, easier than breathing. She gave him Ciri laughing, wind chimes on the breeze, the soft roar of the coast. Geralt hugged him tight, ran his other hand through Jaskier’s hair, tried to keep the bard’s breathing aligned. Now, what had he ever done to earn these two?

Soon, sleep came to him again, and he could feel Yennefer ready to soothe anything that came for him in his mind, Geralt ready to defend against anything that dared hurt his resting body. The darkness crept in, and he felt peace.

Geralt was reaching for him, falling, bleeding, screaming.

“FUCK!”

“Shh,” the real Geralt hushed him. “We’ve got you.”

“Fuck, there’s got to be something else,” Yennefer groaned. “What’ve you tried so far?”

“I have tried… to fall asleep.”

Yennefer and Geralt both huffed small laughs. “No. Positions—”

“Only the good ones.”

“Meditating?” Geralt asked.

“Darling, I haven’t had a thought in my head in hours. This is meditation.”

“Drugs?” Yennefer asked.

“I will try the drugs!” Jaskier said with a drowsy cheerfulness, as Geralt replied “No drugs. No.”

“Ugh,” Jaskier groaned, and shifted to lie on his stomach. Oh. This was… better. He nestled into the pillows, and a soft contented sigh drifted from him.

“That feel better?” Geralt asked as he ran a hand up and down Jaskier’s back. “Mmm,” Jaskier replied. Yennefer’s hand joined Geralt over his chest. Oh, they were going to make him cry.

And then it was too much, too much feeling, like his brain couldn’t handle all the sensation, and he felt Yennefer come to pause, and a moment later, Geralt’s hand as well. ‘That better?’ Yennefer asked in his mind. Jaskier gave her the memory of his favorite hug with her, warm and happy as her legs wrapped around his waist, and his favorite with Geralt, crushing and firm and full of too many emotions to speak aloud.

“Could…” he said softly, “Just. Talk? Not to me. Just… to each other. Just wanna hear you.” He could almost hear their smiles, and felt as they settled in on the pillows beside him, arms and hands intertwining on his back. Yennefer’s head on his shoulder, the gentle planes of Geralt’s chest on his other side. “If you need us, Yennefer and I are here. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He nodded into the mattress, cool and soft below him.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“G’night Yennefer.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

"G’night, Geralt.”

He started to fade into oblivion, but stopped himself before he got too far. Not fear, not anxiety, a conscious stopping. Somewhere above him, Geralt was telling Yennefer about the contract from… sometime in the past few days, and Yennefer was telling her own story about some town gossip with a woman and her hens, which, it might have been a metaphor, but he’d basically forgotten what those were by now. He breathed deeply, felt their words flow through him, and when he felt brave enough, he let go, trusting they would catch him.

He could have sworn he heard wind chimes, somewhere.

x

The small amount of light filtering in through the curtains was golden when he awoke. His head both ached and felt light as a feather, his muscles screamed and cried but half of it was in relief. He gave a small stretch and yawned. “G’morning,” an amused Geralt said to him, lounging in a chair he’d brought beside the bed, reading a book. His legs were propped up on the bed beside the bard’s and Jaskier stretched to bump their toes together.

“What time…?”

“You slept 13 hours.”

“Fuck.”

“You probably need more.”

“Yeahhhh.”

“Feel alright?”

“Like a real human being,” he said. “Hungry, though.”

“Mmm.”

Yennefer slipped in the door, but, noticing Jaskier was awake, rose a hand. “May I?” she asked, voice dripping in sarcasm, gesturing to the curtains.

“You may,” Jaskier offered, covering his face with his hands. “Ohhhh, gods, how bad was I?”

“Genuinely awful,” Yennefer said, as Geralt was saying, “There’s been worse.”

“Normally I’d withhold this,” the mage said, withdrawing a small envelope from her pocket. “But, under the circumstances…” she cleared her throat.

“To one Julian Alfred Pankratz. We were extremely pleased to receive your manuscript yesterday afternoon. Our editors are will have their notes to you by the weekend, but we wanted to reach out and extend our most sincere compliments on your work. It is—oh, a flood of adjectives, I’m skipping these. Etcetera, etcetera, sucking your dick, etcetera alright, here—and meticulous in construction. We can tell,” Yennefer said, dragging out the final sentence, “you made good use of your year of writing time to complete the work.” Jaskier and Geralt by this point were holding back true howls of laughter.

“And won’t you believe it, there’s more. Ahem; we have a number of suggestions and questions already, but encourage you to get your well-deserved rest as we prepare our feedback. We are grateful to work with you, and thank you again for your stunning entry. There’s a postscript,” Yennefer added. “As a quick and personal note, we cannot have helped but notice the nature of your penmanship; we mean no offence, but would encourage you to see a doctor of the eye to fit you with some spectacles.”

“My—my penman…? What’d—” and Yennefer, who had clearly been waiting for this moment, brought out a rather crumpled piece of parchment with an ink stain at the bottom—ah, yes, the original page 64— and showed it to him. His eyes were… gods, they were aching, but he was clear minded enough now to see that each line had become at least twice it’s normal size. The lines were far from straight, dipping and bending toward the edge of the paper, the letters changed directions at random points, and a fair amount of the words were smudged so completely they were hard to make out.”

Jaskier stared in horror.

“They. Is that. Is that what it looked like? Really?”

“It’s worse than most of the ones that made it in,” Geralt said, carefully.

“Most?!”

“You drew pictures on one of them,” Yennefer said.

“Oh my god. They…they must…”

“Adore it, clearly,” Yennefer said, setting aside the paper. “It wasn’t worth the strain, and you’ve definitely firmly embarrassed yourself, but they’re either embarrassing themselves by fawning praise on you,” she said, sliding onto the bed, “Or you’re actually just… very knowledgeable and talented, even when addled by sleep deprivation.”

There was a pause, Jaskier soaking this in; it hadn’t been worth it, exactly, but it wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was quite good, and Yennefer was complimenting him outright, so, very good.

“Or both,” Geralt added.

“Definitely both,” Yennefer agreed.

Jaskier groaned. “You can’t be mean to me. You’re in my house and I am extremely tired, which means that you, by law, must kiss me and tell me nice things about myself.”

Geralt laughed, light and free, and Yennefer slunk slower down into the bed. “You get no kisses,” she said, “You get sleep and rest.” She grabbed a pillow from under her head and plopped it delicately onto Jaskier’s face.

“Boo,” Jaskier said, muffled beneath the thing. He closed his eyes. Geralt muttered something, and Yennefer gave a snort of laughter, and then there was silence.

“Are you two kissing up there?!”

More silence.

“UGH,” he groaned, and sunk into his soft, sweet mattress. Oh, beautiful mattress. How he adored it, how he adored his two loves on top of it. He listened to their kissing, soft, and sweet, and knew he’d join them soon. But it was so warm down here. Even as one of them removed the pillow, he could only bring himself to open his eyes for a moment, to see them both leaning to kiss his face gently, before returning to each other. He took a long, deep breath, and listened to them swirl around him, until all he could feel was their love and the sweet caress of his pillow.

[cozycryptidcorner]

Fiore the Genderfluid Kelpie

Notes: this is a commission from a user who wishes to remain anonymous, about a curly-haired musician meeting her monster match for the first time. 

If your roommates weren’t such absolute twats about the noise, then you really wouldn’t have much of a reason to practice your violin in the outdoors like some kind of lonely vagabond. The day is bright, only a few clouds in the sky, but not specifically warm enough to make you melt into the little dirt path. Nor do you feel much strain in your lungs as you hike around the dirt path. It’s the kind of day that hints of summer, with all the warm, soft sunlight of the day without the same, stifling heat that comes in the deeper throes of those months.

Hauling everything- the violin, the stand, and the sheet music should be more complicated than it seems, but you’re so used to it by now that you don’t really notice the effort. All the better, then, because having an explosive argument with your roommate over staying indoors would be more trouble than it’s worth. The smaller university also locks its practice doors during the summer, so you can’t go there.

So, again, outdoors, it is.

Google maps is very helpful for seeing the dirt trail that weaves its way around the nearby lake, though it doesn’t register it as a viable pathway. You have to eyeball it, which is okay, because you think it would be reasonably simple to make your way back to the high rises of the city, as you can see them once you stand on a hill, right on your tiptoes. There’s a gorgeous, large, and ancient weeping willow that google’s satellites have captured, one that’s large enough to provide shade and shelter from any unruly breeze. Already, you spot it on the other side of the water, so you tuck your phone into your pocket and head in that direction.

Setting everything up is easy, the collapsable stand simple enough to build, the ground flat enough to allow it to stay upright. You trap your sheet music to it with clothing pins, just as a precaution despite the breeze isn’t quite strong enough to blow them to kingdom come, and turn on your metronome app on your phone as you set it right next to the paper. Once everything is set up, albeit with your violin still in its case, you allow yourself to go investigate the edge of the lake itself, just for the sake of looking around.

The lake is large, extensive, and a shimmering, crystalline blue. You remember that a few years ago, some environmentalist people in town managed to get a large clean-up production in order, clearing out the trash and filtering the muddied water until it stopped shining with grease. There’s an ancient, dilapidated dock, the old, rotting wood half-submerged in the reeds and water, though you think that the very center might be able to hold your weight.

Wanting only to get a better look at the lake as a whole, you step onto the dock, wincing as it creaks under a portion of your weight, but it seems to take it well enough. Carefully, you place your other foot down, too, then carefully tiptoe over the part of the wood that looks the most stable, getting about halfway down the dock. The lake itself is supposed to be ridiculously deep, there’s a river that provides freshwater from the melting snow on the nearby mountains, so it also must be rather cold.

Funnily enough, as soon as you think that, there is a violent crack sound from beneath your shoes, and you find out for yourself exactly how cold the water really is. It’s freezing, just as expected, a biting, icy feeling running through your nerves, and you barely even have time to shut your mouth tight to avoid getting a mouthful of water. Your arm smarts as it hits a plank wrong, and there’s a snap that you aren’t sure is from the wood or your arm.

You struggle, arms flailing limply as you try to surface. There’s something on your foot, though, it’s somehow pinned or stuck in a stray part of the dock, and you don’t think you even have the air to deal with it. Letting out a breath of bubbles to help ease the tension in your chest, you bend your knee a bit, dragging yourself down further, and try to feel out what you’re stuck in.

Wood, definitely another part of the dock, and it feels like you just punched your foot clean through, right up to your ankle. You wriggle, trying to shimmy your way out, but there seems to be absolutely no way for you to get out without at least dislocating something. Before you can even process true, absolute panic at the thought of drowning, a pair of arms wrapping around your chest and pulls. A shock of pain runs through your leg, and your struggle, harder, jabbing your elbow against something… rubbery, you think.

The water is too murky for you to see beyond the blob figure that swims gracefully down to your ankle. After just a moment, two arms reach forward, snapping the plank with such ease that you wonder why you weren’t able to pop out of it yourself, but suddenly you’re being pulled up again, though this time, you actually feel the air.

You splutter and gasp, your face probably cherry pink with the violent effort your body makes to resupply oxygen. Once you manage to take in a few, choking gasps, you spin around to see your rescuer, a bit taken back when you notice the lack of clothing on her pale, freckled body. She’s slim in frame, not at all looking anywhere near strong enough to be able to snap a slab of wood like it was nothing more than a twig even if it had been rotting in the water for god knows how long.

“Um, thank you,” you say awkwardly, unsure of what else to do, “for helping me, I mean.”

She eyes you up and down, her eyes glittering in the reflection of the sunlight dancing up from the water. There’s something that’s oddly absent from her gaze, like a slab of blankness beneath the blue irises, and you find yourself unconsciously crossing your arms across your chest in a sort of protective gesture of yourself.

“Of course,” she says finally, after a long, awkward pause, “you were drowning.”

The way she says it makes it sound like she wasn’t entirely sure if that was what really was happening or not, so you wonder if maybe she’s teetering on embarrassment? That might explain her strange behavior.

“My foot was stuck, yeah,” you say. “If you hadn’t freed me, I probably would have.”

“Hm,” she nods sagely, as though that were an answer to another unasked question, “you cannot breathe in the water.”

“No, I can’t.” You are suddenly very aware of your wet socks as you shift your weight, the thick layer of silt squishing down and over the soles of your tennis shoes. “That’s the thing about humans, we can’t breathe underwater.”

“Fascinating,” she mulls the idea over, as though she couldn’t possibly relate.

“Um,” you’re trying very hard not to stare at any other part of her body but her face, “yes, so I was here to practice my violin, but um, I didn’t realize that anyone else was here.”

“Practice the violin?” She echoes.

“My instrument,” you gesture vaguely in the direction of where you set up your temporary haven of music, “I was going to practice out here because my roommates get annoyed by the noise. I didn’t realize that someone was out here, though, I thought I’d be alone.”

She waits for you to elaborate, but when you don’t, she suggests, “if you are worried I might mind a little music while I lounge and swim, you should not. I will somehow survive.”

It takes you a moment to process that she must be joking, so you let out a brief laugh. “I’m sorry for crashing your lounging and swimming. Um, do you happen to have a name?”

“Of course,” she says.

When she doesn’t embellish, you ask, “what is it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She has to think about it for a moment, you can see her eyes fade as she wanders through the depths of her mind to drudge it up. You wonder how long she might have gone without hearing it because the long silence that follows seems a little too meticulous to be her looking for a fake one to give. “Fiore.”

“Fiore?” You shift again, wincing at the feeling of slime absorbing into your shoes still. “That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you; it is, isn’t it.”

Slowly but steadily, you manage to get yourself out of the muck, kicking off your shoes and socks once you’re free from the reeds. Bare feet on a dirt path, you think, is preferable to the soggy, squishing feeling of muddied and wet shoes, and when you turn around, you don’t spot your savior anywhere. Shrugging that off, you head back over to your little setup, checking over your phone, thankful that you had the foresight to pull it out of your pocket before you took an impromptu dunk in the lake.

Popping your violin case open, you begin on your scales, just as a brief exercise to warm your fingers up before moving onto more complicated pieces. Pressing against the strings, you quickly draw your bow out to make the notes. C major, then minor, then D major, then minor, and so on until you moved halfway through the scales before glancing self-consciously over to where you last saw Fiore, but there isn’t any sign of her slim figure.

Thinking that she might have just left while you were paying attention to your finger’s positions over the strings, you go back to practicing, finishing your scales, and choosing from your bags which piece to begin working on.

You would say that this is the most peaceful practice session that you’ve had since this whole worldwide ugly situation has started. No roommates come banging on your door to tell you to quiet it down, no angry stomping protests from the neighbors in the above apartments. Just you, the violin, and your music, and you find yourself improving somewhat on one of the more difficult passages in a piece that’s had you stuck for a long while.

In fact, it was so productive that you find yourself returning in a few days, spurred on by the annoyance of your roommates. The weather is beautiful enough, a gentle breeze cooling any sort of heat that may become stifling in the warming spring. You repeat the actions from when you were last at the lakeside, setting everything up, leaving your phone on the stand, then move to investigate the shore.

You are looking to see if Fiore is here, you’re not ashamed to admit it, but as you scope out the edge of the lake, you see no one around. Not even a telltale sign of rippling to suggest that someone is swimming just below the surface, so you suppose that she just isn’t around. Which, you assume, might as well be expected, because it’s not like you know her whole schedule of when she actually goes for a swim.

So you start practicing again, going through your scales, then beginning on your regular pieces. As you pause, maybe a half-hour into working, to turn on the metronome on your phone, you notice a head of black hair poking up from the water. Which is weird, because you didn’t see anyone in your periphery arrive, you think you might have given the circumstances, but maybe you were just so sucked into the music that you weren’t paying attention to anything else.

Thinking it must be Fiore, you walk over, popping up on your tiptoes so that you can get a better view of her head, you almost stop in your tracks when you realize that the body swimming in the pond is, in fact, very masculine. And just as naked, but you digress. Face so red you think you might look more like a tomato than human, you take a step back, your foot catching on some root or twisted patch of grass, and you fall hard on your ass.

He’s looking at you promptly, eyes sharp and hauntingly familiar. You’re even more embarrassed, now, because you thought that you might have been able to make a quiet and unnoticed retreat. Instead, you’re looking at the face of someone who seems to be debating on whether or not to eat you alive. At least, that’s what it feels like from his predatory glare.

“I- I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.” It dawns on you now that he might think that you were trying to get a sneak peek of the goods, and just the thought of gaining the reputation of a peeping tom makes your face heat up even more. “There was like this girl who was here last time I practiced, I mean, I saw her when I was practicing violin, too, and you two actually look a lot alike, so I thought- I, um, thought you were her because of the black hair.”

The man regards you with no small amount of suspicion, eyes narrow.

Nervous, you try to dig yourself out of the hole you’ve made. “I was practicing violin, she seemed to like the music- I mean, I think she did. I’m really sorry to bother you, and I’ll just go back to practicing, sorry.”

As you get up to leave, the man cocks his head. “Your hair.”

Mindlessly, as if spurred on only by the word, you reach up and pluck one of the coils, pulling it down to its full length if it were straight. “Y-yeah?”

“It didn’t do that, not when you were here last. How did you make it crumple up?”

Was he there, and you just didn’t see him? “I- I don’t know what you mean.” You release the strand, and it pops back into place, frowning. “It’s just curly?”

“It was straight when you fell into the water.”

“Oh,” feeling sheepish to have your past mistake thrown out like that by another stranger makes you want to bury yourself, “that’s what happens when my hair gets wet. It stops being curly.”

The man regards you like he’s never even heard of such a thing before. Ignoring the weird feeling in your chest, you approach the water, cupping your fingers together, and bring a fistful of water up to a strand. True to your word, it straightens out almost instantly, and you allow him to stare at you like a bug under a microscope, comparing the now damp strand with the rest of your hair.

“See?” You offer, hoping the pinkness in your face might have died down by the attempts to satiate his own curiosity.

“So it was you,” he says, nodding sagely as if he figured it out on his own.

“Yeah, yup, that was me.” You take a significant step back, wiping your hand on your shirt. “I don’t remember seeing you, though, so you must have been swimming out on the far side.”

There’s an awkward pause, and just when you’re about to turn around and retreat back to your music stand, the man speaks, “You don’t remember me?”

Immediately, you try to go through your recollection of that day to see if you somehow wholly blocked the presence of the man, as well, but you don’t think you did. “Did you introduce yourself?”

He looks almost hurt. “I’m Fiore, I told you.”

Now it’s your turn for your eyes to bug out of your skull, because no, that’s not Fiore. Fiore is… admittedly, the same size as this man, tall, slim, with black hair that does fall past her shoulders, but come on. Come on! There’s no way the two are the same person, at least, you don’t think so, because you could have remembered everything wrong. You couldn’t have, though, because this really isn’t something you can just mix up.

“You’re confused,” probably-not-Fiore observes, which is most likely an elementary observation on his part.

“Yes.” You admit, not wanting to outright refuse to believe that what probably-not-Fiore’s saying is false.

“I see.” There’s a faraway look in his face, open enough to give you the feeling that he’s trying to put some kind of explanation in words. “It’s like your hair.”

“My hair,” you repeat, unsure.

“Your hair changes. My body changes. It’s… the same, but different.” Maybe-Fiore places a hand on his chest and drags it downwards to his stomach. “Sometimes, I feel better in this body. Sometimes I feel better in other bodies.”

“Oh,” you say, because that makes perfect fucking sense, of course, why didn’t you think of that earlier, “right.”

“The humans have a term for that, I think,” Maybe-Fiore places a hand on his chin as he thinks, “another visitor to my lake told me, but I cannot remember it.”

“Oh, you’re not human,” you say, not believing him in the slightest, “I didn’t realize.”

“Did I not mention it,” Fiore says in a tone that suggests that he very well knows that he never uttered a word about his species, “interesting. Anyway, I enjoyed the music you played earlier, and I would like to hear it again.”

“Alright,” you hesitate, though you know that you might as well comply. Slowly, you head back to where you left your stand and pick up your violin. Trying your best to focus, you begin practicing again, starting with scales and arpeggios as you did the last time you were here. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot him, lounging, still very naked, on the outer banks of the lake, clearly enthralled in your music.

You’re not sure if you can be flattered over that or not, but you continue practicing nonetheless. When you’ve put in some time- about an hour or two, according to your phone, you begin breaking down your practice area, collapsing your music stand, and packing away your books. Maybe-Fiore is lying leisurely on the side of the dilapidated dock, eyes only opening once the music has ceased.

Sometimes, I feel better in this body. Sometimes I feel better in other bodies, he has said, and you try to digest what that means, the humans have a term for that, I think.

“Did you mean genderfluid?” You ask suddenly, popping your case shut.

He sits up as you stand, trying to formulate a sentence. “What?”

“You said you sometimes feel comfortable in other bodies, and that there was a word for it. Did you mean genderfluid?” You clarify, trying to adjust the straps of your myriad of bags, so the weight is evenly distributed on your shoulders.

“Yes- that.” He smiles, and there’s a weird feeling swimming in your stomach when you see it. “Sometimes, I feel like a male. Sometimes I feel like a female… and I have the advantage of being able to change.”

“Okay,” you nod, wondering for the first time if he actually is Fiore, if Fiore could simply switch their sexes the moment they felt different. Which… you think is a tad bit out there, because changing one’s shape so instantaneously and thoroughly isn’t physically possible. That you know of, though.

“Will you play closer to the lake next time you come?” Maybe-Fiore says, laying back down against the half-rotted wood, closing his eyes.

“If you’d like,” you say, warming up to the idea. You would be directly under the sun, but a lot of sunscreen and plenty of water might keep you from dying.

“I would like,” he nods firmly, rolling back over into the water.

Trying to not look below his waist, you say your goodbyes, and turn to leave.

The weather is already warming up, as though spring was nothing more than a few-day blip on the calendar. The humidity doesn’t help matters, either, because your hair has decided to do something very unique with itself, poking out in oddly placed tufts that don’t want to conform to any other look but insane person. When you come back to the lake, you have a water bottle filled to the brim with mostly ice to melt and sip on while you practice.

You hear the horse before you see it, the tromping of hooves against the earth, a loud, resounding whinny as it sees you in the middle of its path. It’s an incredibly large, foreboding creature, pale like a ghost, a myriad of speckles dotting its back half. Immediately, adrenaline bursts into your veins, because random, galloping horses are not good news, especially when it seems to be heading right for you.

Just when you’re about to shed your stuff and dodge, the horse makes a sharp turn, kicking up some dirt as it does so. Even though the immediate danger is over, your heart is still quaking in your chest hard enough to feel the aftershocks in your fingertips. You are far too startled to do much other than watch the admittedly majestic creature with a wary eye as it gallops over to the lake, the white spray of water splashing about as it plunges beneath the surface.

All that happened within the span of a few moments, and you are far too surprised at the… the absurdness of it all to do much more than stand there, mouth agape, as you quietly debate the pros and cons of leaving your things so you could run away faster. Before you come to a conclusion, though, you see a head of black hair pop up from the water, and all you can think of is Fiore and a feral horse getting into a tussle that the creature would not lose.

You drop your things and run, but not away from the lake, towards. Wild horses could easily cave someone’s skull in like a mallet to a melon, and you’re not going to just leave when Fiore- whoever they may be- might end up pummeled to death by hooves. While you try to shout- keyword try here- you find that the ungodly speed you’re running at mixed with your panicking lungs, all you can manage is a weak wheeze until you near the edge of the lake.

When you get that close, you see that it is Fiore, her slim, long hair sticking to her skin from the water. You’re just about to run yourself into the mud, but you manage a screeching halt, gasping for air, a drop of sweat rolling down your temple as you manage to choke out, “horse, there’s a horse-”

“Not anymore,” Fiore chirps, completely unaware of your panic.

“What? No,” you bend over, your lungs desperately trying to compensate for the sudden strain, “there was like a huge-ass horse that almost trampled me earlier, it went into the lake- and-” come to think of it, why haven’t you seen it surface for air? Where did it go?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fiore steps closer to the shallows, the water only waist-deep on her. “I was just delighted to see you, I may have gotten a little too excited.”

You shake your head, only half processing the nonsense she’s speaking. “Not you, the horse. There’s a horse!”

“Yes,” Fiore sounds like you, almost exasperated that you do not quite understand what’s going on, “I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t startle me, the horse did!”

Fiore looks at you, her eyes narrowed slightly, making you feel like you’re missing a massive, undeniable piece of some puzzle you didn’t know you were playing. “And I said I was sorry, sweet thing.”

Even though a shiver runs through your back when she calls you that- sweet thing- you have to be misunderstanding something significant here because... is Fiore insinuating that she can turn into a horse? You are going to faceplant onto the ground if the answer is yes. “Fiore.”

“Yes.”

“So, you were a horse just a few minutes ago.”

“Yes?” She sounds almost relieved that you finally understand what’s happening. Like back and forth was exhausting, and she could not understand why you didn’t.

“Ha.” You’re going insane. Or maybe Fiore was trying to pull a fast one, a long drawn out fast one, and this is all some kind of elaborate hoax to mock the girl who hikes half a mile just to play the violin. “No.”

“Ha, yes,” Fiore counters, almost impatiently.

“But-”

“What makes it so difficult to understand?”

You feel like your brain is going to explode. “Um… I need to go fetch my violin.”

She brightens somewhat. “Don’t forget that I want you playing closer this time.”

“R-right.”

Surely you’re teetering on the very edge of sanity because that conversation did not just happen. Slowly, you gather your things, trying to mull the conversation over in your head. Fiore- the woman, the man, the horse, this can’t be happening. But you can’t come up with any sort of more logical explanation, especially since any other alternative seems far wilder than the simplicity of shapeshifter. So as you begin to put everything together to play, you ask, almost timidly, “what are you?”

“What do you mean?” She’s sitting out of the water, naked, only a few arm’s lengths away.

“I mean,” your fingers are shaking too much to actually play, so you pretend to tweak at the strings of the violin to tune it, even though you don’t have the means to properly do so, “if you can change like that, and you even said that you aren’t human, what are you?”

There’s another faraway look in Fiore’s eyes, the same as when you first asked for her name. Like she has to struggle to remember, as though she hasn’t had to explain her existence in a long while. “Your people have many different names for mine,” she says, reminiscing, “but I suppose that you might know the word ‘kelpie,’ hm?”

You are not going to be scared, not yet. Trying to keep your voice calm, you ask, “like the man-eating horse creature?”

Fiore, to her credit, seems to find that description funny, of all things. “I haven’t tasted man in so long, but I can’t say that I find it particularly delicious. I prefer those creatures with the horns, what are they called... cattle.”

At least she doesn’t seem to favor the taste human, so you force your body to relax a little. “And you live in the lake?”

“For as long as this village has existed.” She closes her eyes, you can see a timeline play in her mind. “Though, not so much a little vagabond grouping anymore.”

You think of the high rising skyline and let out a little snort, unbidden, “you can say that again. Have you visited the city square recently?”

“I’ve never visited the square,” she leans back on her elbows, staring up at the sky listlessly, “never needed to, really.”

“Huh,” you’ve finally managed to stop your shaking body, calming down enough to lift your violin to your chin, “maybe we should go together sometime.”

Before you give her time to process the offer, you drag the bow across the G string, letting the note resonate over the landscape, just to make sure you didn’t muck anything up during the impromptu tuning. Satisfied with the outcome, you begin to play, not bothering to set up your stand or bring out any books, sitting cross-legged in the soft grass instead of standing. This isn’t really about practicing, you decide, but about letting the music flow through you naturally.

By the way Fiore’s eyes become half-lidded, then slowly close, you can tell that she’s enjoying your improv. With your focus only on the next several notes, you need your fingers to grasp; you can’t put too much attention in how beautiful she is, sprawled out in the sun like this. Only that she is, but you try to only use your periphery to observe this.

“You said that you could show me the main square?” She asks when the music notes slowly ebb away.

“I mean,” how do you put this delicately, “you might have to put on some clothes, first.”

Her face scrunches up in a slight scowl at the mere thought. “Yes, I’ve noticed that humans are cautious about covering your bodies up. If you’d like, you can take yours off now, I wouldn’t mind.”

You try not to balk at the idea right off the bat because you’re not sure if mutual nakedness means the same thing to her as it does to you. “I’m fine for now, actually. I don’t mind the clothing.”

“If you insist.” She goes back to her leisurely lounging. “But I suppose that I would have to wear… something, if I were to enter the city.”

“Yeah, unfortunately, there are laws about public nudity.”

Fiore lets out a little hmph, “and there are certain rules to the clothing.”

“... Yeah,” you say, trying not to show too much sheepishness.

“But you will help me?”

“Of course.”

Fiore pauses, cocking her head to the side as she thinks. “I believe someone once told me that such an outing would be called a ‘date.’”

You just about crack the wood of your violin in half. Not entirely sure in which direction either of you would like to take, you say, “I mean- yes, it could be, but it doesn’t have to-”

“What do you mean when you say it is, but it doesn’t need to be? Are humans always so very confusing about such matters? Must be exhausting.”

There’s some truth to that statement, your brain is especially ready to explode again, though for a much different reason than before. “I mean… if you’d like it to be a date, it could be a date. But if you didn’t want to go on a date with me, it could be like a platonic get-together.”

Fiore squints, running over her options, then shrugs. “I’m fine with a romantic outing.”

The hairs on your arm stand up. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” There’s an odd, explosive sensation in your chest, and you’re not sure what to do about it. “That sounds like a plan.”

[queenmylovely]

So I have a super cute blurb request and I just think you’d do a really good job with it 🥺 basically besties Ben x Y/n taking a nap on the couch together and Ben wakes up first looking down at y/n thinking “omg she’s so cute when she’s sleeping” and then she turns around in his arms and snuggles a bit closer to him and mumbles “Benny” in her sleep and Ben just mELTING bc she’s so cute and when she slowly starts to wake up he realises he’s in love with her and omg pls stop me I’m crying

Okay i’ve read this like twelve times before even starting it, tell me why I never realized it was friends to lovers!!! Good thing I caught it lollll

Anyway, I’m honored that you would choose to send this to me, also sorry it took forever for me to get it out, ilysm for sending it bc it is abso adorable!!! (no warnings, 998 words lol its under 1k) 

Masterlist, BLM Resources, Register to Vote (U.S.)

☆☆☆

It was a running joke between you and Ben that the biggest perk of being his best friend was how fantastic of a cuddler he was. The bulk of his muscles acted as soft pillows when they weren’t flexed, he ran a little warm, and he was always in athleisure and therefore very soft. What you refrained from mentioning was the fact that he always smelled so good and you often let yourself fantasize about being with him whenever you were so close to him, and the peace and relief that came with that made it super easy to fall asleep.

So one rainy Saturday afternoon, when neither of you had anything else to do, he had come over so you could get take-out and watch a movie or something. Ben chose and brought the Chinese food so you got to pick the movie, putting on The Wizard of Oz since it was something you had both seen but seemed like a cozy pick.

Once you were done eating, somewhere around when they met the Cowardly Lion, you grabbed a big throw blanket and told Ben to get situated.

“Okay, you lay along the back,” you said, pointing where he should go.

“Why do I have to be in the back?” Ben asked, whining in a half-joke.

You rolled your eyes fondly, “I’d let you be the little spoon Ben, but then i wouldn’t be able to see the movie over you.”

“Ah, because my shoulders are too broad, yeah?” he smiled, trying to pose to emphasize his shoulders.

Sometimes you couldn’t believe this was the guy you secretly had feelings for. “Just lay down.”

He did, thankfully, and you draped half of the blanket over him before laying down yourself and then flipping the rest onto you. As much joking as there had been about spooning, the two of you always kept a bit of distance. Ben wouldn’t put his arm around you and you kept your ass from pressing back into his crotch, out of respect for the nature of your friendship. Not that you would have actually minded either of those things happening, but you didn’t think Ben felt the same way. Of course, neither of you could help your subconscious bodies, and happily accepted the consequence of waking up in each other’s arms, though you would never admit it.

Settling in next to Ben, you could feel his heat radiate toward you even from the few inches away and felt yourself relax into the couch and Ben. You could feel his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest behind you, and the steadily slowing rhythm made you sleepy. Between slow blinks, you saw the group of four approaching the Emerald City and then you were asleep.

Ben didn’t know when he fell asleep, but he woke up when the flying monkeys were attacking because of all the commotion. Yawning, he looked down to see you were now totally curled back into him and in his arms, and smiled to himself, thinking how adorable you looked while you slept. Since he was awake, he watched the movie, enjoying the feeling of being close to you, in what he assured himself was a completely platonic feeling.

When the movie got to the Wicked Witch’s death and all the screaming and shouting started, you began to stir in his arms. Ben could see a little frown on your face, disturbed by the noise, and you turned your body completely in his arms until you were resting your head on his chest and your hand was on his waist. He froze as you did this, his heart rate increasing at the sudden intimacy of the moment.

Then, when Ben thought you were completely settled, you moved somehow even closer and mumbled something incoherent that was possibly about the movie and then said just loud enough for Ben to hear, “Benny ‘s loud.”

“Sorry, love,” Ben whispered even as his heart melted from your sleepy use of the nickname and carefully grabbed the remote, which was thankfully right next to his head and turned it down a couple notches.

You seemed happy with that, humming and adjusting your spot one more time before stilling and falling back asleep. Though the quad was on their exciting trip back to see Oz, Ben found all of his attention on you. Something about the contented look on your face and the light pressure of your hand on his waist was making him feel incredibly warm inside.

And, fuck, he would do anything to hear you call him Benny again, especially with that amount of love that was just palpable in your voice. Regardless of whether that love was friendship which he had thought all this time, or something else, Ben was starting to realize that his love for you wasn’t the pure friendship he had thought. That maybe he was far deeper in than he would have ever let himself think, but that this quiet moment was making clear to him.

While he thought about this and looked at you, really taking you in, the movie progressed, and soon it was back to the sepia tone it had started in and Aunty Em was placing a washcloth on Dorothy’s forehead. Then, as Dorothy’s eyes fluttered open, so did yours, and you breathed in deeply as you woke up. Tilting your face up, your eyes landed on Ben and a little smile came to your lips. You looked up at him with these wide eyes that were still a little sleepily unfocused but Ben could see the trust and affection in them that made his heart swell.

Taking what he hoped was a calculated risk, Ben tilted his head down to yours and pressed the softest of kisses to your still smiling lips. He pulled back, biting his lip and watching your face for any reaction. And oh how happy he was when your smile just grew wider.

★★★

[heroinepose]

two a.m.

Shinsou Hitoshi x Reader Word Count: 2,316 (Yes, I lost control of this.) Warnings: None. We’re in fluff land again, friends. Someday the porn fairy will visit, but today is not that day.

Finals are stressful, even in your second year, and sleep doesn’t come easy with such a tall order ahead of you. It’s a damn good thing the company is so good.

This was written as an entry to @heroheads​’ 500 follower contest! Congratulations on hitting a milestone -- your work is amazing and you deserve it!

The looming final exams are becoming a menace in more ways than one. Almost all of your spare time has been dedicated to studying, training or sleep in the last three weeks. The challenges your teachers will issue in realtime are less worrisome to you as a second-year than the ones that come on paper, now that you think you know what they’ll be like. They’ll focus more on problem-solving and working on the fly; beyond making sure you’re as physically prepared as possible, you know your time is better spent studying for the written exams and making sure you’re rested.

… which makes it all the more infuriating that you can’t sleep.

The last couple of nights in particular have been rough, but at least last night you’d managed to get a few hours of good rest. Tonight it’s been a fruitless endeavor, and the weariness settles down to your very bones as you shut the door of your dormitory behind you as quietly as possible, stepping out into the faintly humid night air with a mug of tea clutched securely in your hand. Sitting on one of the steps leading up to the entryway, you heave an exhausted sigh as you settle down, lifting your mug to your lips and inhaling the sweet, herbaceous scent of chamomile and honey.

Heights Alliance is peaceful at night. It is the one blessing attached to being up so far into the wee hours: the solitude is truly tranquil out here on the front steps, with little but the humming of the streetlights and the rhythmless chirping of crickets to distract you. With the light pollution from campus and the surrounding area, you can’t see the stars as well, but the moon hangs full and only a little hazy above the treeline, dampening the orange glow from the always-on walkway lighting. Sipping carefully at the hot liquid in your mug, you tip your head back and close your eyes, pulling slow even breaths through your nose to try to lull yourself into some kind of meditative state. If you could just relax, force your body to slow down …

You’re not certain how long you’ve been sitting like that when you hear the telltale crunch-and-slide of someone’s footfalls up the walking path to the building, eyes snapping open to see who else could possibly be up at this hour. It takes a moment for you to refocus, tired eyes struggling to make out the figure from this distance in the dark. It isn’t until he passes directly under one of the lights lining the pathway inside the gate that you can clearly make it out as your classmate, Shinsou Hitoshi, very clearly out past curfew. His hands are jammed in his pockets, eyes low but ahead of him, lost in thought. You’ve watched him for so long -- since that first Sports Festival, naturally, but particularly after he joined the Hero Course -- that it’s a posture you recognize almost as much as you recognize your own tells, and while you’re no stranger to his dark circles, you would never have called seeing him here, now.

It makes your heart swell to aching to cross paths with him alone in daylight, but the lack of sleep and the stillness of the night makes it worse. You’d tried, you really had, to simply be content with a collegial relationship with the boy who didn’t join the program to make friends, but somehow that had twisted itself into the kind of friendship he had been avoiding so adamantly. … and then, on your part at least, it had gotten worse. He's clever, straightforward, and although he's certainly reserved, he’s been a remarkable support in the last year. In hindsight, it seems natural that it would have evolved on its own, out of control. You can’t help your feelings, but you do keep them buried, certain that he’s not at all interested in you.

Rather than call out to him, you choose to wait it out, sipping idly at your tea. He doesn’t appear to notice you as he draws closer to the front steps, hidden as you are near one of the columns. You’re not actually trying to scare him, but with his face tucked penseively into the top folds of his capture weapon, he won’t notice you at all if you don’t say something. Swallowing the tea in your mouth, you manage a smile as his foot hits the second step.

“Someone’s breaking curfew,” you singsong from your perch in the shadow of the dorm, watching his shoulders hitch slightly. His hands remain in his pockets as he turns, and you lift one hand from your mug to wave good-naturedly at him when he registers your presence and inclines his head to glower directly at you. 

“Someone should speak for themselves,” Shinsou mocks, although there’s no venom in it. “Should you be out here?”

“Ah, but I’m still on the front steps! I’m not out anywhere,” you reason, pointing at the remaining stairs that lead to the footpath he’s just taken through the courtyard. “Can’t get in trouble for breaking curfew if I never left, can I?”

You hear him chuckle before he changes direction, walking across the steps to sit next to you and finally removing his hands from his pockets. “I think your Hero Law scores have gone to your head. You’re drunk with power.” The backhanded praise and the grin that lingers on his face makes the heat creep into yours, and you take a long sip of hot tea to cover it.

“If only!” It’s a wistful sigh, head tipping back dramatically as you roll your eyes. “Unfortunately, I’m mostly drunk on lack of sleep.”

“Which is why you’re sitting on the steps at two in the morning,” Shinsou guesses, and you confirm the assumption with a slight shrug, turning your mug around in your hands.

“I’ve tried everything else, so I thought fresh air might help.” You nudge him with your shoulder, jostling him only slightly in his seat next to you. “Now, why are you sitting on the steps at two in the morning?”

He leans in conspiratorially, and you find yourself leaning too, before you can stop yourself. “Because some creepy woman lurking in the shadows startled me.” Your face falls.

“Shinsou,” you scold, and he cracks a smile, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Seriously, you were already gone when I got out here and you’re only just getting back. Where did you go?” A thought occurs to you, a mild tightness in your chest, and you risk asking the question in the form of a joke. “Did you get a secret girlfriend when none of us were looking?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he murmurs, averting his gaze and dropping his hand so both of his elbows rest on his knees. There are a few beats of silence between you.

“... secret boyfriend?”

He moves, as if to stand, with a great sigh. “Okay, I’m going inside --”

“I’m joking!” You’re whisper-shouting, to avoid calling attention to either of you, tugging on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, Shinsou, please. I know, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry I asked.”

The movement stops, and he settles on the step next to you, reaching over to take your mug right out of your hand. You’re so startled that you don’t stop him, watching him lift it slightly. “If that’s what you think, maybe you’re drunk on whatever is in here, not power. When would I have even had the time?” He reaches behind the both of you to set it down as your fingers slip from his sleeve, the dull clink of ceramic against concrete surprisingly loud in the quiet of the night.

“It’s just tea,” you grouse, but you make no move to reclaim it. The brush of his arm against you is comfort enough to replace its warmth -- that and the relief that he isn’t off seeing someone, not that you have any right to feel that way. “Anyway, I’m entitled to be a little worried when my friends wander home so late.”

“Your friends come home after midnight that often?” Shinsou’s tone is light; he knows he’s caught you out. He’ll make you say it, though, because that’s always his game.

“No,” you sigh. “You’re the first. Still ...” 

There’s another lull where he says nothing, considering you as you look out into the empty courtyard. Your brows are furrowed, like you’re thinking much too hard about something. Maybe it’s the late -- early? -- hour, but he seems emboldened slightly by your aversion to looking at him.

“Still …?” He presses. “Why would you worry about me?”

Your breath hitches a little when you draw a breath to respond, cutting your eyes over to him briefly as you choose your words. His dark circles are more pronounced here in the shadows, and maybe it’s the way the fiber of his capture weapon looks like spun silver at night, but it brings up a flood of concern you haven’t voiced since he was accepted to the hero program at the start of the year.

“You worked so hard to get here,” you say, words slow and deliberate. You’re concentrating so hard on being careful that you fail to notice how he stops breathing. “I think you might have worked harder than anyone else I know. Saying it out loud sounds stupid, I guess, but I worry about how you handle it all.” One breath and you’re rambling, mind racing with the effort to dance around what you want to say: that you care for him, that you’re always cheering him on, but how much he worries you. “You deserve to be here, Shinsou. You deserve to become a hero, and you’re -- you’re my friend, and sometimes I worry that if you’re not taking care of yourself --”

It happens so quickly you’re not quite sure how he’s done it, but you’re silenced by the assertive tug of fingers beneath your chin, pulling you to face him. Then all you can feel is his lips on yours, the scent of cedar and something faintly minty overwhelming you, and even the crickets seem to stop. All you can process is the fact that oh, he’s kissing you. Shinsou Hitoshi just kissed you.

You feel as if you might implode. It’s soft, and warm, but unpracticed -- somehow, though, it’s everything you’d imagined it would be, the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours. You didn’t think he’d be the type to really go for it on the first try like others you’ve kissed who were all teeth and tongue right out of the gate, and a private part of you is gratified to be right, a shiver working its way down your spine as he adjusts his fingers against your jaw. 

He pulls away carefully, but the warmth in your chest spurs you on, looping your fingers in the capture weapon draped around his neck to pull him in again, lean in further. You feel him sigh against you, a soft exhale through his nose, and can’t help the twitch of your lips into a smile against his. You hold him there a few long seconds more before you pull away, realizing how warm your face is now that he’s not so close. 

“Finally,” Shinsou breathes, his voice close to a whisper. “Took you long enough.” Your jaw drops immediately, hand still curled in the fabric draped along his shoulders.

“Me?” You say, loud enough to actually get him to shush you quietly, reaching up to grab your hand where it rests against his capture weapon in an attempt to distract you, calm you down. It works, if only because the feel of his fingers wrapped around yours sends something akin to electricity rocketing up your arm. You take a breath, release it in a huff, before lowering your voice. “What about you, Mr. I’m Not Here to Make Friends, and Therefore Not Date People?”

The man in question quirks a brow, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I don’t believe I ever said that last part.”

“Does one not kind of preclude the other?”

“I suppose that depends on your point of view,” he laughs, “but we can argue semantics in a few hours if you’re really that hung up on it.”

“Shinsou!” It’s more of a hiss than anything, trying to regulate your volume as he lets go of your hand, reaching behind you for your long-forgotten mug and standing up at last. You’re pouting up at him when he offers you the other, his grin only a little smug as you take it and allow him to pull you up. He uses the momentum to pull you into just one more kiss, little more than a brief peck against your lips, a way to silence your argument for now. You let him, breathing deeply as he pulls away.

“It’s late. Just sleep on it,” he offers, “and if you still feel that strongly about it in the morning, let me walk you to class so you can yell at me some more.”

That sly bastard. You smile in spite of yourself, watching him as he pulls you up the stairs, closer to the door. Once inside, he keeps hold of your hand as you deposit your mug in the sink -- you can deal with the whining about leaving things there in the morning -- parting ways with you only when you need to split up and head to your respective sides of the building, barely-there whispers of goodnight and seriously, go to bed the last of your affectionate gestures for the moment. The full weight of what’s occurred on the front steps hits you as the elevator doors close, leaning against the interior wall and looking at yourself in the reflection of the metal.The smile stuck on your face widens a little, giddy with the knowledge that he likes you back.

Suddenly, a peaceful few hours’ sleep doesn’t seem so difficult.

[thepandapopo]

His Star - Chapter 2: Proposals

Can I get this out before midnight? who knows. But I’m determined to at least bang this chapter out in one sitting because it was Claude’s birthday yesterday damn it and I told myself that for his birthday, I would post at least 2 chapters to this fic, bake him a cake, and have a perfect tea time with myself.

So far everything has been accomplished except for the second chapter. so HERE WE GO.

Pairing: Claude x F!Byleth

In which Claude proposes a vacation to Byleth which may or may not be stress free, and may or may not include going back to Almyra with him so that he can court her properly. 

OR

The one where Claude schemes to take his star home so that he can finally get started on his plans to make an honest woman out of her... and also get his parents off his back.

Chapter List

1 / 2 / 2.5  

Masterlist

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XxXxXxXxX 

Of all the things Claude expected to come back to, Byleth falling off a cliff was not one of them.

In fact, after the first time he watched her fall off a cliff following the Battle of Garreg Mach, he never wanted to see it ever again. So when he was faced with his greatest fear for the second time - no no no, she couldn’t leave him again - he had not hesitated to throw caution to the wind and abandon his position at the head of his army. He had dug his heels into Zahra’s flank and as always, the white wyvern was on the same page as her master, flying faster than she had ever flown before towards the falling queen.

Claude was used to any physical contact with Byleth feeling electric, like little shocks of pleasure shooting from his nerves and sending shivers down his spine, but when he caught her in his arms, he was alarmed by how hot her skin felt even through the thick leather of his gloves.

It was clear that Byleth was ill. Extremely ill. And yet she pushed herself to her very limits, standing at the front lines with her soldiers to show them that no matter what, she was with them because she believed in a world of peace.

She believed in his dream.

Suddenly, the fear that gripped his heart mere moments ago gives way to a fiery hot rage that burns through his body.

Byleth has done enough for Fodlan. She has fought countless battles, pushed her body to the very limits, and even carried the burden of having the powers of a goddess (”Teach, you’re joking, right? What do you mean you can turn back time?” “It is exactly what I said, Claude.”).

And now these stragglers and remnants of the Imperial army and Those Who Slither in the Dark come once more to try and revive their warped plans?

There are many things that Byleth deserves, Claude thinks, and being able to lay in bed recovering from a cold without worrying about crazy delusional dark mages is probably near the top of that list.

So when the newly crowned King finally makes it to Marianne and entrusts his secret fiance to her care, he no longer has his usual mask of cheerful indifference. Instead, storm clouds roil and darken his visage, verdant eyes sharp and blazing with cold, calculating determination.

Claude doesn’t remember how many enemies he shoots down that day. But he does know that it isn’t enough to quell the fury that simmers beneath his skin.

----

It is four days after the battle before Byleth finally regains consciousness.

Much to his chagrin, Claude is not there by her side when she rejoins the land of the conscious. In the aftermath of the battle, he resolves to step up and help Byleth with some of her duties while she is recovering. Which is exactly how Claude has found himself in the middle of a dreadfully exasperating conversation with Count Gloucester going over resource allocation for the umpteenth time. Thankfully, the servant chooses this time to burst through the door with the news.

“Your majesty!! She’s awake!”

The words are barely registering in his brain before he is moving, hastily throwing half-hearted apologies towards the clearly disgruntled Count, and rushing out the door.

He makes it to her room in record time. And he knows this because he has timed how long it takes to get to her room from any location in the castle, just in case he needs to get to her quickly.

Sitting upright against a mountain of pillows and bathed in the sunlight from the open terrace doors, Byleth is a vision for sore eyes.

He opens his mouth to speak and cannot help but slip back into the playful banter that he is so used to.

“Teach, we really gotta talk about you and cliffs. I don’t think it’s working out in your favor.”

Claude distantly wonders if maybe he should have said something more romantic, or even just a simply inquiry about her health, but those options don’t sit right with him.

She loves him for who he is, and that includes his old habits and light quips.

She is staring at him like he is a ghost, and really, he cannot blame her. The bed sinks a little with his weight and he reaches out to brush a stray lock of mint so that he can see those beautiful eyes that he missed so dearly. 

It has been a long six and a half months since he left her at the top of the Goddess Tower. Probably even more shocking yet, he has since ascended the Almyran throne and that feat itself is quite evident from the brightly coloured and extravagant robes that he now dons on a daily basis.

“What’s the matter, Teach? Cat got your- oof!”

She crashes into him without warning and he is immediately reminded of how solidly built she actually is. Byleth is a fighter first and foremost, after all. Claude should have known that a few months behind a desk tending to paperwork wouldn’t have been enough to deteriorate the wall of lean muscle she has built over years of mercenary work.

“I... You... you’re really here?”

Oh, Goddess. He has missed her voice.

His arms snake around her, one coming to a rest across her lower back, pulling her smaller form closer to him as the other hand snakes its way into her hair. 

Lips against her temple, he gifts her with a gentle kiss before humming his reply against her skin.

“I am, my love. I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

Neither of them can bring themselves to separate, not when this moment feels so much like a dream that could dissolve at any second. Instead, they trade quiet whispers of affection that do not even come close to reflecting the longing and yearning they have experienced since they parted ways.

The sun is beginning to fall below the horizon by the time they manage to pull apart for longer than a heartbeat. Byleth has long since scooted over and pulled Claude under the covers so that they can lay side by side rather than perched uncomfortably at the edge of her bed.

He lets out a pleasant hum when her fingers begin carding through his hair, slender fingers parting his thick brown hair and smoothing it down the back of his head.

“So...” 

He knows that tone. He’s been on the receiving end of it multiple times, mostly back in his schooldays when she catches him red handed with a vial of his latest experiment uncorked and ready to pour into someone’s meal.

“King now, is it?”

“Er... yeah.” He ignores the urge to scratch his neck sheepishly and opts to bury his face in her shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of blade oil and jasmine that is unique to Byleth.

“King Khalid.”

Ah crap.

He lifts his sheepish expression to meet her narrowed eyes, “By, you have to believe me when I say I was going to tell you. But I had to sort a lot of things out first.” 

He brings their hands up under the fading sunlight and verdant eyes shift to look at their intertwined fingers.“You know already that I am part Almyran. And I told you before I left that I had some...royal connections -”

“I believe you described them as ‘insignificant’.” As usual, her memory and mind are as sharp as her sword and he knows that he cannot weasel his way out of this situation.

“Haha... did I say that? I mean, even though technically I was the crown Prince, it’s not like I was guaranteed the throne. Almyrian traditions are a bit different than here in Fodlan.”

He’s half expecting her to throw another quip back at him about another one of the ways he’s botched this whole thing up, but to his surprise, she merely stares at him with those unwavering green eyes and nods for him to continue.

It’s now or never. He may not have been able to be completely truthful with her before, but now those obligations and promises that veiled his truths no longer bind him.

So he tells her. He tells her about his mother and how she made him promise to keep his identity a secret. He tells her about his promise to his father that he would return home to put his name in the running for the throne when it was time for his father to step down. He tells her about the fights and trials that he had to go through to beat out all the other contenders to prove his strength and abilities as a leader and King. And finally, he tells her of how he took the title of King of Almyra and how it took several weeks for him to get everything under control, only to get intelligence that Those Who Slither in the Dark were plotting one last stand, and how he barely had time to muster his army and march at full speed to make it to her side in time.

When he is finished, Byleth is silent and for a moment, he fears that perhaps it is all too much for her. There is a nasty voice in his heart of hearts, quiet though it may be, that whispers that maybe she has decided that she no longer wants to be with him because how can she trust a man whose real name she didn’t even know?

When he finally musters enough courage to meet her eyes again, his heart does a funny little flop in his chest and the back of his eyes burn with the familiar sting of tears.

Byleth may not be a woman of many words, but the firm squeeze of his hand and steady, soft gaze says everything he needs to know.

I understand. And I love you.

He wheezes out a chuckle and brings her hand to his lips, kissing the digits almost reverently. “I wanted to tell you before I proposed to you, but I needed to honor the promises I made to Mother and Baba. Trust me when I say the first thing I did when I went home was ask them to relieve me of those burdens.”

“Did...did they ask why?” Her voice is hesitant, even as the question leaves her tongue.

Goddess, just once he would like to be able to pull the wool over her eyes, but as usual, Teach is sharp on the uptake and Claude really cannot get anything by her.

He reaches up to finger the emerald ring hanging from a silver chain around her neck, dragging out the silence as long as possible before giving the answer he knows she is dreading.

“I maaaay have told them that I had a certain special someone in mind that I wanted to introduce them to...” His sentence trails off into laughter as he watches the horror creep into his beloved’s expression.

Byleth Eisner. The Ashen Demon. The first leader of the United Kingdom of Fodlan. The Hero of Fodlan.

Claude finds it hilarious that the woman he loves can carry such daunting titles and face an army head on with no fear, but is absolutely terrified of the idea of meeting her future in-laws.

“Khalid-” he likes the way his real name sounds coming from her lips, even if it is a horrified gasp. “-I can’t. I don’t even know what to do! I’m not a noble and I don’t know anything about etiquette on meeting royalty from a foreign country, much less your parents.”

“Aww, don’t worry Teach! You’ll be perfectly fine, just like when you joined the Alliance Round Table for the first time.” He winks at her, biting his cheek to stop the laughter that is threatening to bubble over.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I also have a country to run. One that you so gladly dumped on my lap before escaping across Fodlan’s Throat.”

She must be desperate now if she is willing to hide behind her duties.

“Not to fret, my dear.” He leans over to place a chaste peck on the tip of her nose, flashing her his signature wink and grin afterwards. “I’ve already cleared it with Seteth. After all, it was the stress from the non stop work that caused you to fall ill in the first place, right? I simply proposed that you could take a month or two off from your duties to relax and recover from your injuries-”

“-I have no injuries-”

“-and maybe come back with me to Almyra for a little vacation.”

While she doesn’t officially reject his proposition, he does receive her reluctant acceptance in the form of several pillows being chucked unceremoniously at his head.

XxXxXxXxX

I’M TERRIBLE AT WRITING ENDINGS. I promise I’ll come back later to fix this one up too. 

Hope you all liked chapter 2!!

Note: I did NOT get this out before midnight. It is currently 1:56AM.

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[loyally-unfaithful]

—; but “sentimental boy” is my nom de plume

word count: 1916

pairing: connor/gn!reader

genre: slight fluff; hurt no comfort

summary: it has been a year after the android revolution. humans and android alike settled down, an olive branch was offered as a sign of reconciliation. with newfound peace came along newfound love, and many open roads to choose from. this was no different for the rk800—connor. surprisingly or unsurprisingly, he decided to continue working at the dpd, this time as a bonafide detective. but he has also accepted the thrilling uncertainty of life that deviancy has brought; the same strings that brought his lover in his life.the same ones he hated and cursed, the same fates who ripped it all away.

a/n: everytime i convince myself i came out of my dbh hyperfixation i just look at connor and i become lovesick again.

gosh i know i should be finishing my other fic or work on the prologue script for my vn, but,,,,,,, i just had a sudden hankering for connor angst,,,,

written during a sleep deprivation induced moment of epiphany,,,,, (purple prose cuz im extra af uwu)

I’ve never written angst before so i’d love to hear your thoughts on it

maybe if you asked him one year ago whether he’d consider returning someone’s feelings, romantic feelings, he’d reply to you with a placid smile and a polite « i’m sorry, i wasn’t programmed to reciprocate romantic interest. ». he remembered that he’d sneer at them internally. now thinking about it, long before he questioned his obedience towards her, he already showed signs of deviancy.

you did what you were designed to do.

memories from his past would still torment him erratically, doubts would resurface on particularly dark days. but you were the light that cut through that haze. this wasn’t a “fake deviancy”. it couldn’t have been. not when he is holding your body so close to his, warmth radiating off of each other, two heartbeats—similar, but different—thrumming together. all the softly whispered and adoringly announced « i love you »’s; all the quick and coveted pecks and all the feverish and passionate kisses. no, he was alive, he was sure of it—alive and absolutely enamoured by you. all semblance of doubt ebbed away when you entered his life.

whenever he’s around you, he feels more alive: you make him feel everything, all the little precious things. tenderness and adoration when he shares tranquil mornings with you. he feels more alive when he’s with you, all the little habits and routines too endearing: the sweet post-it notes scattered over your shared flat; scribbled upon it are encouraging words or sweet nothings. conflicting work schedules meant that moments spent together were scarce, but that made them even more valuable and coveted. captivation, was another emotion that he felt around you. your mannerism, your dreams and interests, your physical attributes and quality of voice. logically speaking, you were just another human, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. you’d live and then one day, you’d die. as if you never really existed. but he wasn’t being logical. how could he be? when you were right there in front of him? you made him irrational, and he found that new aspect in life thrilling. confusing at first, but exciting. he was eternally grateful that you let him experience all these beautiful emotions with you. he was grateful that you allowed him in your short journey that you called life.

he was happy, absolutely content, with his shared life with you. you were both in perfect places in your respective lives: you both had a stable job, loving family backing you up, and a fulfilling love life. what seemed to be a mismatched couple at first turned to be 2 pieces of the same puzzle finally finding their place. life for the both of you couldn’t be better.

but along with the many exquisite moment that your romantic endeavours brought you, the android didn’t only taste the sweet delicacies of life; no matter how idyllic a moment may be, there were times when he had to taste the astringent and sour desserts life offered.

anger. that was an emotion that he felt. but that’s not accurate, no… it was frustration and shock and betrayal, all the unsavoury feelings in the world. perhaps it was due to his inexperience, maybe his lack of exposure to these negative sentiments, that caused him to snap the way he did. to hurt you the way he did. but it happened and there was no turning back the clock.

no matter how much he begged and cried for it.

he was proud that you got the job offer in canada, he really was. and he, like any other caring boyfriend would, offered to accompany you there, an offer which you gladly accepted. that was the plan. but plans were difficult to follow. crime waits for no man, working for the law meant that connor must always be available for duty. no excuses, he was an android. but connor wasn’t just a simple android detective, no, he had a much more important role: he was the link, the messenger, between jericho and the police force. he was the crucial communication between the two forces. so when jericho contacted him about threats of anti-android attacks, he had to make an appearance at their base. the meeting coincided with the day you were meant to travel to canada. it was a simple trip really. it only took a few hours by train, stay in canada for 2 days (it was the weekend), and then return back to detroit, probably arriving in the late afternoons to their home.

but you were looking forwards to traveling with your wonderful partner after « [we] spent so much time apart ». the day he told you the urgent change of plans, connor was tired, overwhelmed. you were frustrated and expectant. a fight was bound to have erupted. accusatory statements, along the lines of: « you don’t actually care about me! it’s all about work and work and work! » and « i can’t believe how selfish you’re being right now! » in between shouting and yelling and frustration and anger and contempt–

you both went to bed exhausted but spiteful, still not forgiving each other. in hindsight, he felt so utterly pathetic, so unbelievably childish, for being that cruel, and uncaring. he didn’t want to be like him again. so many glares and insults were thrown at each other, tears threatened to spill, LED flashed and shone a true red, doors were slammed. he felt awful, plain and simple. you both lied in the same bed, under the same cover. so close yet so excruciatingly far apart. back facing the other’s, no one said a word.

you woke up before him. bitter and unhappy. no morning kisses, no whispered « i love you » to wake your other half. you wordlessly got yourself ready, grabbed your bag and quietly snuck out. no post it notes were left. no sweet promises or encouraging words. you could do this work trip without him. you were independent. you didn’t need a tin can to chaperone you everywhere. so you left. plain and simple. gone. since you woke up and left earlier than planned, you boarded an earlier train. how lovely and convenient. the carriages were mostly filled with androids. perhaps they were trying to immigrate to canada like the others. who knows. you paid no mind and absentmindedly scrolled through your phone, obsessively checking your messages to see if connor realised. to see if he apologised. because frankly, at that point you were tired of being mad and just wanted to spend the day in his arms. but prideful and petty as you were, you weren’t willing to apologise and admit your mistakes first.

connor roused from stasis a few moments afterward, less bitter and more regretful. he wished to right his wrongs but the normally warm presence beside him was not there. his system was slowly booting back up when his audio sensor picked up an incessant ringing from the living room. he jolted up and rushed out to pick up the ringing phone call and waited for the other side to speak up.

the room was so utterly quiet, a silence so suffocating engulfed the room, that you could hear a pin drop. the voice on the other side asked whether this was indeed your house and that he was indeed connor anderson. he swallowed dryly and answered with a soft, « yes ». running a quick check in his database, he matches the caller’s voice with a certain nathaniel edwards. first responder. he allowed his HUD to display the news. if androids could get pale, have all their blood drain from their faces, his would have certainly done so. he stood, rigid and motionless, consumed by shock and horror.

the news and the first responder’s words blended into one as he gripped the phone tighter: « this morning, at 7:48 am the train from detroit to toronto was caught in a devastating turn of events: the train soon caught in fire and exploded as it made its way over the border. it has been confirmed that there has been 0 survivors. it is unclear whether this was an unfortunate accident or the result of anti-android terrorism. »

the other person’s voice poured through the speaker but he wasn’t listening. he stared blankly in front of him. no way, he thought, it couldn’t have been… the only sign that the android was registering the other man’s input was the now constant red LED.

« sir? sir. i’m sorry to bring this— – no, this isn’t right… you must have the wrong number, he interrupted. there were probably others with your name… maybe they were mistaken... – sir that’s not possible, w— – you must have gotten the wrong house… not… it-it couldn’t have been…» but he knew how improbable it was that they got the wrong number. he was built to be logical, to believe statistics. the statistics told him you were dead. long gone. he hoped and prayed that you stayed back, didn’t get on the earlier train. the statistics told him you did.

he choked out a response, quiet and defeated. you were gone. he’d never get to see you again. « i… i’m sorry… i-i don’t understand… – we tried our best to find them sir, but… the fire was too severe… if we gain any new developm— – you didn’t save them. »

still in a daze, he must have hung up on the poor man and unceremoniously dropped the phone. its clatter the only sound in this deafening silence. the reality of it all comes crashing through and he collapsed, ugly sobs escaping him as the denial faded away to make way for the pure and unfiltered grief. he felt lost. for the first time in a long while since amanda he felt so utterly and completely lost. no more shining beacon during his dark and stormy nights. no more valued affection and coveted kisses. no more notes and no more smile to come home to.

he laughed bitterly, devoid of any humour. it was funny, just how cruel the fates were: made human life so fleeting. lachesisonly gave them such a short eternity. and when he thought you both found your missing halves, bound to another by an invisible string, atropos cuts it. a small snippet that is so easily ripped away from you. he belonged with you, he felt at peace with you. he was able to be what he struggled to be for the majority of his miserable and artificial existence. with you, he was able to be happy.

but now he’ll have to get used to not coming home to a warm embrace. he’ll have to get used to going into stasis alone, in the cold bed. he’ll have to get used to his aching heart being greeted by an empty house. every cold and lonely  nights. it’s ridiculous how human he felt because of you. and he was both thankful and spiteful for it.

sadness and bitter regret ripped through him when he remembered that he didn’t  share goodbyes before he left. he remembered how he couldn’t have apologised to you and tenderly held you. he regretted not being able to tell you how much he loved you and how much you meant to him for the last time. ra9 only knows the things he’d do and the things he’d sacrifice, just to have you in his arms again.

instead he was faced with the bitter reminder that the last thing he’s ever said to you, your last memory of him, was a contemptuous and scornful « i wished i never met you ».

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[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: epilogue (OC)

Summary: An early morning, a doctor’s appointment, a new beginning.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x OC

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: pregnancy (including like… probably incorrect math and science but my degree was in English and this is fanfiction okay)

Word count: 2.7k

a/n: I’m actually so emotional don’t look at me thanks ♥️

Series Masterlist

———

The sound of Spencer’s ringtone pierced through the early morning quiet, shrill and disconsolate. Maggie hummed against his chest, shifting as he clumsily reached across to the bedside table to answer it. 

“Hey,” he croaked, voice still smothered in sleep. “Mm... When?” He paused, and she could almost make out the answer on the other end. “Got it. Yeah.” 

He carefully set the phone back on the bedside table, and then his arms came around her shoulders. He let out a long sigh, the one she’d gotten quite used to over the last year and a half— the one that meant he had to go. She squeezed him around the middle and let out her own sigh. “Case?”

“Yeah.” He ran light fingers down her arm. “Jet’s taking off in ninety minutes.”

She glanced at the bedside table to the alarm clock that read 4:57am. They both knew he needed to leave within the next half hour if he was going to make it on time, but neither one made any effort to move. Instead, they breathed together in the pre-dawn stillness— a single moment of peace before the world and all its ugliness could crash through the fortress they’d constructed around their space and around each other.

“I don’t wanna go,” he whispered. 

“I know.” She pressed a kiss over his heart through his t-shirt. “I know.”

“I’m gonna miss everything,” he lamented. “Appointments, and milestones, and firsts, and I— I’m gonna miss all of it.”

She lifted her head at the tears in his voice. “Hey.” She shifted in the circle of his arms to prop herself up on his chest. “You’re not gonna miss all of it. You’ll miss this one appointment. And it’s— it’s not even an important one,” she assured, gentle fingers swiping away the lone tear that had managed to escape over his lash line. 

“Yes, it is.” He shook his head. “They're all important.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile, leaning forward to press a quick peck to his lips before sitting up and deciding to reassure him in the only way she knew how. “Okay, doctor. Eleven weeks. Tell me what we’re gonna find out today.” 

She pulled him up out of bed, interlacing their fingers and pressing their shoulders together. As she led him to the bathroom, he explained, “Dr. Layton will do the first ultrasound, and Baby will look more like a baby now. At around ten weeks they made the transition from embryo to fetus. They’ll be about two inches long.” 

She handed him his toothbrush and turned to grab his toiletry go-back from the linen closet, stifling a yawn. “Mmhm. What else?”

“Did you know they’re breathing now?” he asked, and she smiled at the way the excitement crept into his voice. “Between weeks ten and eleven, the fetus starts to inhale and exhale small amounts of amniotic fluid, which aids in the development of their lungs. It’s kind of like they’re breathing underwater.” 

“I didn’t know that,” she admitted, turning back to set the bag on the counter. “That’s pretty amazing. What about the heartbeat?”

He nodded vigorously as he applied toothpaste to the bristles of his brush. “We should be able to hear it, although sometimes it’s too early— depending on the accuracy of the estimated date of conception.”

He ran the water over the toothbrush before popping it into his mouth. She kissed his shoulder and then moved back into the bedroom, shuffling into their closet for his go bag. She checked it over on her way back to the bathroom, ensuring it had been fully repacked after the last case. She set it on the counter and placed his toiletry bag inside, leaving it open for him to pack his toothbrush and then sitting on the closed toilet lid. 

He rinsed his mouth and put his travel cap over the head of his toothbrush, gesturing with it and then dropping it into the bag. “They’ll do some routine lab work to test for things like gestational diabetes, and we can also choose to do additional screeners for chromosomal abnormalities and possible complications.” He looked at her then, and she saw the despondence creeping back in. “I should really be there, just— just in case.”

“Honey.” She stood and held out her hand to him, smiling a little when he accepted it with a squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

He let out a breath and pulled her into his arms, and they held each other in the silence, the soft light from the vanity washing over them. His phone buzzed with an incoming message, and she knew he needed to get on the road. Still, she held him for a second longer, and then they shuffled through the door and into the bedroom together. 

Maggie made her way back to bed, scooting down under the duvet to preserve the last remaining notes of his body warmth. She watched as he dressed silently, pulling on trousers, socks, a button up and cardigan. He skipped the tie in favor of coming to sit on the bed, bringing his hand to rest lightly over top of her belly over the covers. 

She covered his hand with her own and laced their fingers together. “Maybe you could ask Luke if you can FaceTime with his phone. You can probably take twenty minutes, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” He rubbed a tired hand over his face. “Maybe I should just upgrade my own phone.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Oh, I see how it is. Couldn’t upgrade for me, but once a baby comes along you’re ready for an iPhone.” 

“That’s not— you— you shouldn’t have to do all of this alone,” he huffed, and she realized her joke didn’t land when his voice cracked at the end. 

“Spence, I’m— I’m just teasing.” She lifted her hands to his face, pulling him closer and meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry; you’re upset, and that wasn’t nice.” 

She leaned up to kiss his forehead, letting her lips linger and breathing him in. “But I’m not alone. With you, I feel— the opposite of alone.”

“Irritated?” he offered. 

“No,” she laughed. “Supported, and cared for, and loved,” she corrected with a smile. “You’ve been all of that since day one. And I know that’s not going to change, whether you’re physically present in that doctor's office or not. Right?” 

When he nodded, she continued, “I love you. The most. And you are easily the best baby daddy on planet earth. Okay?”

The term of endearment dragged a smile from him, as it always did. “Okay.”

She leaned forward to press her lips to his, both sets upturned and a little dry from sleep. “Now, you need to go, or you’re gonna be late.”

“I know.” He kissed her again, long and slow, and then pulled back to lean their foreheads together. He hesitated for another ten seconds before standing to grab his bag from the bathroom. 

When he re-emerged, she reminded him, “Ask Luke about the FaceTime thing. I’m sure he won’t mind, and we can trust him to keep the secret. The appointment technically starts at 1:00, but I probably won’t be seen until at least 1:30.”

He crossed to give her another kiss. “I love you.” He crouched to press a kiss to her tummy. “And you.”

“We love you, too,” she smiled, fingers tangling in his curls. “And we’ll talk to you in a few hours.”

She kissed him one more time— couldn’t help herself. And then his warmth was gone from the bed, and the house was suddenly much too quiet. She snuggled back down under the duvet, her head on his pillow and the scent of his shampoo shrouding her senses and easing her mind.

Spencer really was supportive— endlessly so. Not overbearing, but interested and involved in every moment: reading all the newest research, bringing home her favorite treats, writing out a color-coded timeline of all the appointments and milestones. She wasn’t lying when she called him the best baby daddy. He was always there for her. So much so that the apprehension she’d had at the beginning of this surprise journey was nowhere to be found. 

As she drifted back into sleep, there he was again— she could almost hear the jangling of his keys in the bowl in the entryway, his feet on the stairs, the rustling of his pants and sweater being discarded onto the floor of their bedroom. 

And then she felt the warmth of his palm low over her tummy, coming to rest over the barely-there bump. She felt his lips on her shoulder and his chest pressed against her back. When she went to cover his hand with her own, her exhausted brain registered that it wasn’t a dream at all.

She turned her head, blinking her eyes open to see him smiling at her and drew her brows together. “What’s going on?”

He pressed another kiss to her shoulder, snuggling even closer and rubbing his thumb along her belly. “I’m, um— I told Emily I’m gonna consult from home on this one.”

…

“Okay, Mom, this’ll just be a little bit cold.”

Dr. Layton smoothed the gel over Maggie’s lower abdomen, and Spencer moved to thread their fingers together, shifting to stand even closer to the examination table. The ultrasound machine gave off a low hum as the doctor adjusted the wand over her tummy. She felt Spencer press a kiss to her temple and turned to smile brightly at him before turning back to the black and white screen. 

At her first appointment five weeks ago, she’d been by herself— alone and uncertain and terrified— and she’d declined the option of the ultrasound. It felt wrong to see the baby before Spencer even knew about them. Now, together with him, with her soon-to-be husband— she was more than ready to see their baby for the first time. And she could practically feel Spencer’s excitement next to her, his body nearly vibrating with it. 

“Ah, here they are. Hello, Baby Reid.” Dr. Layton pointed to a small, white figure on the screen. “Okay, right here, you can see their big ol’ head— perfectly normal size for this stage of development,” she assured, eyes deftly scanning the image in front of her. “Everything looks great! Now, I’m just trying to find…” 

She adjusted the wand over Maggie’s tummy, and suddenly a wub wub wub came over the tinny speaker of the machine. “There we are,” Dr. Layton smiled. “Very strong heartbeat.”

Spencer squeezed Maggie’s hand, and she felt the drop of a tear on her shoulder. She brought her other hand over to cover their tangled fingers, rubbing her thumb along the skin of his wrist and kissing his arm. 

Dr. Layton made a slightly perplexed humming sound, moving the wand again and losing the sound of the heartbeat, only to pick it up again— this time slightly faster. Maggie’s own heart stuttered a little as the doctor moved the wand again twice more and then cleared her throat. “Is something— is everything okay?”

She turned to Maggie with a kind smile. “Yes, yes,” she confirmed, and then she raised her eyebrows. “Just— do you hear the difference?” 

Spencer tilted his head in consideration, drawing his brows together and straining to hear. The doctor shifted the wand once more, allowing them to hear the two distinct patterns. 

Two distinct patterns, Maggie realized. 

Dr. Layton pressed the wand a little more firmly into her abdomen, moved it just slightly. “Those are two different heartbeats.” She pointed to the screen. “And those are two different babies. There’s a matching set of Baby Reids in there.”

Maggie couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. “Is there—” She turned to Spencer incredulously. “Do twins run in your family?”

He shook his head silently, eyes wide. “Yours?”

“Nope,” she squeaked. 

“This obviously changes things slightly,” Dr. Layton explained, cleaning up the residual gel. “I’d like to see you every three weeks rather than every four. Then at twenty eight weeks, we’ll see how we feel, okay?” 

She smiled gently as Maggie and Spencer nodded dumbly. She removed her gloves and stood. “I’m going to give you two a few minutes. I’ll be back with your photos in a bit, and we can talk about any questions you might have.”

The door closed behind her, and the room was bathed in silence. Maggie sat up carefully and swung her legs over the side of the examination table. She looked down at her tiny, unassuming bump and felt a tear slip over her lashes. 

“Are you— are you okay?” Spencer whispered. 

She brought her gaze to his, found them teeming with barely restrained joy and yet the ever-present worry. “Well,” she started. “I, um— I always imagined two kids.” She brought her hands up to her sweaty cheeks and held her own face between her palms. “I guess this is— you know— just a quicker way to get there.”

Spencer immediately wrapped her in a hug, pressing kisses over her hair, her forehead, her shocked mouth. “Two babies. We’re having two babies.”

“Twins, Spence,” she breathed. “Twins.”

He replaced her hands with his own, cradling her face and kissing her sweetly, sighing all of his joy and adoration into her mouth. “I love you. So much. The most.” He lowered himself to press his lips to her belly. “All of you.”

She used gentle hands in his hair to tilt his face up, meeting his smile with a watery one of her own. “We love you, too, baby daddy.”

She could see the gears turning as he stood, his hands coming to rest on her hips. “About that.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Do you, um— how difficult do you think it would be to get everyone together this weekend?”

She paused. “You wanna get married this weekend?”

“Yeah, that’s probably too soon, huh?” He huffed out a sigh, then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh— what about next weekend?”

“That’s just as soon!” she laughed. 

He furrowed his brow. “No, it’s not. There's a seven day difference.”

“You’re really in a rush, huh?” she teased. 

“Well. I just— I figure you should really be on my insurance anyway,” he reasoned. “Especially now that it’s— now that it’s twins.”

“Mm, yes, I’m sure that’s the reason,” she grinned.

He let out a long breath, and she watched his eyes journey over her face— memorizing every curve and angle, every new wrinkle, every last inch of her. And she knew the reason. 

“I know it’s just a piece of paper,” he murmured. “It doesn’t really change anything, but…” He used gentle fingers to brush her hair back from her face. “I just… really want to be your husband.”

She took her own minute to memorize the way he looked in this moment: her fiancé, the father of her children, the best man she’d ever known, the absolute love of her life. And she knew her own reason. 

“The paper might not change anything,” she agreed. “But— you’ve changed everything.”

He squeezed her hips. “In a good way I hope.”

“The best way.” She brought her hands to his face, rubbing her thumbs along his cheeks. “The best way.”

He closed the distance between them to kiss her with all the honey and magic and reverence he always did. He broke away to lean his forehead against hers with all the warmth and devotion and love he always did. She sighed, and it was all joy and vulnerability and contentment like it always was. And she knew their reasons. 

She kissed him again, and then murmured against his lips, “You know I’m still gonna refer to you as baby daddy, right?”

The laugh erupted from his chest and wrapped itself around her heart, tying tight and secure— a shield, and a haven, and a refuge— keeping her safe from every terrible thing. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

…

O no! Love is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

———

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Series (x OC) tags: @linnyalou @mikewizkalifa

[brain-deadx0]

The Lost Prince ch. 2

SUMMARY: The kingdom of Elan had once been at peace. It’s said that so long as the royal family lived the land would flourish with them on the throne. But when an unexpected enemy appeared and took the lives of the royal family many stopped believing in the legend. It was simply a ploy by a former ruler to discourage a coup. But some say that the new king sparred the young prince out of fear of the myth, and that one day the true heir would once again take the throne.

Previous - Next

CHAPTER SUMMARY: It’s been thirteen years since the takeover. Let’s check in on Virgil and Janus to see what they’ve been up to. Nothing. Let’s change that shall we?

WARNINGS: imprisonment, blood, death mention, let me know of any others

Blood.

So much blood.

Countless bodies piled around him. Some he could make out. Faces of the ones he grew up playing with. Others were faceless shadows.

Smoke.

There must’ve been smoke. The smell of iron blocked it out but there was an unmistakable burning in his lungs.

A hand appeared around his throat cutting off any air he might have been getting.

He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out.

He thrashed around trying to fend off the unseen attacker until a voice seemed to cut through the silence.

”-us.”

”Wake up.”

Janus bolted upright before taking stock of the face in front of him.

”Virgil?” He asked weakly.

”Yeah. It’s just me.” He breathed as his friend seemed to come out of his nightmare, “Everything’s ok.”

Virgil opened his arms in a silent invitation and Janus was quick to grab hold of him.

Thirteen years ago the kingdom of Elan faced a brutal takeover that resulted in the death of the royal family and many of their servants. In the weeks following, the members of the royal court either disappeared or ended up killed publicly.

The citizens of the kingdom were given no time to grieve as the king quickly began creating new laws. Soldiers flooded the streets both informing and enforcing these laws. Anyone who attempted to resist was killed.

The message was clear. The land belonged to King Saul now, and anyone who said otherwise wouldn’t live long enough to challenge that.

When news spread that the royal family was dead many people feared that the land would die with them. But after several years with the land still prospering the Legend of the royal family was disregarded as a simple myth. A story made up by a previous ruler.

Some people argued that the new king must’ve sparred the prince out of fear of the curse.

And they were right.

Virgil stared out the window as the grey morning sky slowly turned to blue. And after a few minutes of silence Janus shifted. “Water?” Virgil asked as the two separated. Janus nodded.

Virgil stood up from their shared bed-mat and walked across the small room to the water bucket. As he scooped some water out with the cup he noted idly that they only had enough for another day or two. He’d have to remember to ask for some the next time someone brought food.

”How long do you think it’s been?” Janus asked as he was handed the cup.

“Long enough to know our knight in shining armor must’ve gotten lost.”

“I don’t think so.” He told told him as he sipped the water.

“Really?” Virgil smirked as he raised an eyebrow.

“Obviously they climbed up here while we were sleeping, took one look at the two of us and realized they were scarcely underdressed. Ran straight home for their best clothing to match.”

“And on their way back fell in a mud puddle.” Virgil added.

“Amazingly gorgeous.” Janus said before downing the rest of the water.

“With rotten luck.”

“Just like us.” Janus finished.

Sometimes Janus did wish that there was someone out there attempting to come to their rescue. That somehow someone knew he and Virgil were alive and were plotting to storm the castle one day. ‘Not that they would get far but the effort would be appreciated.’ He thought to himself.

The two of them spent the morning walking around the perimeter of the room. It was mostly silent but once the topic of how many pages were required before a pamphlet became a book came up the two began to debate.

The sound of a tray scraping against stone caught their attention but didn’t deter them. “How is twenty-five pages a pamphlet?” Virgil asked as he picked it up. “The same way six is a book.” Janus told him as he sat at the table.

Virgil sat across from him, “Ok so it’s a short book, but there is no way you could call a twenty-five page pamphlet a pamphlet.” He told him before tearing the small loaf of bread in half and handing some to Janus. “Maybe its a pamphlet about long pamphlets.” Janus shrugged.

“Ah crap.” Virgil said suddenly.

“What?”

“Forgot to ask for more water.”

“You had one job.”

Virgil ripped a bit of bread off his half and threw it at Janus’s face. It bounced harmlessly off of his forehead before landing back on the table. “I hope you know this is mine now.” Janus told him smugly as he picked it up and popped it in his mouth.

Virgil glared back at him but it wasn’t long before both dropped their facades and ate breakfast.

-

“Your Majesty,”

“What is it?” King Saul asked without looking up from his paperwork.

“A servant has requested to speak with you.” His advisor informed him.

“I don’t have time to waste on the complaints of a simple servant.” King Saul told him irritably.

“I understand Sire, but supposedly it’s important.”

“Probably just another complaint about wages.”

“Actually he mentioned it had something to do with the former royal family’s magic.”

King Saul paused, “What about it?” He asked.

“I’m not sure.” The adviser admitted, “He asked to speak to you about it in private.”

King Saul thought for a moment. “I suppose I could spare a few minutes. Send him in.”

”Of course, your Majesty.” The advisor bowed before turning to leave.

A minute or so later a man wearing standard servants clothes walked through the door. “Your Majesty, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” He said, bowing deeply.

”Yes, yes, get on with it before I change my mind.” King Saul warned.

“O-of course, your Majesty.” He said before revealing a worn leather book, “I found this hidden in a part of the library. I believe it tells about the magic that tied the land to the royal family.”

“I’ve heard the stories.” King Saul told him, “What could an old book like that tell me that I don’t already know?”

The man opened the book and flipped through a few pages. “Um, here.” He said as he held the open book towards the king, “I believe it describes a way to transfer the magic from one being to another.”

With his interest piqued, King Saul reached out and took the book. He didn’t recognize the language it was written in but there was a few pictures that seemed to suggest the mans claims.

“All I see here is symbols and pictures. How do I know you aren’t lying?” King Saul asked as he eyed the man suspiciously.

“It’s written in a mostly forgotten language, I admit, but I can read it. There was a tutor here who could read the language and he taught it to anyone willing to learn. I read the book and it talks about a place called the Delego. Where you can perform a ritual that will transfer the lands magic from the head of the royal family to a person of their choosing.”

King Saul considered the mans words for a moment. If he could magically tie the land to himself like the previous rulers had then his rule would be absolute. No one could deny him without putting themselves and everyone they loved at risk.

“You said you could read this.” King Saul started, “Surely you must have some sort of request for your assistance.”

The man seemed to weigh his options for a moment before finally speaking, “I... I want enough gold to start a new life with my wife... but in a different kingdom.” He admitted.

King Saul eyed the man intently. The longer he let the silence stretch the more nervous the servant seemed to get. King Saul huffed out a laugh that nearly made the man jump.

“So, you plan to sell the kingdom to me so that you may leave it. Is that correct?” King Saul asked.

The man shrunk, “I-I suppose you could put it that way. I mean no ill will, your Majesty. I swear.”

King Saul considered for a moment. What’s a bit of gold and a servant anyway?

“Alright then. Tell me what needs to be done.”

-

“I have a three of hearts, the ace of spades, and seven of diamonds.” Janus claimed coolly.

“Bull on two.” Virgil accused, “I have the queen of hearts, two of clubs, and three of diamonds.”

“Bull on one.” Janus told him.

Just as the two were about to lay their cards down there was a knock on the door. Virgil flinched and dropped his cards. A knock never brought good news.

The two quickly rose to their feet as the door swung open. Two guards entered and Virgil moved himself in front of Janus. He was about to ask what the intrusion was about when the man calling himself king stepped through the door, silencing anything protests.

-

King Saul took in the sight of the two prisoners before him. The golden eyed boy had his hair tied back neatly and was standing wide eyed behind the scullery rat. The rat in turn had his black hair free and was standing protectively in front of the former prince and glaring.

“Well, well, and here I was expecting to see children.” He told them.

The scullery rat clenched his fist but anything he might’ve said was cut off when a hand rested on his shoulder. “If I may,” the former prince asked, “what is the reason behind your sudden visit?”

“I’m here because you’re going to be transferring your family’s magic to me.”

“What?” Both boys said in confusion.

“We’re going to the Delego. And once we get there you are going to transfer the land to me.” King Saul told him.

“Like hell he will.”

-

Virgil barely had time to register what he had said before being backhanded across the face. “Virgil!” Janus gasped as Virgil barely kept himself from falling. “I’m ok.” Virgil told him quickly as he straightened back up.

“Now,” The man started again, “we’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. And remember, I only need one of you.” He said as he glared directly at Virgil.

“What makes you think I would willingly give up my birthright?” Janus asked.

Both young men flinched back when the king drew his sword and pointed it directly at Virgil’s throat. “You do as your told and he doesn’t die. Remember?” The man growled.

“You kill him and I swear to you that no matter what you do to me I will never, under any circumstances, give you the royal magic.” Janus told him.

The man glared at him for a moment, “When we reach the Delego you will transfer the magic. And in return I’ll set you both free.”

Those words caught both Janus and Virgil of guard.

“H-how do we know you aren’t lying?” Janus asked, “You said the same thing right before you murdered the rest of our friends. What’s stopping you from killing both of us the second you have what you want?”

“Nothing but my word.” He told them, “And it’s the only chance either of you have of getting out of this room. So you better make up your mind by the time we make it to the Delego.”

Virgil and Janus stayed frozen as the king resheathed his sword and left the room.

“His word isn’t worth shit.” Janus glared at the door once they were alone again.

Virgil didn’t know what to do. He knew it had only been a matter of time before Saul remembered they existed and now they were gonna die. Ohgodtheyweregonnadie. He would figure it out and then he was never gonna let them go theyweregoingtobetstuckhere or worse. Just because he mostly ignored them before didn’t mean he couldn’t start now and if that happened whoknowswhatwouldhappentheycould-

Virgil flinched when an arm wrapped around his shoulders. When did he get on the floor? Janus was saying something. He grabbed Virgil’s hand and placed it on his own chest.

“-riding here on a white horse and everything.” Janus said, “They just got some bad directions from a witch.”

“...Amazingly gorgeous.” Virgil said after he started to get his breathing under control.

“With rotten luck.

“Just like us...”

...

Virgil and Janus were woken up early the next morning. Their hands were cuffed in front of them before they were ushered out by guards. Neither of them could fully contain their curiosity as they let their eyes wander to take in everything around them.

When they eventually made it outside the two couldn’t help but pause. Seeing the world through the bars of a tower window was nothing compared to the view on the ground. They could finally make out the leaves that covered the bushes and trees. Even in the early morning grey they could see the various shades of green that were impossible to distinguish from their usual view.

Unfortunately they didn’t have long to stare before being shoved forward again. They were ushered into the back of a small wagon and barely had time to sit down before the door was closed and locked behind them.

They were only given a few moments before they heard the King’s voice. “We’ll be at the Delego three days from now. I suggest you make up your mind by then.”

Janus waited until they began to move before whispering to Virgil, “I have an idea.”

...

“Hell no.” Virgil said firmly once Janus finished explaining.

“Virgil-“

“I am not leaving you behind. Janus, he. Will. Kill you.” Virgil told him.

“I’ve been waiting for him to kill me the moment I told him I was the prince. At least this way one of us has a chance.”

“Even if by some miracle he agrees to letting me go, I won’t do it.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Janus hissed, “This is our only chance. We can’t give him what he wants, Virgil. And I’d rather you be as far away as possible when he realizes that.”

“But-“

“For gods sakes let me protect you for once.” Janus pleaded.

Virgil sighed, “Alright. But I won’t go far.” Before Janus had a chance to protest he added, “I’ll stay hidden, I promise. If you manage to get him to let you go afterwards I’ll find you. I can’t lose you too...”

Janus leaned against Virgil’s side, “I don’t want to lose you either.”

...

The next several hours were mostly silent. They had at one point attempted to look through the cracks of the locked windows, but the rocking of the wagon made it a bit hazardous. So they tried to relax and had nearly dozed off by the time the wagon pulled to a stop.

Now wide awake the two strained their ears to hear what was going on outside.

“We’ll rest here for the night.” They heard someone say. The wagon was jostled a few more times as it was repositioned and the horse was unhitched.

Now that they were still both Janus and Virgil stood up to stretch before moving to the windows. They peeked through the cracks and attempted to take in the forest outside. They could see soldiers walk past occasionally as they set up the camp.

They stayed that way for a while until the outer door of the wagon opened. The two of them shot away from the windows and were back up against the far wall before the door was fully opened. The soldier smirked at their reaction but didn’t say anything as he tied the door open.

After a few minutes of nothing happening, Virgil and Janus made their way to the door. They were so close to the ground. If their hands were free they might even be able to reach far enough to touch the grass. Janus nudged Virgil before pointing out some sort of beetle that was scuttling along. They watched the beetle for a minute until Virgil noticed a squirrel sitting in a nearby tree; chewing on a pine cone. They spent even longer watching the squirrel move between trees until it was out of sight and went back to looking for any other bugs that might be wandering nearby.

The two of them were so focused on the various little things going on around them that they barely noticed one of the soldiers walking towards the wagon. They sat up and moved away from the door once the realized he was heading towards them. They tried not to be disappointed as they waited for the man to simply close the outer door.

But the door never closed.

Virgil and Janus watched as the man bent down and ripped a chunk of grass out by the roots and dropped it inside the wagon before turning to leave again.

They waited till he was sitting back by the fire before touching it.

The grass itself felt slightly cool at first and when Virgil slid his fingers up the stalk it was smooth. When he tried to run them back down his fingers seemed to catch as the smooth surface became corse. The roots were a bit rough from the dirt that cling to them but were almost springy compared to the grass itself.

Janus could feel the grains of dirt as he rubbed a bit between his fingers. The dry bits were almost soft as they fell off the sides of his hand. The rest of it was cool and damp from being underground. If Janus wanted he could even change the shape of it.

Both young men were completely enthralled as they handled the little bit of earth they had been given. Neither noticed any of the eyes that flicked in their direction as they held silent conversation with each other.

~~~~~~notes~~~~~~

Nothing too exciting this chapter but next chapter we’ll get to see what Janus’s plan entails and weather or not it will work. And some more characters should be shouting up soon *hint hint wink wink*

[raja-myna]

yesterday is long since lost

FINALLY got this thing done!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070434

Anakin – and he is Anakin, even if that name feels a little bit like putting on a shirt he had thought he had outgrown – knows that he’s messing up. When he first realized what had happened, that he really had come back, he had been grateful that his body had collapsed under the weight of his future memories, leaving his subconscious mind to slowly make the connections and let him wake up again. He had thought he was prepared for it, when he shook off the last of the sleepy haze. The phrase ‘rude awakening’ turned out to fit almost too well.

The two weeks that it had taken for his body and mind to acclimatize to each other proves itself to be so far from enough. He’s jittery, uncomfortable in his own body (and it’s his body again, more flesh than metal, inescapable marks of betrayal (but whose was it really? Not Obi-Wan’s, he knows now, and that thought cuts impossibly deeper than ever) erased) with its lack of aches and pains, and reflexes that no longer match flesh limbs.

Rex knows something is up, but military discipline keeps him from asking, at least for now. Ahsoka knows something’s up, but she’s still too relieved that he’s okay (and hah, if only she knew) to push.

He thanks the Force that Obi-Wan isn’t here, because even though they’d made some sort of peace at Anakin’s funeral pyre and after that, he doesn’t know how he would react to seeing his former Master with them both alive again. Obi-Wan also likely wouldn’t hesitate to call him out on his poodoo. Oh, he’d be diplomatic, and he likely wouldn’t push if Anakin reacted badly, but Anakin still isn’t sure he could take that.

When they had been dead there hadn’t been much to do but make peace. Now, alive and with the Clone Wars barely halfway through, Anakin is realizing that a lot of their peace had come from the fact that nothing they could have done would have affected anything in the end. That calm understanding that had come with being one with the Force is gone as well, and Anakin’s love for and rage at his old Master are dueling for prominence. His guilt wants to land on the side of his love, but his anger has always run hot. He fears seeing Obi-Wan, for he truly cannot tell whether he’ll be angry, snappish and rude, or if he’ll want to fall to his knees and cry.

There’s enough of Anakin wanting to cry as it is.

It had been hard, seeing Ahsoka, seeing Rex when he first woke up and truly getting hit with how he had failed them. But they had been the lucky ones, in that awful future. They had gotten away.

Seeing Coric in the medbay, seeing Kix… that had been worse. Kix had been gone before Anakin Fell and Order 66 was executed, they hadn’t even found a body. Coric had died two years later, two years of living not unlike a battle droid covered in flesh, with only the barest glimpses of the man he really was underneath the weight of orders and grief he wasn’t allowed to understand.

Grief that none of the clones were allowed to understand.

(Vader had seen Bly. He had seen Shocker. He had seen Cody.)

(He had seen all those who had eaten their blasters as the chips died, never actually intended to survive past usage – just like the clones themselves.)

Vader hadn’t cared, or at least tried to tell himself that he didn’t. Anakin does care. And Force, but it hurts.

The first day Anakin just avoids everyone, using Kix’s orders of rest as an excuse. Facing everyone is… something no amount of preparation could help him with, a punch to the gut and a knock to the head that leaves him reeling. The effort it takes to not simply flee for his quarters actually leaves him winded when he finally reaches the corridor, enters the room, closes the door behind himself and locks himself in.

There’s something wrong with him. Anakin is not reacting the way he should – the way he ought to, having seen so many ghosts in so short a time. His mind is a mess.

Meditation does not come easy.

He forces himself into it, in an attempt to reconcile the different parts of himself. He is Anakin, jedi general, student, teacher, husband, lover, twenty years old and so arrogant. He is Vader, sith apprentice, failure, world-weary, beaten down, a monster shackled to a madman… a father, in the end.

He is Ani, slave boy, who cares so much and loves so deeply but doesn’t know how to handle it, never learned how to grow it, only hoard.

(If you love something, let it go.)

(He let Luke go, in the end. Let his son choose his own path and…)

I am a jedi, like my father before me.

Sleep doesn’t come at all.

Vader has spent literal decades hating his past, weak self, disgusted with the man who couldn’t even save the single most important person left in his life, who had lost everyone else along the line. Past-(present-?)Anakin is horrified by what he became, by what his future self allowed himself to be twisted into. Ani doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to understand how it could have even happened.

It’s a good thing self-hatred is nothing new to him, he thinks, because that is the common point that finally allows him to reconcile the different facets of himself.

That’s kind of sad.

It’s also awfully appropriate, in a twisted sense.

 The second day he tries to play at normalcy and heads to the bridge. Ahsoka tracks him down when he’s alone during a quiet moment and hugs him until he stops trying to make her let go. Her relief broadcasts in the Force and their bond alike. Anakin… lets himself hold her, and heal, just a bit. Then Kix finds them and sends him back to bed. It’s enough to make Ahsoka laugh and think everything’s back to normal. Anakin lets her believe it.

He heads back to his bunk, and since Kix is a suspicious one, wise to the ways of his jedi, Anakin has company the entire way.

“Forty-eight hours of rest,” says Kix dryly, “and a visit to medical. Neither of these has been completed, and you’re still obviously tired. Get some more sleep, sir, or I can’t clear you.”

“How about just the visit to medical?” Anakin tries to bargain.

“Sir, I know disasters tend to strike like clockwork around here, but please. Nothing will happen if you just get some more rest.”

And despite Kix all but punching fate in the face and yelling ‘come get me’, nothing does happen. Anakin meditates some more and actually manages to grab a nap as well.

When he wakes up it’s shipboard afternoon. He heads down to the hangar, and instead of attempting to work on the Twilight like he planned to, he finds himself drawn into a discussion with three of the troopers (Lyn died on Umbara, Bell was lost on Mandalore, while Flipper had marched on the temple and not died until after more than five years of atrocities in the name of the Empire).

He failed them. The thought hovers in his mind even as he gets more involved in the debate. He failed them like he failed all his men, Ahsoka, Obi-Wan. Like he failed his mother. Like he failed Padmé. Like he almost failed Luke, like he did fail him several times.

The storm of emotions is like a vibroblade to the gut and Anakin claws desperately at it, keeping it from showing either on his face or in the Force. He almost pulls away again, until Bell’s words cut through him like shards of glass.

“-but not this time!”

Bell punctuates his words by punching the air. They’re talking about marksmanship contests now, but Anakin cannot fully restrain how deeply it hits him. His expression must twitch, because Bell turns to him, eyes wide with feigned upset.

“You think I can’t, General?”

Flipper nudges him. “The General simply knows better than to put his credits up on the word of such an… unreliable source.” The grin is contagious, and Anakin finds himself smiling as well, grounding himself in their gentle teasing and free-flowing affection.

His failures feel further away and, desperate to keep that feeling, he does what he always did best – jump without looking. “Well, maybe I can help make it less unreliable.”

“Sir?”

Anakin’s mouth really ran away with him this time, but something tells him that this is good. A comfortable warmth that sits in his gut, the Force whispering in his ear, Bell’s disbelieving – but growing – excitement. “You’re off duty. I have some spare time. There are several training halls available.”

Not this time. He failed them all then, but not this time.

It is with a strange sort of budding contentment that he puts Bell and several other clones through their paces in a training hall. He’s doing something, changing something, and it’s such a tiny difference but it’s a difference. Anakin can’t do a lot from here, not yet, but this – being with the men, helping them – is something he can do.

For the first time since he woke up, Anakin feels like he’s doing something right.

Nearly an hour after they began, Anakin catches sight of Rex by the door. The expression on his face is one part amusement, one part ‘I know what you’re doing’ and about five parts exasperation. It’s familiar despite the years, comforting, and Anakin laughs before he can even register the urge to.

The next moment he freezes because – how long has it been? He catches himself almost immediately and excuses himself from the practice session. They can continue without him anyway.

By the door, Rex’s amusement sharpens into instant hyper-awareness. Anakin starts running through the excuses he’d hoped wouldn’t be necessary.

Rex’s care for his jedi is something Anakin has been in turns awed, perplexed and humbled by. Now, his worry is just as humbling, but it is also troublesome. In the end, Anakin finds himself released to medbay only because Rex too is still shaky after his coma. None of them are fully back to normal, so Anakin’s issues are easier to hide.

They won’t always be, but Anakin will get better at hiding, too.

He runs into Ahsoka again in the hallway and she immediately attaches herself to his side. The last time he had seen her in that other time flashes in his mind – tall, strong, grieving – and he rests his hand on her montrals, his tiny, beloved padawan who the galaxy has barely even started to break yet.

She’s here.

She is here and he hasn’t lost her, not to his own madness nor her iron-clad conviction that he’s gone forever.

The poisonous thinking that came with the Dark Side is still haunting him, and for a moment he wants to drag her even closer, make sure she could never leave – and then the thought leaves him sick, his hand drops down to squeeze her shoulder and then he lets go.

She follows him to the medbay, where Kix clears Anakin. The clone is clearly reluctant, going by the grumbling, but Anakin is free to return to duty. As such, he is free to check out exactly when it is he has returned to.

The answer… staggers him. It’s the early days of the war, that much had already been obvious in the many presences that had been long gone, but… so many of the bad things haven’t happened yet, so many things he can change, disasters he can undo, lives he can save –

Sidious.

And even though he knows he can’t just rush in, the scene plays out in Anakin’s mind. Since he’d learned about Luke, Vader had ever entertained the thought of killing his Master. And even before that, before Padmé and Obi-Wan and Mustafar, Sidious’ survival had never counted in Anakin’s plans. More than once he had tortured himself with what-ifs… and now he has the chance to make them come true.

Still, striding up to the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic and attempting to cut him down, for all that it would be satisfying, would more likely end with Anakin fleeing from the Coruscant Security Forces with his task still not accomplished more than anything else.

It’s nothing but wishful thinking and Anakin waves it away.

A quick talk with Yularen confirms that they’re heading back to Coruscant. They’re still six days out, at current velocity, something Yularen relays with an apologetic look, since Anakin tends to be eager to get planetside. In this case though, it means there’s only six days to prepare for seeing the temple again, seeing Padmé, seeing – Force, seeing the younglings.

“Master?”

Ahsoka’s voice pulls him out of those dark musings.

“Yeah, Snips?” The nickname rolls off his tongue with reflexive ease, and it is not until it already lingers in the air that he realizes how much it grounds him.

“Is everything all right?”

He could lie. She would see through it, and either let it be or keep digging until she thought she had found out every little detail.

“No.” Ahsoka stops dead and he turns to look back at her, her big eyes even wider than usual at his uncharacteristic honesty concerning his own state. “But it’s getting better.” How can it not?

“…If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

The ringing silence that follows is belied by Ahsoka’s slow reach for him through their bond, and Anakin’s hesitant reach back, to meet her halfway. Ahsoka smiles at the contact and runs ahead. They’ve ended up by the mess hall and, though it’s still relatively early, there’s more than enough people moving around, grabbing an early meal.

“Glad to see you’re doing well, General!”

Anakin looks up to see Echo. The young ARC trooper has raised a hand to wave a greeting, precariously balancing his rations tray with only one hand. Smile tugging at his lips, Anakin raises his own hand in response. Another fate he would hopefully be able to change. Echo didn’t deserve what had happened to him.

Realization comes a second too late.

Echo slides down on the bench by Anakin and Ahsoka, and Fives sneaks up only half a step behind him. Ahsoka immediately vaults over the table and seats herself opposite Echo.

“Going to join us, General?” asks Fives. Anakin almost chokes. For an instant, Fives has all Anakin’s attention, but just as quick, Anakin turns away.

“Sorry.” he says choppily. “Sorry, I- I have something- I need to- I’m sorry. Later?”

He whirls around and practically flees the hall.

Fives. Oh, Force, Fives.

Anakin hears a hesitant “Is… something wrong?” from Echo, but escapes before he can hear Ahsoka’s response. Yes, something’s wrong. Something he’d managed to avoid thinking of entirely, but that he now can’t escape.

You died for the knowledge that might have saved everything and I didn’t believe you.

Fives had been – is – one of his men and that alone would be enough guilt to drown in but… that isn’t all.

Anakin firmly blocks the thoughts from his mind, refusing to wander down that old path of what-if. He had entertained enough of them, after Fives’… death. Even more after Echo had been found. So much more, in stolen moments with Padmé and occasionally Sabé or Rabé as well, staying up late nights with more alcohol than was probably advisable.

Force.

Three hallways down, Anakin finally stops, leans against the wall, and covers his face with his hands. He slowly sinks down, ending up sitting and pulling his knees close so he can hide in them instead of in his palms.

Smooth, Anakin. The internal reprimand takes on Obi-Wan’s voice, which is almost a step too far. Anakin’s eyes sting.

Eventually Anakin manages to gather himself enough that he can paste the mask back on. He can’t quite push the thoughts back into the box where he hadn’t even known that he’d stored them, however, and from that point on he can’t decide whether to run from Fives out of shame or never let him out of sight again. Over the coming days the result of the impulses leaves Anakin looking like a shy adolescent from a holo-drama, constantly keeping track of Fives, but ducking around corners, hiding behind bulkheads, and on one occasion, making a Force-assisted leap up a staircase (accidentally sparking a game of tag with Ahsoka, but he managed to make it look deliberate, so he counts it as a win) to avoid the clone.

Whatever explanation Ahsoka had given the two ARC troopers must have been unsatisfying however, because suddenly it seems like Fives is everywhere. Anakin tries to distract himself, mingling with the troops, burying himself in the Twilight, catching upon the present, but whenever he senses Fives just a little too close, he’s running again.

Anakin fears he will keep running for a long time.

[mother-snake]

the blind rose

part one of a series! -theodore meets someone who he never though he would ever see in his lifetime. a firendship is formed and a destinay is set in stone- (if any warnings are needed please say!)

A most peculiar meeting.

Theodore’s pov-

the docks were filled with ships, ranging from small and very close to being destroyed by the tide, to looking like they were owned by the richest of the richest. But he supposed that was true.

The smell of seaweed and salty water filling the air with a both calming and disturbing scent. the sea breeze brushing the ruffed-up edges of his cloak in an almost dramatic fashion.

The sun had begun to set, lining the ships with a golden halo. The sound of laughter filled the air as people wondered the streets drinking merrily as they made their ways home. A few passers-by’s gave me a wave, recognising the hood that hid the person. I gave a small nod in return.

I grabbed and pulled my cloaks hood further up as I stopped and looked around the area. my mind set on the tavern. It had practically been my home for years. Anyone who knew me mainly were drinker’s or common travellers. I loved both, they could tell wild stories that anyone had come across or image. I took part on story telling occasionally. Pick pocketing gave some stories after all.

I had thankfully snagged enough money this day to get a room for the night and maybe a meal. But that was it. I smiled as more people passed with their loved ones linked in arms or hands. sometimes I wondered where my own family was. They had left me years ago with no way to return home. Not that didn’t mind though. The rules where I’d lived restricted everything, I could do there. The laws being much stricter for thieves.

As the building came into view the smile on my face grew ever so slightly. It was old and looked close to falling. I had been coming here for seven years running and it hadn’t changed one, bit except the barrels of flowers on the outside, giving it a semi friendly look in hopes to attract customers. White and blue banners hung everywhere along the streets. The festival would be starting soon. He hoped to not be there for that and off on the sea or roads. He knew the guards were close to figuring out he was the pick pocket.

One noticeable thing to me was that there were many people from places overseas filling the streets. Even this late at night. I suppose with the events and festival to celebrate coming up it wasn’t a surprise really. The prince was meant to find a suitor… this also meant the amount of rich spoiled people were around to pick of was much higher… and so were the chances of getting caught. after ding the suitor he would be married withing a week and crowned.

I reached up to my neck and gave it a quick scratch. The shimmering sea green scales itching under the thick fluffy cloak that kept them hidden and warm. Being cold blooded and living near the sea wasn’t the best.

I reached the door to see it already wide open. The door kept open by a large stone. I pulled the hood down and made my way inside. those that had never seen me fell silent, I shifted nervously as I looked around the room. Those that had seen me many a time in here looked over and waved. Happy to see their friend was okay and alive or another day. I waved back happily.

Because I had been coming here for years the regulars had grown used to my appearance. He chuckled as he remembered their reaction to seeing him all those years ago for the first time. The newcomers stared a little longer. I didn’t blame them. I truly was a strange sight to see.

The leathery mini fins that sat behind my ears twitched along with them as he took in the noise that slowly began to get louder. My cat slit eyes scanned the room for an empty table. Hoping to find somewhere to sit down from walking all day. Traveling and pickpocketing was something that took energy quickly, especially when you get caught and have to start running. And today had not been a good day. At all. my scraped knees can confirm.

I let out a silent yawn and ruffled his unkept hair. the only free place was where a figure was sat a cloak covering their features as if they didn’t want to be seen, I didn’t think much of it. Several people did that here every now and then. I had done it one.

I smiled and made my way over to the booth. Sliding in the opposite side and letting a small sigh as they finally could rest.

“hope you don’t mind me being here,” I said as the cloaked figure jumped at my sudden appearance in front of him. They continued to stare, I could tell by the gaze seemingly burning into my skin. The feeling of being watched was one I had to learn quickly in my profession.

“may I ask your name?” the figure mumbled barely audibly from underneath. “Theodore lightwood, it’s a pleasure,” I held my hand out. “my name is Nicolas Bernard.” I sat a little longer looking at the other. Blankly looking at him, barely registering that I was shaking hands with the soon to be crowned king. Only one person held that last name after all. “you’re the…” “please don’t say anything. I don’t need the guards taking be back to that prison of a castle.”

I slowly blinked. Nodding. I knew what it was like to be stuck somewhere you didn’t want to be. I sighed and leaned back. Placing my hands in the pockets of my practically torn shorts. A small sachet barely holding any coins lay in a pocket. But it was enough for the night I thought once again.

The prince stood up and walked over to the bar. Leaving me in my thoughts. Several of them making him loose track of what I was thinking in the first place. It was when a cup was placed in front of me that I snapped out of my scattered thoughts.

I grinned as I watched the prince sit down with his own drink in hand. They sat in silence, but it was peaceful. Something I hadn’t experienced in a while. It was nice.

The city was loud and so were the people. You could barely turn a corner without seeing some group of people talking. I chuckled as I looked over to catch the other stealing glances over as peaked from under the hood of his cloak. His eyes widened as they caught me looking at him “so, why are you here anyways?” I asked “needed to get away from my father. If I have to hear about how marriage is not based on the person but their connections. I’m going to scream,” his head lifted giving me a better view of the person underneath. curly ginger hair poked out. contrasting his pale complexion was a large scar running from his jaw to his eyebrow.

I thanked whatever god there is that the lighting wasn’t that good, thankfully hiding the small blush on my cheeks.

“I honestly don’t blame you. If you talk to anyone around here all they talk about is who you might end up choosing. And in all honestly, I don’t think you��d pick any.” “how would you know that?” he asked looking at me with a deadpanned look. “I just have a feeling.” I took a small sip from the cup in front of me. “well then,” he sighed,” you wouldn’t be wrong. But you’re not right either.”

I looked at him for a couple seconds. Finishing the drink in hand. “well, I best see if there is a room available here. Its was nice meeting you sir Bernard.” giving a small bow and grinning at his eyeroll I made my way over to the bar. Waiting for the owner, a normal routine. I just hoped there was actually a room available.

It was when he realised the entire place fell silent did, he turn around to see what had caused the very drunk people around him to almost sober up so quickly. I swore under my breath as soon as my gaze landed on them.

several figures wearing red stood by the entrance way; my eyes went wide as they walked over to the booth where his new friend was sitting, hunched over.

They whispered something and he stood up, the hood of the cloak falling off. I got a clearer look on his face. His curly red hair looked almost untameable compared to mine. No longer hunched he looked almost an entire head taller than I.

“can I at least give a quick goodbye to my friend?” Nicolas sighed looking at the guards almost pleadingly. “very well your majesty.”

He quickly manoeuvred past them and made his way over to my side. He held his hand out with smile that could rival a child’s.

I chuckled and shook his hand, “stay safe your highness.” “and you too Theo, may we meet again one blessed day.” “indeed.”

And just as quickly as the guards had arrived, they left, taking his friend with them. I looked around the room to see people staring at me, mouth agape. “what?”