#derailed dreaming about it. one must imagine a world where he could be

[joelletwo]

[ID: gintama fanart of kid gintoki and shouyou, zurako, and a takagin kiss described individually in alt]

drawing guys for @soppymilkgin @istherewifiinhell @deadgrantaires thankies thankies for the indulgences 🎉 going insane in the middle of the night learning how to draw on the fly

[raina-at]

Fall

Warning: If suicidal thoughts trigger you, please proceed with caution.

It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the landing.

Five minutes. From the time he got out of the taxi until he saw Sherlock’s lifeless body lie on the pavement, five minutes passed. At most.

John has lived through these five minutes countless times. Endless times. If you strung up every time he sees these five minutes play before his closed eyes - in dreams, in memory, in penance - you could reach the next century. At least that’s what it feels like. 

How did he do it?

Why?

How did I not see?

These questions haunt him, derail him, consume him.

He walks by Barts at every hour of the day, he studies the police report, he looks at the crime scene photos. 

How could I be so stupid? 

He was devastated when Sherlock jumped. He was traumatised and grieving and barely functional for so long. He pulled himself out of a deep dark black hole by the skin of his teeth and the ridiculous thought that he had to live on to preserve Sherlock’s legacy. That he needed the world to see how brilliant he was, how loveable. How human.

How deeply, bitingly ironic, then, that Sherlock’s return from the not quite as dead as you thought after all has derailed him completely. Sent him into a tailspin he sees no way out of.

He barely eats, he kips on the sofa in his office. He only notices Mary’s thrown him out because one day, all his earthly belongings are dumped in a heap in front of his office door.

He doesn’t care. More time to devote to the one thought he cares about. How? Why?

He replays these five minutes in front of his mental eyes so often. He takes pictures, he tries to find witnesses. He does all the things he should have done after Sherlock jumped, if he hadn’t been so stupid. So paralysed with grief. 

It didn’t even occur to him. That it could be fake. Because Sherlock wouldn’t. He would never.

What a fucking idiot he was. Maybe that’s why Sherlock did it. To get rid of him. To be free of the bumbling fool blogger running after him like a puppy.

Alex, his boss, puts him on medical leave when she finds him at the surgery at three in the morning, pacing his office, muttering to himself. 

He doesn’t tell her he has nowhere to go. He just shows up at Murray’s house, who lets him sleep on the sofa in the basement and doesn’t bother him otherwise.

It’s a grey December day when he stands on a roof, diagonally across the street from Barts. Mycroft told him about the snipers, and he imagines what it must have looked like, from way up here. 

He imagines watching Sherlock jump from this angle. Imagines the crosshairs of the rifle mark the place where the bullet would have entered John’s skull. Spends a visceral moment feeling it, wanting it. Wanting this all to end.

It would be so ironic, he thinks. If he actually did it. If he jumped. Like Sherlock did(n’t). Maybe then he would know. Maybe then he would understand. 

It’s easy to sneak up on the roof at Barts. Easier than it should be, after a suicide. 

It’s freezing up here. The wind cuts through his clothes. He shivers with cold and fear and a ringing sort of despair. What do you do when the only person you truly loved fucked you over this badly? What do you do when you’re not even worth a good lie?

He should have seen it. A thing like this isn’t easy to do. There had to have been cables, or a body switch, or some sort of catching device. He should have seen it. He didn’t, because he’s stupid and worthless and Sherlock never loved him, never wanted him, never cared. 

The windchill freezes the tears on his face. He steps up to the ledge. 

“Please don’t.”

Sherlock’s voice is raw and tired and rough with cold. 

John isn’t surprised. Not really. He knows he’s being watched all the time. 

He hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. He has to clear his throat before he can answer. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not worth it,” Sherlock answers. He sounds as hollowed out as John feels. As tired. As desperate.

John turns around. Sherlock looks like shit. He’s pale and wan and so thin, and John can see the lines the last two years have cut into his face. His nose is red from the wind and there are tears in his eyes.

“How did you do it?” John asks. I should make you watch, he thinks. Like you made me watch. Maybe then you would understand. 

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asks, weary and sad.

“Maybe, just for this once, I can decide what fucking matters,” John yells, his throat raw, the words like barbed wires, ripping him up from inside. “Maybe just this one time, I matter!”

“You always matter!” Sherlock answers, “Please believe me. You always, always matter.”

“Two years,” John whispers, unbelieving. “Two fucking years.”

“I know,” Sherlock answers, his voice as raw as John’s, holding John’s eyes. “I know.”

“What does that even fucking mean?” John yells. He’s shivering with cold and anger as he takes a step towards Sherlock. 

“Two years,” Sherlock says quietly, reaching out to gently touch the tear tracks on John’s face with ice-cold fingertips, his voice shaking with unshed tears. “I’ve missed you so much.”

John tries to bite down on a sob, but he can’t hold on anymore, he’s been biting down on that bullet for over two years, and he can’t do it one more single fucking second.

Sherlock’s there, wrapping him up in warmth and safety and that Baker Street home smell as John sobs out two years of grief and anger and sorrow into Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive coat. John can feel Sherlock lose control as he cries into John’s shoulder, muttering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again, but John doesn’t need to hear it anymore. 

He can feel it.

He finally, finally understands. 

“Let’s go home,” he whispers into Sherlock’s hair. He’s done with this place. “Let’s finally go home.”

------

I promise happy fluff tomorrow to make up for the pain.

Tags under the cut as usual.

@calaisreno @peanitbear @meetinginsamarra @totallysilvergirl @jolieblack @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @catlock-holmes @jrow @salmonsown

[subliminalbo]

tw: suicide

Tom couldn't believe when Rebecca told him that she was thinking about Conversion. Was life really all that bad? Sure, they were witnessing the slow decline of civilization one day at a time and yeah, Conversion was one way to mitigate the creeping anxiety of the inevitable end while maintaining a productive role in society. But it wasn't like she'd really be herself, right? Conversion promised to wipe all concerns from the party's mind but the result was somewhere between a human being and a mindless automaton. She wouldn't be his Rebecca anymore, he argued.

But this was the right choice for her. One where she could be happy, wouldn't have to carry the misery of the world anymore. She could still be there for him. However they remade her.

The really sad cases donated their bodies to The Corporation to fill spots on assembly lines. A mindless lifetime dedicated to manual labor. But Rebecca wasn't alone. She even chose the Dream Wife template with the Arts and Culture memory expansion so that she wouldn't be just a mindless fuckpuppet around the house. After twelve years of nodding through sports talk she could finally carry a conversation with Tom about all the trivial little things he loved.

God, he missed her personality though.

At first it felt real enough that maybe Tom could live with this Rebecca as if nothing had changed. But it was the small things. She'd lost the fire that had once driven him crazy. She didn't argue small details anymore, didn't derail perfect evenings just to be right. She didn't labor over restaurant orders or advocate for Tom when he was too timid to advocate for himself.

He must have taken her back to The Corporation a dozen times to install new personality expansions. The Corporation never came close to his Rebecca though. Tom knew that he had to be okay with this. When he looked into those pearl white eyes and saw nothing staring back, he had to be okay with the fact that this is what Rebecca had wanted. It was her choice.

Slowly, though, Tom learned to accept his new wife. Riding the train for two hours a day to and from his office, he had time to think about all the privileges they shared. The outside world was a constant assault of sound and image. Ad space plastered to every imaginable surface, these days less focused on selling products and more so on pulling consumers' attention away from the sky. Last Tom had checked it was looking more like a burnt yellow.

The train was no exception to the ceaseless flow of information. Digital screens projected over the car windows played ads for The Corporation on loop. A constant reminder of the life Rebecca had chosen. But each ad had the effect of making Tom feel better about her choice. Dream Wife, Dream Life, the slogan went.

He returned home each day to her bright smile, her delicious cooking. Their home was decorated in a retro turn of the century style. The windows cloaked the view outside with the image of a blue sky, a starry night. It was the dream life that Rebecca had always wanted.

And one day Tom discovered that it was okay to command her. That it was okay to treat her as the object she had chosen to be. When she called him "Master" for the first time he was surprised to find himself turned on. When she begged him to command her, he didn't hesitate.

He bent her over the couch and saw the port on the back of her neck where the Conversion had been installed and he heard the moans, those authentic moans! A sound that hadn't come from his wife's mouth in years. They weren't the sounds of a human robot, but a human woman's. A human woman who could get wet on command, whose pussy was always tight, and libido endless.

As he thrust his cock inside of her, all Tom could think about now was how thankful he was for everything The Corporation had given him. The words from the digital screens on his daily train rides scrolled by on a loop in his mind: Dream Wife, Dream Life, Dream Wife, Dream Life. He regretted ever missing Rebecca now because she had never actually left. She had only been reshaped into her best self.

Dream Wife, Dream Life.

His grip tightened around her hips as he teetered on the edge. She came with him, as she had been programmed to do. Her screams echoed off the walls.

Tom sank back into the couch, holding on for a moment to catch his breath. She remained frozen there, awaiting further orders while his cum dripped from her pussy. He could only stare in admiration of her beautiful form. Her naked back, the curve between her shoulder blades, the dimples above her ass. He thought of the time before Conversion was an option. He thought of the millions who had chosen to end it all, the labor crisis that had forced the hand of engineers far smarter than Tom to find a solution.

And now here she was, his wife Rebecca. She was still here. She was still with him. Flesh and blood and code and programming.

Tom smiled, and for the first time he thought, I am so thankful for The Corporation.

[subliminalbointext]

Quick Hits #6: Dream Wife

tw: suicide

Tom couldn’t believe when Rebecca told him that she was thinking about Conversion. Was life really all that bad? Sure, they were witnessing the slow decline of civilization one day at a time and yeah, Conversion was one way to mitigate the creeping anxiety of the inevitable end while maintaining a productive role in society. But it wasn’t like she’d really be herself, right? Conversion promised to wipe all concerns from the party’s mind but the result was somewhere between a human being and a mindless automaton. She wouldn’t be his Rebecca anymore, he argued.

But this was the right choice for her. One where she could be happy, wouldn’t have to carry the misery of the world anymore. She could still be there for him. However they remade her.

The really sad cases donated their bodies to The Corporation to fill spots on assembly lines. A mindless lifetime dedicated to manual labor. But Rebecca wasn’t alone. She even chose the Dream Wife template with the Arts and Culture memory expansion so that she wouldn’t be just a mindless fuckpuppet around the house. After twelve years of nodding through sports talk she could finally carry a conversation with Tom about all the trivial little things he loved.

God, he missed her personality though.

At first it felt real enough that maybe Tom could live with this Rebecca as if nothing had changed. But it was the small things. She’d lost the fire that had once driven him crazy. She didn’t argue small details anymore, didn’t derail perfect evenings just to be right. She didn’t labor over restaurant orders or advocate for Tom when he was too timid to advocate for himself.

He must have taken her back to The Corporation a dozen times to install new personality expansions. The Corporation never came close to his Rebecca though. Tom knew that he had to be okay with this. When he looked into those pearl white eyes and saw nothing staring back, he had to be okay with the fact that this is what Rebecca had wanted. It was her choice.

Slowly, though, Tom learned to accept his new wife. Riding the train for two hours a day to and from his office, he had time to think about all the privileges they shared. The outside world was a constant assault of sound and image. Ad space plastered to every imaginable surface, these days less focused on selling products and more so on pulling consumers’ attention away from the sky. Last Tom had checked it was looking more like a burnt yellow.

The train was no exception to the ceaseless flow of information. Digital screens projected over the car windows played ads for The Corporation on loop. A constant reminder of the life Rebecca had chosen. But each ad had the effect of making Tom feel better about her choice. Dream Wife, Dream Life, the slogan went.

He returned home each day to her bright smile, her delicious cooking. Their home was decorated in a retro turn of the century style. The windows cloaked the view outside with the image of a blue sky, a starry night. It was the dream life that Rebecca had always wanted.

And one day Tom discovered that it was okay to command her. That it was okay to treat her as the object she had chosen to be. When she called him “Master” for the first time he was surprised to find himself turned on. When she begged him to command her, he didn’t hesitate.

He bent her over the couch and saw the port on the back of her neck where the Conversion had been installed and he heard the moans, those authentic moans! A sound that hadn’t come from his wife’s mouth in years. They weren’t the sounds of a human robot, but a human woman’s. A human woman who could get wet on command, whose pussy was always tight, and libido endless.

As he thrust his cock inside of her, all Tom could think about now was how thankful he was for everything The Corporation had given him. The words from the digital screens on his daily train rides scrolled by on a loop in his mind: Dream Wife, Dream Life, Dream Wife, Dream Life. He regretted ever missing Rebecca now because she had never actually left. She had only been reshaped into her best self.

Dream Wife, Dream Life.

His grip tightened around her hips as he teetered on the edge. She came with him, as she had been programmed to do. Her screams echoed off the walls.

Tom sank back into the couch, holding on for a moment to catch his breath. She remained frozen there, awaiting further orders while his cum dripped from her pussy. He could only stare in admiration of her beautiful form. Her naked back, the curve between her shoulder blades, the dimples above her ass. He thought of the time before Conversion was an option. He thought of the millions who had chosen to end it all, the labor crisis that had forced the hand of engineers far smarter than Tom to find a solution.

And now here she was, his wife Rebecca. She was still here. She was still with him. Flesh and blood and code and programming.

Tom smiled, and for the first time he thought, I am so thankful for The Corporation.

[yanderenightmare]

ooh I wanna see ua bakugo frustrate with his affection over this clueless moron, kinda like shoto, like he gives her like a flower and she's just like wuut .__.

yandere ! BAKUGO KATSUKI

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

This is so cute, I can’t. Don’t know if this is what you wanted hahahaha, but I have a weak spot for like Luna Lovegood girls, like Alice in Wonderland derpy pigtailed pastel Melanie Martinez lookin’ cupcakes. And made this still in the UA au... hope that’s ok!

goodiebag WARNINGS: slight yandere, slight dubcon theme, profanity, anxiety, hallucinations, stalking

SCARY LOVE

He felt like such a stalker, like a wolf hiding in the grass, just a disgusting waste of a human being standing and ogling her from the safe distance, far enough away that she wouldn’t care to look up, but just close enough to see the color in her eyes from where she was planted in the shade under the campus willow-tree.

Why was she so fucking cute?

Her locks knotted up into two big messy buns, big splendid pastel bows tying them both into place, one blue, the other pink, matching puffy scrunchies decorating both her wrists. Cute. Small wisps of light flowing hair falling in front of her face, tickling her nose, making it scrunch like a how bunny would every now and again. Cute. White ruffled socks reaching halfway up her leg. Cute. Her knees baring pastel-colored band-aids and small scrapes and purple bruises, in the same state her elbows were. Cute. Nimble fingers handling the book that seemed so out-of-place in its size where it weighed down heavily in her lap. She looked like such a fucking fairytale. A soft-tinted cotton-candy daydream. 

Ready to have his bloody hands fuck up everything.

Bloody hell. What the fuck is he doing?

He can’t just stand there like some lovesick freak and do nothing, simply waiting for the school-bell to sound off its alarm, making her jump up like a little bunny popping up from its rabbit-hole where she’ll struggle with carrying that ridiculous book and sit down in class only to daydream about going back outside, but not before she’ll walk past him, allowing him to smell that sweet perfume that always has his heart clenching furiously in his chest and his cock growing warm and heavy in his pants.

What is wrong with him?

He can’t be thinking of her like that. This sweet precious little flower sitting so quietly with no wish to bother anyone, so soft and sweet he bet she’d cry if she so much as stepped on an ant. He wondered if she was a crier, if she’d be this adorable little crybaby ball of sobs and wet moans beneath him. He wondered what types of sound she’d make if he shoved his cock inside her. If she’d squeal and gasp and hiccup at his size, if she’d mewl, if she’d whimper, if she’d scream.

Fuck.

He needed to calm the fuck down.

To think he would never have met her if he hadn’t been forced to sign up to that stupid side-course. To think he was so mad that he didn’t make the cut for the class about war-theory and was forced to take philosophy with a bunch of air-headed freaks instead. To think he almost didn’t meet her. To think- fuck, he’s even starting to sound like one of them fucking philosophy-ditzes.

To be or not to be, or to drool over the girl sitting beneath the willow-tree.

Maybe that’s what he should submit next time they have one of those moronic poetry sessions. Perhaps then she would look at him with interest, with surprise and even praise, maybe even reverence, mirroring the look he gives her when she stands on the podium reciting her swirling words and artful descriptions, looking as though she’s entirely in her own world, dreaming, not just speaking but preaching, preaching to him about gods he’s never heard of yet somehow always believed in.

He used to believe gods drank blood and could only be celebrated through pain, that they made creatures like him, crafted him from dragon bones and fire and everything sharp and deadly, crafting him from war for war to become war itself, to find purpose in conquering, to find worth in glory. But now… looking at this creature, this creature who celebrates life and not death through laughter and daydreams and love far away from pain, he knows he’s had it all wrong.

He’s no good with words. He never has been. Except when insulting people, then he turns into a fucking lyric. What she can do is a gift. Either that, or she’s simply just insane. Either way, he doesn’t really care. She’s still soft, a tender type of madness, sweet and small and would look so good with a couple of love-bites to crash that display of milk and cream and cotton, so fucking brilliant with his handprint marking her ass… and he’s doing it again.

Fuck.

None of that will happen if he doesn’t grow a pair and go talk to her. But he can’t just talk to her. He has nothing to say. Or he has plenty to say, but nothing she could hear. He needed to find the most straightforward approach, however… while it needed to be unmistakable or lest she misunderstand, it couldn’t be aggressive. That would frighten her and he couldn’t risk spooking her away. He couldn’t risk ruining everything. It was apparent she didn’t think too much of him except that he was an angry looking boy in her Friday-classes, he needed to prove he too could be… sweet… or at least something akin to it.

He was wrong in thinking that anything would make her look up from her book. Even as he stood a mere meter away from her, she didn’t look up, completely lost and submerged in her own world as she always was. Only when he cleared his throat did she finally lift her gaze, eyes fluttering from traveling the pages and blinked softly to look up at him.

Cute.

He forgot to say anything, with a hand reached out, fisting the air, knuckles whitening in his grip, where inside the seemingly furious hand was something to contrast his otherwise deadly red stare.

The look of puzzlement on her face was insurmountable. Her small hands giving no indication to receive whatever he was offering.

“Is this a threat?” Came her soft voice, shaking him out of the faze he’d slipped into, though quickly plunging him into another one, this time not so much anticipation but confusion.

“What? No!” The both of them simply looked at each other for a moment. Bakugo’s hand still protruding out towards her, the thing in his hand no more tempting to accept than before to the girl who was still planted, making no action to get up from her spot.

“I don’t understand…” She admitted, wondering if he perhaps wanted her seat in the shade, but wasn’t given the time to ask the question as he decided to clear things up.

“It’s a flower.”

She could see that. It was a flower ripped from its root, an otherwise healthy flower before being suffocated in Bakugo’s death-grip.

“It’s a dead flower…” She corrected, a hint of sorrow on her features and he knew he was already failing in his pursuit, wanting to make things right before they could derail even more.

“It’s pretty... like you.” That came out as even more an ominous threat he realized, indicating she’d end up like the proven pretty dead flower in his chokehold.

“Are you sure this isn’t a threat?” The fact that she felt the need to ask him not only once but twice told him all he needed to know of her thoughts regarding him. She obviously thought he was a deranged explosive beast from the Hero-course.

“Goddamn it, no, I…” He frustrated, finding it hard to arrange the words, finding it hard to even find the words. “You… You’re so… You-” She was oblivious to how much he was struggling it seemed, as her personality suddenly shifted and she jumped up, book thrown to her side rather recklessly, skirt with ruffles and all bouncy with the same vigor as her tits.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, clapping her hands together, eyes wide with such bright light Bakugo almost felt blinded by, it even managing to frightened him a bit. “Thank you, that’s very good to know! I’d be terrified if I was anyone but me!” His brows lifted in dawning realization, feeling safer by being calmed by the reminder of how he was talking to a ditz, a complete mental-case… though… a mental-case who’d managed to dance her way and get lost in his heart. “Pardon me for being so blunt, but I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t ask.” Preparing him for her question, she leant in just a bit more, looking at him intently. “Are you yourself today, Bakugo?”

As absurd as the question was to him, when it rolled off her tongue it nearly seemed like the most casual of things to ask someone, as though she was requesting his thoughts on the weather. And though it was the epitome of peculiar, the more he thought about it, the more he realized how appropriate the question was, because he were, in fact, not at all feeling like himself.

“… No.”

She gave a contemplative look and a hum. “Then you must be Baku-gone…” He couldn’t hold back the snort that followed her statement, again being reminded of what a complete klutz she was, something so far away from his cynical view of the world and something far more relaxing than what his fears had managed to conjure of her rejection. It seemed so ridiculous now, that he’d thought she would run away or scream, never having let himself imagine her in what he knew was her true nature, light-hearted and incapable of doing any harm, at least not on purpose. “Wow, you really must be, huh?” She continued, fishing him out of his curt chuckling. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh. Come to think of it… I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you smile.” She mused, admiring the small pleasantness stretched upon his face.

But then his brows furrowed, the happiness seeping from his features and leaving them contorted with annoyance, much to her dismay, regretting her choice of words. “I smile.” He argued, looking at her as though demanding she explain herself.

She cocked her head to the side, eyeing him, scrunching her brows and biting her lip for a second or two as though she were in deep thought, not wanting to upset him any further, though not wanting to speak without candidness. “No… you… bare teeth… like a wolf eager to catch its prey.” His ears retracted, features taken aback by her observation, finding he couldn’t quite say otherwise, though he’d never viewed it that way, but again, the more he thought about it, the more all her strange words made sense as he found them to be true. Silly of him to think his wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing approach could fool her, silly of him to think he could fool himself into believing she’d ever consider going out with someone so… predatory.

Though, minds are easily swayed, he reminded himself of. Her opinion of him wasn’t set in stone after all. “Does it scare you?” He finally asked, finding that was the only thing he was actually curious about. Though… perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing if she did fear him just a bit, because god knows how terrified he is of her and how she makes him feel as though he’s bleeding or falling or stripped of everything, cut by the knees and naked and so very needy to have her just look at him.

“I would say no, but I cannot lie.” His heart sunk upon hearing her admit it, disappointed, not sure if it was in her or in him.

She’s scared… Of course, she is scared! Who wouldn’t be? Dumb of him to think anything else.

“But, that’s rather the point isn’t it? To scare people?” She took a step forward, eyes bright and hopeful, hating to think she’d upset him.

“Not you.” It was barely above a whisper, words simply cast out there, and it left the girl looking perplexed, curious and even guilt-stricken or ashamed.

“Well… I shouldn’t fear things I know too little about… that would be silly…” She felt the urge to touch him, wanting him to truly hear her words, wanting to enforce them by touch, yet as her hands reached out to take his all so brazenly her eyes fell upon the flower again. She didn’t really have any wish to touch something dead, it always being such a cold and empty feeling running like ice through her veins, yet she reached out to receive the flower anyway, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “So, if not my fear, what is it this Bakugone wishes of me then?” She slipped on a tender smile, genuine and perfect, her soft fingertips brushing against his.

“I…” He was so focused on how she was touching him, the pressure, the elegance, the perfection, so focused he forgot the words again, so focused on her soft fingertips, her warmth, her pastel-manicured nails, he didn’t realize how the movement had stilled.

“You want to eat my heart.”

Her voice made him look up from where they were conjoined, crimson orbs dragged slowly to meet the oddity of her voice no less her words, yet as he looked, he continued to search because he found no eyes looking back at him, only whites, wide gleaming glowing void whites staring at him.

“You want to rip open my ribcage and feast.” Shaken and confused his brows twisted as he yet again tried to find her eyes. “You want to see me burst and bloom for you.” He hadn’t tried pulling his hand away, not really wanting to either, but he realized he perhaps wouldn’t be able to even if he’d wanted with how hard she was now digging her once soft fingers into his wrist. “You want to cripple me. You want to hear my deathbed confession. You want to lick the sin from my expression.” Her brows were the ones to crinkle now as she inhaled a shuddering breath, her hand shaking as she held onto him, seemingly as though her life depended on it. “You want and you’ve been wanting for so long. You want and want, there’s no end to what you want.” Her voice was now frantic, sporadic, hitched and frightened. “You want more and more and more and more and more-” She shook so much she lost her footing and tripped, staggering back and hitting the dirt with a sharp thud, knocking her out of whatever trance she’d slipped into, no more words coming thundering from her lips except for a cute little exclamation of oof, fluffy skirt puffed out around her like a jellyfish.

“What the fuck!” He shouted once she let go, flower falling to the floor, dropped in the midst of his shock and confusion as to what had happened, yet also feeling embarrassed with how she’d seemed to have caught him red-handed, and shaken with how much she knew, disturbed with how it all had been phrased, yet concerned, concerned because he knew he’d failed, he’d scared her so much she nearly melted, but somehow even more concerned with how she’d hit the ground. “I’m-” She looked up at him and he was left dumbstruck with how wide her eyes were and how full they now seemed with the return of her irises and pupils. No longer looking like wax, but like great gems or galaxies he couldn’t help but fall prey to, especially with how glossy they were, shining and glimmering and wet, wet with tears.

“No wonder you feel gone.” She suddenly mumbled, or it wasn’t exactly a mumble, but in contrast to whatever voice she spoke in before it surely seemed subdued. “Someone’s run off with your heart!” She clumsily got back to her feet, gripping his shoulders, nearly making him stagger back and fall with just how intense and vivid her actions were thrown at him. “You’re in love!” She squealed, nearly screaming it at him, before reeling herself back in, probably only now realizing how she’d attacked the boy. “Excuse me, I mean pardon, I mean I’m terribly sorry if I frightened you.” She backed away, fingers playing with each other as she tumbled through her sentence. “It’s my quirk you see. It has a habit of living its own life. I didn’t mean to spout out your desires like that, it was a total invasion of your privacy and completely rude and unethical on my side. I really am so sorry. Would you forgive me?”

Wasn’t he the one who should be apologizing to her?

He remained stunned and confused and growing even more so by the second as she spoke. “Perhaps I could make it up to you? Perhaps I can help you in your quest to retrieve your heart? Who is the thief?”

And there it was.

She was so overwhelmed she didn’t even pick up who the emotions were for.

Silly thing.

This made him ease up. He hadn’t spoiled everything yet. In fact, she seemed even more enthusiastic now than before, even more eager to talk to him and help him even. “Is it that green-haired boy? What was his name again? Something with D or M, I can’t for the life of me remember! Or perhaps it’s the floaty one? You know, the one with the big brown eyes. No! I know who it is, it’s the one with the shark teeth, and the spikey red hair-” She rambled, and even though some of her suggestions revolted him, he couldn’t bring himself to stop her when she was so… so bouncy with thrill, so cute with how her tits squeezed together in her top and jumped for him with every word that fell from those lushes pink lips that would feel so good to bite into and feel on his neck and down his chest and-

“You can help me.” He suddenly blurted, whipping her from her rambling.

“Really?!” Big eyes, filled with such expectancy and acceptance of whatever he was about to request even without a shred of knowing what. “How?” It was as though it were her life wish to help, that denying him would mean death or something even worse in her eyes.

“By making it up to me.”

His grin returned, the one that lacked… not exactly happiness, because there was still a certain glee to it, a certain enjoyment, yet lacking altruism and was instead left looking greedy and gluttonous and as though he was made up of… teeth, and only teeth, and too many teeth, and that those teeth were too sharp.

“Oh.” She seemed drained of her vigorous passion, like a light snuffed out, swallowing thickly. And though she knew it all to be in her head, knew it all to be but a figment of her fears, she still took a step back as though she’d seen something that worried her, and was quickly followed by what had worried her as Bakugo paralleled her backtracking, leaving her no further away from his hungry open-mouthed smirk.

“Kiss me.” She realized she’d backed all the way into the tree, her back meeting the hard trunk seemed to shake her from her vision as the biting image submerged and left her with a quite normal-looking Bakugo towering over her, no longer Bakugone or just a toothy grin, and she was left deciding whether it was any better or maybe even worse than what she had been picturing.

Yet, she had no time to think as Bakugo’s hand raised to cup her cheek, where in the seconds it took for him to do so, she needed to prepare herself for all his obsessive lovesick thoughts she knew would yet again flood her mind, only now she wouldn’t shake from them, and what more, now she knew who they were about. Poor thing had taken Bakugo’s heart without knowing, without knowing to prepare for Bakugo’s blood-stained scarred hand to reach into her chest and hold her own terror-wide heart in a chokehold as he too took it for himself. Without knowing how to protect herself from his many sharp teeth that would steal and eat to satiate what livid hungry fire, what desperate thirst she’d awoken inside his heart, to relieve the pain of it all, to finally breath again, to find safety, to find belonging, to find life. And she had no way of preparing for it, no way of protecting herself from it, no way of hiding from Bakugo’s sharp teeth… but when his hand, his calloused sandpaper-textured palm handled her cheek she was met with a new image, a soft-tinted mellow yet dramatic rhapsodic fire, one that she rather cherished than feared, one that she felt like chasing, one that seemed like it was calling her.

Bakugo leaned in slowly, as though asking for permission, receiving no complaints, just a set of large eyes staring at him. Her hands, feeling as though their fingertips had plunged deep into the bark of the tree behind her, ripped loose to touch him, feeling the simmering plethora of brutally violent passions swimming beneath them as they hovered on top of his skin. Tasting it on her tongue as he captured her soft lips with his own stiff ones. She could taste the hunger, the teeth, the longing, the pain, the fire, the waiting and time he’d suffered in the darkness all alone, she could taste the war, but more… she could taste the fear, the fear of losing or not having at all, and at the very tip of her tongue, stronger than anything else, she caught it, the flavor crystalized like sugar… hope… love.

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

[morgana-ren]

it is not a request, but think of yourself calling tomura king and saying if you are worthy of being your queen.🤴👸🤴👸

Awhaaa you’re makin my nasty cold heart all soft here.

I just kinda imagine being a totally unwaveringly loyal member of the league, body and soul devoted to Tomura and his cause. You’re with him through everything, all his victories and defeats and doubts and troubles. There’s a sort of bond that forms when people endure strife together, a strange little twist of fate that keeps you trauma bound, and Shigaraki is no exception.

He’s a brick wall, but he’s still human. He’s going to voice his insecurities and personality pitfalls, even as he tries to frame them as learning experiences that he can grind through for experience to level up. I imagine he’d likely only voice them to those he trusts, much like he does to Kurogiri in the bar when he’s just musing and trying to strategically figure out how to improve. If you’ve stuck around and proven yourself loyal, maybe chiseled yourself a place in that hardened soul of his.

He just kinda talks. Not necessarily to you, but at you. Basically thinks out loud. Most of the time, it’s better to just listen and absorb what he’s saying. Trying to add to the conversation basically derails his thoughts and he doesn’t like that. But sometimes it’s hard not to. When he’s being down on himself after a defeat, it’s hard not to reassure him of his true purpose and express your admiration for him like a lovesick little school girl.

Sometimes you can’t help yourself, you know?

“You’re the king, Tomura-San. Please don’t forget that.”

It’s adorable, in a way, your unshakable admiration for him. It’s what he needs to move forward, to use your enthusiasm as fuel to keep moving forward when anger and rage blinds him and beats as his resolve. Eventually, he comes to rely on it a bit, though he’d never admit it. He knows he has his master and Kurogiri, but you have no ties to him. You’ve anchored yourself to his ship willingly and of your own free will, so clearly he must be doing something right. He didn’t have to manipulate or blackmail. He walked and you followed, simple as that.

The thing about Kings is that they have a Queen. Even in chess, the Queen is the most important piece, the game becomes a fat loss without one. It’s not really an angle he considered, at least not before you.

It could be nice, he thinks, having someone at his side like that. Someone who fights with equal ferocity, equal intensity in his name. When he takes this land, it might be lovely to share in the destruction with someone. Someone he trusts. Someone who has been there from the beginning. Someone who skulks around in his brain in places they shouldn’t even as he vehemently denies that part of himself.

You’d look fitting at his side, a crown of ash upon your head and dust beneath your feet. The only thing deserving of surviving his wrath. Is that what a Queen should be? Someone who followed him to the ends of the Earth and helped him rip it apart? Every game he’s ever played, the King has his Queen, and the air beside him feels so strangely empty.

He’s not one for affection, but he thinks if he was, he would be for you. There’s an undeniable soft spot in his soul where you reside. He’s never considered before, at least not actively. But the more he thinks, the more it plagues his brain.

He can’t offer you safety or stability. He doesn’t care for gold and riches. But he can lay low the world at your feet and watch as you step on it. You can walk hand in hand through the barren lands, reveling in the beauty of your new world. He can’t imagine his dream without you anymore, and that, he thinks, is love.

[liziocit]

Family is patchwork, put together to make something colourful and warm (Pt.1)

This was inspired by @angstymdzsthoughts's JZX and WWX are friends Au. It derailed into something else, I hope you enjoy.

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

It’s cold, he thinks.

Wei Ying shivers as a breeze brushes him by, goosebumps keep erupting on his skin even as he rubs them with his hands. He has to put his hands together and rub them frequently to get any warmth.

He wishes his parents were here with him, he doesn’t remember much about them. But he likes to imagine that whenever he is this cold his parents would carry him in a warm enveloping hug.

They would take him into a warm tub and scrub him gently while he played with them. He would be picked up after he feels all warmed up after that he’d be dried off and clothed with comfortable clean clothes.

Then he’d be placed on a bed to sleep and his parents would surround him like a barrier against the cold world with snarling dogs.

“Hey,” a voice startles him out of his day-dreaming.

A boy about Wei Ying’s age is in front of him, scowling as he looks around the street Wei Ying is in.

He is lavishly dressed with an obnoxious yellow colour as his clothing’s main theme, a stab of jealousy pierces through Wei Ying as he sees how the clothes shelter him in heat with their padding.

The boy or perhaps the young master is holding a lump in his hands, he is opening and closing his mouth a lot. He seems to be contemplating what he is going to say.

Although Wei Ying prefers to be uninterrupted in his day-dreams, his curiosity is something that he prefers to indulge when he can. He continues to watch this boy.

“I don’t need this,” the young master gestures at the lump,“ because I have too many to count normally I’d just throw them out.”

“But I am giving this to you because that’s what heroes do,” he continues as he seriously gives Wei Ying the lump.

Of all the things he expected this wasn’t any one of them. Was that what he was taking time to say?

Then the boy with yellow takes off running.

Are all young masters like that ? They must all be weirdos, then.

Wei Ying opens up the lump and sees it's a blanket stitched with golden peonies with 9 petals, it has the colour scheme of the young master: overwhelming yellow and accents of white. It smelled fresh.

His eyes blur as he wraps himself in the blanket, it was like a physical barrier against the unforgiving wintery air of Yiling.

It reminded him of his parents again.

He regrets thinking that the young master was a weirdo, he isn’t one. He’s a hero, one who runs away at the end instead of listening to the thanks he ought to receive, but that’s okay, maybe one day they’ll meet again.

He’ll say thank you then.

----

In the end, he doesn’t stay in Yilling long enough to see his hero again.

He is picked by Uncle Jiang, he ends up in Yunmeng, where winter is spent in warm disciple clothes, eating warm lotus pork rib soup and playing with his shidi. With his warm and overwhelming shijie and shidi: Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng.

---

He eventually forgets about his hero, but still holds onto his blanket revelling in its comfort.

His blanket had been worn down enough that only a small piece remained, it became a brown gold, darkened by the elements and time. He became gloomy about that.

However, his shidi , who couldn’t stand to see his shixiong gloomy, brought up something.

“Since you look gloomy whenever you see your diminishing clot-”

“It’s not a cloth, it's a blanket!” Wei Ying interrupts as he gestures towards his very small blanket.

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes and continues ,”We could just add Yunmeng fabric to it am not sure where we’d get the fabric for that one,”

“But it won’t be the same you know, it has to have a certain feel to it,” he says as he runs his hand through the fabric: soft and silky to the touch. Yunmeng has no fabric like it.

Jiang Cheng frowns pensively at Wei Ying, “Then we’ll just have to look for it won’t we,”

“You say that as if it's simple,” Wei Ying retorts without looking at Jiang Cheng. ”I’ll know, I looked all around for it when we went to the market it wasn’t there,"

“I can’t believe am saying this,” Jiang Cheng mutters under his breath.

“Wei Wuxian! The Yunmeng Jiang sect has a motto,’Do the Impossible’,” Wei Ying looks up,” we are of the Yunmeng Jiang sect and we will do the impossible,”

[dramioneasks]

HP FESTS: Dramione RomCom Fest (Part 1)

Dramione RomCom Fest 2020:

12 Years and 3 Months by pixiedustandbluebutterflies - T, one-shot - As news of their engagement takes Wizarding England by storm, elusive power couple Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are finally sharing their love story in this Witch Weekly interview!

50 (First) Dates with Hermione Granger by HufflepuffMommy - G, WIP - Draco Malfoy sets his heart on romancing Hermione Granger, but she has short-term memory loss; she can't remember anything that happened the day before. So every morning, Draco has to woo her again. Her friends are very protective, and Draco must convince them that he's in it for love. Plot (andsummary) taken from the movie "50 First Dates" for the Dramione RomCom fest!

About Time by WordsmithMusings - E, WIP - When Draco's Father reveals to him that the men in their family have the ability to travel back in time, he uses his newfound gift to do many things - save a life, be a better friend, reconnect with a witch, and fall in love.

All's well that ends well (to end up with you) by weestarmeggie - M, one-shot - Hermione Granger is all set to be the maid of honor at her best friends wedding. She is taken back when she finds out that the best man is none other than her ex-fiance.

Away by In_Dreams - E, WIP - Desperate for a change of pace, Hermione unknowingly commits to a home exchange with Pansy Parkinson and finds herself swept up in the chaos of New York City and into the arms of Draco Malfoy. Dramione/Hansy. Loosely inspired by The Holiday.

Bells on a Hill by HeyJude19 - T, WIP - Left by his fiancée a month before the ceremony, Draco never got his dream wedding, so agreeing to assist Granger with her own wedding planning to distract himself from his broken engagement seems like a great idea—though Draco probably shouldn't fall in love with the bride-to-be. Based very (very) loosely on The Wedding Singer.

Chasing the Future by Rdlentz8 - T, WIP - An unusual and anonymous Patronus finds a frustrated Hermione alone in the library and talks to her about being lonely. Could this be the push she's needed to change her fate? Inspired by A Cinderella Story. There are direct quotes from A Cinderella Story.

Domino Effect by KoraKwidditch - M, WIP - Resolved to live her life in Muggle London, Hermione Granger finally felt free. Free from the Ministry, free from her celebrity status and everything that entailed. But who knew that one cataclysmal incident would lead her straight into the Malfoy's den and down a series of unfortunate events? At least they think she's a Muggle.**A Dramione retelling of While You Were Sleeping**

Fairytales and Wishes by Charlie9646 - T, one-shot - All Scorpius wants is for Hermione to be a nice step mother, but somehow that sort of gets lost in translation with his accidental magic.

Flipping Through the Pages by DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns - T, WIP - Draco Malfoy had a fascination with a popular book series and its writer. His life changes when he meets her.

The Hate List by bethelson - T, WIP - While chaperoning the post graduation trip, Hermione and Draco find themselves wandering the streets of Paris in the middle of the night, fruitlessly searching for the seventh years they were supposed to be in charge of. What Hermione doesn’t know, is that those seventh years struck a bargain with Draco to keep her occupied so they could sneak out for a last hurrah before they all head back to London. So in his efforts to derail her search, he convinces her to join him in their own night of frivolity. As they paint the city red, they slowly learn to let their guards down, and find that putting the past behind them allows them to finally focus on the present. ___ My contribution to the Dramione RomCom Fest!

Hollywood & Vine by dreamsofdramione (Bugggghead), msmerlin - M, WIP - As the manager of an occult bookstore currently renting a room from an old friend and living paycheck to paycheck, Hermione wasn’t exactly living the Hollywood dream. But her life is turned upside down when a chance encounter with Tinseltown’s current heartthrob, Draco Malfoy, leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about life and love. or the one in which Hermione unintentionally falls in love with a movie star.

Home is Where the Heart Is by lrs002 - T, one-shot - A rewrite and Draco/Hermione look at basically the last scenes of the movie Sweet Home AlabamaOr in the other words: The Wedding and the Kiss

How to Lose a Wizard in 10 Days by GracefulLioness - E, WIP - Hermione will do anything to prove to her boss at Witch Weekly that she's ready to take on more serious topics, including dating a man just to drive him away for the sake of her next column, How to Lose a Wizard in 10 Days. But pushing Draco Malfoy away proves to be a challenging task, perhaps because he's got ten days to make her fall in love with him. Inspired by How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

It Happened One Knight by Klawdee - T, WIP - “A spoiled heir running away from his family is helped by an old classmate, who is actually a journalist in need of a story.” Based off of the 1934 film, It Happened One Night

It's All In The Malfoy Family by TwilightToMidnight - M, one-shot - Over a decade of longing and desire comes to fruition one night. Not quite the way Hermione expected but definitely with a bang. Everyone and their dog seem to be working against her. For the 2020 Dramione RomCom Fest. Loosely based off Sabrina (1954 - with Audrey Hepburn).

Love, Actually in Dramione by Blessedindeed - G, one-shot - I absolutely love the movie "Love, Actually" and was so excited to make some art pieces from a few of the more memorable scenes! Many thanks and kudos to QuinTalon & NuclearNik for hosting and being such amazing encouragers to everyone! I cannot wait to dive into all these fun pieces!!

Love, Hermione by pandora_rose_xo - G, WIP - When Hermione leaves some personal letters lying around in a sleepy haze, Dobby comes across them, and trying to be helpful delivers them to their recipients. Who were never supposed to see them.

Metamorphosis by persephone_stone - T, WIP - Draco Malfoy is king of Hogwarts High—student body president, captain of both the water polo and basketball teams, and boyfriend of Astoria Greengrass, the hottest girl in school. That is, until said girlfriend returns from Spring Break with some unexpected news: she’s dumping him for a college boy. Now, Draco is on a mission to win her back. And who better to help him turn into a more intellectual, cultured version of himself than Hermione Granger, the smartest girl in school? As he and Hermione spend time together, will Draco learn how to be the right type of boyfriend for Astoria? Or will he instead learn that maybe Astoria is not the right type of girl for him? Written for the Dramione RomCom Fest, based on the 90’s teen romcom She’s All That.

Midnight in Paris by Aneiria - E, one-shot - ‘Granger,’ Draco replied, casting a quick wandless charm to clean his own clothes. ‘Want to watch the magic you’re casting next time? Whatever spell that was, it nearly took both of us out.’ Hermione’s face settled into a frown of confusion. ‘I thought that was you,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘I wasn’t using magic.’ They both looked away at the same time, taking in their surroundings. ‘Where are we?’ Hermione wondered out loud, as she spun on the spot and took in the sights. It was the wrong question, really.

My Big Fat Muggle Wedding by BiscuitsForPotter - G, one-shot - Draco's gotten more used to having Muggles as future-in-laws, but what about his parents?

No More Waiting by anchoredto717 - T, one-shot - The end of Hogwarts, an impending Mastery, and confirmation that Hermione is well and truly over Ronald Weasley: three factors that push Draco into a place he never imagined. Is he really going to Harry Potter’s house party? A one shot heavily inspired by the 90s teen classic, Can’t Hardly Wait.

Off the Rails by RoseHarperMaxwell - E, WIP - For the Dramione RomCom Fest 💚 My adaptation of the movie Trainwreck (Amy Schumer/Bill Hader), featuring Draco in Amy's role. “Pans.” Draco’s head falls back petulantly. “I can't interview Granger, especially not about how she's healing Potter. Neither of them are going to want to talk to me. Make Creevey do it.” “No, you'll do it. And don't sulk at me, Draco.” Pansy shuts him down immediately, not that he expected to talk her out of it. She gives assignments, not suggestions. “Old Quidditch rivalries. Gryffindor Princess confiding in the Prince of Slytherin, with a side of The Boy Who Lived. You’re the only one for it.” She drops her pen on her notepad with finality. “She’s also fit as hell now. I’d even fuck her, so our readers will be drooling over her. This is easy, Draco. Don’t fuck it up.”

One Thing We've Got by IrisCalasse - M, WIP - Over a decade after the Second Wizarding War, Draco Malfoy is a broke socialite straddling the Muggle and magical worlds. One day a new neighbour moves in his residential complex. What has happened to Hermione Granger to make her hide from Ronald Weasley? If Cormac McLaggen is gay, why is he hanging around Granger so much? And why does her cat seem to know way too much about everything? Based on the plot of Breakfast at Tiffany's, but set in 2012 London with a magical twist. Updates every 16th of the month.

Pin down your heart by hiyas - G, one-shot - Hermione Granger contemplates a door when Destiny comes knocking.

Playing Cupid by tygermine - T, one-shot - Set It Up AU.

Pretty Witch by TakingFlight48 - E, WIP - When confronted with the opportunity to take on an alter ego - Hermione Granger, Potion's Mistress and the Wizarding World's Golden Girl became Vivian Roberts - London's weekend escort. For three years she lived in this duality until Draco Malfoy, lost in Soho and driving a precious DB6, wound up uncovering her secret. This is the tale of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy finding a balance between work and love through the guise of fake dating, unacknowledged feelings, and Hermione not wanting to let go of a part of herself that is no longer serving her.

Promises, Promises by Musyc - T, one-shot - Lawyer and social work advocate Hermione Granger is one signature away from fulfilling her dream to have a house-elf education program. All she needs is to seal the deal, and Draco Malfoy has promised the full support of Malfoy and Son Developments. But the owner of the property is balking, there's a new buyer in the mix, and a promise isn't a contract.

The Proposal by FaeOrabel - M, WIP - When Head of Creatures Division of the DMLE, Hermione Granger, is pushed into a corner regarding a new marriage law she doesn't want to comply with, she gets the brilliant idea to stage an engagement with her long time, loyal assistant, Draco Malfoy. Draco goes along with the charade on the condition she gets him promoted to a new position. A deal set, they prepare to fool not only the Minister of Magic, but Hermione's best friend, and Draco's entire family. What could go wrong? Just the threat of Azkaban should they fail.

PS I love you by emotionalsupporthufflepuff - M, WIP - After a tragic accident, Hermione must reintroduce Draco to a life they've built far away from home. She recieves unexpected help in a series of letter written by Draco himself before the accident...

Regrets Only by nztina - T, WIP - Draco and Hermione are the best of friends - until Hermione goes off to teach at Hogwarts and Draco realises that he doesn’t just miss her. Upon her return to London, he intends to reveal his feelings, but she has a surprise of her own, one that will definitely put a damper on Draco’s plans. Draco. Hermione. And...Hermione’s fiancé?

Restless in Ripon by QuinTalon - T, WIP - Scorpius Malfoy wants his father to be happy again and as his grandfather often told him, a Malfoy always gets what he wants. A nosy radio host, well-meaning friends, and fate will help bring two lonely souls together. Well, that and one tenacious eight-year-old.

Rushing Back by floorcoaster - M, WIP - Draco Malfoy is thirty, surviving, and very much not thriving. He's near the utter end of himself when he experiences the worst of all possible bad days--a double betrayal that rocks him to his core. Unmoored, untethered, he winds up in a strange place, where he begins an adventure through time that will change the course of his life. A time travel fic with a twist on the movie "13 Going on 30."

Say Anything by MidnightValkyrie - G, 9 Chapters - To know Draco Malfoy is to love him. Hermione Granger is about to know Draco Malfoy. Written and created for the Dramione RomCom Fest, based on Say Anything.

She's the Snake by monsterleadmehome - E, WIP - In a universe where Voldemort never came back, Harry lives with Sirius, and Dumbledore isn't dying, the worst thing the Golden Trio has to contend with is their grades and Quidditch matches... oh, and the recent magical attacks on Muggles and Muggle-borns. Harry is sure Malfoy had something to do with it, and though Hermione doesn't agree, her sarcastic offer somehow turns into her latest nightmare: to go undercover as a boy in the Slytherin dorms and find out what's really going on. And maybe throw a Quidditch game or two. But there's one thing she hasn't prepared for: falling in love with the boy she's supposed to be spying on.

Signed and Sealed by niffizzle - M, WIP - She owns a children's bookstore. He runs a corporation buying significant shares of small businesses. Never in their lives have Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy gotten along — or so they think.

Timing is Everything by anne_ammons - M, 7 Chapters - Draco Malfoy is your average bachelor living an average bachelor's life, until he crosses paths with his former classmate, Hermione Granger. Strike that - when has Draco Malfoy ever been average? A retelling of the 1994 movie, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Dramione-style.

A Trip to Kouloura Beach by rennaissance_woman - one-shot - A day at the beach, what could happen?

The Truth About Kneazles and Crups by samkablam7 - T, WIP - When Draco Malfoy started hosting his wizarding radio show The Truth About Kneazles and Crups, he had no idea that it would bring Hermione Granger back into his life. He also didn't know that they would both be interested in each other. The only problem? She thinks that the radio host she's interested in is his best friend and Pro-Quidditch-player-wannabe, Blaise Zabini.

Untitled Marital Crisis Comedy by Darlingheart - G, one-shot - Draco is rich, handsome, and most importantly, excellent with the ladies. Harry Potter is not. Which is where Draco comes in. With Draco’s help Harry will learn there’s more to life than being a one-woman man. But what happens when Draco meets someone who changes his mind? And what does Hermione Granger have to do with it...

A Woman of Some Dignity by mcal - G, one-shot - That seemed to get his attention. “What are you—of course I respect you, you daft witch!”

“Your actions today show the opposite!” I answered. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m a woman of some dignity and I’d like to shower in peace. You’ll kindly wait half an hour before Apparating back to my flat.”  Hermione's not one for diaries, but it's been a week to say the least. It all started off with a confusing meeting with Draco Malfoy in her office, and... well, Hermione thought maybe recording her thoughts on the events would help her process. She isn't wrong.

You lost and lonely, You just like heaven by Wake_The_Dragon - T, WIP - Dramione Romcom Fest. Hermione Granger had needed something new and a change of scenery was a good start. What she hadn't counted on was renting a flat with an annoying (if handsome) ghost, who claims he isn't dead. Somehow, helping out a ghost and falling in love were two things she hadn't bargained for.

You Wish by Talonwillow (Ehollis303) - T, WIP - What makes a bad case of "Black Cat Flu" more tolerable? Young Perseus is learning that hearing about dueling, torture, revenge, giants, dementors, chases, true love, and miracles from his Grandfather Scorpius certainly makes things easier- If the man would finish the story that is. A story about love, where not even death can keep the beautiful feisty stable-girl and her sometimes irritating one true love apart. Together they must battle the evil Lord Voldemort through an adventure crossing the magical and fairy tale realm.

[flowercrown-bard]

A new us will begin (13/ ?)

word count: 4613

AO3

part 1   / part 2 / part 3  / part 4  / part 5 / part 6  / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12

content warnings: blood, injury, assault (not sexual)

The light of the midday sun bore down on Lark, as he strolled through the streets of Gors Velen and gave his hair an almost golden shimmer.

Golden, like the handful of coins that sat heavy in his purse. If anyone had told him a couple of years ago that he would one day have more to his name than a few silver coins at the most, he'd have laughed bitterly and shuffled off, dreaming of all he would have been able to eat if he'd owned that kind of money.

Now that he did, his stomach did a little flip whenever he looked at prices for things he didn't want to buy, but would be able to afford if he did. It still seems unreal to him, even after having lived like this for some years now.

He hummed a little tune, fiddling with the hem of the doublet that Desanka had gifted to him a month back. The blue colour was a little washed out and the sleeves were too big – perfect to hide things in, as Desanka had called it with a wink – but he wouldn’t have changed it for the world. Though it came nowhere close to being as extravagant as a real bard’s attire would be, it gave Lark the ability to walk among people without receiving strange looks for his ragged and dirtied clothes and sometimes, when he was brave enough to do so, he could even pretend to be a bard while wearing this and people would be more willing to believe the illusion. But more importantly than that: Desanka had gone into a town to get the garment for Lark. Despite the years they’ve been living together now, she still refused to tell him why she only rarely visited towns with him and it meant the world to Lark that she would do this just to give him something that made him happy.

The memory of that day and the confidence the doublet gave him, brought a smile to his lips that were humming a little tune. The melody was catchy, one of the ones you only had to hear once to have it stuck in your ear indefinitely, though he couldn't for the life of him remember where he had heard the tune or what words accompanied it. Something about coins? Or maybe he just imagined that because that was the thing he had been thinking about before.

It didn't matter.

With the tune on his lips and a skip in his step, he made his way past the Thief’s Bastion, grinning a little as he passed it, and towards the tavern where the promise of coin awaited him.

As always, when he reached a tavern or inn, Lark took a quick detour to the stables. There wasn't much sense to it, but he loved seeing the horses and maybe getting to pet them a little or sneaking them the treats he had once stolen from a particularly stingy and unfriendly vendor on a whim, only to realise a second too late that he didn't have a horse to give these treats to.

Besides, when he went to the stables, there was always the slim chance that someone had left their belongings with their horse while bargaining for a room at an inn or buying a drink for the road.

Lark kept humming as he passed the boxed, every once in a while stopping to stroke down the face of a friendly looking horse. One of them blew a warm breath at his face and nudged his shoulder. A soft grin spread across Lark's face and he petted the soft nose.

"You're a pretty one, aren't you?" he cooed at the brown horse. His eyes drifted over the animal and his grin became devious. "My my, and you're carrying some heavy bags." he kicked his tongue in mock disapproval, while he threw a quick glance at the stable doors and slipped into the horse's box when he was sure the owner wasn't coming back. "It's truly unfair of your owner to let you carry such heavy things like - damn, a sword?"

His brows rose up and he pulled the sword halfway out of the scabbard, only to reveal gleaming silver. He sucked in a sharp breath and put the weapon back as if he had burned himself. His heart was racing and he risked another glance at the door. If the owner was able to afford a blade made out of pure silver, they must be rich and influential. The best person to steal from - and the worst to get caught by.

Lark's throat grew tight as he fumbled with the clasps of the saddle bags. A triumphant sound escaped him, when he reached inside and almost immediately found a handful of small bottles. He pulled one out and held it against the dim light falling in through a dirty window. He squinted and gave the bottle a little shake, making the sluggish golden substance inside slosh around. Whatever this was, the unusual colour alone must make it extremely valuable. Never before had Lark seen a liquid of such a strange colour.

He leaned closer to uncork the bottle and take a sniff at its contents, but found his limps not obeying him. Something uncomfortable squirmed in his guts, an almost nauseating feeling of danger, warning him not to touch these bottles and commanding him to put them back. He ignored the strangely growly voice in his mind. He was a self-respecting thief, after all, and as such, he would not let a bad gut feeling derail him.

Shaking his head to get rid of the unsettling feeling, he dug around in the bag again and pulled out another bottle, stuffing it into his pockets, without trying to find out what it was he was bagging. Though it would be nice to know just what exactly he was taking with him so he could discern what it was worth, there was no doubt he wouldn't be able to make up what it was and get a decent prize for it when he sold it even so.

Spurred on by his find, Lark moved on to the next saddlebag, digging around in it carefully, trying not to disturb the order of the things in it too much.

A frown furrowed his brows as he pulled out a simple shirt that looked even worse than the ones he was used to wearing. There were holes in it and a strange stain covered its lower half. Confused, Lark brought it closer to his face and squinted at it. The dim light in the stable wasn't bright enough for him to be sure but it almost looked like... like blood.

Immediately, Lark shoved the shirt back into the bag and stumbled backwards till he hit the wall of the box. The horse snorted and nudged him again with its nose.

Lark paid it no attention. His heart was pounding painfully fast against his ribs. The fuck kind of person carried a silver sword and bloodied clothes around?

A distant sound snapped him out of his shock. A door being thrown open so harshly that it connected with the wall with a bang and the sound of quick, angry steps and mutterings came closer.

Lark couldn't see yet whom this deep and frustrated voice belonged to, but he didn't care to stick around and find out.

His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, as he pushed the door to the box open with trembling fingers, just enough to slip through and dash into the empty box opposite of the one with the horse carrying the silver sword. He cowered down and pressed his back against the wall, praying that the man, whose steps came closer still, wouldn't notice him.

Lark screwed his eyes shut tightly, as he heard the door to the box he had just been in open again. The two bottles he had stolen from him felt like they were burning in his pockets.

The man was going to know. He was going to realise that Lark had stolen from him and he had a sword and a bloodstains on his shirt. Lark didn't want to find out what such a person would do to him if he realised Lark had taken something of his. He shouldn't have come here. He should have just gone inside the tavern, where he had known he would get enough coin to last him and Desanka a while.

Oh gods, Desanka! She was waiting for him to come back. She probably wouldn't even realise that something was wrong until nightfall. And even then, there was no telling what she would think. As protective as she was of Lark and how much they loved each other, she still got that hint of trepidation and fear in her eyes every time he left for town or said something wrong, though he never could figure out what exactly he had said to set her off, as if she was still worried that he would leave her. He couldn't leave her!

Lark didn't dare to even do as much as look at the dangerous stranger, for fear of him somehow feeling Lark's eyes on his back and turning to find him.

"Come on, then," the stranger said to his horse with surprising softness,considering he had just cursed up a storm under his breath. "Can't catch a break. Gotta find the beast and then we can get our well-deserved break. If these shitheads don't short us again."

The clacking of hooves indicated that the man was releasing his horse from the box and leading her outside.

Lark held his breath, until the sounds had faded and he could be sure that the man was well and truly gone. Only then did he release a shuddering breath and got back up on trembling legs, still leaning against the wall until his heartbeat had calmed enough to let him breathe evenly and give him control over his fingers again. A thief with trembling fingers was a thief waiting to get caught and thrown in a prison. The though alone of sitting in a dark cell with rats and no food, was enough to make his skin crawl.

Taking one more deep breath, he straightened out his doublet and put on a smile that spoke of confidence he didn’t feel, before making his way out of the stables and into the adjoining tavern.

The Silver Heron was full of patrons, just as Lark had suspected, but instead of raucous laughter and shouts for more ale, a strange tension hung in the air. Not that Lark could blame them. If the man with the silver sword had just been in here, he wouldn’t have been having a good time either. But be that as it may, Lark needed those folks in here to be less tense and on guard. No one who was already suspicious of people around them, made an easy target for sticky fingers.

Lark let his eyes roam across the room; over the large windows letting in the midday sun, the decorative heron figures standing over a mantelpiece and the paintings adorning the walls. This was no shady tavern, no seedy place for never-do-wells and slackers to come. People who visited this sort of establishment for lunch, had coin enough to spare some for Lark, surely. If only they stopped shooting glares at the door and murmuring amongst themselves.

Well, good thing Lark knew exactly how to get people to ease up a little. He ran a hand over his doublet and through his hair and strode to the middle of the room, where he’d be able to see most of the people sitting at the tables.

For a moment, he just stood there silently, wearing a mask of calm confidence. The table with three burly men in fine clothing that didn’t quite fit the style of their unkempt beards, was the last to go quiet. Confused but curious, the patrons stared at Lark, waiting to find out what he was standing in the middle of the room for.

Lark preened under the attention, though a small part of him still wanted to flee from crowds. He threw a dazzling smile at the people and began to sing.

It was a song he had heard a bard sing a couple of weeks ago, when Lark had used the distraction created by the lutist to let his hands wander into other people’s pockets. And yet, even as he had made sure Desanka and him wouldn’t have to worry about coin for a couple of days, he had been mesmerized by the bard himself, so much so, that after only a couple of minutes, he had given up on his work and had sat down to listen to the musician, leaning forward with wide eyes and his lips moving with the lyrics of the song.

He had come back to Desanka that day, with less coin than he had promised, but with a new song to sing to her. She had clapped along and danced a little with him, but at the end of the day, laughter and music wouldn’t feed them.

Not until now. Lark new he was no bard. His doublet, though colourful was not as rich in embroidery and frills as an actual bard’s would be. He had no instrument to create sweet harmonies to his voice and his songs, like all of his belongings, were stolen from people better than him.

And yet, as his voice soared up or fell into a near-whisper, he saw a blond woman lean closer, a man with important looking papers spread out in front of him, ignore his work in order to listen to him and even the barkeep, who had been scowling at everything that moved, uncrossed his arms and tabbed the rhythm of Lark’s song onto the counter.

Lark took that as a cue to start moving. It was risky to try and steal from people while he was the one they paid attention to, but the attention made Lark dizzy and bolder than he probably should be.

Every note he sang chased away a bit of the fear that had flared up at him in the stables.

He moved with a graze he hadn’t known he possessed, as if this was something he had done a hundred times before. Lark winked at the blonde woman, bringing her bejewelled hand to his lips and slipping one of her rings off her finger unnoticed, while she was sighing and looking deeply into his eyes.

A spark of pride and excitement shot through him, when he slipped the ring into his pockets, unseen by anyone, though all eyes were on him.

He draped his arm around a young man’s shoulders, who blushed furiously, as Lark leaned closer, as if singing only to him, though the entire tavern was watching. His other hand dipped lower, sneaking into the man’s pockets and swiping a couple of coins.

With a roguish smirk that made the man’s blush deepen even more, Lark pulled away again, striding over to his next involuntary benefactor.

Strangely enough, though, before he could slip his hand into the tall moustached man’s pocket, the man did it himself, producing a noble and tossing it to Lark, who caught the coin, his eyes wide in surprise. The man inclined his head to him and continued swaying a little to the rhythm of Lark’s tune.

To Lark’s surprise and joy, the single coin he earned legally didn’t stay alone. Soon enough, other members of his audience tossed coins to him, giving him approving smiles or lifting their tankards to him in a toast.

Lark could have gotten drunk on the praise and a small part of him was filled with righteous smugness. He would bet anything he owned, that those people who were now so easily charmed by a young adult with a bright smile were the same ones who wouldn’t have wasted a single copper on the starving child he had been. It felt unbelievably good to rid them of their coin, whether they gave it to him willingly or not. Perhaps he even enjoyed it more when they paid him, if only so he could laugh silently about the knowledge that he had tricked them into liking someone they would have scoffed at, if he weren’t wearing a doublet and wasn’t prancing around, as if he belonged in their midst.

He finished his performance with a high note that got drowned out in applause and swept his arms to the sides as he bowed deeply. After he collected all of the coins littering the floor, he turned towards the bar, where the barkeep was already waiting for him with an ale.

“On the house,” he said gruffly, but with a warm smile beneath his bushy beard that lark returned brightly, as he snatched up the pint and took a swig, hiding his grimace behind the tankard. It wasn’t often that he got to drink ale and he still wasn’t used to the taste. One time, he had bought a bottle of the stuff for Desanka, just to see if she shared his sentiment about the drink. Her disgusted face when she had taken a too large swig had made Lark burst out into laughter, which then in turn had made her dump some of the ale onto his head, making both of them laugh even more. If she were here, she would look so smug when Lark hard to force down the gulp to not offend the barkeep.

“Thank you,” Lark said, when the bitter taste had disappeared somewhat from his tongue. “If you were so kind, I’d like to buy two hearty meals for the road, if that’s possible.”

He pushed three nobles across the counter and the barkeep took them and turned around to grab some bowls with lids, so that Lark would be able to carry them back to the camp in the nearby woods where Desanka was waiting for him. He couldn’t wait to tell her about his performance.

That is, he still had to wait a little longer, because there was no way, he would be able to finish his ale anytime soon. Small sips was all he could get down, so he’d probably be stuck here for a little while longer.

When the barkeep handed him the bows and a cheap bag to carry them in, Lark balanced them in one hand and grabbed the pint with the other to search for a table to sit down at. His mouth twisted in displeasure, when he realised that the only free table was right next to the one with the three men who had been staring daggers at the door earlier and who were now back to heatedly talking amongst each other, the anger and disdain pouring off of them almost palpable.

Lark didn’t intend to listen in, but as he sipped his ale and counted his coin, it was inevitable that he heard what they were discussing so animatedly.

“- greedy bastard asked for more money than his own life is worth,” the man with the longest beard hissed. “You heard how he refused to kill the beast for less than 150 nobles?”

One of the other men, the tallest of them with short cropped dark hair and a deep furrow between his brows, grunted in response and took a swig of his tankard.

“As if he really needed that coin! That silver sword of his would already fetch a nice price. Not to mention the medallion.” He gave his friends a smile that sent an unpleasant shiver down Lark’s spine and made him avert his eyes quickly. “I know a guy or two who would pay good coin to get their hands on one of those medallions.”

“Collectors?”

“Of course.” The unsettling grin got even wider. “I already sold a cat and a bear medallion to them. Got lucky and found the first witcher dead already. The second one wasn’t too hard to take out after he was already hurt from a fight.”

A different man, blond and a bit leaner than the one who had just spoken, ran a hand through his beard and threw a glance around the tavern, making sure no one was listening in. Lark tightened his grip around his pint to stop his fingers from twitching nervously, and did his best to look interested in the paintings of herons on the opposite wall.

“What are you suggesting, Leslaw?”

Leslaw leaned in closer to his companions.

“I think you know what I’m suggesting. Let’s get rid of the bastard. No one will cry over a witcher. Fuck, the alderman might even thank us that he won’t have to pay him after all.” He lowered his raspy voice until Lark had to strain his ears to understand him. “I say we wait for him to come back from the hunt and slit his throat while he’s tired from the fight.” Lark watched as Leslaw’s hand went to his belt and patted the dagger that was fastened to it. “The three of us should be able to handle him easily. We split the coin we get for the medallion and the sword and whatever else he has with him. Bet that horse of his isn’t cheap eitcher.”

The blonde man cocked his head in contemplation. “How about we wait a little longer? Let him collect his coin first. You’ve seen him. The way he behaves, I wouldn’t be surprised if he manages to piss of the town and get chased out.”

The words made Lark flinch, his ale sloshing onto the table, but he paid no mind to the mess. In an instant, his mind was roaring with phantom crowds, chasing him away, throwing rocks, hurling insults and waving pitchforks at him.

His throat grew tight and his hand pressed against his stomach, trying to get rid of a pain that wasn’t truly there. His breath came out in pants and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to fight off the images of an angry mob that made his heart race.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to focus back on the conversation of the strangers.

“- that’ll tire him out even more and we’ll make more profit if he has the 150 nobles he was promised.”

Lark’s stomach churned and he had to push the ale away, lest the smell made him even more nauseous. Knowing now, that these men were bandits, it wasn’t hard to recognise that the clothes they were wearing had likely not been bought by their own coin – or hadn’t been bought at all, but taken from travellers.

And now they planned on killing a man who was ridding the town of a nearby monster.

Lark’s hand clenched on the table and he could feel his entire body start to tremble from how tense he was. This wasn’t right. Yes, he had been terrified for his life earlier, when the man with the silver sword had been near, but this? Robbing and assassinating him? The thought alone made Lark want to throw up. He had to hold onto the table to keep himself from doing something stupid like going over to the man and demanding what gave them the right to hate the stranger and plan on doing such terrible things to him.

Doing so would only end in his death, or in him being beaten black and blue in the best case.

He knew he should just leave it be. Hell, he was a thief himself! What made him so much different from there men? Just minutes before had he stolen from people in this very room. He kept joking around with Desanka about how nice it was of them that they were helping people carry their bags, permanently. Right now, he had the bottles he had stolen from the stranger with the sword in his pockets.

And yet, the words of the men from the other table didn’t sit right with him. A surge of protectiveness that he couldn’t explain flared up in him. Lark glared at the tankard he had gripped tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.

The scraping of chairs across the floor made him wince and he whipped his head around, just in time to see the bandits get up and shove each other’s shoulders jokingly as they left the tavern.

Standing up as well was a split-second decision for Lark. Without knowing what he was doing, he followed them outside and into an alley leading away from the tavern.

“Hey!” He called out after them, cursing himself for his stupidity, when they turned around with expectant and annoyed expressions. “Uh…” Lark swallowed dryly, his eyes darting from one bandit to the other.

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t do this. He had enough coin. He had a friend waiting for him. He had no way of talking these men, who were not only greater in number, but also clearly taller and stronger than Lark, out of attacking the man with the silver sword.

And yet, his insides burned with the knowledge that he had no choice. “I heard you talking in there.”

“Oh?” The blond man’s lips quirked up and he raked his eyes over Lark, assessing him with a mocking smirk. “We don’t need a fourth man. And if we did, we wouldn’t ask a short arse like you. Go back to singing your songs.”

Leslaw snorted and fixed Lark with an unsettling grin. “I don’t know, Sven. He could be bait. I heard rumours that a witcher is looking for a blue-eyed boy.” At the laughter of his companions, Leslaw’s grin grew wider. “You hear that, boy? One of the witchers is going to come and eat you.”

A shudder ran down Lark’s back and his fists clenched involuntarily, but he straightened his spine and stared Leslaw unflinchingly in the eyes.

“I don’t want to join you. I want to stop you.”

For a moment, the three bandits just stared at Lark dumbfounded. Then they exchanged looks and burst into laughter, which cut off, as Leslaw stepped uncomfortably close to Lark. Lark stumbled backwards but caught himself.

“Oh that’s adorable,” the bandit drawled. “And how exactly did you plan on doing that?”

Lark didn’t know what possessed him. If anyone had asked him, he would have said that it was the alcohol in his bloodstream making him rash, though he hadn’t drunk nearly enough to get tipsy.

And yet, there was no denying that what he did next, was the stupidest thing he could have possibly done.

He spat at Leslaw’s face and while the bandit squeezed his eyes shut to not get any spit in there and raised his arms to wipe the spit away, Lark threw a punch.

His fist never connected with its mark. The blond man, Sven, caught his arm mid-swing, twisting it painfully.

Lark let out a gasp, his knees folding beneath him to lessen the fire razing through his twisted wrist.

Sven let go of his arm, but before Lark had time to right himself, a kick hit him in the stomach. All air was pushed out of him. His hands scraped on the hard ground when he tried to catch his fall.

“Little bastard!” Leslaw spat and kicked him again. “The fuck do you think you’re doing? You want to end up like the witcher will?”

He grabbed Lark by the front of his doublet and yanked him up. Immediately, Lark’s hands came up to braze himself against the man.

“You’re friends with the mutant?” Leslaw’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’d want to protect his life? Well, listen to me, arsehole. Your own life is worth barely more than that mutants.”

Lark flinched at the words and his heart hammered rapidly in his chest. But not only because of Leslaw’s words and the burning pain in Lark’s side and palms. Oh no. His heart was racing, because Leslaw in his rage, gave no sign of noticing that Lark’s hands had wandered down and snatched the dagger strapped to his belt. With a flick of his wrist, Lark let the weapon disappear into the sleeve of his doublet, praying neither one of the other bandits had noticed the movement.

“You can count yourself lucky that we won’t kill you like him.” Leslaw shoved him off. Lark’s bag fell to the ground, the food he had packed spilling onto the street. “You’re not worth it, little rat.”

Lark’s eyes darted over to Sven and the third bandit. Sven’s hand twitched towards a pocket in his coat.

When Leslaw shoved Lark again, Lark made sure to direct his stumble straight into Sven, using the flash of surprise to dip his hand into the pocket.

He could barely contain his triumphant grin, when he found a small knife in it. The small moment of pride and triumph quickly got replaced by agonizing fire flaring up in his nose as a fist connected with it.

Lark didn’t know how long the bandits continued shoving him from one to the other, while hurling insults and threats at him. He didn’t know how many punches and kicks he endured, until he no longer had the fight in him to lighten the bandits’ load by taking their weapons off of them.

At the end, he was just a boy, cowering on the ground with his hands clutched over his head to shield his face from any more attacks. Blood ran out of his nose and the split on his lip.

He barely registered the bandits crouching down beside him to grab his bag. A whimper left Lark’s lips as they took his coin away from him and left him, each one giving him a last kick as a warning when they abandoned him there.

For what felt like an hour, Lark just lay there in that dark alley, trembling and flinching every time he moved and got hit by another wave of pain. Already, dark bruises were blooming on his skin.

And yet, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the wall of a house, cursing himself with every motion.

How could he have been so stupid? He didn’t attack people. Never! Not even when his own survival was on the line. So why on earth had he thrown that punch? Especially, when he had known that that wasn’t a fight he’s ever be able to win? Confronting those men at all had been foolish, but fighting them? He might have just as well signed his own death sentence. He was so damn lucky that they didn’t care enough about him to actually kill him.

And yet, he couldn’t find it in him to regret it. It didn’t make sense! Risking his life for a complete stranger, one that would probably not hesitate to cut him down, was madness!

He shook his head, but the feeling that he had done the right thing – that he should do it again, if he needed to – didn’t leave him.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing his thoughts to calm. He needed to breathe. He needed to get out of here before the bandits realised that Lark had stolen from them and came back to teach him another lesson.

With pain racing through his veins, he gritted his teeth and pushed off the wall, coming to stand on wobbly legs. The small weapons he had stolen clattered to the ground and in a fit of helpless rage, he kicked them away, until all he had left was Leslaw’s dagger. He stared at it and took up back, running his fingers over the sheath. The weight of the dagger felt unfamiliar in his hand. Too heavy, when compared to the prop dagger Lark owned. This weapon had been used to hurt before.

But it would hurt no more. The man whom this blade had been intended for would not die by it.

Lark’s expression turned to one of grim satisfaction. Someone as ruthless and determined to inflict pain as the bandits were, probably didn’t need knifes to win a fight – Lark was living proof of that – and it wasn’t unlikely they had more weapons stashed somewhere else. But for now, Lark let the feeling of triumph sweep over him. Though he might not have thwarted their plans, he had definitely inconvenienced them. Maybe it would be enough to give the stranger with the silver sword the edge during a fight. Whether he lived or died, Lark had done all he could to help him. He had no reason to keep thinking about him.

Lark just wanted to go home. He just he wasn’t alone and in so much pain. The feeling of maybe having saved the stranger’s life, didn’t help against the way his body ached.

Yet, as he made his way back to the woods outside the city, his pain miraculously lessening with each step he took, he found that he couldn’t stop thinking about the stranger and wishing against his better judgement that he would get to see him safe and alive. But what a foolish wish that was. Lark had other things to worry about.

Like the strange prickling in the back of his neck that wouldn’t leave him on his way back. And, as he should have realised as he walked deeper into the woods, he should have worried about the beast the bandits had mentioned was hunting in these woods.

[eirian-houpe]

The Pawn Shop On Main Street - Chapter 2

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Mad Hatter | Jefferson & Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Grace | Paige, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Widow Lucas | Granny, Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Jiminy Cricket | Archie Hopper, Grumpy | Leroy, Blue Fairy | Mother Superior, Emma Swan, Prince Charming | David Nolan, Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard, Henry Mills (Once Upon a Time), Sneezy | Tom Clark, Merida (Once Upon a Time), Cloe, Mother Trude, Dove (Once Upon a Time)

Additional Tags: Cursed Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), Angst, Romance, Eventual Smut, Will add more as apropriate

Summary: Gold is suddenly awakened from the curse, not by the fail-safe that he programmed into his mind, but by the unexpected presence of his long lost maid, with whom he fell in love well before Regina cast his Dark Curse, Rumplestiltskin must now find a way past Belle's disbelief and fear. She is still under the influence of the curse. With the help of his dear - his oldest - friend, Gold seeks a way past obstacles so that he can rekindle the love which he rejected back in the Dark Castle.

The story is set in the same 'verse as The Library Beneath the Clock Tower, and could be considered a sequel of sorts.

Read previous chapters on AO3

Chapter 2 - The Lock On the Door

If anyone had asked, he couldn’t have said how long he sat there, spent, a lump in the darkness like an abandoned sack of potatoes, staring over the top of the revelers and into the sky. He watched the stars move, the moon set, and the horizon darken toward dawn, and still he didn’t move, lost in memory, and the pain of memory, and the ecstasy of one sweet moment he denied himself… denied her.

Finally, as the flickering embers of the bonfire collapsed into a glowing, almost neat circle of color against the darkness, he reached out to find the handle of his cane, and hauled himself to his feet. Then, one limping step after another, made his way down to where the Cadillac was parked.

At that moment he was simply concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other to make it to the car. Then, in the car focused on the steps necessary to safely drive a vehicle such as this, the juxtaposition of his former and his current personae warring inside of him, the familiar and the unfamiliar.

One thing remained true in both worlds - Rumplestiltskin - Gold was a man of power.

By the time he pulled up onto the driveway of the pink Victorian, the maelstrom inside of him was so great that he was all but ready to take up his cane and smash anything breakable within reach. The imagined gratification of bringing the handle of his cane down on the mailbox, the trunk of the car, the rear windshield, with its melodious sound of splintering glass, the tail lights, the windows at the side…

…the soft expression that was there, barely a heartbeat, but there in Belle’s eyes. A second chance…

The desire to break things melted like ice in the midsummer sun, and Gold sat, breathing hard from the exertion of mere thought. He had gripped the steering wheel as though it were his lifeline. Slowly, he forced himself to release his grasp, and then get out of the car. He walked, with seeming infinite care, up to the house, and in through the door as soon as he had it unlocked. Then, without even waiting to see if it closed behind him, he lowered himself into a chair just inside the lounge, and put his head in his hands.

He didn’t think he had any more tears inside of him than those he’d shed with Jefferson. Yet, as he thought on Belle, on all that he’d - that they’d - lost when he sent her away from the dark castle, and on the emptiness of his life until the moment he took Belle’s hand, he wept for it all.

It was long into the morning by the time he emerged, exhausted, from his despairing self recriminations. Although there were things he knew he needed to do - even on the day after the Miner’s Day Festival - he also knew that he would not be at his best without some rest. Even a little would help. So, he slowly climbed the stairs toward his bedroom, stripped off the gold brocade jacket, which was now in need of a good dry-cleaning, peeled himself out of the rest of his finery, and fell exhausted into bed, where he dreamed, strange and knotted dreams of past and present interlaced and with a warring warp and weft.

It was a late morning by the time Gold woke, and for all that he’d had so little sleep, he felt remarkably well rested and, more importantly, clear headed. He knew exactly what he had to do, and made himself a mental checklist. He had a reputation to uphold after all.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Gold got out of bed with a spark of hope in his heart, which he took with him to the shower, where he hummed softly to himself; a tune that his aunties used to sing when they were spinning, or better yet, baking the meat pies he loved so much. He stopped suddenly in the middle of soaping his chest and stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought, so happily and peacefully, of his aunties. It made him wonder how long it had been since he used the memory to draw back the power of his magic. He shook his head at himself, and smiled, feeling so full of love in that moment it was almost painful, but it was not love for his aunties, it was love for Belle, who had unlocked all of the kind wonders inside of him…

…a flicker of light in an ocean of darkness…

…and for the first time in longer than memory, that thought didn’t hurt him to the core.

The first order of business for the day was a short stop at Granny’s and then on to the hardware store. It would be remiss of him not to fix the lock on the door to the library apartment, especially since he noticed it hadn’t closed properly the day before. What kind of landlord would he be if he didn’t attend to the safety of his tenants? The hopeful spring in his step had nothing to do with the possibility of seeing Miss Marchland again. Not at all.

He smiled as he passed the library and saw the sign stuck on the door declaring the public building closed for the day. That meant that Belle would be home, and he would have the opportunity to… apologize for whatever it was that had caused her to run off at the Miner’s Day Festival - and a part of him, a small part hoped that it was not because she remembered their life together and had not forgiven him for sending her away. The larger part hoped that he, his intensity as he had remembered everything, had simply spooked her, and she didn’t yet remember. That way he would have the chance to court her properly - if she would give him the time of day.

His impulse pulled at him to climb the stairs, once he had the outer door unlocked, and knock on Belle’s door, but no. He could not force his company upon her, so instead, he set to work on the lock. He tried to make sure that the action of the catch was as smooth as silk and closed first time, every time. Hadn’t he promised Belle forever?

He knew the thought was a kind of loophole. She had promised him forever, but what he had denied in the Enchanted Forest he embraced as the truth. Forever was a flow of time that looped both ways, and surrounded them both. He smiled and leaned down one more time to finish reattaching the catch-plate to the door.

He was so focused - or perhaps so lost to his surroundings - that when the sharp cry came from behind him, followed by the discordant jangle of keys hitting the sidewalk, he almost echoed it with a cry of his own surprise. He covered the slip, however, by reaching for the keys, and straightened up before he turned and found himself face to face with Belle.

“Miss Marchland,” he greeted her, using all of his self control to appear calm and collected. He gestured behind him. “I was just working on the door. Seems a little attention was necessary to ensure it closes properly.”

“Well,” he watched as she punctuated her own greeting with a deep breath, he guessed, to compose herself in kind. “Thank you, Mister Gold. I appreciate it.”

The slight pink already creeping into her cheek was delightful, alluring, and he couldn’t help but tease gently as he said, “Well, we can’t have just anyone walking up to the apartment without invitation, now, can we?” He raised an eyebrow and was more delighted than he had been in many a long year when she returned the gesture. In another life, he might have thought she was flirting with him, but there, he dare not hope for it.

“No indeed. There’s no telling in what state they might discover me,” she said, and the pink in her cheek deepened to flush of red. It warmed him deep within.

Ever the gentleman, however, he did not want to cause her discomfort or embarrassment. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll be out of your hair before too long.”

He was about to turn back to be sure he had indeed finished when she completely derailed his attention by snapping, “Why didn’t you tell me what was happening with Paige?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Paige,” she began, then added, “Grace,” and his heart lurched with an almost painful hope. Did she remember, then? “The girl that helps me in the library.”

“Yes,” he said, his heart sinking when he realized that she was simply using the girl’s cursed surname. “I know the girl to whom you refer. However, I fail to see what I should have told yo—”

“Oh, drop it, Gold! You knew, and you said nothing!” The fire in her eyes brought back the painful memories of the last time he had seen it, and he almost stepped towards her; almost moved to protest his innocence, and tell her how wrong she was. Her next words snapped him from the memory of it, and he closed his mouth on the words that were about to reach out to her. “That poor girl has been… maid and… nurse, and… who knows what else besides. I could have done something, could have helped. Instead you pretended there was nothing wrong, and let it all continue. And for what!”

“Be… very careful, Miss Marchland,” he rumbled, part in annoyance at her challenge, but the greater part in warning for fear of what she might stir up, should Regina decide to oppose her right-hearted desire to help poor Grace. “You know very little of which you speak, and none of the harm your interference could—”

“Interference?” He winced at the incredulity he heard in the tone and pitch of her voice. “Only you could think of offering help as interference. You are unbelievable, you know that?”

“No, Miss Marchland,” he said, trying, by his words, to convey the meaning of his warning, without openly making accusations in the street. “I am a man that simply knows how, and when to best take sides.”

“Take sides?” He frowned as she threw up her hands, and the pitch of her voice grew higher yet. “This is a child’s life we’re talking about, not some meaningless argument about… parking restrictions on Main Street.”

“Indeed,” he said and nodded his agreement. “Which is exactly why I have acted as I have.”

“Done nothing, you mean,” she spat. “At least you didn’t try to deny you knew what’s going on. At least I’ll give you that.” 

He said nothing to counter that accusation either, and she made a sound of derision, before she stepped forward, obviously meaning to push past him as she finished curtly, “Excuse me, I have cleaning to do.”

He caught her elbow as she did, and stepped in closer to her as he held her against the open door. For just a moment at least, his eyes met and held hers in an uncompromising stare as he repeated a warning, his mouth almost against her ear.

“Everything comes with a price, Miss Marchland, so you need to be very sure how much you’re willing to pay.”

She held his gaze still longer, as if searching for something within his eyes, and he held his breath, willing her to find what she sought. After only a moment though, her face clouded with anger and she snatched her arm out of his grasp, pushed past him and left him watching after her as she mounted the stairs toward the apartment.

With a sigh, and no further excuse to loiter at the door, he closed it softly, and hanging his head, began to walk away. She was right, of course. Even before he awakened, he knew what was happening to Paige - to Grace - and who was behind it, of course. As much as he opposed Regina and her hold on the town of Storybrooke, as much as he had always stood in opposition to her, he never did anything to help that child, who now turned out to be the daughter of his oldest, dearest friend. He felt ashamed, and it was an uncomfortable feeling. He should have acted.

He continued walking toward the pawn shop, and pulled out his cell phone as he went, dialing the number that he knew by heart, but only now knew that the man he’d known as a friend for all this time, had been in his heart for so much longer.

“Rumplestiltskin…?”

The sound of his name, his true name on Jefferson’s lips, even through the artificial sound of the phone, brought a smile to his face, though it was a sorrowful one as he thought about all that he and Jefferson had shared.

“Can…” he cleared throat as his voice cracked a little, “Can you meet me at the shop? There’s something I’d like to discuss.”

He could almost hear the hesitant frown on the other man’s face as he answered, “All right, I’ll… head that way.”

“Thank you,” Gold said quietly, “And Jefferson—”

“I’ll see you in a little while,” Jefferson cut him off, and disconnected the call before he could say any more.

He spent the intervening time between then, and when the bell above the door sounded to announce his friend’s arrival, cleaning and polishing every item in one of the glass display-cases. He was agitated, and even that mundane task did little to quell his nervous energy.

“I think you missed a spot,” Jefferson raised a cheeky eyebrow, and made a pantomime of polishing the top of the case with the sleeve of his coat.

“Funny,” Gold answered dryly, making Jefferson chuckle.

“What’s so important,” he asked as the chuckled failed, “that you had to drag me all the way into town.”

“An… apology,” Gold answered, hesitation drawing out the words, and making Jefferson frown.

“There’s nothing—” Jefferson began, but Gold interrupted.

“Grace,” he said. “I should have—”

Jefferson shook his head, and craved softly, “Don’t. There was nothing you could have done. Regina—”

“I should have done something.”

“And what!” Jefferson asked, beginning to pace in agitation of his own. “She would never have let you interfere with whatever reason she has to punish me.” Gold’s heart broke as Jefferson swung round to face him, stopping dead as if he hadn’t been pacing at all, and ran his hand through his hair, leaving the front even more mussed than usual. He let out a huff then. “She has no reason to punish me… save perhaps spite. She had already separated me from my daughter. Trapped me in Wonderland, where—”

He stopped suddenly, as if whatever he had to say was some great shame, and Gold stepped toward him, took a tentative hold on his arms.

“Where?” he prompted, his tone tender, full of the worry he had for the man, but Jefferson shook his head.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

“No one blames you, Jefferson,” Gold told him, his voice low, soft, compassionate.

“They should!” The Hatter suddenly cried, throwing up his arms and breaking Gold’s hold on them. He paced away again, then swung an accusatory glare his way. “She begged me - pleaded with me - not to go, but no… my arrogance, my certainty that one. Last. Job…” a sob that became a shiver, then a tremor that shook his body. “If I had listened. If I had stayed,” he continued in a whisper, “Grace would still have a mother. We’d still be a family. She wouldn’t be trapped, living a hell, with a withered hag as a jailer.”

Gold knew Jefferson was referring, not to Cloe Grace, but to Mother Trude, the ‘neighbor’ supposedly looking out for Grace, where the woman the curse had cast as her mother could not.

“I can fix this,” he whispered.

“No!” Jefferson cried, snatching at him and hauling him close as if to shake him like a rag doll. “Rumplestiltskin, No!”

“You can have her back. Your Grace.”

“She doesn’t know me!” Jefferson released Gold, and unbalanced he teetered back until Jefferson steadied him, but then The Hatter threw up his arms again. “Not as her father. As far as she knows, her papa was taken away when she was small. Ripped away from her by the authorities for gods know what!”

“Jefferson…” he tried to interrupt the man’s agonized tirade.

“That’s her reality. All she’s ever known in this world.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Gold said softly, when Jefferson’s anguish burned itself out. “Nor in the way she has to live now.”

“You think Regina wouldn’t find some way to torment her to punish me if anything about the life she inflicted on Grace changed? Especially if she knew you were involved… even if she doesn’t know you’re awake?”

Gold shook his head, but couldn’t find the words to disarm Jefferson’s justifiable fears.

“And if she finds out!?” Jefferson’s agitation rose again, and he filled the space around him with desperate gestures. “No… Rumplestiltskin, no. I… I can’t… I…”

Through Jefferson’s flailing, and over his shoulder, Gold saw the shadow of a figure moving past the front of the shop, pausing for a moment by the door as if the person would come inside. No one did, but Gold had recognized the figure none-the-less. He would know her anywhere.

“It may now be out of either of our hands,” he said, and watched as Jefferson turned in time to see the shadow move away from the door.

[spn-meanttobe]

Summaries Part Two [51-100]

Claiming Info -- FAQs/Rules The first Claims post will be a separate post going up on Saturday, November 7th at 12 pm EST. The second Claims post will be a separate post going up on Sunday, November 8th at 12 pm EST.

51. My Only Vice She's as pretty as a daisy... Sexy, easygoing Rosie Bliss may look like an innocent flower-shop owner, but former vice cop now police chief Sam Maguire is suspicious of the so-called herbs she grows along with her blooms. As sweet as a rose... So the serious detective launches an investigation into Rosie and her very mysterious past. But his most disturbing discovery? He's irresistibly attracted to free-spirited Rosie. And as dangerous as a Venus flytrap! Then cool, controlled Sam accidentally drinks a cup of her special brew and loses it completely! Not only does he end up sleeping with his suspect, he craves more – of Rosie, the most potent drug of all.

52. Night Shadow In a city ruled by fear... A solitary figure shrouded in black walked the night, determined to awaken a terrified metropolis from the nightmare of crime. There was nothing -- no bullets, and certainly not legal technicalities -- that could deter the man they called Nemesis from his mission. Deborah O'Roarke, an idealistic young prosecutor waging her own war against crime, owed Nemesis her very life. She shared his passion for justice, yet she could not accept his lawless methods. Still, though she fought her unwelcome desire for this disturbing stranger, she was unable to deny her longing to share the shadows that were his home.... After the night he saved Deborah O'Roarke from an attacker Nemesis rediscovered the sweet ache of longing. As Gage Guthrie he could woo her. But the idealistic prosecutor abhorred his vigilante approach to crime fighting. So how could he reveal he was the phantom who lurked in the Night Shadow? Fear casts a long shadow....

53. Night Shift Her voice was like whiskey, smooth and potent, but it was her contradictions that fascinated Detective Boyd Fletcher―the vulnerability beneath her tough-as-nails facade. Late-night radio announcer Cilla O'Roarke was being threatened by a caller, and it was Boyd's job to protect her no matter what. But the sultry deejay was getting under his skin, and the undeniable attraction that sizzled between them concerned the detective…because anything could happen on the Night Shift.

54. No Good Duke Goes Unpunished The ruin of the lady means the taming of the scoundrel. A rogue ruined... He is the Killer Duke, accused of murdering Mara Lowe on the eve of her wedding. With no memory of that fateful night, Temple has reigned over the darkest of London's corners for twelve years, wealthy and powerful, but beyond redemption. Until one night, Mara resurfaces, offering the one thing he's dreamed of: absolution. A lady returned... Mara planned never to return to the world from which she'd run, but when her brother falls deep into debt at Temple's exclusive casino, she has no choice but to offer Temple a trade that ends in her returning to society and proving to the world what only she knows...that he is no killer. A scandal revealed... It's a fine trade, until Temple realizes that the lady--and her past--are more than they seem. It will take every bit of his strength to resist the pull of this mysterious, maddening woman who seems willing to risk everything for honor... and to keep from putting himself on the line for love.

55. Once Smitten, Twice Shy Legend claims this antique Irish wedding veil can grant your heart's deepest desire. But be careful what you wish for... Wedding videographer Tish Gallagher is at the end of her rope. Her business is about to go bust. She's just spent her last buck on nonreturnable (but oh so fabulous) shoes. And her most sustainable relationship is with a pint of Häagen-Dazs. So she makes a wish on the lucky wedding veil to get out of debt...and sees the man she never stopped loving, her ex-husband, secret service agent Shane Tremont. Sure, their chemistry was off-the-charts sizzling hot, but their clashes were legendary, and no amount of longing will change that. When her dream job of recording the first daughter's wedding appears out of the blue, Tish knows it's her only shot to get out of the red. Just one teensy glitch: Shane is the groom. From the moment they see each other, she knows nothing's changed - the same old black magic is still between them, as irresistible and potent as ever. But he's promised to another and Tish has been burned before. Will she always be... once smitten, twice shy?

56. One Night with Morelli Warning: one night will never be enough… Draco Morelli: ruthless businessman, adoring father and wary ex-husband. This gorgeous Italian only ever signs up for temporary flings with glamorous women who know the rules of the game. Until he is blindsided by the one woman in all of London not interested in a relationship with him…. Eve Curtis: dedicated workaholic, loyal friend and self-professed singleton. Determined to remain independent, Eve has been happy keeping men at a safe distance. Until now. Because when Draco sweeps her off her feet and into his bedroom, he opens her eyes to a whole new world of sin and seduction!

57. One Night with the Shifter A one-night stand with a werewolf has unexpected consequences. After he is exiled from his pack, Tyee Grayson must learn to make it on his own. But one night with a beautiful stranger who has luminous blue eyes changes everything…. Especially when his instincts shout that she is the one. All elementary school teacher Jessica Brierly wanted was a night on the wild side, but when she finds herself pregnant, all the rules change. Not only does her lover have more secrets than she ever imagined, but suddenly they're both fighting off vampires. When vampires attack the town she dearly loves, Ty must work with his old pack to save them from a ruthless enemy who could kill not only his mate and his unborn child – but the entire human race.

58. One Texas Night Melinda Amery awoke to the double-barreled deep blue eyes of Lieutenant Grady Sloan. A more formidable – or handsome – man she'd never seen. And he wanted answers about a murder. Only, Melinda had none. She had no recall, except she knew nothing good would come from remembering... Grady was the kind of cop who wouldn't let go until he got what he wanted. With his job on the line, he needed to break the case. But the only witness had amnesia – and tormented dark eyes that needed healing. And Grady couldn't help his overwhelming attraction toward Melinda. But would her hidden memories reveal more than either of them wanted to know... ?

59. Pushing the Limits No one knows what happened the night Echo Emerson went from popular girl with jock boyfriend to gossiped-about outsider with "freaky" scars on her arms. Even Echo can't remember the whole truth of that horrible night. All she knows is that she wants everything to go back to normal. But when Noah Hutchins, the smoking-hot, girl-using loner in the black leather jacket, explodes into her life with his tough attitude and surprising understanding, Echo's world shifts in ways she could never have imagined. They should have nothing in common. And with the secrets they both keep, being together is pretty much impossible. Yet the crazy attraction between them refuses to go away. And Echo has to ask herself just how far they can push the limits and what she'll risk for the one guy who might teach her how to love again.

60. Red, White & Royal Blue When his mother became President, Alex Claremont-Diaz was promptly cast as the American equivalent of a young royal. Handsome, charismatic, genius—his image is pure millennial-marketing gold for the White House. There's only one problem: Alex has a beef with the actual prince, Henry, across the pond. And when the tabloids get hold of a photo involving an Alex-Henry altercation, U.S./British relations take a turn for the worse. Heads of family, state, and other handlers devise a plan for damage control: staging a truce between the two rivals. What at first begins as a fake, Instagrammable friendship grows deeper, and more dangerous, than either Alex or Henry could have imagined. Soon Alex finds himself hurtling into a secret romance with a surprisingly unstuffy Henry that could derail the campaign and upend two nations and begs the question: Can love save the world after all? Where do we find the courage, and the power, to be the people we are meant to be? And how can we learn to let our true colors shine through? Red, White & Royal Blue proves true love isn't always diplomatic.

61. Renegade Protector When intimidation turns to deadly force, it's time for Frontier Justice. If ruthless developers want Mariana Balducci's land, they'll have to kill her for it. And they nearly succeed—until Ty Morrison foils her attacker. The sexy San Francisco cop is part of a secret organization called Frontier Justice. Mariana is tough, but she realizes she can't win this fight alone. And when bullets fly, Ty realizes battling bad guys is easier than fighting their sizzling attraction.

62. Rocky Mountain Wedding Melody Pennington fled to Montana for a new start as a mail-order bride. Gabe Brooks, handsome older brother to the man she was supposed to marry, helps her settle in. But what Melody doesn't expect is to fall for the rugged, closed-off lawman...

63. Romancing the Chef When Veronica Howard is invited to compete in an all-star TV cooking contest, the up-and-coming restaurateur is ready for a fair food fight. Then she discovers who her main competition is: Ace Brown, her friend from culinary school – now the world's hottest celebrity chef. Has she gone from the frying pan right into the fire? Ace Brown – aka the Sexy Chef – knows what women want. After all, recipes for desire are his globe-trotting specialty. Ronnie may not have given him the time of day back in school, but this time Ace is cooking up a surprise she can't resist. Seducing the voluptuous foodie will be his pleasure…until she turns up the heat. With sexual sparks flying, is the footloose bachelor about to become a connoisseur…of love?

64. Rumors that Ruined a Lady Amongst the gossip-hungry ton, no name has become more synonymous with sin than that of Lady Caroline Rider, cast out by her husband and disowned by her family. Rumor has it that the infamous Caro is now seeking oblivion in the opium dens of London! There's only one man who can save her: notorious rake Sebastian Conway, Marquis of Ardhallow. Soon Caro is installed in his country home, warming his bed, but their passion may not be enough to protect them once news of their scandalous arrangement breaks out.

65. Secrets of a Gentleman Escort He's the talk of the ton – for all the wrong reasons! Society's most outrageous – and popular! – escort Nicholas D'Arcy is renowned for his utmost discretion. So when he suddenly finds himself named and shamed by a jealous husband, he reluctantly accepts a summons to the countryside…a fate worse than death! Annorah Price-Ellis isn't what Nick is used to – innocent, feisty and decidedly uncomfortable with the spontaneous heat between them! Suddenly, London's most audacious lover is out of his depth, and in danger of revealing the real man behind the polished facade….

66. Seduced by the Operative For psychologist Claire Cantwell--code name Cyrene--the stakes couldn't be higher. Tapped for a top-secret mission for the president, the OMEGA covert operative needed the unique expertise of a man with whom she'd shared danger--and her bed. Lethally attractive special ops agent and ultra-suave diplomat Luis Esteban wanted more than Claire was ready to give. Now, with their very survival at stake, Claire has to trust Luis with her life... even if that means surrendering the one thing she vowed never to give: her heart.

67. Serendipity Faith Harrington was the classic girl of privilege - until her father was convicted of running a Ponzi scheme and then her marriage crashed and burned. Now Faith is back in her hometown, hoping for a fresh start. But her father's betrayal has rocked Serendipity - and not everyone is ready to welcome her with open arms. Then she runs into her teenage crush - the dark, brooding Ethan Barron. Ethan, no stranger to scandal himself, never imagined he'd own the mansion on the hill, much less ever again come face-to-face with Faith - the princess he once kissed senseless. The chance meeting reignites the electric charge between them. Still, when Ethan hires her to redecorate what was once her childhood home, Faith is sure that getting involved with the town's notorious bad boy will lead only to trouble. But her heart has other ideas. And so do the townspeople of Serendipity...

68. Shades of Desire Natalie Jones is the lucky survivor of an elusive killer who preys on young women and then disappears from view. And since her harrowing ordeal, the once gutsy photojournalist has remained isolated in her home, paralyzed by fear and her failing vision. Special Agent Liam "Mac" McKenzie has scars of his own. But despite his efforts to ignore the attraction that simmers between him and Natalie, he needs her help to catch a predator. Soon, they will forge a tentative alliance, charged with desire. Through a soft-focus lens, Natalie dares to envision a future with Mac beyond the investigation & never guessing that the clues hidden within her photographs are drawing them into an explosive confrontation with a madman.

69. She's Got it Bad Twelve years ago Zoe Ford let Liam Masters break her heart. But now? There's not a chance. Zoe is as tough and wild as they come. So when Liam shows up at her tattoo parlor, she's more than ready to take him on again. That's not going to be a hardship, since he's hotter than he ever was. This time she's staying in charge. And she's not going to consider their score settled until he's hot, bothered and begging for more! Then she'll move on as callously as he left her. Unless all that deliciously bad sex is just too good to give up….

70. Snowbound with the Soldier Maybe this Christmas…? It has been seven long years since Kara Jameson last saw Jason Greene. Returning home as a wounded war hero, Jason looks a shell of the man she once knew. Yet her heart still skips a beat as if it was yesterday…. Stepping back into civilian life, Jason looks to Kara for help. But there's too much water under the bridge – not to mention too much lingering attraction. But it seems that the mountain weather has other ideas, and when Kara and Jason end up snowbound together they are forced to confront the ghosts of Christmas past.

71. Soldier Caged

He'd lost blood and comrades on the world's battlefields, but neither compared to losing his memory. Waking up in a secret military bunker, drugged, with vague images of a mission gone bad, Jonah had nowhere to turn. Until help came in the form of the one woman he'd always remember... Psychologist Sophia Rhodes never got over the bad boy who'd stolen her good-girl heart a decade ago. But without military training, how could she possibly steal Jonah from a high-security facility? She had only one hope--that he'd never forgotten her, either. Sophia knew the breakout was the easy part. Somehow she had to help Jonah focus his hazy images--before a desperate man made sure he'd never remember...

72. Sound Bites Renee Evans has a knack for trouble. After walking in on her best friend and boyfriend in bed together, twenty-five-year-old Renee flees her dream job as a music journalist in sunny Los Angeles and returns to her hometown of Boston – only to meet Dylan Cavallari, the mysterious, aspiring musician who lives in her apartment building. Dylan's piercing gaze and womanizing demeanor make him exactly the type of guy that Renee should steer clear of – which is most likely the reason she falls for him. But when Renee's troublesome ex comes back and threatens to drive her and Dylan apart, Renee is forced to face her past and save her relationship with Dylan before it's too late.

73. Succubus Blues When it comes to jobs in hell, being a succubus seems pretty glamorous. A girl can be anything she wants, the wardrobe is killer, and mortal men will do anything just for a touch. Granted, they often pay with their souls, but why get technical? But Seattle succubus Georgina Kincaid's life is far less exotic. Her boss is a middle-management demon with a thing for John Cusack movies. Her immortal best friends haven't stopped teasing her about the time she shape-shifted into the Demon Goddess getup complete with whip and wings. And she can't have a decent date without sucking away part of the guy's life. At least there's her day job at a local bookstore--free books; all the white chocolate mochas she can drink; and easy access to bestselling, sexy writer, Seth Mortensen, aka He Whom She Would Give Anything to Touch but Can't. But dreaming about Seth will have to wait. Something wicked is at work in Seattle's demon underground. And for once, all of her hot charms and drop-dead one-liners won't help because Georgina's about to discover there are some creatures out there that both heaven and hell want to deny...

74. Tell Me Your Secrets It was a dark and sexy night... And Brooke Ashby knew she was in over her head. As head writer for the soap opera Secrets, she was used to living vicariously through her characters. But that all changed the day she learned she was adopted, and that her identical twin sister had mysteriously disappeared. What else could she do but try to discover what had happened, even if it meant taking her sister's place? It shouldn't be hard. After all, she was good at research and had a talent for acting, if she did say so herself. Her plan seemed foolproof…until Brooke found herself in bed with her sister's fiancé….

75. Temptation's Kiss Patrice Sutton has just landed the role of her career. Snagging the female lead opposite devastatingly handsome, six-foot-three movie idol T. K. McKenna is a dream come true. When she learns they'll be filming out West she's secretly thrilled…and ready to show her gorgeous co-star the ropes of life on the ranch. Until T.K. turns the tables – by initiating her into the art of seduction far from the camera's glare. T.K. knows that with her incredible beauty, talent and sweet sincerity, Patrice has what it takes to make it really big. And the burgeoning film star is showing T.K. a passion more real than anything he's ever experienced on – or off – the screen. But what will it take to prove to her that she's the only woman he'll ever desire…and love?

76. Texas Mom Texas veterinarian Delaney Blair will do anything to find a bone marrow donor for her four-year-old son, Nickolas. The only likely match is his Argentinean father, Dario. But Dario and Delaney didn't part on good terms. In fact, he doesn't even know he has a son! Delaney travels to Argentina to find him, and Dario, shocked, returns to Texas. It's not long before Nick and Dario become close. Not only that, Dario can't hide the feelings he has for Delaney – feelings that have been there since they met. Dario's family doesn't want him to be with her. But now they have to see if the love between them is strong enough to keep them together.

77. The Cajun Cowboy Talk about a bad hair day! Louisiana beauty salon owner Charmaine LeDeux has a loan shark on her tail, and Raoul Lanier, the six-foot-three hunk of testosterone she thought she divorced, has just delivered a bombshell: They're still married! At least the rundown ranch they've inherited together is the perfect hideout. Holy crawfish! It's hard enough for Raoul to play cowboy to a bunch of scrawny steer, let alone suffer the exquisite torture of living with the delectable Charmaine, who's declared herself a born-again virgin. What's a man crazy with desire to do? Seduce her on their home on the range, even if it means taking advice from bachelor ranch hands, Charmaine's belly-dancing great-aunt, and St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes. With the moon shining over the bayou and the Dixie Mafia in hot pursuit, this Cajun cowboy must sweet-talk his way into his wife's arms again...before she unties the knot for good!

78. The Happy Baker We've all been there. The blind date from hell. The Big Hurt. The guy who details his various surgeries over Caesar salad on the first date. Who needs a pint of rocky road when you can head to the kitchen and work out your heartache with a whisk and a bottle of wine? Erin Bolger has been there, dated that and baked through it all. Turns out the more bitter the heartbreak, the sweeter the batter. So don't cry over bad dates, bad boyfriends or bad breakups – whip up a batch of My-Mom-Didn't-Like-You-Anyway Cupcakes and bake yourself happy.

79. The Heist FBI Special Agent Kate O'Hare is known for her fierce dedication and discipline on the job, chasing down the world's most wanted criminals and putting them behind bars. Her boss thinks she is tenacious and ambitious; her friends think she is tough, stubborn, and maybe even a bit obsessed. And while Kate has made quite a name for herself for the past five years the only name she's cared about is Nicolas Fox -- an international crook she wants in more ways than one. Audacious, handsome, and dangerously charming, Nicolas Fox is a natural con man, notorious for running elaborate scams on very high-profile people. At first he did it for the money. Now he does it for the thrill. He knows that the FBI has been hot on his trail -- particularly Kate O'Hare, who has been watching his every move. For Nick, there's no greater rush than being pursued by a beautiful woman... even one who aims to lock him up. But just when it seems that Nicolas Fox has been captured for good, he pulls off his greatest con of all: He convinces the FBI to offer him a job, working side by side with Special Agent Kate O'Hare. Problem is, teaming up to stop a corrupt investment banker who's hiding on a private island in Indonesia is going to test O'Hare's patience and Fox's skill. Not to mention the skills of their ragtag team made up of flamboyant actors, wanted wheelmen, and Kate's dad. High-speed chases, pirates, and Toblerone bars are all in a day's work... if O'Hare and Fox don't kill each other first.

80. The Inn at Eagle Point It's been years since Abby O'Brien Winters set foot in Chesapeake Shores. The Maryland town her father built has too many sad memories and Abby too few spare moments, thanks to her demanding Wall Street career, the crumbling of her marriage and energetic twin daughters. Then one panicked phone call from her youngest sister brings her racing back home to protect Jess's dream of renovating the charming Inn at Eagle Point. But saving the inn from foreclosure means dealing not only with her own fractured family, but also with Trace Riley, the man Abby left ten years ago. Trace can be a roadblock to her plans...or proof that second chances happen in the most unexpected ways.

81. The Klone and I After thirteen years of marriage and two kids, Stephanie was devastated when her husband left her for a younger woman. Suddenly she was alone. Then a spur-of-the-moment trip to Paris changed everything. Peter Baker was a handsome high-tech entrepreneur also visiting the city. Stephanie was certain it couldn't possibly work. But much to her amazement, he contacted her when they returned to New York. And Stephanie embarked on a bizarre and hilarious adventure beyond her wildest dreams. Shy, serious Peter, chairman of a bionic enterprise, was supposed to be away on business. Instead, he's standing at her door, wearing satin and rhinestones. Naturally, Stephanie thinks it's a joke -- until the truth suddenly dawns: this isn't Peter playing a role. This is his double! Calling himself Paul Klone, this wild, uninhibited creature isn't even remotely like Peter except for his identically sexy good looks. This uproarious novel explores the outrageous love triangle that develops between Stephanie, Peter... and The Klone.

82. The Man from Atlantis These days, eligible, attractive, single men weren't exactly coming out of the woodwork! So when Jenna stumbled across a gorgeous male specimen, she couldn't let a mere ten-thousand-year age difference interfere with romance! Besides, everyone knows older men are sexy!

83. The Man With Emerald Eyes A victim of her brother's gambling debts, lovely Theone Danvers had been left to choose between the hell of debtor's prison - and the lecherous arms of the Marquis de Juliers. But Theone was a fiery beauty with a mind of her own. Disguised as a lad, she took to the highroad with smoking pistols, and stole herself a fortune in gold. Then, in the green depths of the forest, she meets a rival - a highwayman with haunting emerald eyes, a price on his head, and a noble secret in his past. They join forces, and Theone rides headlong into the greatest danger of her renegade career: the unquenchable passions of a woman's first love!

84. The Prince Charming List Heather Lowell asked herself this question after moving to Prichett, Wisconsin, to temporarily manage the Cut and Curl Beauty Salon. She's hopeful that this summer she will finally find the love of her life. She even has a list detailing everything she wants in her Prince Charming. But when two men enter her life, Heather suddenly needs to figure out what she really wants – and whether handyman Ian Dexter or rebel-artist Jared Ward figures into her happily ever after.

85. The Ranger Texas Ranger Mitch Striker's uncomplicated bachelor lifestyle suits him just fine: catch the bad guys and move on. But there's nothing straightforward about struggling single mom Brandie Ryland or her adorable four-year-old son, Toby. The beautiful redhead is the prime suspect in Mitch's undercover investigation. But when a hostage standoff leaves Brandie's family vulnerable and uncovers a roomful of contraband and drugs, Mitch second-guesses her involvement in the crime…and his ability to keep his emotional distance. With the danger growing and the clock ticking, Mitch must save Brandie, catch the perps and handle the daddy heartstrings Toby keeps tugging on. Then he'll have to face the secrets he's sure Brandie's keeping – before they become his undoing.

86. The Rose Contract Love is free. Innocence has a price. Raena Barren was born with a secret: of all the magic users in the kingdom of Soma, she is the only one who can hide her power. As a child, she used this magic to help her survive on the streets--until she saved the life of a strange boy called Jorr Portent. He rewarded her with a job in the castle of Soma--and Raena spent the next ten years falling in love with him. But while Raena's life as a servant is sheltered, Jorr's world is one of spies and assassins. When Raena comes of age, their paths will diverge forever… unless Raena can earn a place by his side. To become one of Jorr's operatives, however, Raena must get to know her own body, and outsmart the deadly people around her. She must also sell her innocence to whatever man pays the most… even if that man can't be Jorr.

87. The Secret His Mistress Carried Hiding from the Greek… The ink is barely dry on Giorgios Letsos's divorce papers, but there's only one thing on this unstoppable Greek's mind: finding Billie Smith, his mistress before his marriage. But the sweet, pliable woman he once knew slams the door in his face! Billie fought hard to heal her broken heart after Gio chose to marry someone else. When he storms back into her life, she's determined not to fall for his seduction again. Especially now that she has a secret to protect…their son. But she hadn't counted on just how badly he wants her back in his bed!

88. The Space Between Us Tesla Martin is drifting pleasantly through life, slinging lattes at Morningstar Mocha, enjoying the ebb and flow of caffeine-starved customers, devoted to her cadre of regulars. But none of the bottomless-cup crowd compares with Meredith, a charismatic force of nature who can coax intimate tales from even the shyest of Morningstar's clientele. Caught in Meredith's sensual, irresistible orbit, inexpressibly flattered by the siren's attention, Tesla shares long-buried chapters of her life, holding nothing back. Nothing Meredith proposes seems impossible – not even Tesla sleeping with Meredith's husband, Charlie, while she looks on. After all, it's all in fun, isn't it? In a heartbeat, vulnerable Tesla is swept into a spectacular love triangle. Together, gentle, grounded Charlie and sparkling, maddening Meredith are everything Tesla has ever needed, wanted, or dreamed of, even if no one else on earth understands. They're three against the world. But soon one of the vertices begins pulling away until only two points remain – and the space between them gapes with confusion, with grief and with possibility….

89. The Texas Ranger's Reward Is he seeing double? He can't believe his eyes. When Travis Stillman meets Melissa Dalton, it's as if he's seeing the ghost of his late wife. That explains why his young son warms to Melissa so quickly. The orthopedic therapist is working wonders to help Casey readjust after an accident -- his boy has come alive again. But that's no reason for this former Texas Ranger to let his guard down as he settles into life as a P.I. and single dad. No woman can replace his wife -- especially not one who could be her twin. And when Melissa hires him to investigate a break-in at her family's cabin, he's even more determined to ignore the growing attraction between them. Now he's got to protect both Melissa, and his heart.

90. The Vampire Affair The world knew Michael Brandt as a playboy tycoon. The underworld knew him as a fierce vampire hunter. Armed with a wooden stake and superior strength, Michael targeted the most powerful overlords in a clandestine do-or-die operation...and then tabloid reporter Jessie Morgan uncovered his secret. Only once before had Michael allowed a woman into his secret lair. Now he'd fight heaven and hell to keep Jessie from the same fate. But he couldn't fight the attraction that drew him to her like a bloodlust. An attraction that might prove deadly...or worse. For Michael was going up against the most powerful of the undead--and that vampire had his fangs bared for Jessie.

91. Thief of Hearts An Innocent Beauty. Prim and pampered, Lucinda Snow knew little of men and nothing of danger, until the fog-shrouded night she found herself abducted—and at the mercy of the legendary Captain Doom. Ruthless and mocking, tender and virile, the notorious pirate awakened all Lucy's passionate longings, then abandoned her with nothing but a kiss... A Pirate's Prize. Now safely at home, the alluring waif is tormented by treacherous memories—and by the presence of Gerard Claremont, her mysterious new bodyguard. Everything about him, from his forbidding size to his impertinent manner, sparks her defiance. And even when Gerard's smile turns seductive, no one can make her forget Doom. Yet only when Lucy's path crosses the captain's once more, will she learn who is on a voyage of retribution, and who is out to steal her heart...

92. Things Good Girls Don't Do Good girls don't steal. Good girls don't visit sex shops. Good girls don't have one-night stands. For Katie Conners, being a good girl just isn't worth it anymore. It used to mean getting the life she always wanted. But that was before she got dumped and her ex got engaged to his rebound. So, after a bad day and one too many mojitos, Katie starts making a list of things a girl like her would never do, not in a million years... As a tattoo artist with a monster motorcycle, Chase Trepasso isn't the kind of guy you bring home to mom and dad. And when he finds Katie's list in a bar, he's more than happy to help her check off a few items. Especially the ones on the naughtier side... Katie's more than tempted by Chase's offer, as long as they keep things uncomplicated. But as they spend more time together, she may just wind up breaking the most important rule of all: Good girls don't fall in love with bad boys.

93. This Tender Truce The Boutonnet vineyards, passed down in her family for generations, mean everything to Tory. But she hadn't counted on her grandfather's one condition of her taking over: marry his godson, Chance Mobley. Unfortunately, Tory had decided long ago that she could never truly love the arrogant Frenchman. He had been raised alongside her, and she had loved him once – a child's crush. But Chance has no business being officially inducted into the Boutonnet family, and certainly doesn't deserve her beloved vineyard. As it turns out though, wine might not be the only thing for which Tory has a passion. And Chance has a few things to teach her about love.

94. Undead and Unwed It's been a helluva week for Betsy Taylor. First, she loses her job. Then, to top things off, she's killed in a car accident. But what really bites (besides waking up in the morgue dressed in a pink suit and cheap shoes courtesy of her stepmother) is that she can't seem to stay dead. Every night she rises, with a horrible craving for blood. She's not taking too well to a liquid diet. Worst of all, her new friends have the ridiculous idea that Betsy is the prophesied vampire queen, and they want her help in overthrowing the most obnoxious, power-hungry vampire in five centuries--a badly dressed Bela Lugosi wannabe, natch. Frankly, Betsy couldn't care less about vamp politics, but they have a powerful weapon of persuasion: designer shoes. How can any self-respecting girl say no? But a collection of Ferragamos isn't the only temptation for Betsy. It's just a lot safer than the scrumptious Sinclair--a seductive bloodsucker whose sexy gaze seems as dangerous as a stake through the heart...

95. Unguarded Rhiannon Jenkins is an events planner on the rise. And her latest client, Shawn Emerson, could make her career. Too bad the gorgeous man insists on mixing a lot of pleasure with his business. In Rhiannon's books getting involved with a client is the fastest way to exit a job. So, no. She'll resist all his come-get-me looks and tempting offers. While his charm is easy to overlook, Shawn in the role of confidant and friend breaks down all her best defenses. Suddenly the tables turn and she wants to be close to him. That means opening up about the ugly events of her past – a risk she hasn't taken before now. Oh, but he could be so worth it!

96. Walking Dead For once, Joanne Walker's not out to save the world. She's come to terms with the host of shamanic powers she's been given, her job as a police detective has been relatively calm, and she's got a love life for the first time in memory. Not bad for a woman who started out the year mostly dead. But it's Halloween, and the undead have just crashed Joanne's party. Now, with her mentor Coyote still missing, she has to figure out how to break the spell that has let the ghosts, zombies and even the Wild Hunt come back. Unfortunately, there's no shamanic handbook explaining how to deal with the walking dead. And if they have anything to say about it – which they do – no one's getting out of there alive.

97. What Waits Below Out of the depths... – All her life, Kendra Tremaine had trembled at the very thought of Lynx Lake. She had known even as a child that something unspeakable waited below the surface of the water and she had long sworn never again to set foot on its shore. And yet now she was back to take possession of the family estate that was her unwanted legacy. The legends of Lynx Lake had summoned another visitor, a man of strange powers and dark knowledge. Hart Rainwalker's obsession with the lake's secrets terrified Kendra, even as his brooding passion called to her soul. He claimed only he could protect her from the awful presence that threatened her. But who would protect her from her self-appointed guardian?

98. Wife for Hire The Prospective Husband with a Racy Past... Hank Mallone spotted trouble when she sat down and said she'd marry him! Maggie Toone was a tempting firecracker who'd make his life delightful hell if he let her pretend to be his wife in order to improve his rogue's reputation. Would his harebrained scheme to get a bank loan for his business backfire once Maggie arrived in his small Vermont town and let the gossips take a look? Maggie never expected her employer to be drop-dead handsome, or to affect her like a belt of bourbon on an empty stomach, but she was too intrigued by his offer to say no... and too eager to escape a life that made her feel trapped. The deal was strictly business, both agreed... until Hank turned out to be every fantasy she'd ever had, and Maggie was so bright, funny and downright irresistible that Hank fell head over heels in love! While the town watched, Hank wooed his wife with a charm that had never failed him yet. Could he make her dreams real by proving she belonged in his arms?

99. Wild Heat Sometimes old flames are the hottest of all... In the quaint little town of Cailkirn, Alaska, it's impossible to keep a secret, especially one as juicy as the unexpected return of Kitty Grant. Tack MacKinnon remembers her wild red curls and even wilder spirit-and still feels the sting from when she shattered his heart in college. But there's a pain in Kitty's gorgeous eyes that guts him to the core and Tack is determined to do whatever it takes to see the woman he still loves smile again - even if it means taking on her demons as his own. After fleeing an abusive ex-husband, Kitty decides that the best way to heal her broken heart is to come back home. But she gets a whole new shock when she sees how undeniably sexy Tack has become. More handsome, more muscular, more charming-more everything - he's impossible to resist. Before she knows it, they're reigniting sparks that could set the whole state of Alaska on fire. Yet trust doesn't come easy to Kitty anymore, and as things heat up between her and Tack, she can't help but wonder if one of them is going to get burned...

100. Zombie Moon Caleb Locke lived for one thing — killing zombies. And this man — this legend — was exactly what Samantha Wagner needed. In mist-shrouded alleys, hunted by zombies, haunted by fear, she vowed to find Caleb and convince him to help her. But she hadn't counted on falling in love…. Caleb kept his own secrets — like the one he couldn't hide when the moon was full. But his wolf was drawn to Samantha, recognizing her as his mate. With her in his arms, Caleb reveled in passion… and rued his deception. Would she still love the man who fought by her side if she realized that zombies weren't the only monsters? Samantha would have to make a choice—and she only had till the next full moon.

[suppressedanxiety]

"He had a Prince to scold." | me, sitting in a chair and pulling out a water bottle: I am here for this tea

@naninadapanda said: Yes go scold that prince And Virgil when you wake up I think you should tell Logan how you feel, he seems like he might be willing to listen a little bit.Anonymous said: Bad choices 2: Electric Boogaloo Okay but seriously this is not gonna end well at all, especially if patton finds out. Anyway Logan better yell at Roman for me, even tho hes also making dumb choices by not checking up on the other aspects of Anxietys health, hes most likely dehydrated at this point.@skeletonsloverockcandy said: YOU HAND IT TO HIM LOGAN, LET ROMAN HAVE IT@enby-phoenix said: At least Logan realizes that they’ve been treating Virgil badly. Poor kiddo tho, he really thought he was going to be dissected! That sounded TERRIFYING.@just-some-gt-trash said: Ooo Roman you’re in trouble

@dragonindigo245 said: I’m just so glad Virgil isn’t being mishandled anymore. Please give Roman a good scolding for me.@pansy-chic27213 said: Logan, while scolding Roman is all well and good, please, can you, for the love of all that is good and holy, at the very least, leave some food and water for Virgil, in case he wakes up before you return? Unless I am misunderstanding, and the Sides don’t need to eat. But if you need to eat, Virgil does too, and he has not, and I’m worried. (ÓnÒ)Anonymous said: I’m assuming that like half an hour has passed at most since Logan came to get Anxiety, so that means Roman’s probably still asleep. >:) Can’t say it’s not appealing to think about Roman being woken up by Logan scolding him after what he did to AnxietyAnonymous said: Logan, don’t be TOO hard on Princey, he didn’t know any more than you did. (But do let him know, because yikes.)

-

Three sharp knocks roused Roman from his slumber again, and since Patton’s knocks were much sweeter and the other resident of the house didn’t knock at all (and was currently much too small to knock), he knew exactly who it was at the door.

He rolled over to smush his face back into the pillow, thinking restful thoughts.

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

“Ugh!” He dragged himself from the remnants of the wonderful dream he’d been having, and stormed across the room in a glittery bathrobe. He flung the door open. “What is it, Microsoft Turd, I’m trying to- Wait, where’s the emo?” He asked, thoughts derailed by Logan’s empty hands. 

Now that he was looking, actually, those hands were clenched into fists. He trailed his gaze up to Logan’s face, and was surprised by the harsh set of it. 

“In my room. Unconscious.” He bit out, and Roman blinked in surprise, waving a hand to return to his normal attire. 

“What in the world happened?” He asked, moving forwards to exit his room. An arm shot out, blocking his way, and Logan pushed him back into the room, closing the door behind them. “What are you-?”    

“You happened, Roman.” Logan cut him off, voice sharp. “I happened. He passed out because of the painful bruises encircling almost his entire torso.” 

“What?” Roman near-screeched. “And you think that’s my fault? There’s no way!” 

“Oh, do you propose something else caused it, then? Non illness-related fainting is primarily caused by exhaustion, a drop in blood sugar, dehydration, or severe pain. Do you mean to tell me that one of those other factors are causing this when I saw for myself the finger-shaped bruises on him?” Logan jabbed a finger into his chest with every symptom he listed.

Roman puffed up like an inflatable beach ball, prepared to defend himself, because Anxiety hadn’t uttered a single complaint while they were together, it must have happened some time else, but was drawn up short by a sudden thought. A drop in blood pressure or dehydration…

Had Anxiety eaten in the past twelve hours? He remembered putting leftovers from dinner away in the kitchen under the impression that he’d retrieve them whenever Anxiety got hungry. He didn’t remember Anxiety being hungry. Creations of the Imagination didn’t need to eat, and so he’d forgotten about the leftovers without a second thought.

“Oh, heavens.” A first aid kit appeared in his hands, and he moved forward again. “Perhaps I did make a mistake. A small one.” 

Logan’s eyebrows raised, and then furrowed severely. “Do you mean to imply that one or more of the other factors are at play?” 

“Quite possibly… all of them?” Roman admitted, and held up a hand to forestall any more scolding. “Before anything else, we should make sure he’s okay, right?”

“It would be best to check in with him directly to find out the cause, yes.” Logan said stiffly, finally letting him past to open the door. He began to lead the way down the hall and Logan spoke again. “Though… I’m not sure how honest he will be with us.” 

“He’s lying?” Roman asked, lips pursed. “How does he expect us to take care of him properly if he doesn’t tell us what he needs?”  

“I expect he doesn’t particularly want us to ‘take care of him’ at all, Roman. This could be a manifestation of that stubbornness, though a fairly ineffective one.” Logan said, dryly. The creative Side huffed. 

“I truly do not understand that guy. This is the perfect opportunity to prove that his presence is necessary to Thomas, like he’s always yapping about.” 

Logan hummed, too caught up in his own theories to properly respond. They finally reached his room, and Logan held an arm out to prevent Roman from entering, ignoring his quizzical glance to open a window that showed his desk. 

“If he isn’t awake, I don’t want to startle him by entering,” he explained shortly, adjusting the view they saw through the window until the box Anxiety was placed in was in full view. He expected a snarky comment about his lack of extravagance, but instead Roman seemed almost speechless.

“Wow, he really is… small.” He said, staring down at the tiny form. 

“Astute.” Logan sniped, and Roman elbowed him. 

“You know what I mean!”  

Logan did. Though objectively Anxiety’s size hadn’t changed, it was different to see him unconscious, bundled into a bed the size of their hands. The laxness of his form made him seem much more vulnerable than when he was puffing himself up and spitting like an angry cat. 

He sighed. “It’s possible that we need to re-evaluate the parameters of this test.”

[johaerys-writes]

Day 12: Watching the Sunset

For day 12 of @scharoux‘s @14daysofdalovers, featuring my OC Tristan Trevelyan and Dorian Pavus! From the as-yet-untitled Modern AU @oftachancer and I have been working on :)

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

The cold southern wind whistled through the narrow cobblestone streets, bringing with it smells of burning wood, damp pavement and fresh salt spray, mingled with Antivan spices from the many restaurants along the road. Dorian wrapped his coat tighter around him, shivering. He had been in Ostwick for months, and he had gotten somewhat used to the random bouts of rain, followed by bright sunlight, which was in turn followed by more drizzle. That drizzle was the worst; that slow, steady spattering, too light for an umbrella to make a difference, but that still managed to dampen his coat and the top of his head. It could go on for days- days that seemed grey and miserable and never ending, days that Dorian had become accustomed to. What he never thought he could get accustomed to was that wind. The wind that seemed to come from everywhere all at once, swirling about him, making the leaves and scattered papers on the street whirl in lazy, unfocused patterns. It froze him to the core, and made his eyes water and his lips crack, and disheveled his carefully combed waves. It irritated him to no end. How those dratted Ostwickers never seemed to mind that awful weather, and would walk about in the middle of winter with T-shirts and thin sweaters while he had to bundle up in layers and scarves was beyond him. Southerners. A bizarre lot. 

He muttered curses under his breath as he made his way to his flat, swerving past the throngs of people and laughing students. That part of the city was the busiest that time of day - the old Merchant district, that was now filled with bars and coffee shops and small restaurants, the scent of ale wafting from half open doors. Marcher ales were decent, if one liked that sort of thing. Dorian himself prefered wine, red and deliciously dry, for which the Free Marches were hardly renowned. Even so, the selection of Antivan and Orlesian wines was astounding, even in the tiniest bars. The Marchers were an odd assortment of people, that was certain, yet they seemed to know their liquor as well as any Tevinter. In that respect, Dorian had grown quite fond of the place. He wondered what else he might grow fond of, with time.

Muffled conversations and drifted from the bars and shops he passed by, and Dorian found his steps had slowed down as he glanced at the people gathered inside, chattering and laughing. He managed to spot a few familiar faces - students that showed up pale and weary at his morning lectures, dark circles under their eyes and steaming cups of strong coffee in their hands, yet were now rosy cheeked and merry under the influence of whatever brew they were sipping from tall glasses. His gaze swept over them all, never lingering on any particular one, when his steps suddenly stopped short before a small and rather dim bar, simply decorated and its chairs carefully arranged in a semi circle. The reflection on the glass window made it hard to make out details, but Dorian would recognise that hair anywhere. Light blonde, the highlights in it so pale they almost looked white, falling in soft waves around a high forehead and a sharp jaw. A strong nose, a stubborn chin, a small line in between brows furrowed in a focused frown. The soft curve of that bottom lip, curling downward, interrupted by the bite of white teeth, glistening as a rosy tongue was swept over it soon after. Glistening.

Dorian blinked, leaning forward to peer inside the bar. Yes, it was definitely him. Tristan Trevelyan. He hadn’t seen him in quite a while - not since Professor Walker had returned to the University, resuming the teaching of the Rune crafting course. Dorian didn’t miss much about teaching that course. Its preparation took up way too much of his time, time he needed for his own research, yet there was one thing in particular that he now realised he had missed. His TA meetings with the young Trevelyan had been entertaining, in a way that Dorian had never quite anticipated. Quiet and reserved most of the time, with a reticent gaze that always lit up when they talked about all the different elements of runes and their composition. Conversations about rune crafting could soon derail into deep discussions about history and philosophy, until they somehow found themselves talking about Rivain coffee and all the different reasons why it was preferable to Nevarran tea. Dorian had learned that Tristan was fond of pastries and gin, often in unusual combinations, that he disliked early mornings, that he abhorred scratchy sweaters, that he would much rather spend his summers by the beach than in the mountains. He seemed approachable, tangible, tactile, yet still so out of reach and understanding that Dorian’s thoughts couldn’t help but stretch towards him, almost obsessively. 

Without quite realising it, he pushed the door open, walking into the small bar. It hardly looked like a bar; there was no music playing from loud speakers, no overpowering smell of beer and whisky wafting off the tables. In the center of the semi circle was a small make-shift podium, where a young man was sitting on a dingy wooden chair, a book open in his hand. 

“...What is the true nature of the poet? What is the proper role of the poet in society? Is the artist a medium through which universal truths are expressed, or is art forged in the depths of the artist’s psyche, corrupted by flawed world-views and personal biases? What is the function of imagination and inspiration? Polmear begins by declaring that a poet has no self or identity. A poet, like a chameleon, absorbs the colorations of the outside world, becoming one with the things seen, heard, and touched. Poets should free themselves of their own limited experiences of the world…”

Dorian approached silently, taking a seat at the very last row, close to the door. There were only five or six people. Tristan was by himself, so far as Dorian could see, nodding absently as he listened to the man on the podium. When the man was finished, a woman was invited to the podium, her hair in a messy bun on top of her head, her eyes obscured by the thick rim of her glasses. 

"How many bards gild the lapses of time! A few of them have ever been the food of my delighted fancy,—I could brood, over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, these will in throngs before my mind intrude…”[1]

Others followed after her, each one with a careful selection of poems. Some of them were quite enjoyable, that even Dorian could admit, others just sounded like pompous fluff to his ears. Soon he found his mind drifting, choosing to study the young Trevelyan instead. He hadn’t noticed him, his expression dreamy as he listened, gently nodding when one by one the poems finished. 

It seemed like an eternity later that the young man from before came to the podium. “Would anyone else like to read a poem before we finish for tonight?”

“I would.”

To Dorian’s surprise, Tristan rose from his seat. He shifted awkwardly on his feet for a breath, then made his way to the center of the semi circle. He sat at the edge of the chair, clearing his throat. Long fingers brushed over the outside of a small pocket book, its yellow pages contrasting the paleness of his skin. 

“We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver, streaking the darkness radiantly—yet soon, night closes round, and they are lost for ever: or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings give various response to each varying blast, to whose frail frame no second motion brings one mood or modulation like the last. We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep; We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep; Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away: It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow, the path of its departure still is free: Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.”[2]

Dorian’s skin prickled as he listened to his voice, smooth and slightly nasal, the soft timbre as it deepened, his tongue delicately rolling over the vowels and the consonants. Dorian was never one for poetry, but at that moment he would gladly listen to every poem in that book of his and more, if it simply meant listening to him. 

He was startled out of his thoughts by the quiet applause that echoed across the room as the poem drew to a close, and Tristan lifted his eyes, gaze sweeping over the faces there. And saw Dorian’s. And blushed. Dorian blinked a couple times, just to make certain, yet there it was. A rosy glow, climbing from his neck to his cheeks up to his ear, behind which a pale blonde lock rested. Tristan blinked back at him, his lips twitching in something that looked like smile -was it a smile?-, then he stood up, returning to his seat without ceremony. The poetry reading was concluded not long after, and Dorian found himself standing by the door, trying to suppress the flutter in his stomach as he watched Tristan sling his backpack over his shoulder and approach him. But why in the void would he be feeling fluttery? This was just foolish. Juvenile and foolish. 

“Of all the places I expected to see you, this must have been the very last,” Dorian said with a bright smile in the best imitation of a teasing tone he could muster. 

Tristan’s smile was reserved when he came to stand before him. “Likewise.” He glanced behind his shoulder at the people leaving the cafe. “You came with someone?” 

“No. I was just passing by and decided to drop in. It looked like an intriguing little assemblage. I couldn’t well resist.”

His eyes flashed with interest as he pushed the door open, gesturing for him to walk out first. “Are you a fan of poetry, then?”

Dorian licked his lips, stepping out into the chilly evening. He gave him a quick nod, and instantly regretted it when the fellow turned to look at him in awe. “Evidently, not as big a fan as you are,” he said quickly. “Although, I have to say, this was a very interesting reading. Which poet was it you were discussing, again?”

“It wasn’t a single poet,” Tristan said simply. “It was a feature on Blessed Age Free Marcher naturalist poets.”

“Ah.” Dorian shoved his hands into his pockets, looking ahead. “I lean more towards Tevinter poetry myself.”

Tristan hummed softly at the back of his throat, his steps falling alongside his. “Don’t ask, we may not know what the gods plan for you and me. Be wise, strain clear the wine and prune the rambling vine of expectation. Life’s short. Even while we talk, Time, hateful, runs a mile. Don’t trust tomorrow’s bough for fruit. Pluck this, here, now.”[3]

Dorian blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Tristan blinked back at him, then frowned. “‘Carpe diem’. It’s one of the most well-known Tevinter poems here. I’m afraid I only know the modern translation. Did I say something wrong?” He stopped, searching Dorian’s face. Then, a small smirk curled the edges of his lips. The audacity. “You’re not a fan of poetry, are you?”

“Very well, you’ve rooted me out,” Dorian said with a soft sigh. “Poetry has never held too much interest for me, I’m afraid. Although I do see the appeal.”

Tristan’s smile widened just a hair before melting away, the tiny dimple at the corner of his mouth deepening for a blink of an eye. He walked on, his strides steady and confident, the wind blowing through his hair.  A faint scent of lavender and citrus flowers and… and something else that Dorian couldn’t put his finger on drifted towards him. He quickened his pace, catching up to him.  

“So,” he said decisively, “how are your runes?”

“They’re well. Multiplying, actually.”

Dorian huffed in amusement. “Enjoying Professor Walker’s lectures, I take it?”

Tristan shrugged. “They’re alright. She is quite knowledgeable. Although I prefer your methods.”

Dorian could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. So he prefered his methods, did he? Why did that make Dorian feel giddy like a besotted schoolgirl? And why did he suddenly feel the burning need to show him the full range of his methods, preferably while slowly peeling that snug dark blue coat off him, then that fitted black sweater that hugged the muscles of his arms, then those jeans that... 

He gave a minute shake of his head, swallowing thickly as he smiled. “I’m pleased to hear you found my method of teaching appealing, but I have you to thank for that. The lectures would have been significantly duller without your assistance.”

Tristan chuckled under his breath, that rosy blush returning to his cheeks. Or was it from the cold wind? “I doubt that. You have a way of captivating your audience.”

There it was again. That awkward little hop-scotch in his chest. “You flatter me,” he said, hoping his voice betrayed none of his emotions. 

“I’m not. I’m only stating the obvious.” 

His expression was serious, his tone as matter-of-fact as Dorian had ever heard it. “I see. Well, in any case, thank you for thinking so highly of me.”

Tristan shot him a sideways glance as he walked on, taking a step to the side to let a merry company pass them by. When they found themselves side to side again, his bottom lip was flushed, as if he had been biting it. “You’ve taught many classes before? In Tevinter?”

The mention of his country made Dorian bristle. He straightened, head held high as he walked. “I have. Quite a few different ones, in fact. I finished my doctoral thesis in only three years in Minrathous, but I assisted my mentors with many of their courses during that time.”

“Three years? That’s… bloody hell. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone finishing their PhD in less than four.” His gaze was thoughtful when it landed on Dorian. “How are you finding things here? Is Ostwick up to par?”

Dorian scoffed. “Up to par? Hardly. But I’d give them an A for effort. Or a B.” He paused for a moment, pretending to think. “An A minus?”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “Let’s settle for a B plus. That sounds fair.” Their shoulders brushed as the pavement narrowed, leading them down a small lane squeezed between two stone brick buildings. The sharp gust that blew through it smelt of sea spray and seaweed, and only then did Dorian realise that they had been walking towards the shorefront all that while. He had been so absorbed by the company of the man beside him that he hadn’t even taken a moment to think about where they were going. 

Dark grey blue waves frothed and crashed against the rocky shore as they stepped upon the wide promenade. Seagulls squawked and crooned above them, gliding with the gales to perch themselves atop the old carved railing. The sun was nearing the edge of the horizon, painting the heavy clouds in shades of gold and orange and violet. Dorian followed Tristan as he walked up to the railing, his coat stretching across his shoulders when he rested his elbows on the cold marble.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. The wind swirled about them, thick and sticky with salt, while Dorian gazed out at the stormy sea, the side of his hip touching the railing. The way Tristan seemed so focused on watching the sea stretch before them, it seemed to Dorian that he had entirely forgotten his presence. 

“Do you miss Minrathous?”

Tristan’s voice drifted along a sharp gust, mingled with the susurrus of waves, was almost drowned out by the gull’s insistent squawking, yet Dorian heard it clearly. It was the last question that Dorian had expected him to ask, even though his time with the man had shown him that nothing about him was as it seemed. The question itself was simple. The implications behind it immense. Dorian wondered whether Tristan realised that. 

He always despised that moment, the dratted moment when the matter of his heritage came up. It always did, sooner or later, no matter who he was talking to. To the people around him he must have looked odd, unusual, outlandish even. It wasn’t like he could do anything to hide it, even if he had wanted to. The Imperium had been a looming threat on the whole of Thedas for centuries, and the tales that had been woven through the people’s consciousness were of charlatanism and blind fanaticism at best, horror and despair at worst. No one was bold enough to say anything to his face, of course, but Dorian could see their reservations plainly. He could see it in their wide, friendly smiles that quivered when they were finally able to place his accent, or after he had helpfully informed them where he had learned all the “fascinating things he knew”. He could sense it in the awkwardness that followed, thick enough to be sliced through with a knife. A comment would usually ensue, something about the weather in Tevinter, where it was summer all year round, apparently, or the fine wines that surpassed Antivans in quality and lay far beyond what their meagre salaries could stretch to. Idle statements, irrelevant, inconsequential, aimed at steering the conversation carefully around the elephant in the room rather than crashing head first into it, hastily changing the subject to something else. Something safer. More acceptable. As if the very fact that he came from Tevinter was a frightful affliction, and any mention of it had to be avoided at all costs. 

Dorian held his gaze on the crashing waves and the jagged rocks below them. “Occasionally,” he replied slowly. Cautiously. He stole a sidelong glance at Tristan, waiting. Another long stretch of minutes passed before the man spoke again.

“I’ve heard it’s a wondrous place. I always longed to see it.” He paused for moment, worrying the inside of his lip. “What is it like?”

Dorian’s ears pricked up, searching for the sarcasm, the apprehension, the hidden trap. There was nothing there. It was a simple, straightforward, guileless question. He took a deep breath. “It is indeed beautiful. It is unlike any other city I’ve ever visited.”

“How so?” Tristan turned to look at him, dark blue eyes glinting with interest. Once again, not a hint of mockery in them. What an odd fellow.

“The city inner is made almost entirely of white marble,” Dorian began, forgetting his hesitancy for a moment. “The marble spires of Minrathous were once the tallest buildings in Thedas. An architectural marvel. They’re still there, most of them. There are covered walkways all throughout the center, and entire markets held in loggias. There are hidden gardens everywhere, too, carefully tucked away. One moment you could be making your way through a crowded street, and the next you could turn a corner and find yourself in an oasis, with trees and fragrant rose bushes and fountains. And the bazaars…” He paused for a moment, not quite able to stop the fond smile that widened his lips. “The bazaars of Minrathous are the finest in Thedas. Of that I can assure you. There isn’t a thing you could possibly covet that you wouldn’t be able to find there. The gemstones, the exotic foods, the trinkets, the fabrics…” Dorian let out a soft sigh. “I could go on.”

“Please do.”

Tristan had straightened and was now facing him, his eyes wide with wonder, hanging from his every word. Dorian blinked, taken aback for a moment. He didn’t quite know what he had expected when he started talking, yet it certainly wasn’t it. He had been fairly certain that the younger man had only asked about his homeland out of courtesy, that he probably didn’t care a fig, yet here he was. Reciting Tevinter poetry, listening intently while Dorian spoke, eagerly awaiting more. Who was he, then? Where had he come from?

Dorian looked away, a breathless laugh escaping him. “Perhaps I should show you some pictures. I doubt anything I could say would do it justice.”

A smile, warm and slow spreading, blossomed on Tristan’s face. “I’d love that.” 

Dorian looked at him then, at the strands of flaxen hair carried by the salty breeze, catching in his eyelashes and his lips. Dorian returned his smile with one of his own, following Tristan’s gaze when it left him to focus on the setting sun, and its golden hues that fell upon the thrashing, violet waves. In the day’s waning light, Dorian could have sworn that his eyes had changed their colour to match that of the stormy sea below them.

“The sky puts on the darkening blue coat, held for it by a row of ancient trees; you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight, one journeying to heaven, one that falls; and leave you, not at home in either one, not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses, not calling to eternity with the passion of what becomes, a star each night, and rises; and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel) your life, with its immensity and fear, so that, now bounded, now immeasurable, it is alternately stone in you and star.”[4]

The words were carried by the wind, whirled in lazily circles about him, cradling him, enveloping him. The promenade was now empty save for the wandering seabirds, and it felt to him like they were both standing at the edge of the world; two people connected by a deep longing for the unknown, and companionable silence. 

Dorian cleared his throat, swallowing through the knot that had found itself there. “Your ability to recite entire poems off the top of your head is truly astounding.”

 Tristan hummed in amusement, and the flush that crept up his cheeks was definitely not because of the wind this time.  

*****

 [1] How many bards gild the the lapses of time! - John Keats

[2] Mutability - Percy Bysshe Shelley

[3] Carpe Diem - Horace, translated by James Michie

[4] Evening - Rainer Maria Rilke

[altik-0]

Personal Revelation

I've spent the last two weeks trying to figure out how to write this post, but my mind has felt like it's tumbling around a washing machine and trying to figure out how to straighten my thoughts into a coherent message has felt impossible. But I'm driving myself crazy continuing to hold off on saying something, so I'm going to just rip off the bandage now, and we can talk in more depth after the cut.

Hi! 👋 I'm Asexual and Aromantic! Let's talk about it.

Where to even start

This month has been a fucking trip.

On the one hand, this has been the fourth month of nearly continuous quarantine for the COVID-19 pandemic. On the other, the end of May was the spark that began a wildfire of protests against police brutality that have swept across the country, including the seemingly milquetoast land of Salt Lake City. I found myself simultaneously figuring out the umpteenth way to keep myself entertained while being in home nearly uninterrupted for over 90 days, while also desperately searching for the courage to exit my home and join the marches against injustice.

And in the background of all of this, it was Pride Month.

On the 12th, a Youtube creator I follow released a video about their experience discovering themselves as non-binary. You should watch it, but what is important for the sake of this post is that the bulk of the video is an asynchronous telling of various moments throughout their life that, in reflection, show them that "[they] were who [they] are now, back then". These moments form a tapestry that tell a story of self discovery, and the result is incredibly powerful.

They released a rough cut about a week earlier for Patreon supporters, and I was immediately transfixed. I watched it three times in a row on the first day it was uploaded. I watched it twice more after the release. Hell, when I pulled this video up now to get the share link I couldn't help but sit and watch through it all over again.

At first I didn't really know why I felt so attached to this piece in particular. Yet still, I spent multiple nights laying awake for hours in what felt like a dreamlike haze at the time. It took three nights like this for me to realize I had spent all this time reflecting on my own past moments, and revisiting them through the lens this video had shared with me.

How I got here

It is September 2005. I am currently at a school dance. I know I am supposed to be finding someone to dance with and enjoy that for some reason, but all I want to do is go home. I might consider mustering up some courage and just asking someone, anyone, to dance, if it weren't for the fact that I still didn't have any friends. Instead, I feel trapped, wandering up and down the side wall, waiting for it to be over so I can finally leave. I stumble across a small group also sitting on the sides; a girl reading manga, and another playing Yu-Gi-Oh! with a boy across from her. I approach: "I didn't realize anyone still played this" They invite me to join, and soon I find myself with genuine friends at school for the first time in years. I never think about asking someone to dance again.

It is the summer of 2017. I am at a bar with some coworkers at the end of the week. I don't drink, but I've opened myself up to joining people for happy hour because it feels like a good way to socialize, and I've genuinely enjoyed getting to know folks. My team lead makes a comment that he feels it's impossible for a man and a woman to ever have a friendly relationship without having some element of sexual tension between them. I rebuff this comment -- initially I feel a sense of feminist frustration at the concept, as if it is implicitly saying that men and women should not work together. As the conversation continues, I realize the real reason I feel so sure this is wrong is because I have never felt this way toward anyone I've worked with.

It is the summer of 2008. I am in church, listening to the new instructor for my Sunday school class shift the discussion towards politics. Since he began, every lesson without fail will eventually derail into right-wing screeds. For him, any issue that is even vaguely left-leaning is a potential avenue for Satan to take hold of you: feminism, activism, even environmentalism. But lately he has had a particular fixation on the topic of gay marriage, and it is beginning to take a toll on my mental health. Being in these classes, hearing a man in a position of authority repeatedly say "it is not that we shouldn't love these people, but we need to still understand that they are committing a sin" has become physically painful to listen to. Of course, I am not queer, just an ally -- I can only imagine how painful this must be for those who are directly affected. I will nearly pass out from exhaustion and anxiety during sacrament meeting a few hours later.

It is February 2020. I am out to lunch with a friend and coworker. I have just recently changed jobs after less than a year, because I was hopelessly miserable at my last one. It should have been a dream job, marrying two of my closest passions, but instead I felt suffocated by being in a world where everyone seemed indifferent towards me at best, or actively hated me at worst. My friend invited me to join this job, and although it is a miserable job, I find solace in being able to go to lunch and have genuine conversations with someone I get along with. He mentions his wife is pregnant, and the stress of tending for his current child while she is resting. I acknowledge the frustration, though somewhat awkwardly since I am still single. "Oh, yeah, I sometimes forget you aren't married yet, haha. Well, don't worry, you'll get to join in on the fun soon enough!" I want to say "I very much doubt that"; instead I say "Well, I guess we'll see." The conversation does not feel so genuine anymore.

It is January 2009. I am watching House M.D. with my dad. We bond a lot while watching tv. We're both avid fans of MST3K, and we are invariably the obnoxious people in a movie theater a few rows down cracking jokes throughout the film. It feels fun and rebellious, even if we're doing it at home where nobody will be annoyed. This episode starts with Foreman and Thirteen waking up together in bed after clearly spending the night together. My dad cracks a joke about how "they're going to get in trouble, since they aren't married!" I quip back "nah, it's not a big deal, they just slept together, haha." My dad pauses the show and turns to me, deadly serious: "Who told you that was okay?!" I am a deer in headlights. I suddenly realize that I meant "slept together" literally, but nobody else uses it that way. I don't understand how I missed that.

It is October 2010. I am at home, speaking with my mother after coming home from school. She has always been a political firebrand, and especially after I left the church and started college the two of us have connected on this a lot. She has just read an article that mentioned the expanded acronym "LGBTQIA", and says she doesn’t know what all the "I" and "A" refer to. I don't yet know what the "I" refers to, but I suggest the "A" is probably for "asexual". She says she hadn't heard of asexuality, though that does make sense. I realize I don't recall hearing about asexuality before either. I don't actually know if anyone identifies like that. It just somehow feels like something that must exist.

It is the spring of 2007. I am at a local game store playing at a Friday Night Magic event for the first time. I suffer from very extreme social anxiety, and I spent the entire week a ball of nervous energy. Despite myself, I have managed to drive myself to the event and register. I have promised myself dozens of times over that I already knew Magic players were people similar to me, so there was no reason to worry. My first match is against someone wearing a frilly dress, cat ears, and tail. She mews at me several times while playing. On the surface I have frozen and only robotically go through motions of playing the game because my anxiety has boiled over to the point that I cannot quite function properly. Inside, I am filled with pure delight at realizing that someone could feel comfortable expressing themselves that openly in a space like this. I eventually become friends with this person who I will later learn is trans -- I had never met a trans person before. I will become close friends with three more trans people, at least two enbies, and countless other queer people over the next decade of playing this wonderful game.

It is November 2019. I am at work, sitting at my desk, feeling completely numb despite starting the day energetic to the point of mania. I've just had an argument with a close friend -- perhaps the closest friend I've ever had -- and it ended... poorly, to put it mildly. So poorly, in fact, that it is safe to say we are just not friends anymore. The reality was that there were always problems between us, and this was a culmination of conflict that never really got effectively resolved. It might not have even been possible to resolve. In the moment, though, I cannot escape the suffocating feeling that I am a failure as a human being; someone who simply does not know how to maintain a relationship. My mind goes through loops of how I could have said something differently to have it end better. The emotional pain will not fully make sense to me until several months later, when I realize this was the closest thing to a break-up that I've ever experienced.

It is January 2012. I am watching House M.D. with my dad again. Since leaving the church, watching shows like this has been a desperate lifeline for our relationship. We don't joke as much anymore. This episode features a side plot with an asexual couple, who House determines is simply impossible, and uses his power of supreme logic to prove the asexuality wasn't real all along. I have heard of asexuality, though I don't know where or when, so I am angry at this. Of course, as an ally. I want to joke with my dad to release some frustration, but he is still in the church, and I don’t think he will empathize. I stay silent, and do not enjoy this episode.

It is December 2019. I am scrolling through a Discord channel I was invited to from one of the leftist creators I follow. This community has been a breath of fresh air in many ways, and one I found surprisingly helpful was an NSFW adult content chat channel where people are open about sex, fetishes, and more. I've considered myself fairly open-minded and sex-positive, but I'm still a virgin at 28 so I've found there is a lot I just don't know about. Today, someone has started a conversation about what qualifies as "taboo" and relating it to kink-shaming. Another member replies, mentioning they are asexual and find the whole notion of taboos being kind of bizarre. My mind reels at seeing someone who identifies as asexual in this chat. Over time I find out there are several other people who identify at least gray-ace in this chat, some who even draw risque artwork for commission. I realize how little I actually understood about what asexuality really was, and begin scouring the internet for articles and wikis on asexuality.

It is April 2010. I am at an Apollo Burger across the street from the local game store where I am playing in a Magic prerelease. My friends I followed over are talking about weekend plans, and one of them makes a joke about doing some chores to butter up his partner to have sex. The joke does not go over my head -- I am straight, and understand sex, even if I am still a virgin -- but I still can't help but think out loud: "You know, I just don't get why people make such a big deal out of sex." The awkwardness and confused looks are suffocating. I drop the topic immediately.

It is June 2020. I have just watched a video from an enby Youtube creator about their experience discovering their own gender identity. Over the next three days I will see every one of these past experiences, along with hundreds of others, flash before my eyes in rapid succession, over and over, until I begin to realize that I haven't allowed myself to truly identify how I do. Every time I asked "am I asexual?" in the past, I would dismiss it because I understood sex and have a sex drive. Once I actually researched asexuality, though, I almost immediately found stories of people who identify as ace and still experience a sex drive. I also discover a lot of stories from aromantic people that sound painfully similar to feelings I hadn't even realized were not the norm. For the first time I begin to realize I may not just be an ally.

So what does this mean

I came to a sense of satisfaction with living alone and single a long time ago. At first this came with a certain level of shame, because I felt like it was only because I was too cowardly to enter the dating scene and try to find a relationship for myself. Over time the impact of the shame diminished, but it never went away; it just became a quiet background noise that I got accustomed to pushing back.

But now that I feel comfortable calling myself "Aromantic", I don't feel any shame. A romantic relationship is simply something I don't need. Instead, I can focus on fostering the kinds of deep relationships that do feed my soul. That will likely be a difficult thing to do -- awkwardly traversing intimacy was something most people worked through as a teenager or young adult, and I'm nearly 30, haha. But it at least feels possible now.

But really the biggest change for me is that I feel like I can be honest and public about who I am in a way I never was before. Simply being open about this piece of my identity somehow feels important if for no other reason than to let other people who felt like I did growing up that they aren't alone.

So... yeah. I'm aroace. And I always have been.

[musicallisto]

Hi! Would I be able to have a MCU and HP ship please? I am a straight girl, standing around 5’3 with shoulder length brown hair and green eyes. I’m curvy, quite pale, and I hate to tan. I’m very sarcastic and have a bit of a caustic wit. I’m quiet till you get to know me, but that doesn’t stop my sarcasm. I’m loyal, stubborn, ambitious, and a Ravenclaw. I’m a bit cynical, and a mix of a pessimist and realist. I tend to be a neutral good or a chaotic good, and I’m an INTJ. Thanks!

I Ship You With...

Tony Stark

What would draw Tony to you would be your stubborn and ambitious nature. Sure, it can get a little tiring at times, because you’re not one to throw the towel, and you’ll push until you get what you desire with sometimes little regard to the collateral dammage you may cause, but in a way Tony is that way too. He has great ambitions as well that you mirror perfectly. He doesn’t stop at the first inconvenience - nor at the twelfth, for that matter. He’s unafraid to compete and fight for what he wants - it’s a good thing what he wants is you.

Truth be told, you’re not the most optimistic of the bunch, and sometimes the others’ chippery, cheerful atittude to everything gets on your nerves. Although Tony appears confident and detached, he’s riddled with insecurities and traumas and he had a hard time believing that life could hold anything good in store for him after everything he’s been through. You don’t like losing yourself to hopeful, unrealistic outcomes either... but sometimes, a little bit of carelessness and abandon are necessary as to not sink under the weight of your past and your fear. It’s one of the more vulnerable sides of Tony and yours’ relationship, when you allow yourselves to think of the future not in death counts and everything derailing, but in a way-out. A way-out to where and a way-out of what, you’re not really sure, but dreaming of out is sometimes just enough.

Needless to say, you’re one badass couple, and the others normally don’t mess too much with you... normally. When they do, however, it’s light-hearted fun that you appreciate because you always find the best comebacks to shut them up. Even Tony himself, king of sass, is bewildered by the witty remarks you hold in store and how quickly you react, not missing a beat. You defend yourself with so much casual fierceness that he almost thinks he won’t craft you an armor for yourself.

(He does still, partly because he likes to feel in control and that’s a way of having an input in your safety, but mostly because it gives him an excuse to play mad scientist again.)

He quickly finds another excuse, though... when he’s working on a project in his lab, you come to read a book by his side or just spend time in the same room as him. The clatter of tools and vague scent of oil, that you normally would loathe, is somewhat calming when they’re coming from him. And it’s always a little bit adorable to hear him mutter to himself and frown in confusion at where this piece is supposed to go.

He concentrates better when you’re around, he finds... so he makes it a point to have you in the same room as him when he’s working, unless it’s too dangerous. Maybe you’ll even prompt him a few ideas if he’s stuck.

James Sirius Potter (New Generation Era)

Every adventure needs its archetypical heroes, even if the wizarding world. James fills in the role of the leader and the jokester at the same time, keeping the party entertained and on its toes; Albus Severus, when he tags along, is so sweet and gullible that he makes for great bait (although you object to him being muddled with your antics... sometimes), Rose, taking a lot after her parents, is both book smart and street smart, and has creative ways to get out of any sticky situation... and, well, every posse needs its stoic, sarcastic yet fiercely loyal and not-so-secretly affectionate member, and that’s where you come into play.

All the group adores you, obviously, but James and you are the life of Hogwarts in ways that differ from his parents and his grandparents, at the Marauders’ time. You have your inside jokes and a great deal of humor, and most of the students would deem you the most likeable couple in all Hogwarts (and maybe some professors would agree as well).

Sometimes James would make a fun light-hearted comments about your pale skintone, because he knows that you don’t take them personally and they’re all jokes in true Potter fashion, but if anyone ever dares to make an unpleasant remark he will throw hands. You will probably before him, metaphorically speaking though, because you have such great wit that you remain unbothered by any attempt at getting under your skin, but James has learned about the numerous instances of bullying in this school - seriously, do the teachers not do anything? Don’t they keep an eye on their students? -, and he doesn’t want anything of the sort happening to you.

He’s surprised that you are a Ravenclaw with how well you get along with him and with his Gryffindor friends. You have to remind him that a Hogwarts House doesn’t define much about one person and certainly not anything about their value - he could have been sorted into Slytherin, for that matter! He tries to shrug it off and play it cool, but you see him shudder nonetheless. Old prejudice dies hard, you suppose. For the quality of its education, Hogwarts should maybe reinforce its defusing of house stereotypes...

But he can be surprisingly caring when he wants to. He has been around great, solid relationships all his life, namely his parents’, but also more recently Teddy and Victoire’s, and because he’s an observant kid he knows all the faux-pas he must avoid and the mutual respect you’re owed. If you’re not in the mood for physical affection, he won’t force it upon you, even if I imagine it’s his favorite love language. If you are, however, he won’t hesitate to indulge in some PDA... after all, he’s proud of having you as his girlfriend, and he’s certain the castle needs to know it as well.

He won’t shut up about your marvelous intelligence and your bright, green eyes until the last ghost and the last painting in the last corner of the last wing of the castle know all about you. You become weirdly popular among people you’ve never talked to before... and you suspect James Sirius might be beyond all that.

[endymionreads]

So I've never done the Magical Readathon before, but it happened to cross my tl this afternoon on twitter, and I figured, since I'm trying to get back into reading, why not? It was the perfect opportunity!

I will be attempting all of the exams, and whatever I pass will be the N.E.W.T.S. I take if I do that in August! I don’t really know what I want to choose for a career yet, both irl and for the Readathon, so I’ll just be taking the exams and seeing where I end up!

You can view my TBR under the cut!

Ancient Runes → Read a book with a heart on the cover or in the title.

Bring Me Their Hearts by Sara Wolf

Zera is a Heartless – the immortal, unageing soldier of a witch. Bound to the witch Nightsinger ever since she saved her from the bandits who murdered her family, Zera longs for freedom from the woods they hide in. With her heart in a jar under Nightsinger’s control, she serves the witch unquestioningly. Until Nightsinger asks Zera for a Prince’s heart in exchange for her own, with one addendum; if she’s discovered infiltrating the court, Nightsinger will destroy her heart rather than see her tortured by the witch-hating nobles. Crown Prince Lucien d’Malvane hates the royal court as much as it loves him – every tutor too afraid to correct him and every girl jockeying for a place at his darkly handsome side. No one can challenge him – until the arrival of Lady Zera. She’s inelegant, smart-mouthed, carefree, and out for his blood. The Prince’s honor has him quickly aiming for her throat. So begins a game of cat and mouse between a girl with nothing to lose and a boy who has it all. Winner takes the loser’s heart. Literally.

Arithmancy → Read a book outside your favorite genre.

Red, White, & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston

What happens when America's First Son falls in love with the Prince of Wales? When his mother became President of the United States, Alex Claremont-Diaz was promptly cast as the American equivalent of a young royal. Handsome, charismatic, genius—his image is pure millennial-marketing gold for the White House. There's only one problem: Alex has a beef with an actual prince, Henry, across the pond. And when the tabloids get hold of a photo involving an Alex/Henry altercation, U.S./British relations take a turn for the worse. Heads of the family and state and other handlers devise a plan for damage control: Stage a truce between the two rivals. What at first begins as a fake, Instagrammable friendship grows deeper, and more dangerous, than either Alex or Henry could have imagined. Soon Alex finds himself hurtling into a secret romance with a surprisingly unstuffy Henry that could derail the presidential campaign and upend two nations. It raises the question: Can love save the world after all? Where do we find the courage, and the power, to be the people we are meant to ben? And how can we learn to let our true colors shine through? , how will history remember you?

Astronomy → Read the majority of the book at night.

We Rule the Night by Claire Eliza Bertlett

Seventeen-year-old Revna is a factory worker, manufacturing war machines for the Union of the North. When she's caught using illegal magic, she fears being branded a traitor and imprisoned.

Meanwhile, on the front lines, Linne defied her father, a Union general, and disguised herself as a boy to join the army. They're both offered a reprieve from punishment if they use their magic in a special women's military flight unit and undertake terrifying, deadly missions under cover of darkness.

Revna and Linne can hardly stand to be in the same cockpit, but if they can't fly together, and if they can't find a way to fly well, the enemy's superior firepower will destroy them--if they don't destroy each other first.We Rule the Night is a powerful story about sacrifice, complicated friendships, and survival despite impossible odds

Care of Magical Creatures → Read a book with a creature with a beak on the cover.

Spin the Dawn by Elizabeth Lim

Maia Tamarin dreams of becoming the greatest tailor in the land, but as a girl, the best she can hope for is to marry well. When a royal messenger summons her ailing father, once a tailor of renown, to court, Maia poses as a boy and takes his place. She knows her life is forfeit if her secret is discovered, but she'll take that risk to achieve her dream and save her family from ruin. There's just one catch: Maia is one of twelve tailors vying for the job. Backstabbing and lies run rampant as the tailors compete in challenges to prove their artistry and skill. Maia's task is further complicated when she draws the attention of the court magician, Edan, whose piercing eyes seem to see straight through her disguise. And nothing could have prepared her for the final challenge: to sew three magic gowns for the emperor's reluctant bride-to-be, from the laughter of the sun, the tears of the moon, and the blood of stars. With this impossible task before her, she embarks on a journey to the far reaches of the kingdom, seeking the sun, the moon, and the stars, and finding more than she ever could have imagined.

Charms → Read a book that has a white cover.

The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater

It is freezing in the churchyard, even before the dead arrive. Every year, Blue Sargent stands next to her clairvoyant mother as the soon-to-be dead walk past. Blue herself never sees them—not until this year, when a boy emerges from the dark and speaks directly to her. His name is Gansey, and Blue soon discovers that he is a rich student at Aglionby, the local private school. Blue has a policy of staying away from Aglionby boys. Known as Raven Boys, they can only mean trouble. But Blue is drawn to Gansey, in a way she can’t entirely explain. He has it all—family money, good looks, devoted friends—but he’s looking for much more than that. He is on a quest that has encompassed three other Raven Boys: Adam, the scholarship student who resents all the privilege around him; Ronan, the fierce soul who ranges from anger to despair; and Noah, the taciturn watcher of the four, who notices many things but says very little. For as long as she can remember, Blue has been warned that she will cause her true love to die. She never thought this would be a problem. But now, as her life becomes caught up in the strange and sinister world of the Raven Boys, she’s not so sure anymore.

Defense Against the Dark Arts → Read a book set at the sea or on the coast.

Seafire by Natalie C. Parker

After her family is killed by corrupt warlord Aric Athair and his bloodthirsty army of Bullets, Caledonia Styx is left to chart her own course on the dangerous and deadly seas. She captains her ship, the Mors Navis, with a crew of girls and women just like her, who have lost their families and homes because of Aric and his men. The crew has one mission: stay alive, and take down Aric's armed and armored fleet. But when Caledonia's best friend and second-in-command barely survives an attack thanks to help from a Bullet looking to defect, Caledonia finds herself questioning whether to let him join their crew. Is this boy the key to taking down Aric Athair once and for all . . . or will he threaten everything the women of the Mors Navis have worked for?

Divination → Assign numbers to your TBR List, and use a generator to pick the book.

All the Stars and Teeth by Adalyn Grace

Set in a kingdom where danger lurks beneath the sea, mermaids seek vengeance with song, and magic is a choice. She will reign. As princess of the island kingdom Visidia, Amora Montara has spent her entire life training to be High Animancer—the master of souls. The rest of the realm can choose their magic, but for Amora, it’s never been a choice. To secure her place as heir to the throne, she must prove her mastery of the monarchy’s dangerous soul magic. When her demonstration goes awry, Amora is forced to flee. She strikes a deal with Bastian, a mysterious pirate: he’ll help her prove she’s fit to rule, if she’ll help him reclaim his stolen magic. But sailing the kingdom holds more wonder—and more peril—than Amora anticipated. A destructive new magic is on the rise, and if Amora is to conquer it, she’ll need to face legendary monsters, cross paths with vengeful mermaids, and deal with a stow-away she never expected… or risk the fate of Visidia and lose the crown forever. I am the right choice. The only choice. And I will protect my kingdom.

Herbology → Read a book where title starts with an m.

Mirage by Somaiya Daud

In a star system dominated by the brutal Vathek empire, eighteen-year-old Amani is a dreamer. She dreams of what life was like before the occupation; she dreams of writing poetry like the old-world poems she adores; she dreams of receiving a sign from Dihya that one day, she, too, will have adventure, and travel beyond her isolated moon. But when adventure comes for Amani, it is not what she expects: she is kidnapped by the regime and taken in secret to the royal palace, where she discovers that she is nearly identical to the cruel half-Vathek Princess Maram. The princess is so hated by her conquered people that she requires a body double, someone to appear in public as Maram, ready to die in her place. As Amani is forced into her new role, she can’t help but enjoy the palace’s beauty—and her time with the princess’ fiancé, Idris. But the glitter of the royal court belies a world of violence and fear. If Amani ever wishes to see her family again, she must play the princess to perfection...because one wrong move could lead to her death.

History of Magic → Read a book featuring witches and/or wizards

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by JK Rowling

Harry Potter's life is miserable. His parents are dead and he's stuck with his heartless relatives, who force him to live in a tiny closet under the stairs. But his fortune changes when he receives a letter that tells him the truth about himself: he's a wizard. A mysterious visitor rescues him from his relatives and takes him to his new home, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. After a lifetime of bottling up his magical powers, Harry finally feels like a normal kid. But even within the Wizarding community, he is special. He is the boy who lived: the only person to have ever survived a killing curse inflicted by the evil Lord Voldemort, who launched a brutal takeover of the Wizarding world, only to vanish after failing to kill Harry. Though Harry's first year at Hogwarts is the best of his life, not everything is perfect. There is a dangerous secret object hidden within the castle walls, and Harry believes it's his responsibility to prevent it from falling into evil hands. But doing so will bring him into contact with forces more terrifying than he ever could have imagined. Full of sympathetic characters, wildly imaginative situations, and countless exciting details, the first installment in the series assembles an unforgettable magical world and sets the stage for many high-stakes adventures to come.

Muggle Studies → Read a contemporary book.

Of Curses and Kisses by Sandhya Menon

Will the princess save the beast? For Princess Jaya Rao, nothing is more important than family. When the loathsome Emerson clan steps up their centuries-old feud to target Jaya’s little sister, nothing will keep Jaya from exacting her revenge. Then Jaya finds out she’ll be attending the same elite boarding school as Grey Emerson, and it feels like the opportunity of a lifetime. She knows what she must do: Make Grey fall in love with her and break his heart. But much to Jaya’s annoyance, Grey’s brooding demeanor and lupine blue eyes have drawn her in. There’s simply no way she and her sworn enemy could find their fairy-tale ending…right? His Lordship Grey Emerson is a misanthrope. Thanks to an ancient curse by a Rao matriarch, Grey knows he’s doomed once he turns eighteen. Sequestered away in the mountains at St. Rosetta’s International Academy, he’s lived an isolated existence—until Jaya Rao bursts into his life, but he can't shake the feeling that she’s hiding something. Something that might just have to do with the rose-shaped ruby pendant around her neck… As the stars conspire to keep them apart, Jaya and Grey grapple with questions of love, loyalty, and whether it’s possible to write your own happy ending.

Potions → Read a  book under 150 pages

Red As Blood And White As Bone by Theodora Goss

Red as Blood and White as Bone by Theodora Goss is a dark fantasy about a kitchen girl obsessed with fairy tales, who upon discovering a ragged woman outside the castle during a storm, takes her in--certain she’s a princess in disguise.

Transfiguration → Read a book or series that includes shapeshifting

Wild Magic by Tamora Pierce

Young Daine's knack with horses gets her a job helping the royal horsemistress drive a herd of ponies to Tortall. Soon it becomes clear that Daine's talent, as much as she struggles to hide it, is downright magical. Horses and other animals not only obey, but listen to her words. Daine, though, will have to learn to trust humans before she can come to terms with her powers, her past, and herself.

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