#dinnertime chatter

[supperparty]

chef theres a rock in my soup

the rock is there for flavor

[vaiztohirez]

eating a hunk of watermelon over the sink because if you don't raise your blood sugar immediately you're gonna commit homicide (schedule killed the possibility of a well-timed meal) but if you eat candy your stomach will riot (stress response)

[inexplicifics]

i know aubry wasn’t assigned as jaskier’s bodyguard until the agata incident, which was well after he joined the council and moved to sit by eskel at meals, but i like to imagine that he was the first pick because even though he’d never complain, no one could stand aubry smelling sad and kind of lonely now that he didn’t have his dinnertime buddy anymore

I like this theory. Eskel looked at his calm, quiet big brother who has gotten bizarrely and unexpectedly Attached to the loud, brightly colored, ever-chattering bard and went, Y'know what? I can kill two birds with one stone here.

And now Aubry gets all the Bard Time he wants, and smells so happy.

[velarisdusk]

Before the Thorns

Tamlin x Reader

summary: You met Tamlin when you were five, and every summer after that was his. Years later, you return to Spring and find that he's grown into someone you almost recognize. Almost. But the way he smiles at you? That hasn't changed a bit. word count: 11.1k content: [ sexual content (not as explicit as my usual), explicit language (like one word) ] author's note: this is kinda a holy fic by my standards huh yall? very minimal content warnings! yay! this one is very lovey dovey, had to come through with a tam friends to lovers :D ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ golden brew infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover's knot stirred thank you for the request anon! i've never written anything like this before so i hope you like it!! <3

Summer’s Beginning Spring Court, Year 5

The Dragonflies

You stood half-hidden behind your mother’s skirts, trying not to fidget. The parlor was too warm, too polished, full of the polite chatter of grown-ups. You clutched the hem of your dress tighter.

“He’s just your age,” your mother had whispered as they brought you in. “Only five, just like you. You’ll be great friends.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know what to say to anyone.

Tamlin was already in the room, tucked behind his mother in almost the exact same way you were tucked behind yours. Hair like a sunlit wheat field, eyes a sharp green under lashes so long they looked absurd on a boy. He peeked at you, then quickly looked away again.

The Lady of Spring leaned down and murmured something to her son. He nodded, hesitant, and took one step forward. 

“Tamlin,” she reminded gently, placing a hand on his small back. “Remember your manners. Go on. Properly.”

He swallowed hard, then walked toward you with slow, careful steps. When he reached you, he stopped, looked at the floor, and bowed.

“I’m Tamlin,” he said. His voice was soft. Shy. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You blinked. Then, without being told, you did your best curtsey. It was awkward—your shoes caught a little—but you straightened up with all the dignity a five-year-old could muster.

“I’m (y/n). It’s nice to meet you.”

Across the room, your mothers both let out tiny, delighted sounds. You could hear the word precious whispered more than once.

But neither of you were listening anymore.

Tamlin was fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Um,” he said. “Do you wanna see the dragonflies?”

Your eyebrows lifted. “What dragonflies?”

“In the garden,” he said. “There’s a little pond. They’re everywhere right now. Blue ones and green ones and one that looks kinda purple. I found it this morning.”

Your heart skipped with sudden, unexpected excitement.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s go.”

You grabbed his hand—without thinking, without asking—and the two of you ran.

Out through the open patio doors, past the stone path and the hedge shaped like a stag. Your parents’ laughter faded behind you as the garden swallowed you up in green and gold.

The pond was small and round, with lily pads dotting the surface like little floating plates. And sure enough, the air above it danced with flickering wings—bright flashes of turquoise and emerald, humming like magic.

You gasped. Tamlin beamed.

You spent the rest of the afternoon chasing dragonflies and giggling, forgetting entirely that you were strangers only half an hour ago.

By dinnertime, your shoes were soaked, his knees were muddy, and neither of you wanted to go back inside.

That night, as you lay in bed in your guest room, you whispered his name to the ceiling like a secret.

And in his own wing of the manor, Tamlin wrote your name in the dust on his windowsill, just to see what it looked like beside his.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lordling of Spring Summer’s End, Year 5 “Her shoes got muddy and she didn’t even cry. She said it’s just dirt. I didn’t know girls could be like that.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Summer’s End, Year 5 “Tamlin is quiet like me. I like that. He showed me a caterpillar and told me not to squish it because it would turn into a moth. I told him moths are boring. He got this weird look on his face.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Midsummer Spring Court, Year 8

The Dare

The river was colder than you remembered.

It always was, that first wade in. Ankle-deep, skirts bunched in your fists, you stood in the shallows and let the water bite at your skin while Tamlin swam ahead—messy and laughing and already soaked through. He always dove in too fast, didn’t wait to adjust. But then, Tamlin never really waited for anything.

He surfaced near the bend, hair plastered flat to his head. “Race you to the log!”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m in a dress.”

“That’s your fault.”

“Says the boy who almost drowned last summer trying to impress a swan.”

“It wasn’t a swan,” he said, wading closer. “And I wasn’t trying to impress it.”

You raised a brow.

He glared. “It had weird eyes.”

The argument dissolved into giggles. You sloshed out of the river after him, feet slipping a little in the mud. The glade was as green and overgrown as ever—bushes thick with leaves, old tree roots knotted into natural steps along the bank.

You were toweling off your feet with a patch of moss when Tamlin glanced toward the far edge of the clearing—and grinned.

“You still too scared to touch the lightning tree?”

Your hands paused. “I was five last time.”

“Exactly. You’re older now.” He stood, wringing out his tunic. “Go on.”

You squinted at the tree in question. It stood crooked at the rim of the glade, hunched like an old man. The bark had split from a long-ago strike, curling away in scorched ribbons. Even now, in all this sunlight, it looked wrong. Like it didn’t belong here.

“I don’t see you going near it,” you said.

“I already did. Last summer. You were in the garden with my mother.”

You gave him a look.

He grinned wider. “Ask my brother.”

“I will.”

“Go touch it, coward.”

You stood, brushing dirt from your knees. “I’m not a coward. I’m cautious.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

He smirked, backing away with his hands up. “Fine. Be cautious. But I’m telling everyone you were too scared.”

“You’re a pest.”

“And you’re a chicken.”

You scowled. But your pride was louder than your fear. You adjusted your skirt, lifted your chin, and stepped off the soft moss toward the gnarled thing at the edge of the trees.

The glade quieted as you approached. Even the insects seemed to hush, the hum of summer air dimming with every step. Tamlin trailed after you—barefoot, breathing a little faster, but pretending not to.

The lightning tree looked worse up close. Its bark curled in brittle edges, its roots warped in a wide, gnarled yawn. Some stories said it had been struck during a Solstice storm and lived. Others said it hadn’t lived. That something else had taken root in its place.

But you didn’t believe in ghost stories. Not really.

You reached out—

“Boo!”

Two hands grabbed your shoulders and you shrieked, leaping a full foot off the ground. Tamlin burst into laughter behind you, already backing away, clutching his ribs.

“You horrible—”

“Did you see your face?!”

“You’re awful! You’re actual filth!”

“You sounded like a baby fox—eee!”

You tackled him before he could say anything else. The two of you went sprawling into the grass, all elbows and knees and breathless howling. Somewhere above you, the branches whispered with spring wind.

“You’re evil,” you gasped, cheeks aching with laughter.

“It was funny,” he wheezed, trying to wrestle you off.

“I’m going to drown you.”

“You can try.”

You pinned him for a second, breath coming fast. He blinked up at you, still grinning, hair full of grass.

And then—like children always do—you forgot the fear entirely. You rolled away. He rolled after you. And the world was only sun and sweat and sky and the sound of your own wild, fearless joy.

Later, when the shadows grew longer and your chaperones called you in for supper, you would walk side-by-side with dirt-streaked hands and secret grins. And no one would ask why you smelled like smoke and river water. 

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lordling of Spring Midsummer, Year 8 “I scared her today at the black tree. She screamed like a squirrel. I didn’t mean to laugh so hard, but I couldn’t stop. She pushed me into the mud. I hope she’s not mad.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Late Summer, Year 8 “He always dares me to do things first. I pretend I’m annoyed, but I don’t mind. Not when it’s him. His brothers, on the other hand…”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Early Summer Spring Court, Year 12

The Intended

It was only three days into your stay when your father’s letter arrived.

You hadn’t read it expecting anything remarkable—he usually asked how the journey had gone, reminded you to behave, offered updates about cousins or court life back home. But this one ended with something that made your stomach go still.

“Your time with the Spring Court has always been a gift, dearest, and with any luck, one that may be more permanent in the future. Lord Beron has shown interest elsewhere for his third youngest. If things continue smoothly, I believe this match may be secured.”

You’d read it twice before folding the parchment away.

The match.

You knew, vaguely, that such things happened. That daughters were aligned and offered and promised for the sake of ties. But you hadn’t thought—truly thought—that you might be one of them. And certainly not with Tamlin.

The thought didn’t horrify you. Not like it might’ve with someone else. You liked Tamlin. You always had. He was quiet, like you. And kind. 

Still… you held the secret close for two more days before telling him.

It was late afternoon. The pond from your childhood buzzed with insects, its reeds taller now, lily pads wider. You and Tamlin were skipping stones—though neither of you had said much. He’d seemed quieter this year. A little prickly. Your shared hours had been fewer and shorter, and more often than not, spent in awkward silences.

“I think our parents want us to get married someday,” you said, mostly to the pond.

Tamlin missed his throw. The stone fell with a clumsy splash.

“…What?” he said, frowning.

You looked over at him. “My father wrote to me. Said a match might be secured. Between us.”

His mouth worked for a second. Then he scoffed. “They can’t do that.”

You blinked. “Well. They kind of can.”

“That’s stupid.” He whipped another stone hard enough that it sunk. “I don’t want to get married.”

You tried to smile. “Not now, obviously.”

“Not ever. Especially not because they told me to.”

A pause.

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my summers with a girl.”

The words landed in your chest like wet wool.

“Oh,” you said. Your hands smoothed over your skirts. “Well. I don’t want to spend mine surrounded by boys either—especially not your awful brothers.”

You didn’t mean it cruelly. You didn’t even quite mean it as a retort. But the air between you had curdled, and neither of you quite knew how to fix it.

Tamlin mumbled something about practice with his brothers and stood.

“See you later,” he said, not looking at you.

You didn’t answer.

That evening, you found Tamlin’s mother arranging wildflowers in the solar. She welcomed you without question, and you spent the rest of the dusk quietly stringing little blossoms together while she hummed.

And for the rest of that summer, it went on like that. You and Tamlin passed each other like drifting clouds—sometimes close, sometimes not. And when your mothers looked on and sighed about how sweet the two of you were, you just kept your eyes on the embroidery in your lap and didn’t say a word.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Midsummer, Year 12 “Father says it’s always been the plan. That’s why the summers, the letters, the visits. I didn’t think I’d mind. But now Tamlin won’t look at me. I miss him.” 

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lordling of Spring Early Summer, Year 12 “I heard her crying in the garden. I almost went to her. Almost. I don’t know why I didn’t. I feel stupid. Why does it feel like everything changed all at once?”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Summer’s End Spring Court, Year 15

The Goodbye

The roof tiles were still warm from the sun.

You sat with your back against the chimney, legs dangling over the edge, the whole of the Spring Court spread below like a painted memory—soft gold fields, violet-hued sky, manor lights flickering on one by one.

Below, the staff were lighting lanterns. Their glow made even the fireflies seem shy.

Tamlin sat beside you, one leg bent, the other hanging free. You’d scaled the lattice with him just after supper, like you always did on the last night of summer. Like it was tradition. Like it would still be tradition, next year.

He handed you a plum without looking. You took it without thanks, bit into the skin. Sweet and dark. The juice ran down your fingers.

“Carriage’ll be here early,” he said after a while.

You nodded, chewing. Somewhere below, someone laughed—faint and far.

He shifted slightly. “You’ll be back next summer, though.”

You wiped your mouth on your sleeve and looked down at your lap. “I won’t.”

He stilled. 

“They’re sending me to Montesere,” you said. “To stay with my cousins.”

“For the whole summer?”

You nodded.

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Father says it’s time I learn how other courts live. Broaden my understanding. Make… more connections.”

You hesitated, then added quietly, “There’s talk—political rumblings, they say. Something about strengthening alliances. It’s more than just visits and pleasantries.”

Tamlin made a quiet sound. You couldn’t name it.

You took another bite. It didn’t taste as good this time. Too ripe. Too soft.

“It’s not forever,” you offered, voice low.

He breathed out through his nose. “Feels like it.”

Silence settled between you—not cold, but heavy. Familiar in the way only late summer silence can be: all endings and unfinished things.

A lantern flared below. Somewhere, a gardener called goodnight. The wind stirred the edges of your gown.

“…Will you write?” he asked.

You looked at him then. Really looked. The boy who’d once dared you to touch lightning trees. Who used to sulk when you beat him at cards, who always swam out too far and came back grinning.

He wasn’t a boy anymore, not really. His shoulders had gotten broader. His jaw was starting to square. His voice had dropped sometime last year, low and rough now even in its quiet.

So many summers. So many versions of him. Of you.

“If you do,” you said.

Tamlin turned to you. The distance between your knees, your hands—it could’ve vanished in a breath. But neither of you moved.

“Promise?” he said.

You hesitated—just for a second.

“Promise,” you said.

The word sat between you like something fragile. Like if either of you touched it, it would disappear.

You stayed like that until the stars came out fully. Until the moon crested the trees and someone called your name from the garden below.

When you climbed down the lattice, neither of you said goodbye.

You just looked at each other—too long, too quiet—and walked away.

Later, alone in bed, you’d stare up at the ceiling and wonder why you hadn’t hugged him.

Years from now, you’d still think about that night and wonder if he’d wanted to kiss you.

And wonder if you would’ve let him.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lord of Spring Summer’s End, Year 15 “She’s not coming back next summer. I kept thinking: say something, ask something. But I didn’t. I let her climb down without a word. I think that was my last chance.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Autumn, Year 15 “I should have hugged him. I should have said something more than ‘promise.’ But what? I didn’t even know what I wanted. I just knew I didn’t want to leave.” 

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Summer’s End, Year 16 “Montesere is louder than I remember. My cousins wake at dawn and stay up long after I’ve gone to bed. There’s always someone in the hall, always music bleeding through a wall, someone asking me where I’ve been, where I’m going, why I’m not smiling anymore. I miss the quiet of the river. The tree line. The garden paths where you can hear yourself think. I think I’m homesick. But I don’t know which home I mean. Tamlin wrote me last week. It was short. I’ve read it five times. I haven’t answered yet.” 

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lord of Spring Winter, Year 16 “She hasn’t written back. I shouldn’t care this much. I’ve been busy. Father wants more time in court. He says I should practice my listening face. I told him that’s what I use every time he speaks. He didn’t laugh. I brought a hawk back from the forest today. She was caught in a trap, wing mangled. I carried her back in both hands. Held her to my chest. I’m trying to think of a name for her. I almost wrote to ask (y/n) what she’d choose. Maybe I still will.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Spring, Year 17 “Everyone says I’m adjusting well. I know the dance steps. I can hold a conversation over dinner. I’ve learned how to wear my hair so I look older. Today, I said something clever in court and made four people laugh. Tamlin’s letter came today. He says the hawk still doesn’t trust him. That she only lets his mother near. I wrote back. I didn’t tell him my father has had me stay in Montesere all this time. I didn’t tell him I’d be staying here again this summer. I didn’t tell him I cried when I saw his handwriting.” 

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lord of Spring Late Summer, Year 17 “I still go to the glade. It’s overgrown now. No one’s touched it since she left. The tree hasn’t changed—it’s still the same twisted thing—but the grass has eaten the clearing. I think I saw her name in the mud by the river once. I think she wrote it the summer before she left, maybe with a stick. Sometimes I sit beside it and pretend she’s still here. Just for a minute. Just long enough.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Early Winter, Year 18 “I forgot what his voice sounds like. I realized it today and it nearly ruined me. I read one of his old letters and heard nothing in my head. Not even the right cadence. I don’t know if that means I’m moving on or if I’ve just lost something. I think it might be both.” 

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lord of Spring Spring, Year 18 “I wrote her. I didn’t send it. I said too much. Not enough. The wrong things. I’ve rewritten it thrice now. I don’t know why I can’t just say I miss her. I don’t know why that feels like a betrayal of something I can’t even name.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Late Spring, Year 19 “Word came. I’m to return to Spring this year. Just for the summer. It feels surreal. I’ve packed and unpacked thrice already. I wonder if he still waits at the garden gate. I wonder if he still keeps the letters. I wonder if he’ll know who I am now. I wonder if I’ll recognize him.” 

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Summer’s Return Spring Court, Year 19

The Homecoming

The trees had changed.

It was the first thing you noticed, peering out from the carriage window as the horses crested the familiar rise. Not the color—not the greens, still vibrant and sun-warmed—but the shape of them. Larger somehow. Wilder. The branches curled over the path like arching ribs, knotted and overgrown. Less manicured than you remembered.

The carriage wound slowly through the fields, wheels crunching gravel softened by ivy and moss. The sun was high, mellow as butter, and everything around you smelled like memory—honeysuckle, loam, fresh grass under hoof.

You leaned your elbow against the window frame, letting the breeze lift your hair, tug your thoughts forward and back.

Four years.

Almost four years since you’d last seen each other. 

Three years of other summers. Mountains instead of glades. Marble instead of wild hedges. Endless, stifling hours spent under your cousins’ scrutiny in Montesere—smiling politely, swallowing sighs.

But this—this was what summer was supposed to feel like.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until the manor came into view.

It looked the same. Or nearly the same. Pale stone, rose-draped columns, the fountain gurgling in the courtyard. A dream half-remembered. The smell of honeysuckle and river moss wafted in through the open window, and for a moment it hit you like a blow—how badly you’d missed it. The scent of home. Or one of them.

You smoothed your skirts and sat up straighter. The carriage slowed, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once, twice, and fell silent.

The gates loomed ahead.

They hadn’t changed at all. Twisted bronze and carved blossoms, ivy curling like veins along the metal. The sigil of Spring—antlers and petals—glinted in the sun.

The carriage creaked to a stop at the edge of the courtyard. You heard the soft click of reins, the shuffle of hooves on gravel, the opening of the manor’s great bronze gates.

They were all there.

The High Lord and Lady of Spring stood at the front of the small welcoming party, regal in golds and soft greens, their expressions practiced and pleasant. Behind them, the two elder sons—tall, broad-shouldered, their eyes assessing even through the smiles. And Tamlin.

A half-step back.

He looked like summer had claimed him outright.

Gods, he was tall. Taller than you remembered. Broad through the shoulders. His golden hair was longer now, tied back loosely at the nape. And his face—so familiar it ached, but refined now. Older. Sharper.

He wasn’t looking at you. Not directly. His gaze hovered just past the carriage, locked on some distant point in the trees.

Your heart kicked, stupid and loud.

Before you could catch your breath, the door opened and a footman extended a hand to help you down. Your slippers crunched on the gravel. Skirt, chin, spine: you adjusted them all at once, head high as your family had taught you.

But you didn’t feel like a guest.

You felt like a girl returning to a half-finished sentence.

“Lady (Y/n),” the High Lord said warmly. “Welcome back to Spring.”

You curtsied. “Lord Zephyrus. Lady Ysolde. Thank you for having me.”

“Oh, we’d never dream of a summer without you,” Lady Ysolde said, sweeping forward to kiss both your cheeks. She smelled like lilacs and old parchment. “You’ve grown more beautiful every year.”

“Montesere’s stylists,” you said lightly. “They know their tricks.”

One of the elder brothers chuckled. You couldn’t tell which. You hadn’t seen either in so long that their features blurred together—mirror images of pride and posture.

And still, Tamlin hadn’t said a word.

You looked to him.

He met your gaze at last.

The breath left your chest like you’d been struck.

“Tamlin,” you said.

His name tasted old and new all at once.

“…Welcome back,” he said quietly.

It was all he could manage.

The Lady glanced between you both, something curious in her expression. “Come,” she said. “You must be exhausted. We’ve had the east wing freshened just for you. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

You let them lead you inside.

Tamlin walked behind you the whole way.

The dining hall hadn’t changed.

Long carved table. Silver-glass chandeliers. The windows wide open to let in the dusk breeze, carrying in the scent of blooming jasmine. The place was the same—and still, it felt unfamiliar.

Or maybe you were the unfamiliar thing in it.

You sat between Lady Ysolde and one of Tamlin’s brothers, your back straight, your hands folded neatly in your lap while a small army of servants began placing dishes on the table. You didn’t look at Tamlin. Not right away.

But you felt him.

Across the table. Slightly to your left. The shadows in your periphery bent around the shape of him—his profile sharp with silence, his jaw flexing every so often like he was chewing on words instead of food.

Conversation rose around you like music you couldn’t quite follow.

The High Lord asked after your father’s health, your court’s politics, how Montesere’s summers compared to Spring. You answered with easy diplomacy, the sort you’d been trained to wield—graceful, charming, politely vague.

Tamlin didn’t speak once.

When the roast was served, he passed the dish without looking up. When your fingers brushed as you reached for the same knife, he flinched.

Only a little.

You pretended not to notice.

Lady Ysolde touched your arm gently. “We missed you, dear. Truly. The house has felt quieter without you.”

“Has it?” you asked, smiling. “I always thought it was Tamlin making the most noise.”

A beat.

The table went still.

One of his brothers gave a low snort of laughter. “She got you there, baby brother.”

Tamlin shifted. Then, in a voice so deep it nearly startled you—low and rough and not at all the boy you remembered—he said, “I was nine. You threw me in the fountain.”

“You looked like you needed it.”

“I was holding a piece of cake.”

“Exactly,” you said innocently, sipping from your glass. “Better to be wet than sticky.”

Lady Ysolde chuckled. “It’s like nothing’s changed.”

But everything had.

You could feel it in your bones, in the way your smile hurt a little, in the way Tamlin kept looking down into his plate like it held all the answers he didn’t know how to ask.

Finally, halfway through dessert, he spoke.

Quiet. Careful.

“How long are you staying?”

It wasn’t a casual question. Not from him.

You met his eyes. Steady now. Even if your pulse wasn’t.

“Just the summer.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his shoulders shifted. A breath, a thought, a silent note of only.

Not long enough.

Across the table, conversation had resumed. The family talked of garden renovations, of court schedules, of a wedding someone had been invited to in Autumn. You kept nodding, playing the part of the polite guest.

But Tamlin hadn’t looked away.

Neither had you.

After the remnants of dessert were cleared away, Lady Ysolde placed her napkin beside her plate, smile warm, voice gentle as always. “You must be tired from the ride, dear. It’s gotten late without any of us noticing.”

You weren’t, not really. But you nodded anyway.

She turned to a nearby servant and murmured a few words. The girl bowed and motioned for you to follow. As you stood, the entire table stirred with polite murmurs of goodnight, of we’ll speak more in the morning, of rest well, my lady.

Tamlin didn’t say anything.

But his eyes followed you all the way to the door.

The manor’s upper halls were quiet.

Your footsteps echoed off marble, faint and familiar. Outside the arched windows, the sky had gone velvet blue, stars just beginning to blink awake between the trees. The servant led you down a corridor you used to know by heart—and with every step, a hundred memories whispered at your heels.

She stopped at the farthest door.

“Here, my lady,” she said, pushing it open.

You thanked her softly. She curtsied and vanished back into the shadows.

And then, for the first time in years, you were alone in your old room.

It looked…

The same. Almost.

The rug was different. Darker blue, maybe. And the mirror by the wardrobe was gone, replaced with a small, carved vanity you didn’t recognize. But the walls were still that pale rose shade, soft and warm under the candlelight. The window still faced east, overlooking the garden. The bed still had your favorite quilt—green with gold stitching, one you remembered trailing your fingers over late at night when you couldn’t sleep.

You crossed the room slowly, like if you moved too fast the spell would break.

There were fresh flowers on the table. Lavender and foxglove. You weren’t sure if that had been a coincidence. You weren’t sure anything was.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Summer’s Return Spring Court, Year 19

The Sleepless Night

The room was too quiet.

Too still.

You shifted under the covers again, kicking one leg free of the quilt. Then rolled to your other side. Then back. The same ceiling beams stared down at you just as they always had, but tonight they felt… closer. Like the walls had shrunk in your absence, like the room had folded in on itself without you in it.

You used to love this room. Used to wake to birdsong and sleep to crickets. Used to lie here listening to the wind stir through the garden.

But now you could only hear your heartbeat. Loud. Uneven.

And your thoughts.

He looked different.

Taller somehow. Sharper around the edges. That softness he used to carry—he still had it, you could see it in the way he reached for his water glass—but it was buried now, half-hidden under layers of silence and weight.

You hadn’t spoken alone. Had barely spoken at all.

And gods, the way he looked at you. Like you were a ghost.

You threw back the covers.

You didn’t bother with shoes—just pulled on a robe, wrapped it tight, and slipped quietly out the door.

The manor was silent, lit only by the blue wash of starlight through the windows. You knew the path without thinking. Knew every step, every turn, like no time had passed at all.

Your bare feet whispered over cool stone, down the stairs, out into the night.

The garden had grown.

Not wildly, not unkempt—but the edges were less defined than you remembered. A little more untamed. The hedge shaped like a stag was still there, now dotted with white blossoms. Fireflies danced just above the dewy grass.

And beyond that, through the gap in the trees—where the path turned soft and mossy—you found it.

The glade.

Still hidden.

Still quiet.

Still home.

The moonlight spilled in through the clearing above, silvering the long grass. The old tree stood in its same crooked lean, bark knotted and roots curled like fingers through the earth. You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

And that’s when you saw him.

Tamlin.

Sitting at the base of the tree, knees drawn up, arms braced across them. He was staring up at the moon like it might answer him. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows. One hand tangled in the grass at his side.

You froze.

Tamlin didn’t move at first. Just kept staring ahead, posture loose but guarded, like he’d known this was a possibility but wasn’t sure what he’d do with it.

You stayed at the edge of the clearing, unsure if you were meant to speak. If he even wanted you here.

So you said the safe thing. The practiced thing. The thing they teach you in court, when all else fails.

“You’re up late.”

His mouth curved—something dry, humorless. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You nodded once. “Me neither.”

Silence again. The good kind. The old kind. It sat between you like an old friend you weren’t ready to greet yet.

You moved a step closer, then another. He watched your feet. Not your face.

“I can go,” you said, when you reached the edge of the tree’s long shadow. “If you want to be alone.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Briefly. “No.”

Just that.

So you glanced down at the patch of grass beside him, still damp with dew. You started to lower yourself.

He stopped you with a hand. “Wait.”

Then, without a word, he tugged his shirt over his head—fluid, familiar, a motion you’d seen a thousand times before—and laid it down between you. The soft linen caught the moonlight, paled almost silver in the dark.

He didn’t meet your eyes as he did it. Just muttered, “It’s wet.”

You hesitated. Then sank down slowly onto the cloth, smoothing your hands across it. Still warm from his body.

Still warm from him.

You’d grown up with him shirtless. River days, archery practice, lazy afternoons half-napping under the trees. You’d seen those shoulders, that chest, those arms.

But gods.

He’d filled out.

The boyish softness was gone. Replaced by hard lines, roped muscle, golden skin that caught and held the moonlight like it wanted to be looked at. His back flexed as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. Every movement was a goddamn revelation.

You stared. You shouldn’t have, but you did.

Your voice came out drier than intended. “So,” you said, tilting your head just slightly, “is this you being chivalrous?” you paused, smirking. “Or are you trying to show off?”

He huffed a laugh, finally glancing sideways at you. “It’s dew, (y/n). I didn’t want your ass getting wet.”

You blinked, caught off guard not just by the bluntness, but by how easily he said it—like he wasn’t trying to impress you, like he didn’t care if he shocked you.

And then—

Laughed.

Real, actual laughter. Loud and startled and completely not appropriate for midnight in a glade you used to rule together.

Then—slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you were real—he smiled.

It hit you like sunlight.

“…You came,” he said, voice low, almost disbelieving. You knew he wasn’t talking about the glade. 

You smiled, a little breathless. “You doubted I would?”

“I wasn’t sure you still wanted to.”

“I wasn’t sure you still remembered me.”

That earned a soft laugh from him, quiet but full. “How could I not?”

His hand twitched slightly at his side, then stilled.

“I— You look…” He hesitated. “Different.”

“So do you.” You let your eyes run over him more boldly now. “You’ve filled out.”

Tamlin laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “As have you. Not—not in a bad way, I mean.”

“You haven’t changed,” you teased. “Still awkward.”

He grinned—really grinned—and your chest tightened.

The quiet came again—but softer this time. Less strained. Like the kind that used to live here, in the hush between butterflies and sun-dappled branches.

Tamlin plucked a long blade of grass and began to twist it between his fingers. “You used to braid these,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “You used to try. Always too thick, too clumsy.”

“I got better.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He flicked the grass at you. It missed entirely.

You laughed again—quieter now, but real. It felt like stretching after a long winter.

His voice was gentler when he spoke next. “I didn’t think you’d come back here. To the glade.”

You looked down at the shirt beneath your palms, then at him. “Neither did I.”

“Why did you?”

You swallowed. Looked out over the trees instead of answering. “Just couldn’t sleep.” Your feet had carried you here before you could think better of it. You could’ve gone anywhere else—but somehow, you ended up here. You weren’t sure why.

Tamlin nodded, like he understood exactly what you meant—and like maybe he didn’t believe you.

“It hasn’t changed.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not really.”

Except it had. The glade, him, you. Everything.

You were still trying to find the words for that when his fingers brushed yours.

You didn’t move. 

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t reach back.

He didn’t try again.

The quiet turned thick again. Not the easy kind. Not the comfortable kind. It curled in your throat like fog. Dense. Damp. Full of things left unsaid.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back to look at the stars. “The hawk still doesn’t trust me.”

You blinked. “She’s alive?”

He nodded. “Mostly free-range now. My mother says she likes the eastern cliffs.”

You smiled, just barely. “She always liked the wind,” you said, recalling his letters. 

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

For a while, all you heard was the wind. The leaves brushing overhead. The chirp of some insect you’d forgotten existed. You closed your eyes and let it sink into you. The sound. The scent. The memory.

The ache.

“I missed this place,” you whispered.

Tamlin said nothing for a long time. You wondered if he’d even heard you.

Then, quietly: “I never stopped coming.”

You turned your head. He was watching you now. Openly.

His eyes searched your face like it might still be a trick. Like he hadn’t entirely convinced himself you were real. That you were here.

“Never stopped missing it, either,” he said, barely audible.

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Couldn’t breathe, either.

“I’m only here for the summer,” you said at last. Soft. Almost guilty.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to…” You trailed off. Then tried again. “You don’t have to—pretend nothing’s changed.”

A muscle in his cheek jumped.

“I’m not pretending,” he said. “I know everything’s changed.”

You nodded once. Tried to settle that truth inside you.

Failed.

Another silence. This one raw.

He stood first. Ran a hand through his hair before offering it to you. “You should get some sleep.”

You rose slowly. Hesitated. Then handed him back his shirt.

His fingers brushed yours again. Deliberate this time.

Still, you didn’t reach.

Still, he didn’t ask.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Early Summer Spring Court, Year 19

The Day Off

You found him in the stables, just after the morning haze had lifted.

Sunlight spilled through the high slats in gold streaks, catching the dust in the air. A few stablehands moved quietly in the back, but Tamlin stood alone near the front, bridle in hand, brushing down his stallion with slow, practiced strokes.

He looked up when he heard your steps—one flick of his eyes over your boots, the cut of your riding trousers, the slope of your hips, the way the riding jacket fit you like it had been measured by hand. And it all was. They’d been custom-tailored for your stay—Lady Ysolde’s doing, no doubt. You’d protested at first, but now, as you caught the pause, the flicker in his gaze, the shift in his grip on the brush, you weren’t so sure you regretted it.

“You’re early,” you said, not quite smiling.

“I was always early,” he replied, setting the brush aside.

You clicked your tongue. “No, you always said you were early. There’s a difference.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him as he reached for the saddle. “Still sharp, I see.”

You stepped into the stall beside your mare, glancing sideways as he cinched the girth strap. His arms had always been strong—but they were something else now. Coiled. Controlled. You had to look away.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

The trail wound through the estate like a ribbon—wide enough for two abreast, trimmed clean by the groundskeepers, but still wild at the edges. 

You rode ahead at first.

He let you.

The morning was warm, the kind of heat that settled low and slow, caught between your shoulder blades beneath the jacket. Leaves rustled high in the trees overhead, dappling the light into patterns across the path. Your mare’s hooves made soft thuds on the packed earth, rhythmic and even, and behind you, you could hear his stallion keeping pace.

You didn’t speak. Not for a while. It wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, the quiet felt like an old song—you both knew the words, but neither of you rushed to sing them.

Eventually, you slowed enough for him to pull up beside you. His presence filled the space easily, without asking for anything. He adjusted the reins in one hand, his wrist brushing his thigh, his thigh brushing yours whenever the horses drifted too close. Neither of you moved away.

“You remembered the trail,” he said, not quite a question.

“I wasn’t sure it would still be here.”

He hummed low in his throat. “My father wanted to turn it into a hedge maze. Said it was too rustic.”

You glanced at him. “And?”

“I told him I’d see to it myself.”

You let yourself smile. “You always did have a sentimental streak.”

He looked at you then. Fully. “Only about some things.”

And gods, the way he said it—low, warm, deliberate—made your stomach twist.

You turned away. Clicked your tongue and urged your mare into a canter. “Race you to the old bridge.”

You didn’t wait to see if he followed.

You knew he would.

The wind tore past you, loud in your ears, tugging strands of hair from your braid. Hooves pounded against the packed earth—your mare surging forward, the world blurring into green and gold and motion. You ducked low over her neck, eyes locked on the path ahead.

Behind you, a thundering of hooves, and then—his voice:

“You’re cheating already!”

You grinned, not looking back. “It’s not cheating if I’m just better!”

“You’re reckless—”

“You’re slow!”

A laugh, caught and flung on the wind. His stallion gained ground, dark and fast and inevitable. You urged your mare faster. The trees narrowed, the trail curved—and there, just ahead, the old bridge arched over the stream, silver light catching on the water beneath.

“Don’t break your neck trying to catch me!” you shouted.

“Don’t break your pride when I pass you!”

But he didn’t.

You heard his stallion pull back—just slightly. Felt, more than saw, the choice in it.

You hit the bridge first, hooves clattering across the worn planks. Pulled the reins, slowing at the far side, heart racing.

He came up beside you a moment later, his cheeks flushed, chest rising fast.

“I win,” you said, breathless, already grinning.

Tamlin smirked, slowing to a trot. “I let you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

You tilted your head. “Then why are you out of breath?”

He laughed—low and rough and real. You hadn’t heard it in years. Not like that. Not for you.

Your smile faltered, just slightly. Something settled in your chest. Heavy and warm and aching.

“You’ve got half the forest in your hair,” Tamlin said.

You blinked. “Do I?”

He nudged his stallion closer. Close enough that your knees nearly brushed. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes.

“Hold still,” he said, voice low.

You did.

His fingers were gentle as they worked through the wind-tangled strands, plucking out a twig, then a burr. He tugged free a bit of moss that had somehow woven itself into your braid.

“Gods,” he murmured, half-smiling. “Did you roll in it?”

“I beat you,” you replied. “Gracefully.”

He chuckled under his breath. “If you say so.”

He lingered a second longer than necessary. His fingers brushed the nape of your neck.

Then he cleared his throat, leaned back in the saddle, and said, “You want to stop at the bridge?”

You nodded once. “For a minute.”

The two of you let the horses amble forward until they stood right at the center. The stream sang below, the same soft murmur it had always made.

You looked down over the edge. “It looks the same.”

Tamlin mirrored your posture. “I used to dare you to jump from here.”

“And I used to dare you to think before you spoke.”

His laugh was quiet. But real.

“It’s strange,” you said. “I remember it being bigger.”

“You were smaller.”

You glanced at him. “We both were.”

The breeze curled through your hair. The hush between you wasn’t awkward this time. Just full. Like a breath that hadn’t yet been let go.

You shifted in the saddle, ready to dismount—

But Tamlin was already at your side—so quick you hadn’t even seen him dismount. 

One hand on your mare’s bridle. The other came up—firm, certain—and settled at your waist.

Your breath caught.

He lifted you easily, as if you weighed nothing at all. Like he remembered exactly how to hold you. His grip was warm and steady, the pads of his fingers brushing just below your ribs, right against your side, and you slid down toward him.

Your boots hit the earth.

He didn’t let go.

Not immediately.

Your hands had landed on his shoulders to balance yourself—broad and solid beneath your fingers. His thumbs flexed slightly at your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to do it.

You looked up.

He looked down.

The air between you felt tight. Still.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I had it handled,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he murmured.

But he still didn’t step back.

You weren’t sure you wanted him to.

Then your mare gave a snort behind you. Tamlin blinked—like waking—and his hands slipped away.

You swallowed whatever had risen to your throat and turned toward the trail.

The stables waited.

And so did whatever this was.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

The morning passed quietly.

Tamlin hadn’t had anything to do—his father had taken his brothers into some meeting at the manor, and you doubted Tamlin had even been invited. Not that he seemed to mind.

Lady Ysolde was still away visiting the Winter Court, and you had nothing scheduled for the day. No fittings, no social calls, no tedious embroidery circles with women twice your age.

Just open hours. Just a rare sliver of space.

You’d found each other without meaning to. In the corridor. At the turn of the stairs.

It hadn’t needed saying.

The bow racks stood untouched at the far end of the training lawn. Two targets sat in the grass, straw-stuffed and sun-faded, the painted rings long since dulled by rain. A light breeze stirred the flags on the outer wall, fluttering silver and green.

Tamlin plucked a bow from the wall and turned it over in his hands. “Do you even remember how to shoot?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He smirked. “Care to prove it?”

You crossed to the rack without answering and selected your own—thicker grip, tighter string. Familiar. Balanced. A slow thrill stirred in your chest as you tested the weight.

You remembered.

Of course you did.

You nocked your arrow first.

Tamlin stood beside you, the same casual confidence he always wore in training curling through his stance. He sighted the far target—center ring, fifty paces off—and released.

The arrow thudded just outside the inner ring.

“Not bad,” you said.

He grinned. “You say that like you can do better.”

You didn’t answer. Just lifted your bow, sighted, and loosed.

Center ring.

You didn’t need to look at him to know he was watching.

Another round. Then another. His shots were solid—strong, precise—but yours were cleaner. Sharper. A touch faster. You moved with muscle memory now, that deep, instinctive rhythm born of long practice and longer days.

He pretended not to notice. But you caught the way his jaw ticked. How he adjusted his grip.

And how he looked at you when you drew—at the curve of your spine, the bend of your arms, the bare skin at the back of your neck where your braid ended.

“You’re doing that twist again,” he said, stepping toward you. “The one you used to do when you aimed too fast.”

“I’m not,” you replied, not lowering the bow.

He didn’t argue. Just stepped in behind you.

The press of his presence was immediate. Heat and shadow and the faintest breath against your cheek. His hand came up—not quite touching—then brushed the outside of your hip.

“Right here,” he murmured, voice low. “You’re shifting your weight too early.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

His fingers ghosted up, brushing lightly along your ribs. “And here. You’re holding too much tension.”

“Maybe I like the tension,” you said, pulse thudding in your throat.

Tamlin’s breath hitched. His hand stilled. Then he leaned in just a little closer—barely an inch of air between you—and said, softly, “Then aim.”

So you did.

You released.

Another bullseye.

You stepped forward, lowered your bow, and turned to look at him.

His eyes were on your mouth.

“You’re better than me now,” he said, too quietly.

You arched a brow. “I always was.”

That earned a real smile. He shook his head. “You used to miss on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Only when you needed a win.”

You held his gaze a moment longer. Then looked away. Because the burn in your stomach wasn’t just from archery, and you both knew it.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Mid Summer Spring Court, Year 19

The Turning

The morning sun filtered in through the tall windows of the breakfast room, gilding the ripe peaches on the table and casting warm halos around everyone’s heads. The air smelled like honeyed bread and lilac. Someone—likely Tamlin’s mother—had insisted on fresh blooms in every vase.

You were halfway through your tea when Lady Ysolde spoke.

“I heard from Seraphine this morning,” she said, delicately slicing into a plum. “We’ve all been invited to the Summer Court. They’re hosting a formal gathering for the solstice—an evening celebration by the sea.”

Across the table, Tamlin stilled. “Formal?”

You smiled faintly into your cup. You could feel Tamlin’s gaze shift toward you, wary.

“And I’ve been told,” Lady Ysolde went on, glancing meaningfully between you both, “that our (y/n) here has grown quite talented in that department.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that—” you began.

“I would,” she interrupted, smile all sweetness. “Which is why I think it would be such a shame if Tamlin made a fool of himself on the Summer Court’s polished marble floors. Don’t you agree?”

You nearly choked on your tea.

Tamlin groaned softly. “Mother.”

But Lady Ysolde only raised her brows. “Please help him practice. The Mother knows he won’t let anyone else teach him. And his brothers are hopeless.”

“You make it sound like I’ve never danced before,” Tamlin muttered.

“Might as well,” she replied, cool as cream.

You bit back a grin. “When do you want to start?”

Tamlin looked at you, resigned. A flicker of something darker passed behind his eyes—tension, or nerves, or something else entirely.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said. Quiet. Steady.

It turned out that that would be that very evening, before dinner.

The solar faced west, and by the time you arrived that evening, the sunlight was pouring through its tall windows in molten streaks. The polished floor gleamed beneath your feet, bare of rugs. Someone had drawn back the curtains, opened the glass panes just enough to let in the breeze—and the faint, far-off hum of the garden beyond.

Tamlin was already there.

He stood near the middle of the room, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to the elbows, golden in the afternoon light. His hair looked sun-touched. His expression did not.

“You’re early,” you said, stepping inside.

His lips curved slightly. “I wanted to warm up.”

You raised a brow. “Did you?”

“I stretched.”

You laughed, low. “That’s not how this works.” You set the silver symphonia gently on the floor, the flattened side keeping it steady. With a soft tap on its polished surface, the delicate strains of music began to fill the room, weaving through the air like a whisper.

He offered a hand in mock formality, palm up between you. “Then you’d better teach me.”

You hesitated. Then placed your hand in his.

Gods—he was warm. You could feel the strength beneath his skin, the restraint in his fingers.

You stepped in.

Too close.

His breath caught—just a little.

“You lead,” you said gently. “We’ll go slow.”

Tamlin nodded, clearly concentrating far too hard on not messing up. His first step was a little too wide, his rhythm a half-second off. He frowned.

You smiled. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Two more steps. And then—he stepped on your foot.

You gasped. Not from pain, but surprise.

Tamlin immediately stopped. “Shit—”

“You’re terrible,” you teased, grinning as you lifted your foot.

He flushed. “I told you.”

“Do you want me to lead?”

“No.”

“Then stop trying to wrestle the dance into submission.”

That startled a laugh out of him—low and genuine.

He tried again.

And this time, he did better.

The steps evened out. Your breathing did too. The music—soft and courtly, piped in by a gentle charm from the corner of the room—guided your pace. His hand settled on your waist, light and warm. Yours rested on his shoulder.

The sun dipped lower.

You turned. He spun you.

Too hard.

Your foot caught, your balance tipped—and you stumbled right into his chest.

He caught you.

His hand didn’t drop.

Neither did yours.

For a moment, the music faded behind the sound of your breathing. The evening air slipped in through the open window, sweet with honeysuckle.

You looked up.

He looked down.

Your hands were still clasped between your chests. His other hand was still low at your back. Too low. Your heart was pounding.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And then, softly—almost reluctantly—

“Again?” you asked.

Tamlin nodded, hoarse. “Yeah.”

You danced quite a while longer. 

He was getting the steps right now—more or less. But the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased, and every time your hand drifted to guide him, you felt it: the stiffness, the restraint, the deep dislike humming beneath his skin.

You pulled back after another full circle around the solar, breath light. “You hate this.”

Tamlin exhaled sharply. “It’s fine.”

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “That’s not what your face says.”

He hesitated. Then, with a grimace: “It’s not the kind of dancing I like.”

That stopped you. You tilted your head, curious. “Oh? What is your kind of dancing?”

Tamlin glanced toward the far end of the solar.

Then—without a word—he walked.

You watched him cross the room, half-expecting him to make an excuse and leave. But instead, he crouched beside a small, unassuming cabinet nestled against the window wall. Opened it.

And pulled out a fiddle.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Wait—you still play?”

Tamlin only gave a sheepish shrug, cradling it in one arm. “Not often.”

Your mouth parted. “You brought it down here?”

His golden eyes flicked to yours. Warm, shy, a little mischievous. “Was hoping for an opportunity to show off.”

You laughed. Actual, delighted laughter. “Gods, you’re such a boy.”

“I am trying to impress you.”

“Clearly.”

He raised a brow. “Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes. “Play me something and we’ll see.”

Tamlin set bow to string.

The first note sang into the solar like sunlight turned to sound—light and lilting, not the polished court music piped in by charms. Rawer. Earthier.

Folk music.

You hadn’t heard it in years.

The rhythm picked up—familiar, playful, full of motion. Your feet itched to follow it.

He grinned, sharp and boyish. “You remember this one?”

You did.

You stepped forward slowly, skirts swaying, already half-laughing as you moved.

And when he nodded toward the open stretch of floor, you took it.

The first few steps were just for you.

Spinning slowly, skirts brushing your calves, the rhythm winding through your limbs like it had always lived there. You didn’t need to think. Didn’t need to count or measure. The melody was familiar—part of your blood, your bones, your breath. A tune from riverbanks and solstice bonfires. You’d danced to it barefoot in the glade before you knew what want was.

You twirled once, arms loose at your sides, and looked back toward him.

Tamlin hadn’t stopped playing.

But gods, he wasn’t just playing.

He stood tall in the golden light, fiddle tucked under his chin, bow sawing quick and clean and confident. His body swayed with the music, hips shifting, boot tapping time against the floorboards. Hair glinting gold. Shoulders gleaming faintly with sweat from earlier. The lines of his face soft and unguarded.

And he was smiling.

Not the polite smile of court. Not the grimace he wore at state dinners.

A real smile. Wide, radiant, young.

He looked beautiful.

And he was looking at you.

Like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Your breath caught. Then—

You spun again, faster this time, letting the rhythm take you, hands catching the air. He adjusted the tune’s pacing to match your speed without missing a beat.

When you turned back toward him, he was already crossing the room, fiddle still tucked beneath his chin. Still playing.

You met in the center, your steps light, his sure.

The last refrain swept in—faster now, dizzying—and you let your voice rise to meet it.

You sang the words without thinking. The old, lilting verses about sun-drenched lovers and honeysuckle nights. Your voice wove through the melody, and something in his playing changed—deepened, softened. He stepped closer. Bow still gliding. Eyes locked on yours.

And then—he sang too.

Harmonized, low and rough and beautiful, his voice curling around yours like smoke.

The notes met in the middle, caught and tangled between you, blooming into something bigger than either of you alone.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect.

It was better.

Your free hand rose of its own accord, brushing his shoulder, then higher—to the side of his neck. His skin was warm. His pulse, quick beneath your fingertips.

You were still singing.

So was he.

And the whole time, he never stopped playing.

You ended up chest-to-chest by the time the last note faded. Bow lifted. Fiddle stilled. Hands still tangled.

Your breaths were shallow. His eyes—gods, his eyes—deep green with flecks of molten gold, glowing in the sunlit room, locked on your mouth like he wasn’t sure whether to breathe or kiss you.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

You just stood there in the silence, that final note still ringing in the hollows of your chest.

You don’t know who broke it first. Only that at some point, the bow slipped from his fingers. 

You stood in the center of the room, chest rising and falling like you’d run a mile, your pulse too loud in your ears.

Tamlin stared at you.

Not the kind of look meant to be polite. Or lordly. Or passable in court.

He looked at you like he needed to.

Like he hadn’t been breathing right for years.

And then—without a word—he stepped forward. Just one step.

You didn’t move.

His eyes searched yours. A question, quiet and trembling, caught somewhere between want and restraint.

You answered it with a breath.

With a step of your own.

And when his mouth found yours, it wasn’t careful.

It was everything.

Everything he hadn’t said, everything you hadn’t dared to ask, everything the two of you had locked away over the years—it poured out between your lips, breathless and desperate. You surged toward him like you couldn’t not, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt as he kissed you like he didn’t know how to stop.

Your teeth clacked. Your noses bumped. It wasn’t elegant.

It was real.

Hot. Messy. Hungry.

Tamlin groaned, low in his throat. His hands gripped your waist like he could anchor himself there, and he tossed the fiddle onto the cushioned bench nearby. You gasped when he backed you into the wall, not hard, but enough to make your breath hitch—and he swallowed the sound with another kiss, deeper this time.

Your head spun.

His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your face—like he couldn’t figure out which part of you he’d missed most. Like he wanted to touch all of it just in case it disappeared again.

You broke away just long enough to whisper, “Your room—”

And he was already moving.

Already reaching for your hand, tugging you gently behind him as you slipped out into the hallway—laughing, breathless, undone.

And gods help you both—

You didn’t look back.

Tamlin’s room was dim, lit only by the last threads of golden evening spilling through the arched window.

You didn’t speak at first.

You couldn’t—not with the way he looked at you. Like you were some rare creature he’d never dared to reach for until now. His chest rose and fell in deep, slow breaths, as if trying to steady himself. As if he still didn’t quite believe you were here.

You stepped in closer. “Tamlin—”

He kissed you again before you could finish.

Softer this time. Slower. One of his hands rose to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. You leaned into it, breath catching, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

And then you whispered it. “Should we wait?”

He stilled.

Your eyes met his.

“I mean,” you said, voice just above a breath, “our parents still… still expect us to marry, don’t they? I haven’t heard otherwise.”

A beat.

Tamlin’s thumb lingered at your cheek. “No. Me neither.”

The words hung between you, heavy. Loaded.

You swallowed. “Then maybe we shouldn’t…”

“…Shouldn’t do this until after?” he finished quietly.

You nodded.

A pause. His eyes searched yours. Then—

A small, rueful smile curved his lips. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

You let out a breath of laughter. “Is that you being reckless?”

“Maybe.” He stepped closer. “Or maybe I just don’t want to wait anymore.”

Neither did you.

He kissed you again—deeper now, with more heat—and began to walk you backward until your knees hit the bed. You sat, and he followed, kneeling between your legs. Your fingers found the laces at his shirt, working slowly as his hands skimmed your waist, your ribs, like he was committing you to memory.

“Still play your cards close, I see,” you whispered.

“Only with the right stakes,” he murmured, mouth trailing down your throat. “I was never willing to lose you.”

You peeled his shirt away. Golden skin, strong shoulders, chest heaving slightly with restraint.

He looked carved. All muscle and sun and sinew, glowing in the dying light. Your fingers slid over him, reverent, slow.

“You filled out,” you said again, this time without teasing.

Tamlin gave a soft laugh and leaned in to kiss your shoulder. “So did you.”

Clothes fell away between kisses and glances and low murmurs. You weren’t rushed. You savored each other.

He took his time with you.

Mouth on your collarbone, your stomach, your thighs. Worshipful. He watched your face like every sound you made was a map. Like he was trying to learn you all over again.

And when he finally moved over you, the moment stretched long.

He held himself just barely above you, his forehead against yours.

“This changes things,” he said, voice rough. Honest.

“I know,” you whispered.

Still, neither of you moved to stop it.

And when he pressed into you—slow, careful, inch by aching inch—you both gasped.

You curled around him instinctively, legs around his waist, arms wrapped over his shoulders. He fit. Like he always had. Like he always would.

The pace was slow. Lingering. Like neither of you wanted it to end.

Tamlin’s hand slid down your side, then up again, steadying at your hip. You held his face in your palms as he moved inside you, brow furrowed like it was too much and not enough all at once.

“I missed you,” he said against your throat.

You arched, hips rolling up to meet his. “Then show me.”

And he did.

Again and again, like a promise.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Spring’s Beginning Spring Court, Year 20

The House of Light

The manor doors swung open with a creak of new hinges and a breath of fresh lilac-sweet air. The sun was low, casting the foyer in gold. And Tamlin?

Tamlin carried you over the threshold like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know I can walk,” you said, smiling into his neck.

“I know,” he murmured, voice full of quiet reverence. “But let me have this.”

You didn’t argue.

His arms were strong around you—steadier than the nervous laughter in his throat, than the flush blooming beneath his skin. He stepped over the threshold like it meant something.

Because it did.

This was yours.

Not your parents’. Not the estate. Not someone’s hunting lodge or a borrowed wing in a noble’s keep. Yours.

Your home.

He set you down carefully on the tiled floor, but didn’t let go.

The manor was small by court standards—just two stories, ivy climbing up pale stone, blue shutters catching the breeze. But the windows were tall and open, the floors warm underfoot, and the light—

The light loved this place. It poured through every room like it had waited centuries for someone to build this house just right.

Tamlin turned slowly in the entryway, eyes drinking it in. “The painters did finish the sitting room,” he said, awe creeping into his voice. “And the terrace—gods, look at the terrace—”

You grinned. “Tamlin.”

He turned back to you.

“This is ours.” You reached for his hand. “We did it.”

His smile softened. “We did.”

You pulled him into the hallway. He followed like it was the easiest thing in the world. His hand fit perfectly in yours.

Through the open kitchen, still faintly dust-scented with new stone. Past the hearth, already stacked with wood and wildflowers. Toward the curved staircase, where sunlight pooled like honey over the first steps.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Come upstairs with me.”

“Did you have something in mind, Lady Spring?”

Your brows lifted. “I married you. The ceremony is over. You can call me by my name now.”

He gave you that look—the one that always started in his eyes, low and warm and soft—and followed you up the stairs.

Room by room, you explored. Windows thrown wide to the garden. Drapes you’d picked out together. A dining table waiting to be used. A bedroom already lit with the pink of sunset.

Tamlin stood in the doorway.

You leaned against the bedpost, crossing your arms. “You’re staring.”

He blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

A pause. Then—

“Can you blame me?” he said, quiet.

And then he crossed the room and kissed you again—slow and smiling and sure.

You had the whole evening ahead. The whole life.

But for now?

The sun had just started setting. The sheets were clean. And the door, when he kicked it shut with his boot, locked with a soft, satisfying click.

[studioeisa]

all its milk teeth ♾️ minghao x reader.

“i'm only the hostel 'till there's a house that you like.” # day two of (the)8 days of minghao.

☆ includes: situationship, angst, more prose -ish than anything. this is inspired by & heavily references NIKI's Milk Teeth. word count: 1,400+

When you first met Minghao, he had been running. 

Not in the literal sense, no, but it might as well have been. Back then— at the start of your little arrangement— he had just been desperate for some sort of escape. Somewhere to go when there was a litany of toomuchtoomuchtoomuch clanging around in his head. 

He wasn’t looking for sex or vices. He wasn’t even looking for you specifically. 

But that’s how it ended up anyway, and that’s how you find yourself on the hood of his car at the godawful hour of three in the morning. 

How long have the two of you been out here? You’re not quite sure. 

You just know it’s one of those evenings. Minghao had texted around dinnertime. An innocuous Are you free tonight?, which was always the beginning of your undoing. 

It’s a familiar routine. He picks you up, lets you choose the radio station. He’ll drive in relative silence. It doesn’t matter where to. The settings are almost always the same. Empty parking lots, secluded parks. 

Tonight, it’s one of those cliffside parking lots that overlook the city. The lights of Gangnam glitter underneath the two of you.

If you were a lesser person, you might’ve teased Minghao about the whole thing being romantic. But there’s no room for romance here. Not between you two. 

A gust of wind sends loose leaves flying past you. You can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine. 

Minghao, who had been staring up at the stars, notices. He glances down at you with the ghost of a boyish grin. 

“Cold?” he asks. You shake your head. 

The howling wind has your teeth chattering mere minutes later. 

“Maybe a little,” you finally admit when Minghao shoots you an exasperated look.

He lets out a huff of laughter. When he extends his arm, your foolish heart skips a beat. For a moment, you assume he’s going to pull you towards him. 

Instead, he peels off his jacket.

“You don’t—” Have to, you mean to say, but Minghao’s already dropping the article of clothing onto your lap. 

Underneath his outerwear had been a plain white tee, one that you doubted to provide him sufficient warmth. You open your mouth like you’re going to protest some more, but Minghao beats you to the punch line.

“I dragged you out here,” he says dismissively. “It’s the least I can do.” 

The least he can do. You mull those words over for as you think of the many other things that Minghao could do. Put an arm over your shoulders, for instance. Call you in the daytime. Put a name to whatever this thing is. 

As it is, you know nothing on your wishlist is about to be ticked off. And so you do the next best thing: You pull on his jacket, letting the warmth of it wash over your chilled skin. 

Minghao glances at you. He doesn’t look like the type of guy who’s having a sudden epiphany. Those cliché I like how you look in my clothes, so I must like you scenes. No, he’s just— checking to see if you’re doing good. 

Once he’s gotten his supposed answer, he’s already looking back up at the night sky.

A fulfilled obligation. That’s what that had been, you think bitterly as you tug his jacket just a little more snugly around your frame. Nothing more, nothing less. 

When you first kissed Minghao, he had called you a thief. 

He had muttered the accusation against your lips— the word a low rumble from the back of his throat. You had pulled away, eyebrows creased in confusion. 

“Stole my heart,” he joked with the slightest upward curve of his mouth.

You had thought it was the sweetest thing in the world. 

Now, though, you’re not so sure. 

As you pad further into your apartment, Minghao lingers by the entryway. Already anxious to leave? you almost tease, but you’ve long since learned your lesson about teasing him for his tendencies. He’d punished you for it, once. Had been inaccessible for weeks. 

He came back eventually. The two of you don’t talk about that time anymore. 

Wordlessly, you peel off his jacket. Your hand pauses midway into hanging it over the back of your armchair; you’re looking at Minghao, waiting for him to decide. 

He glances at his wristwatch. 

Then— “Can I stay the night?” 

It’s funny, how he still thinks he has to ask. Instead of holding his jacket out to him, you drape it over your chair. 

“You know where everything is,” you say quietly. The spare toothbrush behind the bathroom mirror. The change of clothes in the back of your cabinet. 

He toes off his shoes, finally, and walks over to you. It’s quick and chaste— the way he presses his lips to the crown of your head. His hands don’t quite touch. They linger instead, bracing at the side of your arms. 

Your eyes flutter close. You don’t have the time to relish in the feeling because he’s already heading to your bathroom to clean up for the night. One empty kiss and, suddenly, it’s not as bad as it seems. 

Pathetic, a voice in the back of your mind hisses. You don’t know who the voice is referring to. You? Minghao?

Both, you decide inwardly. Both of you are pretty pathetic. 

When Minghao first left, you thought it would be the last time. 

The last time you saw him, that is. But then he came back, and every instance after that— every hurried exit, every walk of shame— had you hoping that would be the last time he’d leave. 

You’re no longer naive enough to think that he wants more out of these rendezvouses. You know what you are to him. A trial run. A stopover. You know that; you know better now. 

Still—

There’s something about the way Minghao looks in the morning. 

It always gets you. The sunrise streaking through the blinds highlights the honeyed shades of his skin, the pink of his plush lips. That’s nice and all, really, but what has you hook, line, and sinker is something much more harmless. 

A sleeping Minghao is a Minghao who doesn’t have a care in the world. A sleeping Minghao doesn’t have that itch to bolt, that urge to escape into situationships that offer the most temporary of reliefs. 

He looks peaceful. He looks like something that could be yours. 

As the sun rises further into the sky, Minghao stirs slightly in his sleep. You have the urge to do something. To keep the fear from embedding. 

Instinctively, you shift forward to press a kiss to his forehead. He relaxes immediately; it makes your heart ache. 

You opt to not wake him, instead leaving him under the covers as you make your quiet way to the kitchen. You don’t overthink it. Flour, eggs, milk, butter. 

Minghao drowsily shuffles out of your bedroom right on time. 

“Pancakes?” he grouses, one hand rubbing over his face.  

A grin tugs at your mouth. “Yeah. Did you want yours with bacon or eggs?” 

“Ah…” 

The small sound is all you needed to hear, to know what was to come.

“I might actually skip breakfast,” he tells you. He sounds genuinely apologetic. Somehow, that makes things worse. If he were a little more cruel or unkind, then maybe your door wouldn’t always be open a crack for him. 

“That’s fine,” you say coolly as you lay out the completely pancakes on a plate. “More for me, then.” 

Gracefully, Minghao doesn’t double down. He doesn’t try to present himself as something he’s not. He’s a runner. He’s run from everything in his life, and you are no exception. 

He changes back into last night’s clothes— shrugging on his jacket, pulling on his socks. You don’t walk him to the door; you stay at your spot on the dining table, where you’re already cutting into your stack of one-too-many pancakes. 

There’s no kiss goodbye, no text me when you get home. You feel a twinge of something, because you know Minghao is capable of it. He has so much love to give, so much devotion that he can dole out. 

There are reasons why he can’t, of course. Excuses and justifications that all fall flat in the face of a cold, hard fact: Minghao wants to date. He just doesn’t want to date you. 

And so he settles for this charade, this cheap imitation of a relationship. You mumble “take care” and he gives you an appreciative nod in response. 

When he leaves, you know it will not be the last time. You stay at your table until the pancakes have gone cold.

Minghao comes to you to quiet the screech of toomuchtoomuchtoomuch in his head.

He leaves you with your own mental chorus of not enough, not enough, not enough. 

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Best Intentions - Chapter One

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x femme Warnings: Angst. Smut. Mentions of shell shock and trauma. Word count: ~4.3k

Summary: An overview of how Tom and her came to be friends, and the set up for the story now that he's returned to Longsight.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The imposing red brick building of Plymouth Grove Primary School is gigantic and intimidating to her as she enters through the gates to the playground, the thought of being left here for the entire day makes her clutch at her mum’s hand with tight desperation.

Her first day of school is one she’ll never forget, forever imprinted in her mind, owing to a big pair of blue eyes filled with mischief, and a grin with a pair of front teeth that remind her of a rabbit’s.

It’s morning break as she surveys the playground nervously, trying to decide if she feels brave enough to join in on a nearby game of hopscotch. It’s then that she feels a warm puff of air ruffle the back of her hair, and she spins around to see a sandy haired boy running back towards a group of laughing lads.

“I did it! I gobbed in her hair!” He shouts.

Humiliation warms her skin as tears prickle her eyes, and she hurries inside to the girls’ toilets to unsuccessfully try to locate where the offending spittle has landed, all the while sniffling back sobs.

It’s when dinnertime comes and she sits unhappily sipping her milk that she sees him again. He sidles up to her, alone this time, a sheepish look on his face.

“I didn’t really,” he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, “Gob in your hair, I mean. I was dared to, so I pretended,”

“Oh,” is all she’s able to manage, not sure of what else to say.

“I’m Tom. Mates, yeah?” He says with his bunny toothed grin, and she can’t help but smile back.

He sits himself next to her, opening his own milk and they spend the remainder of the hour getting to know each other.

She’s surprised to learn that it’s his first day too, she had assumed from his confidence that he would be a couple of years above her. He lives with his dad, Douglas, who works as a bus conductor, his mum - Josie, and his sister, Lois, who is a couple of years above them.

He learns all about how she lives with her mum, and it’s just the two of them as her dad had passed away when she was a baby. Her mum runs the shop off of Stamford Road with her uncle, who lives in the flat above it.

Tom’s eyes light up at the mention of this. “The one with the jars of sherbet straws?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, “And treacle toffees!”

By half past three that afternoon, as the children file back out of the school gates, her and Tom are firm friends.

Her mum and Josie stand waiting to collect them, and they discover that they live only a few streets apart, so the four of them and Lois walk home together, chattering excitedly about her and Tom’s first day of school.

From that day forward, the thought of being at school for the entire day fills her with excitement. Tom makes it a less scary place to be, and is quick to defend her if ever anyone tries to give her trouble.

Their friendship remains solid as the years pass, as does Tom’s compulsion for finding trouble. He adores showing off and being the centre of attention, but it’s always her he runs to when it’s time to face the consequences. She is a privy to a side of him that nobody else is, she has seen his fear, his sadness and his doubt.

They sit on the wall adjacent to her mum’s shop, a paper bag rustling between them as they help themselves to sherbet straws. Tom and Lois had walked home with her and her mum. Josie hadn’t been there to pick them up, she hadn’t been for a few days now.

“Should probably go home soon,” she slurs around a mouthful of sweets, “Need to do my homework.”

Tom nods slowly, moving his own sweet around in his mouth. “D’you…d’you think you could help me with mine?”

“Why?” She chides, “‘Cause you spent all lesson mucking about?”

“Come on,” he pleads, “Me mam’s not well, last thing she needs is me getting into trouble because I can’t do sums.”

She clicks her tongue and sighs. “Fine,” she says, jumping down from the wall.

“Smashing,” he grins, following after her.

She smiles over her shoulder at him. “What are mates for?”

Josie’s illness worsens and she passes away around the time that they start secondary school.

Tom’s behaviour becomes more uncontrollabe, exacerbated by his mum’s death, but with her and Lois at the all girls school, and him at the all boys, there is little that can be done to stop him.

Things come to a head one day when Douglas opens the door to an angry neighbour, who berates him for Tom having stolen the milk from their doorstep, running away laughing, before dropping and smashing it when they’d chased after him.

He’d come to her after Douglas had given him a stern telling off, head bowed and looking sorry for himself.

“He hates me,” Tom had said sullenly.

“He doesn’t hate you, Tom, you just need to behave yourself. Why’d you do it?”

“Was dared to,” he says with a shrug.

“Like when you spat in my hair?”

He presses his lips together, lowering his eyes. “I dunno why I do it. It’s just hard since mam’s gone, dad doesn’t understand me like she did.”

It’s then that she notices the tears that rim his eyes, and she pulls him into a hug.

When had he gotten so tall? He feels massive compared to how he used to.

“Thanks,” he whispers, “I’m glad we’re mates.”

The next few years follow a similar pattern; Tom gets into trouble and immediately runs to her each time, basking in the safety of her presence and comforting words.

As they grow older, Tom’s misbevaiour evolves into petty crimes which soon attract the attention of the police.

She also begins to notice the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him each time she pulls him into a hug, a troubling new habit he’s developed, no doubt to impress the older boys. 

He now seems impossibly tall, and with every inch he grows it feels like he pulls a little bit further away from her. It makes her heart ache.

She grows used to seeing him walking home in the mornings looking bedraggled, a cigarette perched between his lips, after having spent the night in the back of a pub to avoid the police, who would no doubt have been knocking at the door of the Bennett household the previous evening.

When news of war having broken out in Europe reaches them and lads Tom’s age begin signing up to the draft, Tom decides he’s having none of it.

“Signing up as a conchie!” He tells her, as they sit on the wall together, waving the green booklet for emphasis.

“Your dad was a conscientious objector,” she says, narrowing her eyes in disbelief, “Your beliefs are suddenly the same as his are they?”

Tom tuts, flicking his lighter absentmindedly. “Just don’t wanna sign my life away for a load of bollocks that’s got naff all to do with me,”

His mind soon changes once the police come knocking again. He enlists in the Navy, action he considers less direct than fighting on the front lines.

The night before he’s due to ship out, he has a rowdy celebration in the local pub, jeering and clinking glasses with those who’ve not yet joined the draft. She watches on with a heavy feeling in her chest, she knows behind all his claims of how many Germans he’s going to kill and how he’ll have a bird in every port that he’s terrified of what’s to come.

That much is proven as he walks her home later that night, unsteady on his feet and reeking of beer. He sways in front of her once they reach her front door, big blue eyes misty and filled with emotion.

“You okay, sailor?” She asks with a soft smile.

“Can I– can I stay the night?” He asks, suddenly seeming like the little boy he was back when they were in primary school and he’d apologised for pretending to spit in her hair. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

She’s never shared a bed with Tom before. They’ve always been just friends. Her throat runs dry at the thought, but in that moment he seems so vulnerable, she can’t deny him anything.

They creep up the rickety wooden stairs to her bedroom, careful not to wake her mum, and squeeze into the single bed that occupies the space. He clings tightly to her, long limbs wrapped around her, like a drowning man grasping onto a lifesaver.

“I’m so scared,” he whispers into the darkness.

“You’ll come back,” she reassures him, “You have to, who else would be my mate?”

She feels him smile against her shoulder. “Yeah, who else would put up with you?”

They giggle, before shushing each other as she elbows him in the ribs, and they fall asleep curled around each other.

Tom’s gone when wakes up.

They write letters back and forth to each other, but each one feels distant and lifeless. He’s writing with the mask he shows to the rest of the world, giving an emotionless recount of each of his days. She supposes he might be afraid or whose hands his words may end up in, and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself, so she clings to every letter, vapid as they are, grateful to still have a connection to him.

She visits the Bennett household once a week, to share the letters they’ve been exchanging - to her disappointment, the ones she receives are much the same as the ones he sends home to Douglas and Lois.

Over time, her mum and uncle join her on her visits. Her mum brings cakes and her uncle gets into the habit of playing cards with Douglas. She is glad for the closeness between their two families, it makes Tom’s absence seem less daunting.

It’s at the Bennetts’ house where she learns the news of the attack on the HMS Exeter, the Naval ship that Tom is stationed aboard. Her blood runs icy cold at the news, though the Exeter was victorious it is not without deaths and casualties.

The weeks spent waiting for news are agonising, and it’s Tom she’s thinking of as she leans against the shop counter, eyes fixed on the large front window, but too lost in her thoughts to see through it.

“Quarter of sherbet straws when you’re not away with the fairies,”

The familiar voice startles her out of her reverie and she looks up wide eyed at Tom’s smiling face.

God, he’s grown into those bunny teeth. Has his smile always been so handsome?

“Tom!” She squeals, rushing from behind the counter and throwing her arms around his neck. “Do your dad and Lois know you’re back?”

He hugs her warmly before pulling back. “Yeah, popped home first to say hello. Left me new bird there, actually, thought you’d wanna meet her?”

She hates the way her heart sinks at this, but nods regardless, flipping the closed sign on the shop door and locking it behind her.

Tom tells her all about the Battle of the River Plate as they walk back to his house. He grows solemn when he’s finished, glancing sideways at her.

“I saw people die,” he says quietly, “I thought I was gonna die. Can’t believe there’s so much of my life I’ve pissed up the wall.”

It’s then that she notices how much more mature he seems, wise beyond his years. He’s seen things that no man his young age should have seen. She reaches for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, a gesture which he returns.

“So, this is Vera,” he gestures towards the kitchen table as they head inside.

She laughs, relief washing over her, when she sees the little canary sitting in her cage.

For a few days it feels like everything is back to normal, until Tom gets a new posting and has to leave again.

“I’ll come back,” he tells her, taking her hands in his, “who else would be your mate?”

She can’t help but smile. “No one else would put up with me,”

He’s away longer this time, his letters are fewer and the worry gnaws at her with more intensity than ever before.

For the second time in her life she cries over Tom Bennett when she hears that he’s been declared as missing in action on the beaches of Dunkirk, a suspected capture by opposing forces.

Lois falls pregnant, and for a time the advancing stages of her pregnancy and eventual birth are a welcome distraction, a reminder that there is life amongst all the death that surrounds them.

Her grief is amplified when bombs fall over Manchester, a bottomless pit opening in her gut when she finds out that there was a direct hit on the Bennett house. Her uncle and Douglas had been inside playing cards at the time, neither had survived.

Her mum moves Lois and her baby into the flat above the shop, with her uncle gone the space is no longer occupied and it makes sense for them to have it, considering they no longer have a roof over their heads.

It’s comforting to have them so close, a little piece of Tom to hold onto until he comes back, if he comes back. She hates herself for thinking it.

When Tom next steps through the shop door, there’s no trace of his grin from last time. He looks skinny, haunted, he’s aged. There’s an anger within his blue eyes that replaces the mischief that used to sparkle there.

He doesn’t need to ask for her to know what he’s after. There will be no hugs of greeting this time.

“She’s upstairs,” she says softly, her stomach tied into knots.

He simply nods and walks towards the back to go up.

It doesn’t take long for her to be able to hear the muffled sounds of arguing and not five minutes later he storms back downstairs and out into the street. She follows after him, grabbing the quarter of sherbet straws she’d bagged up for him.

He’s sat smoking on their usual spot on the wall, and she hops up beside him, placing the paper bag between them. He doesn’t touch them. She wonders when the last time he ate anything at all was, he looks so thin.

The silence between them feels painful, she doesn’t know what to say, but she can tell from the way his hands shake and the urgency with which he drags on his cigarette that if she doesn’t say something then he certainly won’t.

“You can’t be angry with Lois, y’know,” she says gently, “it’s not her fault,”

“Then whose is it?!” He snaps angrily, eyes narrowing as he looks at her.

He’s never spoken to her like that before and she shrinks away from it. “It’s not my fault either,” she whispers sadly.

His face softens, a look of shame replacing his anger as he averts his gaze, his lips twitching. “Sorry about your uncle,”

“Sorry about your dad,”

His return is brief, only a couple of days this time. Enough time for him to visit Douglas’ grave, but not enough for them to talk, not properly anyway. He reveals that he was taken to an American hospital in Paris, after being shot in Dunkirk. A woman named Henriette had helped him to escape France and he’d made his way home via Spain. It’s all so matter of fact the way that he recounts it, but she only has to look into his eyes to see the turmoil he’s feeling. It crushes her.

He looks fearful and uncertain when they say goodbye, the urge to cling to him and beg him not to go is overwhelming.

“You’ll still be here when I get back, won’t you?” He asks.

“Course I will, I always am,” she replies with a sad smile.

He cups her cheek, his large palm engulfing her face and leans down to press his lips to hers. She startles at first, they have never kissed before, but she quickly reciprocates, moving her mouth against Tom’s. His lips are so soft and there is a tenderness behind the gesture that brings tears to her eyes.

She’s breathless when they part, his forehead resting against hers, his hand still cupping her cheek.

“Mates, yeah?” He whispers.

The word makes her heart twinge. “Yeah, mates.”

Her fingers trace lightly across her mouth as she watches him walk away, kit bag slung over his shoulder.

Tom sends no letters at all the third time he leaves, so eventually she stops writing to him. She figures it can’t be nice for him to hear about how life is carrying on without him, how his niece has started to walk and talk, a new house built in place of his old one with a new family living inside it.

She can’t bear how the world continues, while she feels stuck in place, waiting for his return. It isn’t fair that there are people getting to laugh and love and live their lives, while he’s sacrificing his so that they may have the privilege.

With the exception of the morning paper sort, her mum has taken a step back from the shop, needing more rest than usual, and without her uncle around to help out, she’s taking on more hours in order to keep things ticking over. The sweet jars sit empty, rationing is difficult to get used to. She’ll never be able to come to terms with sending people away without the food they want and need, simply because the shop either doesn’t have enough stock, or they have already used their allotted portion for the week.

Her mind drifts back to how skeletal Tom had looked when she’d seen him last. She hopes he’s managing to eat.

It’s the beginning of September, the dying embers of summer glow dark orange on the horizon, as the evening battles the day for dominance in the increasingly earlier darkening of the sky.

Lois is on an evening shift, so her mum is round at the flat looking after the little one. She has the house to herself, and has lost count of the amount of times she’s read and re-read the same passage in her book, unable to take the words in.

She frowns when she hears the door knock, unsure of whether she should answer it or not, she’s not expecting anyone. Her hesitation provides enough time for a second knock, more urgent this time, so she relents, going to the front door and opening it.

It feels as though time freezes when she sees Tom standing there, gaunt and tired looking.

He doesn’t give her time to react, dropping his kit bag to the floor as he closes the door behind him and presses a bruising kiss to her lips. His hands pull at her clothes as he backs her towards the living room sofa, and she lets him.

She just needs to feel that he’s real, that he’s really back, so she loses herself in the moment, allowing him to climb on top of her, her own hands moving to strip him as he does the same to her.

Her fingertips stroke down his back and she’s shocked to find she can feel every vertebrae in his spine, and all the ribs that protrude through the skin. She’s never touched him in such an intimate manner before, but she knows he’s never been so emaciated. He feels hollow, yet there is strength to how he manhandles her.

Pulling her thighs apart, he settles between them, pushing her open with the thickness of his cock. She gasps, arching against him, clutching tightly to his shoulders as he pistons his hips in quick succession against hers. This is no gentle lovemaking, it is filled with raw animalistic need, a desire to feel something, anything.

His breaths are ragged against her neck and he finds release quickly, spilling inside of her with a grunt before collapsing and pulling her tight to his chest.

They lay quietly on the sofa together, nothing but the sounds of their heavy breathing filling the space. She has a thousand questions she longs to ask him, yet none of them seem appropriate. Despite the fact that Tom has just brutally had his way with her, she’s still in shock that he’s returned.

“I’m sorry I never wrote,” he says eventually, “was tired of never having any good news to tell you,”

“You’re back now,” she says quietly, fingers tracing over the bullet wound scar in his shoulder, “that’s all that matters,”

“Still mates then?” He asks.

Her heart lurches at the word. Is that all they are after what’s just happened?

“Yeah, still mates,”

He drifts to sleep in her arms and she holds him, until his thrashing pushes her from the sofa. She lands with a heavy thud on the living room carpet, watching in horror as Tom’s sweaty body writhes and cries out in terror in his sleep.

She kneels beside the sofa, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to still him and coax him awake. He startles, wide eyed, before clutching at her, burying his face in her neck and sobbing until he drifts into unconsciousness again.

As Tom settles back into life in Longsight, he goes right back to wearing a mask for everyone.

“Are you a hero?” Children shout as he walks down the street.

“Always have been, always will be,” he says with a lopsided grin.

Yet each day ends with him muffling his cries into her neck after she’s soothed his night terrors, she knows better than the act he puts on for everyone else’s benefit. She suspects that Tom may be suffering from shell shock, but doesn’t dare to bring it up. Knowing his father had the same, it is likely a sore subject for him.

His return sees a new development in their friendship, them sleeping together the night he came back isn’t a one off occurrence, yet each time he still continues to refer to her as a mate. It’s confusing for her, but not an issue she wishes to push, knowing that Tom is struggling with enough already. He’ll figure it out when he’s ready, she just needs to be there for him.

Tom gets a flat nearby, and finds a job at the local garage. Having served in the Navy has imparted mechanical skills to him, and he can easily work his way around an engine.

She sits perched on the workbench of the garage, admiring the view. Tom’s sandy coloured hair is pushed back from his forehead, his navy overalls tied around his waist, leaving him in just the white vest he wears underneath. His first customer of the day has yet to arrive, so he’s clean for now. She bites her lip at the thought of how dirty he’ll be by the end of the day.

It has become routine for her to spend a few mornings a week watching him work - her mum has never gotten out of the habit of insisting she wants to open the shop and sort the morning papers before heading home, so she is left to her own devices most days until the early afternoon. Tom doesn’t seem to mind having her hang around the garage.

When a car pulls in, a portly gentleman stepping out, Tom walks to greet him.

“It keeps overheating, I can’t understand why,” he explains to Tom.

“I’ll take a look for ya, mate. Come back in an hour, yeah?”

The man looks over at her with slight concern. “Will she…uh…be assisting you?”

Tom grins. “Nah, she’s just a mate, won’t let her near your motor, don’t worry.”

Just a mate.

She thinks back to how he’d knelt behind her not long after they’d woken up, just a couple of hours ago, pulling her hips back to meet each of his thrusts.

Just a mate.

Mates don’t do that.

Tom’s voice breaks her out of her thoughts. “Stupid old sod, just needs to put coolant in the engine. Gonna tell him I replaced the fan belt and charge him extra.”

She giggles, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

He gives an easy shrug. “He’s loaded, he can afford it.”

She sighs, looking at her watch. “I’d better push off, mum’ll be expecting me at the shop. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Probably not,” Tom says. “Booked solid tomorrow, but come round to mine after?”

She nods, waving and walking away. She’s used to Tom letting her know when the garage will be busy, so makes a point to stay away so he’s not distracted.

It’s not until the end of the day, when she fishes around in her pocket for the keys to lock up the shop that she realises she has Tom’s lighter. She’s too tired to pop round and drop it off at his, so decides she’ll swing by the garage in the morning to give it back.

Her fingers wrap around it in her pocket, preparing to take it out to hand back as she approaches the garage the next morning.

She stops in her tracks when she sees a sleek black motor car parked in the vehicle bay, a tall, sophisticated, beautiful woman standing beside it. Her perfectly manicured nails stroke down Tom’s bare arm as her ruby red lips pull back into a smile.

Her heart lurches in her chest as she watches him reach out to tuck a strand of the woman’s long, dark hair behind her ear.

Her throat tightens, nausea bubbles in her stomach as she turns and walks away, the lighter long forgotten. It feels as though the bottom of her world has been ripped away. She angrily swipes at the wetness that rims her eyes.

Just mates.

Fine, if that’s what Tom wanted then that’s all they’d ever be.

Series masterlist | Chapter two >>

[ptq3000]

bakugo x fem!reader

reader's period fucking sucks. im on my period so this is a lil comfort for me

—

it had been a shitty day. you woke up this morning laying in your bed when you felt super sweaty down there. you didn't think anything of it and went to use the bathroom. yet, you were met by your period.

you went on with your day, having to quickly run to the bathroom after classes due to the heavy blood flow. cramps were an asshole, like usual. the only thing you wished was different about your cramps was where it happened.

and maybe if cramps didn't exist.

you had them everywhere. in the front. on your back. even on your tits. it was terrible on you as you had no energy for anyone today.

after classes, you changed as quickly as possible and passed out on your bed. the soft mattress was always comfort for you.

...

it was dinnertime now. everyone that had retreated to their dorms were now in the common area as they awaited dinner. once it was ready, everyone sat down as usual.

"hey, mina, have you seen y/n yet? she didn't answer my texts." denki asked. "no, she's not answering mine either." this caught the attention of some as they now stopped their separate conversations to express their concern.

"someone call l/n once more and if she doesn't answer, i'll go to her dorm to see if she's ok." iida explains to the class.

mina nodded and went to your contact.

"im right here, don't call me." you spooked everyone as they all looked at you. your hair was put up into a bun which was messy after your nap. your t-shirt was riding up, showing the shorts you had on. you had marks all over your body from sleeping in one spot for a while. you looked tired as your face twisted into one of pain. cramps.

everyone went back to their business knowing that you were somewhat fine.

you slowly went to the kitchen and grab yourself a plate of what was for dinner. you found a seat at the end of the table and started eating slowly. halfway through, you dropped your chopsticks as the pain suddenly came over you. you wince and hold your stomach.

you mutter to yourself about how your fucking cramps need to stop and you start to breathe quicker than normal.

nobody notices over the chatter. except for one person.

bakugo stands up and walks over to the medicine cabinet. he pulls out pain meds and he fills a glass of water. he walks over to you and hands it to you with a scowl on his face. you know he means good so you take the pills and water from his hands.

you swallow the pills and gulp down the water without a problem. "thank y-" you didn't even finish your sentence before another wave of pain is sent through your body.

he walks off and goes back to his spot. he walks back and kicks out a classmate from their spot next to you. "what are you-" you start but stop as he glares at you. now that bakugo was sitting next to you, he reached his hand out to your stomach. testing the waters, almost. when you showed no signs of discomfort from his hand, he gently put it on your stomach and activated his quirk a little to heat up his hand.

the warmth drowned out the pain of your cramps. if this was going to happen everytime you had your period, you honestly wouldn't mind it.

"thank you, bakugo." you quietly thank him with a smile.

"tch, it's nothing you idiot." he mutters.

yeah, you wouldn't mind.

[theonemeathead]

Spy x Reader, "Je T'aime"

pls forgive me, i dont speak french. spy x reader fluff :3 no tws, tried to keep it gender neutral. enjoy!

Dinnertime on base was always unpredictable. Getting everyone to stay in one place was a challenge enough on its own, but getting everyone in one place to sit down and enjoy each others' presence for half an hour? Now that was nearly impossible; Keyword nearly.

It was Engineer's turn to cook tonight, which was always a pleasure. Even Sniper lurked around whenever the Texan was in the kitchen. He had a tendency to make hearty, filling foods and you can't go wrong with a good ol' fashioned steak dinner. This was the first time in months all of you were in one place, bodies starved after a relentless fight on the battlefield. All of you, but a certain Frenchman.

You see, Spy had an expensive palate...or that's what he called it. You would call it being picky. Spy tended to think highly of himself, albeit a bit conceded at times, especially when it came to cuisine. Why would he soil his 'temple of a body' with fatty, grease-filled American food? As if fancy imported wine and cigarettes were any better. But, sometimes he did make an appearance, sparing chatter here and there.

It was a known fact that whenever he 'graced the team with his presence', it was because you had asked for him, specifically. Even if he hated to admit it, he had a certain soft spot for you in that shriveled heart of his. And no matter how hard he tried to deny it, how hard he tried to twist that adoration into hate, it always crept back, even stronger than before. He was forever thankful that his balaclava hid enough of his face to seal away the light flush that seemed to permeate his cheeks whenever you were around.

Oh, but it pissed him off to no end, the affect you had on him. He was a heartbreaker! He was supposed to be the charmer, not the one being charmed! How dare you make someone as esteemed as him fantasize about you? How dare you make him oggle at you, desire you in such a way it would make the Devil blush?

So, when you had asked—No, begged—Spy to join the table tonight, how could he possibly resist? Now, here he was, wishing to be anywhere but eating dinner with his half-wit colleagues. He prodded his fork at the roasted potatoes, sliding the root vegetable around the plate in a pool of oil and butter. His stomach churned at the idea of digesting something so processed. You, however, were the opposite. You were cheery, thankful to be consuming something so warm and flavorful. You had began conversing with the Engineer, praising his skills in the kitchen. A seed of jealousy had began rooting itself in Spy's stomach. You never praised him when it was his turn to cook. He envied the Texan and the attention he seemed to be getting from you.

And then it happened.

"Aw, shucks, darlin'. Maybe you could come on back to the workshop with me and I could teach you a thing or two about cookin'."

The fork that was once in Spy's hand had clattered to the ground. The chilling sound of the metal hitting the linoleum floor rang loud enough to silence whatever conversations were occurring between anyone else at the table. Spy's fists tightened into a ball, trembling slightly as he tried to compose himself. There was an obvious tension in the air, something you were sure you all could feel. Spy stood up, adjusting the collar of his suit slightly before clearing his throat. That seed of jealousy had blossomed into something vile, something ugly. Why didn't you praise him like that? Why didn't you blush and giggle when he spoke to you? What was so much better about that damn toymaker?

"If you'll excuse me," he broke the silence, almost softly, his accent thicker than usual. His footsteps receeded, heels clicking as he grew distant. Glances quietly exchanged amongst yourselves. You all knew Spy to be moody, almost angsty, at times, but not once had he ever acted out like this before. You took the napkin, wiping your mouth and standing up to follow him.

"I'll go check on him," your words came out muffled, still chewing on a piece of chewy meat. You scrambled to your feet, taking off after the grumpy espineer. You assumed he had returned to his smoking room, an offshoot area where he went to clear his thoughts. The red, mahogany doors were a stark contrast to the rest of the metallic facility. Base sure didn't look as homey as it felt, sometimes. Timidly, you raised your fist... yet, you still hesitated. Maybe it was best to leave him be? Nah, that wasn't like you.

Taking a deep breath, you rapped your knuckles against the door. A pause. Persistent, you decided to continue, pushing the door open. The creaking of the worn-down screws rang out as the only noise, followed by the sound of your feet padding against the floorboards. You had never actually been inside of Spy's smoking room, but you'd caught glimpses before. Now, here you were. You were met with a rather cinematic scene; two royal red plush armchairs sat facing a crackling fireplace, a glass of rum on the rocks sweating onto a cork coaster atop a tiny side table, an expensive looking ceramic ashtray, and a French magazine, neighboring it. You knew Spy prided himself on this room, the entirety of it. He had forced Miss Pauling's hand into making sure it was implemented, after all.

You couldn't see the Frenchman himself, but you could see a cloud of smoke beginning to perfume the air around one of the expensive seats. You approached, eyes trailing as the grey smoke contortioned itself amidst the atmosphere. As you neared, you noticed a piece of fabric neatly draped across one of the armrests. It didn't occur to you it was his silk balaclava until you got close enough that the smell of his expensive cherry cigarettes began to fuzz your brain. Everything about Spy screamed luxurious, even the scent of his imported tobacco.

"I did not say you could come in." You froze. It was ignorant to assume he wasn't aware of your presence, he was trained to do this sort of thing. This was a bad idea, you thought. Every instinct you had was telling you to run. You were intruding. Spy was in his safe space, unmasked, with his back turned to you. Even for as long as you'd known Spy, you'd never seen his face. You never even dared to ask, in fear it would scare him off. You knew how he was quick to flee if he felt threatened.

"Spy, I—"

"If you were anyone else, I'd have already sent you back to Respawn."

You trembled slightly. You knew he wasn't joking, Spy didn't joke. Although given the gift of being able to come back from the dead, it didn't change the fact that it hurt, or the panic that arises when you're in that in between zone of not-quite-dead, not-quite-alive. No matter how many times you'd respawned, it was still a less than ideal fate. The shuffling of fabric made your eyes widen. Suddenly, you were no longer talking to the back of a fancy lounge, but you were face-to-face with a stranger now.

But, he wasn't a stranger. He talked like Spy, he sounded like Spy, he was Spy. Your mouth hung agape, slightly. He was still wearing that damn suit and tie, there was never a day that passed that he wasn't dressed to the nines. His hair was a dark shade of brown, almost black, and lazily slicked back. Grey began to sprout from his roots, trailing back and sprinkling into his wavy hair. He looked much older without the mask, faint smile lines and forehead wrinkles present. His eyes drooped ever so slightly, soft purple bags hung under them. His cheekbones were high and defined, his scowl taking a seemingly permanent residence on his face. And although he was clean shaven, he still had the faintest hint of a 5 o'clock shadow.

"Sacre bleu, I wish I knew how to hate you. You make my job substantially harder, and you don't even do anything!" He huffed, taking another drag from his cigarette. He looked down his nose at you, running a gloved hand through his hair. "You don't even do anything, and it drives me crazy, chérie."

You stood, silent. He shook his head, clearly annoyed by how he felt about you. You were a distraction, a constant fog in his mind. Hadn't he already learned his lesson 23 years ago to never fall in love? It always ends up bad for him, he always ended up getting cold feet, he always ended up leaving. He couldn't do that to you, he couldn't hurt you.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, Spy. I thought we were friends?" His expression dropped. 'Friends'? Why would you ever befriend someone like him, a two-timing, backstabbing snake? He sighed, his shoulders dropping as his cold blue eyes met yours. Here he was, his heart on his sleeve, for you; Only for you.

"That is the problem! We are friends! Just friends! Nothing more." He paused, huffing as he scanned your features. "I have spent many lonely nights, dreaming of you, mon cœur. Wishing you were next to me, wishing for nothing more than to feel your beating heart next to mine. I may regret saying this, but je t'aime."

Your jaw went slack, falling open at his words. He walked away, now standing, disheveled, over his mini bar, pouring himself yet another glass of liquor. You saddled up behind him, hearing him mutter various swears in that romantic language you never seemed to understand. Unsure what to do, you placed a small hand on his bicep, squeezing reassuringly. Spy stopped in his tracks. Although you'd been on base for a few years now, not once had you reached out and touched him. He felt something he hadn't felt in decades, something boyish and unfamiliar. A small red dusted across his pale cheeks, running across the bridge of his nose. He hesitated to look down at you, afraid he wouldn't be able to keep himself steady if he met your gaze.

"I love you too, Spy."

You were immediately enveloped in a tight embrace. For so long, he had wanted to hold you, to feel your warm, soft skin against his. He had to crouch slightly, his knees popping as he buried his scraggy face into the crook of your neck. The scent of cologne and aftershave was strong, coupled with that slight cherry scent yet again. Hesitantly, you hooked your arms around him. You were nervous, afraid to ruin or tarnish his expensive pin-striped suit. The last thing you wanted was to sent him into a tizzy about his attire. When Spy had pulled away, he stood up straight and fixed his tie. He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed by his lack of composure.

"Pardon me for how I stormed off earlier. I suppose I couldn't bear to see how that illiterate laborer flirted with you."

"You were jealous of Engineer?"

"...Moving along. Shall we return to the table, mon amour?" He held his arm out for you to latch yourself around. Always such a gentleman.

"We shall."

[sunnynwanda]

Part 1 Part 2

It did not take long for Vanki to get used to his new life as part of the Duke's family. It surprised him how easily they accepted him. No questions were asked, no hostility or attempts to chase him out.

Since his first meeting with the Duke's children, every morning would start the same way - with Sar knocking violently on his door. Sometimes, Vanki thought that if he didn't open in time, the boy would knock until the door fell apart. Then they'd go to breakfast together, barely managing to finish chewing on their food when Sar dragged Vanki and his sister outside.

His interactions with Amber warmed much slower. She would nod and smile under her nose but never uttered a word to Vanki, even though he had seen her talking to others before. One day, during Sar's nap time, the boy gathered the courage to ask if she didn't want to play with him. Amber shook her head, curls dancing across her shoulders and falling into her eyes. As if to prove her point, she took his hand, not letting go of him until dinnertime.

A few weeks later, she finally said her first words to him. A simple 'thank you', but even that was a start. It had been raining since early morning, so the kids were ushered to the Duchess' chambers. Vanki was shy in her presence at first - but soon discovered that her strict demeanour had no truth to it. When Sar spilt his water all over the sofa (partly due to an impromptu pillow battle with his sister), their mother let out a soft laugh, and ordered them to move onto the fluffy carpet while the couch dried. It took Vanki a minute to figure out there would be no punishment.

And if that wasn't enough, the Duchess decided to join them, announcing rehearsal time. Vanki watched Amber and Sar shriek in excitement as their mom pulled out a picture book and started reading the lines, pausing here and there for them to reenact what played out in the tale. Amber pretended to be a princess, except she was no damsel in distress, more like the cause of distress to the young boys. Sar was saving her, while Vanki preferred to be the evil wizard.

This game would repeat, every so often, during the colder months until, one day, the Duchess declared that they were to exchange roles. Amber chose to be the saviour, and Sar ended up being the cheekiest little villain. He kept giggling to the point that George had to wrap the noose around his neck himself, playing hostage to his snickering kidnapper. That day marked the first time Amber addressed him with a full sentence while claiming she'd save him no matter what. Vanki almost froze at the declaration, forgetting his line until Sar poked his cheek, demanding he look terrified for his life.

The floodgates seemed to open after that because now that Amber was talking to him, there was no shutting her up. So much so that the Duke joked the boy must regret making her comfortable with him. Vanki did not. If there was one thing he liked more than playing all together, it was Amber's constant chattering. He discovered early on that Amber liked to read - a lot.

Every afternoon, when Sar got taken away, they would escape to the library, hiding away in the depths of it, while she told him something new she had learned about the world. She spoke about everything, and Vanki, who was never allowed to set foot outside of his grandmother's den, listened hungrily, swallowing every bit of information she shared with him.

Sometimes, Amber told him about vishaps. They seemed to entice her like no other topic; she could go on for hours, retelling their myths and legends, describing what they supposedly looked like and behaved, why there weren't any in their land and how much she wanted to meet one. Oh, did she dream of meeting one!

"I'm going to visit Vishap territory one day!" She exclaimed one day, turning to face him with a look of excitement in her eyes. "Just like daddy."

"He got a scar out of it," Sar reminded, but if there was one thing Vanki understood from Amber's expression, it was that reasoning with her was pointless. She was determined and reckless, much like her father, despite his gentle nature.

Vanki never told her. Not because he was scared of her response but because he was trying to forget. Erase any memory of his past, his blood, and his heritage. Stay as far away from it as he could. Part of him knew it would come to light one day. Even at his young age, Vanki knew his grandmother would not let him go.

But he had time. While she slept, he had time. Twelve years was long enough for him to find an escape.

Or so he hoped.

Part 1 Part 2

Masterlist

Taglist: @marvellousdaisy @alltimelowing @lateuplight @surplus-of-sarcasm @betwist @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @enemies-to-idiots-to-lovers @miaowmelodie @thatonerandomauthor @hhabaddon @burningoutlikeicarus @daemonvatis @weepingcowboywolfbat @thelazywitchphotographer @kaiwewi @soul-of-a-local-bard @pigeonwhumps @aflyingsheepnamedrose  @thatneptune @ohwellthatslifesstuff @worldsfromhoney @thiefofthecrowns @crow-with-a-typewriter @qualityrabbitsoup @stargeode @villain-life @villainsblood @whumpifi @glassthedumbass @silviathebard @misskowe @ayeshaturnedtoashes4444 @m4iloblu3

[astariondisapproves]

A sigh leaves my lips as I lean against the large rock behind me, away from the campfire and view of everyone, looking out over the river we settled next to. I flinch, feeling my mark flare, my patron trying to find me but failing due to the tadpole.

I smirk, whispering, "Can't find me, can you, you greedy dick head. Good, let's keep it that way."

I flinch again as the mark flares once again.

-♦️

During the midst of dinnertime chatter, Astarion notices you immediately slip away, and not having anything better to do, he decides to quietly follow behind, hiding behind the large boulder you took solace in. He fights with himself for a moment on if he should make his presence known until your voice calls out quietly. Where they talking about him?

So finally waltzing around the boulder laced with his usual suave he speaks out, "I'll have you know I found you rather easily, so if it's not me, who's looking for you?"

[rising-volteccers]

*agressivley slurps up the frozen wip through a silly straw* GOOD SHIT

You know what anon? Seeing this honestly sparked motivation that I ended up finishing the idea I have for [Frozen] so...

Series: Pokemon Horizons

Characters: Friede, Murdock, Liko, Roy

Part of my Status Effect series. I'll see if I have the motivation to do the caretaking part of this piece. Here's [Poison] if anyone wants to read that haha.

--

No one ever asked why Friede hated winter.

To be fair, even if someone did ask, he wasn't entirely sure what he’d say. Friede didn't exactly hate the season after all. How could he when it brought out a festive mood to the Brave Olivine? Where his crew brought out their scarves and jackets, sipping on Murdock’s special hot chocolate? Even the Pokemon that traveled with them for years understood the changing seasons meant special treats made to warm them up were given after dinnertime. 

Friede didn't really hate winter. Not at all. It was the cold. 

He hated the cold. Friede couldn't stand the way the cold air seeps down into his lungs, freezing him from the inside out. The chill always curled into the space around his heart, causing it to tighten with every breath he took. 

He hated how keeping warm was an ongoing battle. It felt like he just couldn't stay warm during the winter months no matter what he tried. Layering jackets and scarves, cocooning himself into multiple blankets in bed–regardless of his efforts, the cold would still somehow find its way through into his bones.

By this point in their travels, his crew rarely bat an eyelash when he started complaining about the cold. They knew he disliked it, not that he hated it. Sometimes they do get annoyed when he whines a little too much, and when that happens he'd sequester himself within his room, wrapped in multiple blankets until he felt a little more like himself again.

Friede complained a lot because the alternative was to let the chill settle in, leaving him miserable with chattering teeth and hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't want to bring a dampened mood to the table, and he somewhat preferred annoyance to concern. 

He knew it was by his own fault for not having the cleanest track record when it came to things that inconvenienced him. Friede kicked up a fuss for something minor like a cold but kept to himself when he sustained more serious injuries. It was just second nature for him to hide when vulnerable, as well as not worrying the people around him.

So Friede complained and whined so they don't see just how much he hated the cold. That it reminded him of long days within a dark, cold lab feeling numb. They just chalked it up to him being over dramatic, which suited him just fine.

When Liko and eventually Roy joined the crew, Friede slowly came to realize that these two looked up to him. It wasn't difficult to notice the way Roy hung on to his every word, or how Liko often turned to him for advice. With that realization came this want to be a good role model. 

So Friede helped with their training, imparting knowledge and doing all that he could to help these two grow. This also meant conducting himself in a certain way, seeing that he didn't want them to pick up on any of his ‘bad’ habits. 

When they eventually landed in a region deep into its winter months, he didn't complain about the cold. Friede simply found himself unable to in the first place, not when Roy expressed such wonder upon seeing light snow falling from the heavens. He didn't want to ruin it with his usual spiel, nor did he wish to break this strong, dependable image the kids had of him.

When it came time to explore the nearby town for supplies, Friede found himself trudging through ankle high snow alongside Liko, Roy and Murdock. He'd rather be back on the ship than out here but Murdock requested as many hands as possible to help carry the groceries he planned on buying. Orla had repairs she needed to do while Mollie went to check up on the Pokemon, leaving him and the kids as the only ones capable of assisting.

Sporting multiple layers to combat the cold, Friede stamped down on his mild jealousy of seeing Murdock and the kids dressing warmly with only an additional layer to their long sleeved clothes. He felt a bit stifled when moving about but the extra clothes kept him somewhat warm. 

Friede remained at the back of their little group throughout their walk. Quietly, he observed Roy’s open awe, Liko's quiet wonder and Murdock's musings. He listened to idle conversations shared between the trio, about how Roy’s island didn't even really get snow while Liko only experienced light dusting of it when winter arrived. Their excitement was palpable enough to make him smile.

At some point, the group walked along an elevated path next to a frozen pond. From their position, they spotted various Ice-types by the pond’s edge, looking like they were moving towards the nearby forest. 

Friede squinted his eyes to make out the exact Pokemon in the distance, leaving him half distracted. He didn't notice Fuecoco walking closer to the edge, prompting Roy to drift away from the group while Liko and Murdock were caught in a conversation. 

The sudden yelp immediately drew his attention. Friede whirled around just in time to experience a mild heart attack when he saw Roy disappear over the edge. Everyone scrambled to where Roy fell, peering down to find that he and Fuecoco had slid down the (thankfully) short slope onto the frozen pond.

“Roy! Are you and Fuecoco alright?” Friede called out, eyes already seeking for a path that would bring them closer.

“Ow… yeah, we're fine!” Roy responded. He held tightly on Fuecoco when his gaze swept his surroundings.

“Alright we're heading down! Make your way over there!” Friede pointed to the closest edge where Roy could get back on solid land. 

After Roy shakily got to his feet, all three of them quickly headed to the edge. Roy slowly shuffled his way over through slow, hesitant steps. He was about halfway across when he suddenly stopped, eyes widening.

“U-Uh. I think–I think I see cracks?”

“Keep moving Roy! Slow but steady!” Murdock’s voice encouraged the boy to continue but it was obvious how scared he was.

Without much thought, Friede stepped onto the frozen surface. Ignoring Murdock and Liko's surprised cries, his focus lay on getting to where Roy was. Seeing his approach granted the boy some much needed courage to keep moving.

When he got closer, that was when Friede spotted the cracks Roy mentioned. He didn't say anything, simply encouraging Roy until Friede managed to grab hold of his hand. 

“C’mon, just a little bit more. Slow and steady.”

Roy gave a tiny nod. Together, the duo shuffled their way closer to the edge. By then Murdock had stepped onto the pond while Liko remained on solid ground. He had his arm outstretched, ready to grab hold and pull them towards safety. 

Just when it seemed that they were in the homestretch, Friede's ears picked up on a terrifying noise. He couldn't help but look over his shoulder. 

A large crack had formed, rapidly moving to their position. 

His body simply moved on its own. Friede pulled Roy and Fuecoco close before shoving them towards Murdock’s outstretched arms. Another sharp crack sounded, followed by a litany of others. Friede looked up just in time to see the horror on everyone’s faces before the ice gave way, plunging him into dark waters.

The shock he experienced differed from Cap’s electrical ones; painful as can be but cold cold cold. Friede instinctively gasped, causing freezing water to fill his throat. Before panic truly seized him, he desperately kicked his legs, slowly propelling himself towards the hole he fell through.

Friede didn’t know who’s cry was louder; his or the kids when his head breached the water’s surface. He barely got a lungful of air before his head went back under again. With his eyes squeezed shut, it was pure instinct that pushed him to swim for the surface. 

He managed to get his head out of the water again, fighting to keep the panic at bay. Each breath was wet and painful, like millions of needles prickling his lungs. The extra layers he wore to keep warm now acted as anchors that weighed his body down. The frantic yell of his name prompted Friede to seek for its source.

That was when he spotted Murdock, stripped of his outer jacket whilst on his hands and knees. It looked like he was slowly crawling to where he was at. His friend looked fearful but determined.

“Grab it!” Murdock shouted, holding onto one of his coat’s sleeves before flinging the rest towards his general direction. Understanding his intent, Friede shakily grabbed onto the other sleeve, holding on for dear life.

Murdock started to worm backwards, flat on his belly with one hand tightly gripping the sleeve. He was doing a valiant attempt of dragging him out of the water but every time Friede got his elbow up on the edge of the ice to pull himself out, the ice couldn’t support him and broke.

Each time he fell back into the water, it squeezed out the air in his lungs. His heart pounded faster than he thought possible but adrenaline was one hell of a drug. Still, the icy waters rapidly drained his energy. Friede knew that the moment he let up in his desperate attempts of getting out, that was it.

Murdock ended up crawling closer again. Friede wished he had the breath to tell him not to reach out himself; falling in along with him would defeat the purpose of trying to rescue him.

“Roll,” Murdock gasped instead. “I know you can do it Friede. Roll.”

Even as his senses were getting dull, Friede had enough mental clarity to understand what Murdock meant by that. He got a shaking arm out of the water, still holding tightly onto the coat with his other hand. Through harsh, irregular breaths, he gingerly placed his elbow on the jagged edge of the hole. He twisted his body inwards, getting his knee onto the edge as well. With one last burst of energy, he pulled himself out before rolling away from the hole. He rolled and rolled until he couldn’t move anymore. 

As he laid there simply breathing, drenched and freezing cold, Murdock had wormed after him on his belly. Friede didn’t have anything left in him by the time Murdock hooked his hands underneath his armpits, pulling him away until they were presumably out of danger. 

Murdock eventually fell back, gasping for breath himself from the exertion of saving his life. Liko and Roy frantically approached them moments later.

“Friede, are you alright?” Liko asked first. He didn't have to look at her to know that she was scared.

“F-Friede I'm so sorry because of m-me…” Roy sounded like he was moments away from bursting into tears.

“H-Hey it's fi–” Whatever assurance he wanted to give evaporated the moment he tried to turn onto his side, coughing out the water he inhaled during his struggle. Odd how he’d be freezing but feel like his lungs were burning.

Hands quickly settled on his back for support, and it was those same hands that helped him sit up. Friede ended up slumping against Murdock's side, too drained to be of much help.

“S-S-Sorry ‘bout g-getting you w-wet,” he spoke through chattering teeth. Feeling the way his hair plastered over his face, it wouldn't surprise him if a layer of frost had formed already. Friede certainly felt more ice than human by this point.

“That's the least of your worries. C’mon, we gotta get you back to the ship.” Thankfully, Murdock took charge of the situation. Friede didn't have the capacity to assure Liko and Roy right now.

Before Murdock lifted him to his feet, Friede shakily put on the damp jacket Murdock used to pull him out. He couldn't protest when Liko wrapped her and Roy’s scarves around his neck. They couldn't remove his soaked clothes right now so the best they could do was put more layers on him. 

“You have Charizard's Pokeball on you?” Murdock asked.

Right, he did have it. Charizard would be able to provide some much needed warmth. Friede tried to reach for the Pokeball clipped to his belt but his fingers refused to cooperate. 

Liko noticed his struggles so she leaned in to carefully grab the Pokeball, uttering a soft apology for encroaching on his personal space like this. She swiftly released Charizard from its Pokeball.

His partner immediately zeroed in on him. It growled softly, quickly going to his side, eyes shifting between Friede and Murdock.

“We need to get him back to the ship. Can you stick close to his side for some warmth?”

Charizard grunted once. It opened up one wing to partially cover Murdock and Friede, somewhat shielding them from the light breeze blowing past. Flying directly on Charizard would be the faster option but Friede barely had any strength for even walking, let alone holding onto Charizard through the flight. This was the best option they had at the moment.

“Liko, Roy can you head back to the ship first and let Mollie know what happened? Contact her on the way back and help her with anything she needs.”

“Okay!” The kids quickly set off to do just that.

“I think it's better if I carry you on my back. Do you think you can hold on?”

Friede's teeth chattered too much for a verbal reply so instead, he gave the tiniest of nods. With Charizard's help, he got on Murdock's back, arms loosely wrapped around his friend's neck. Murdock kept him secured by holding onto his legs. 

By the time Murdock began the journey back to the ship, Friede's eyes slid shut. Vaguely, he recalled Mollie’s words on how dangerous it was to fall asleep when freezing cold. He did his best to stay awake but he had no energy left in the tank.

Friede drifted off in the cold he hated, unaware of Murdock's increasingly frantic calls and Charizard's growls.

[racerchix21]

Calls Back Home

Or how Josh realizes that Sue was right when she said love makes a family.

Day 1 of @jeddieweek

It’s just after dinnertime when Chris’ video call comes in and Josh can tell the minute that it clicks for his husband that their kid, isn’t that something their kid, wants to talk to them.

It’s the first time their college kid has called home since they’d helped him get set up the month before. They’d texted back and forth a few times every couple days but never a FaceTime call. It’d been a little bit of an adjustment for all 5 of them to get used to their son or older brother to not be right down the hallway when bad shifts or bad dreams came to visit.

“I met somebody in my first class,” Chris says in lieu of a greeting when Eddie answers. “They’re really sweet and I was kind of wondering if maybe I could bring B home for Thanksgiving?”

“Hello to you, kid,” Josh snarks laughing at the look on Eddie’s face as he processes what their kid has rambled out.

“Hi dads. Can I bring my friend B home for Thanksgiving this year?”

“Of course you can Christopher,” Eddie agrees finally snapping out of his shocked stupor. “Buck and Tommy won’t care if there’s another person sitting at the table. Just let one of us know if there’s any allergies or anything we need to know.”

“Okay I will dad. Now how are the terror twins doing?”

Josh wants to say something more but he’s cut off by the youngest of their brood, Kayce screaming ‘Bubba’ when she hears her big brothers voice. When she comes to a stop in the living room, they can all see she’s been dragging her twin brother Mateo behind her.

The poor kid has obviously and most definitely been subjected to his sisters idea of playing dress up again. The bright pink feather boa and yellow hat he’s wearing makes both of them break into giggles when Josh happens to catch Eddie’s eye over their kids heads.

As he sits back with the love of his life in his arms watching as all three of their kids chattering at each other, he thinks about something Sue had told him a few years before about how love makes a family.

And if love makes a family then he’s grateful for the one that he’s made with Eddie Diaz, all around pain in his ass but absolute greatest gift he’s ever gotten.

[stuckinuniformdevelopment]

@bishop-percival

(Previous) The day after Thomas had spoken with Teddy, going back to Mati was all he could think about. He was beyond excited about the prospect of being safe and away from the Glornists, about having an entire planet to roam rather than the Skullship, about attending all of the free concerts he wanted. He was also looking forward to curating the playlist for the ride, a task that Teddy said he’d help with given Thomas’ ghost incapacities. As Teddy had suggested the night before, they were to meet up in the food court. So Thomas spent the entire day there. He managed to find him at breakfast, but didn’t want to bug him so early in the morning when he was preparing for work. He also found him at lunch but again did nothing but briefly observe, knowing how precious and fleeting a thirty minute lunch break could be in the face of a work day. He didn’t want to interrupt that. Finally, come dinnertime, it took Thomas no time at all to find Teddy by the time he got his food and sat down. He couldn’t help but lurk at the table and pretend he was part of the group. Part of him felt creepy and bad for listening in, but it was nice to just let friendly chatter wash over him. Besides, it was an entertaining group of people, Freddy especially. Thomas even silently laughed at half of Teddy’s remarks. He was also surprised to see his newest friend Larry there. Who knew he knew the Walters brothers! Thomas really wanted to chat with him, feeling bad that they discussed forming a Nice Club only to be leaving the Skullship. But he was happy to see Larry was already surrounded by so many friends. Thomas resolved to try and get in touch with him before he left to say goodbye. He thought about how he wasn't going to leave until he got a chance to bid farewell to Cyrus too. When dinner was winding down and folks were finishing their meals, Thomas knew he had to get Teddy’s attention to let him know he was there. Of course, he didn’t want to alarm anyone nearby with a disembodied voice or his ghostly apparition, so he thought about what to do until he remembered that watchdogs seemed to either shiver or remark about feeling cold whenever he accidentally passed through them when he roamed around the Skullship. So Thomas waved his hand through Teddy’s shoulder, curious if it would accomplish anything.

Teddy shivered at the sudden chill shooting down his shoulder. After a moment he glanced back and let out a relieved sigh. Then he tapped his brother’s arm to get his attention.

“Can I see your new place?”

“Sure!” Freddy instantly replied while giving Teddy a big wide smile. Then he stood up and addressed the rest of the table. “Are we still on for laser tag tonight?”

Anyone that was interested responded affirmatively. Cathy, the big tall watchdog sitting on Freddy’s other side, leered at Teddy as she said,

“I hope nobody wimps out this time.”

Teddy immediately pushed himself off the table and gave her an icy glare. “For the last time, refusing to play with someone who won’t follow the rules isn’t wimping out.” The last phrase was accompanied by air quotes.

“Pssh,” Cathy crossed her arms and leaned back while rolling her eye. “That wasn’t cheating.”

“For the last time: We do not tackle people in laser tag.” Teddy slowly overenunciated his words as if he was patiently explaining himself to a small child.

“It’s a combat simulation.” Cathy mirrored his tone. “People get jumped in combat.”

Teddy narrowed his eye. “A combat simulation designed to improve your terrible aim.”

“Like you’re one to ta-”

Freddy firmly clapped his hands on both of their shoulders while giving them both the motherly grin of restrained rage. “Let’s just put you on the same team tonight, alright?”

Neither had any more to say. He gave them both a comforting pat on the back before returning to his usual demeanor. “Well, I’ll see you all later!” With that he waved them all off and led his brother out by the hand.

After all that went down Freddy had a hunch that part of why Teddy asked to see his new room was to speak to him in private. So he waited until they were out of earshot from anyone else before speaking again.

“I’ll talk to her before the game.”

“Thanks. And can you tell her that was a low blow?” He tapped his glass frame while saying, “My aim’s been a lot better lately.”

“Will do!” Freddy gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

From there their conversation transitioned to Teddy trying to convince his identical twin to get a glass or, at the very least, have his vision checked. His introduction to prescription eye shields happened to come after they were deep in the vents to not have to worry about being overheard.

“Speaking of... how’s your eye?”

“Bad. Anyways-”

Freddy wouldn’t let him immediately change the subject. “Has it gotten better?”

Teddy let out an exasperated sigh before removing his eye shield.

Freddy let out a sigh of his own— a relieved one— before awkwardly rubbing his head. “I wish I could’ve done it...”

“I needed to.”

“Yeah... Y’know, I was really worried about you...” He didn’t say that he was scared that his CLNLD would get him killed. But they both knew what he meant.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yep!” Freddy’s tone brightened. “And I’m proud of you for going through with it!”

Teddy had mixed feelings about his praise. It was a big accomplishment for him. He was proud of himself too.

Yet no matter how much he despised Sam treating his first murder as a joyous event felt... strange. It was disgusting. It was, frankly, traumatic. And he knew that Freddy was trying to put a positive spin on it to cheer him up but...

“Have you ever met a ghost?”

The abrupt topic change almost gave Freddy whiplash. This time he was more than willing to go along with it. “Nope! Still looking! Why?”

“Would you like to?”

Freddy squinted as he tried to determine if Teddy was serious but even he couldn’t tell from voice alone. Without enough room to turn around to face him he was forced to just trust that he was.

“Well, yeah! What’s with the sudden interest?”

Teddy looked around for any sign of a ghostly presence. “Are you there, Thomas?”

[where-is-the-angst]

A Very Hawthorne Game: P1

Avery: 1

WORD COUNT: 1389

FIC MASTERLIST

Takes place after Games Untold AND after OUABH. This is a crossover between Caraval, The Inheritance Games and OUABH. Basically, the 36th Annual Caraval is happening AT Hawthorne House. Someone invited Avery, Jameson, Grayson, Xander, Max, Libby and Nash without their knowledge- and they need to find out why. There are all your favorite Caraval and OUABH characters in this too- and it mainly focuses on Javery and Max x Xander (they really needed more page time). Because Caraval is a Very Hawthorne Game :)

During the flight back to Hawthorne House, Avery couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. She fiddled with the promise ring around her finger, Jameson glancing at her every few seconds, as if sensing her worry. 

Avery and Jameson were in one of the booth-type areas of one of their private jets, enjoying the comfortable silence of each other’s company. They were all coming back from a spur-of-the-moment trip to one of their many vacation homes, a beachside oasis in the Caribbean. It had been Xander’s idea, and when he had suggested the trip, they had all jumped at the offer. According to Grayson, this particular house had been a favorite among them during their childhood, so all the brothers had insisted on tagging along. 

And that is why Avery and Jameson were in the furthest point of the jet, attempting to have a moment of silence away from the chaotic energy everyone else seemed to carry with them. Xander and Max were chattering loudly over a game of pool, Nash was trying to convince Libby to wear an obnoxiously patterned cowboy hat, and Grayson was loudly glaring at everyone as he tried to take a call amidst the chaos. 

Avery was mostly used to this type of environment, but she just simply couldn’t help feeling nervous. There seemed to be an almost palpable tension in her arms, a restless anxiety that she didn’t know what to do with. 

Something wasn’t right. 

Maybe it was the way that Xander had seemed so insistent that they take the trip. Maybe the way he kept glancing around him, seemingly unable to meet their eyes throughout the brief vacation. Avery didn’t know if it was the tight enclosed space, or the worry about how they were going to give away her inheritance, but everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. 

She glanced sidelong at Jameson, and didn’t miss the way his emerald eyes held a certain tension, his tight smile only supplementing her anxiety. 

And so when the group finally returned to Hawthorne House, Avery really wasn’t too surprised that everything had changed.  

–

They arrived at Hawthorne House at dinnertime, just an hour or so before sunset. As Avery got out of the limo, the first thing she noticed was that the entire gate was transformed. It was framed in red roses, their aroma intoxicating and almost sickly sweet. 

“What happened?” Avery asked, shocked but almost not expecting a response considering the visibly surprised expressions on everyone’s faces. 

“Well someone was trespassing,” Grayson unhelpfully deadpanned, leaning in to look closer at the seemingly random adornments. 

Murmurs erupted among the group, no one knowing what to think. What had happened to Hawthorne House while they were gone? What was happening?

Jameson was the first to actually try to enter, everyone else just standing awkwardly by the entrance of their house, almost afraid to see what had happened. He tore a hand through his brown hair and began to unlock the gate manually, the suspense nearly killing Avery. She wondered at her intuition as Jameson seemed to make the process of opening the floral arrangement that was their gate as slow as possible.

“Might as well see what happened,” Jameson muttered to himself. Once he unlocked it, he enunciated, “and now, presenting…” Jameson swung open the gate, “Hawthorne House.”

The property was transformed into what Avery could only describe as a type of wonderland. The house looked much the same, but with an almost vibrant aura surrounding it. As a matter of fact, the whole property felt different. The colors sharper. The smells stronger. 

Avery looked behind her, as if to ground herself in reality, only to notice something most peculiar.

The gate was gone. 

Alarm bells went off in her head and she opened her mouth to voice her concerns- 

“Race you inside,” Jameson called behind him, a couple feet ahead of everyone else.

Pretty much everyone knew what to do, and made a beeline for the front entrance to investigate.

And as Avery waltzed into Hawthorne House, she had a feeling that almost nothing was the same as it was when they left just a few days ago. 

The entryway was carpeted in a rich red fabric, people chatting inside the house. The whole property felt abuzz with excitement, but why were they even there in the first place? Unable to control her knee-jerk reaction, Avery yelled, “What are you doing here?!?!”

A woman looked up, light pink ringlet curls framing her heart-shaped face. “What do you mean?” She spoke as if to a child, patient and kind. “This is the 37th annual Caraval! Aren’t you excited?”

Before Avery got the chance to respond, a notably tan man called from behind a counter at the front of the room, “Evangeline Fox!”

The girl, Evangeline it seemed, got up without another word and exchanged a few words with the man, seemingly checking in. Avery looked around their group, at a complete loss for words. It only took a few seconds, but she immediately noticed something else was wrong. “Where is Xander?!?” She queried, looking to Nash for support as he was usually the most level-headed of them. 

“Honestly,” Nash drawled, “I have no idea.”

Suddenly, Max marched up to the man at the front, almost yelling, “What. The. Actual. Fuck. Are. You. Doing.”

He responded without a beat, a deep voice asserting, “Listen, I’m just trying to do my job. Welcome to the 37th Annual Caraval.” He seemed to take in their confused expressions, and ran a hand through his brown hair, revealing a red tattoo on his arm. “What are your names? I can see if you're on the invite list.”

“I don’t care about a stupid invite list! Why are you in our house?!” Max continued, undeterred. 

The man at the front didn’t seem to know what to say, eyes darting around them. 

Nash spoke up, “You know what, look us up on the damned list.” He looked around at them, “It can’t hurt can it?”

“I guess,” Max grumbled, Jameson and Grayson seeming to share her annoyance. 

“What…” The man started, eyes darting around them, as if afraid of holding any one of their gazes for too long, “what are your names?”

With much protest, they begrudgingly told him their names, only to discover that they were, in fact, on this ‘list’. After this mysterious man confirmed they were on this strange list, Jameson began, “What are you going to do, assign us rooms in our own house?”

“Well, yeah. That’s how this works. Do you seriously not know what Caraval is? How did you even get here if you don’t know what it is?” His voice rose slightly at the end, appearing laughably offended that they didn’t know what this ‘Caraval’ thing was. 

Avery would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little curious, but mostly, she was so, so annoyed. All she wanted to do was go up to her room and relax a bit. The flight had been long, and all she wanted was a shower, maybe a nice dinner and to go to sleep. But apparently, the universe had other plans for her. 

Avery shifted her weight on both feet, the realization drawing on her all at once. She looked to meet Jameson’s eyes, hoping he was on the same wavelength as her. Their eyes met, and they said together, “Xander.”

A girl, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, spoke up. “Stop Julian! They clearly don’t know what Caraval is.” Her hazelnut hair was almost luminescent, silver streaks framing her quite pretty face, “Caraval is a competition run by the all-powerful Legend. It takes place at night, and changes location every year. Magic comes alive at Caraval, and you must solve a series of riddles and puzzles to win. The prize is one wish, and the competition itself is very exclusive. Congratulations on being selected?” The girl, who couldn’t have been older than Avery, finished. Looking over at the man beside her for support.

Avery immediately looked at Jameson, knowing that he was thinking the same as her, “Sounds like our kind of game.”

The check-in process went smoothly after that, Avery completely ignoring everyone around her. Even though she knew that there was definitely some funny business going on, she couldn’t help but zero-in on the challenge ahead. And so when Avery settled into her shared room with Jameson, she knew one thing for certain, whatever this game was, her and Jameson were going to win. 

[1mnobodywhoareyou]

102 words this time?

Alex wakes from his unexpected nap to the sound of hushed chatter coming from the other room. He panics as he feels for Bex on his chest. Nothing.

He jumps up, just barely managing to prevent himself from panicking as he fully registers that the others are home and probably have eyes on her. He yawns as he stretches his arms over his head.

He can’t remember the last time he had an unplanned nap for... how long was he even out for?

He scrambles for his phone, checking his pockets, the side table, the floor and couch, finally finding it wedged between the back and seat cushions. His eyes widen in disbelief as he registers the time. Somehow, he had managed to sleep through Bex’s naptime and then some. It was nearly dinnertime which means that Reggie has been home for over an hour by now.

send a number and i'll add that many words to a wip

[baenxietydad]

Swynrpwrimo Task #10 -- Love Is Stored In The Garlic

[Tracker]

Write about 10 significant meals that your character has had in their lives. Is it their favorite pasta dish? Is it the meal they were broken up over? Up to you to decide! Bonus points for images. 

Cultural note: In the bits featuring So-yeon, Mu-yeol typically doesn't address her by her name. In Korean culture even married couple don't Always use each other's names. You can! And people do! But So-yeon is two years older than him and so, even when married, he'd often just address her as noona (or in their native Daegu dialect, noonaya) because that's what Korean boys/men call girls/women a little bit older than them. Sisters, cousins, friends, schoolmates above them, even often girlfriends and wives.

1994, Yachae-hotteok

Mu-yeol's mother's older sister, Kyung-ja imo, married a human man in 1972 named Na Sung-soo. And when Mu-yeol was thirteen, their son Na Yoon-seul was the coolest person Mu-yeol knew. He liked the human clothes he wore, the music he listened to including the bootleg Japanese cassettes his human cousin gave him, and most importantly he liked when his cousin bought him street food with his pocket money (some paper and metal bits that humans wanted you to give them in exchange for food and things) as they walked around the city. On a cool fall evening, Yoon-seul was leading Mu-yeol through a market near his house when he stopped them by their favorite stand-- where a friendly ahjussi sold yachae-hotteok.

As the boys ate their snacks, Yoon-seul grew quiet.

"I think I might try to go abroad for university."

Mu-yeol knew what university was, because he was laughed at when he asked what it meant in front of Yoon-seul's human friends a few weeks ago. Yoon-seul had threatened to hit them for laughing.

"Why would you do that?"

Yoon-seul smiling thinly. "Daegu...Korea is no place for something like me. I hear half-fairies are treated kinder abroad. I've been studying my English very hard and uri abeoji agreed to send me to a hagwon to learn French as well."

"Kinder?" Mu-yeol hadn't thought anybody had ever been unkind to his funny and warm cousin. Who could?

"Some of my chingu at school call me a..." there's a slur in Korean for half-fairies, made up of 'half' and one of the slurs for fairies in general. "I cannot go live in the Hollow on the mountain like you, and I cannot hide my fairy features like my ears. Ah...but my parents cannot afford to send me abroad either. 어떻게?"

Mu-yeol did not have an answer.

1995, Kkaenipjjim

Dinnertime in the Biseulsan pixie hollow and Mu-yeol was trying to avoid his parents at all costs. They were so embarrassing! He grabbed a plate and looked around for a table far from his parents and found one--- well. It was the one where the clique of pixie kids his age that went to human school sat at, but there were plenty of empty seats.

Ah! And Song So-yeon was there! He blushed just thinking about talking to her. She was so cool, every time he talked to her he must sound so stupid...at least she was nice. Some of the human school pixies thought they were better than hollow school pixies and weren't so nice.

Mu-yeol steeled himself and approached the table, set family style like all of the other tables. The chatter grew a little quieter, as the snobbier of the bunch wondered to themselves what one of Scout Captain Bae's kids was doing over here.

"Um. A-anyeonghaseyo." Mu-yeol said, bowing his head in greeting to her, as she was the oldest pixie at the table. "Can I sit here, So-yeon noona?"

So-yeon smiled and gestured to the seat across from her. "Anja, Mu-yeol-ssi."

Mu-yeol took his seat and began to put food on his plate, trying to convince himself that the whole table wasn't judging him, that he wasn't being perceived as strongly as he felt he was. So-yeon easily engaged him in conversation, even bothered to include him when she was talking to someone else. She must have felt bad for him...he'd take it. Talking to her was nice even if it was out of pity.

So-yeon reached for some of the steamed perilla leaves, frowning when she tried to grab one with her chopsticks but it was stuck to the others. Without hesitation, Mu-yeol reached forward with his chopstick to hold the perilla leaf pile steady so she could grab one. She looked up to meet his eye and giggled, muttering a thanks.

Later that night, Bae Jun-ha would hit his hyung repeatedly with a pillow because he wouldn't stop asking 'but what do you think she meant when she said 'thanks?''

1996, Ojingeo-twigim

"Yah! Bae Mu-yeol!"

Mu-yeol whipped his head around, surprised anybody in human Daegu city would be calling his name-- until his eyes settled on Song So-yeon, who still managed to look cool in her school uniform.

He stood there, surprised and confused as to why she would call out to him.

"What, pretending you don't know me after we kissed yesterday?" So-yeon teased him.

"Wh-what? Ani! No, noona I'd never--"

So-yeon laughed and punched his shoulder. "I'm only messing with ya. Since you're here, walk with me."

Mu-yeol of course obliged.

"Do you have cram school today?" Mu-yeol asked.

"No. Well. Yes. But I'm not going." So-yeon said, crinkling her nose. "I don't need it, I was top of my class before my eomma made me go. She just wants to stress me out. Aish, now I'm mad thinking about it."

Mu-yeol was about to apologize for asking, but So-yeon grabbed his hand, startling him.

"Mu-yeol-ah, look! Fried dried squid!" So-yeon said pointing to a street food stand.

"Ah- um. Noona, I don't have money."

So-yeon hissed at him through her teeth. "Pabo. I've got money. I'm buying us some and we're going to walk back to the Hollow really slowly."

1999, Kimchi-jjigae

So-yeon had been home from her second year of university in Seoul for only a couple weeks and already she was getting down and moody. Worse, she wouldn't tell Mu-yeol why!

He tried prodding her several times but he knew better than to push when she changed the subject.

It was over bowls of kimchi-jjigae at their favorite human ahjumma's restaurant that So-yeon finally began to talk.

"My eomma is furious." So-yeon said out of the blue.

Mu-yeol set his spoon down. "About?"

"You. She's mad that...well, she hoped that..." So-yeon sighed and started over. "She hoped that us agreeing to date other people while we're apart meant I'd grow apart from you. You know her. Kang Kyung-ok would rather her daughter marry a human with an MBA than Promise to a sparrowman who didn't go to human school."

Mu-yeol said nothing, not sure what this was leading to. So-yeon was headstrong and did whatever the hell she wanted. At the same time Kang Kyung-ok was her mother. Nobody liked fighting with their mother.

"I hate that she things I'm better than you just because your parents didn't send you to school. What's so great about it anyway?" So-yeon said.

"It's not like we're even talking about Promising." Mu-yeol said.

So-yeon looked at him and blinked. "I mean...we could talk about it. You've finished your apprenticeship. If we Promised, you could come with me to Seoul. My mother would have to accept us."

Fairies didn't usually Promise as young as they were, but they could. And if they could...

"Yeah. Yeah, I think talking about it is a good idea." Mu-yeol said, head too full of clouds to discourage her from the subject.

2000, Daegusal-jorim

"Jagiyaaaa, Mu-yeol-ah!" So-yeon singsonged into their apartment.

Omo. He knew that voice, that was her 'sooo be nice' voice. He peered around the corner to see what was up and spotted three younger uni students behind her.

"Nugu..." Mu-yeol began to ask pointing at them.

"They're my hoobaes at school. Mu-yeol-ah, they eat nothing but ramyeon." So-yeon said, pouting. "I told them my husband cooked for me every day and would geed them too. Please?"

The selfish part of him was a little annoyed he had to play host suddenly, but at the same time, he wouldn't just let the poor kids (literally only maybe a year younger than him) go without a home-cooked meal.

"I've already started. If you'll chop some more green chili pepper?"

So-yeon comically saluted him and hopped into the kitchen.

2002, Chamchi kimbap

So-yeon let out the most defeated groan and let her head fall into her open textbooks.

"A Masters degree was a mistake, I wanna quit!" She whimpered.

Mu-yeol tsked at her and shook his head. "Quit if you want, noonaya. I'm not making you do it."

"Yah!" So-yeon shouted at him, whirling around in her chair to face him. "You're supposed to tell me I'm brilliant and studious and can do it!"

Mu-yeol raised an eyebrow and walked over to her from the kitchen with a plate in his hand. He held it out to her. "Eat."

So-yeon glared at him and grabbed a piece of tuna kimbap from the plate, her eyes widening and her shoulders relaxing.

Mu-yeol nodded knowingly. "Better, jagi?"

She nodded silently and snatched the rest of the plate from him, going back to her reading.

2003, Beoseot-tangsu

So-yeon did not take a single bite from her plate. This was unusual, as she loved to eat and would eat greedily when presented with a fully set table.

Mu-yeol looked at her, but she didn't look at him. This went on for a while, her eyes looking anywhere but at him or her plate.

"Noona--"

Before he could ask what was wrong, So-yeon lifted her leg to grab something underneath it and slapped it down on the table. Mu-yeol squinted, having never seen it before.

It dawned on his just as she was saying it. "I'm pregnant." And she stared right at him.

"Uh--" he looked at her, her eyes absolutely boring into his soul. "Are you su--"

"I took seven of those things. Do you know how much I had to drink to pee enough for seven of them?"

He blinked and nodded, watching her, trying to find a hint for how he should be reacting. They weren't trying to have a baby on purpose right now. In fact they hadn't decided yet if they even wanted to have children, let alone when or how many. Nearly four years into his marriage, Mu-yeol now understood that he and So-yeon absolutely should not have Promised as young as they did. They were impulsive, much too young to take Seoul on with no support, and incredibly lucky that they actually did still love each other as much as they did then.

Even still, it occurred to him sometimes that there were certain subjects they really should have broached together before they Promised. Like this one.

And, maybe, they should have been more diligent about using their moondust.

(reader's note: moondust is the birth control method fairies have that's 100% effective if it's used fairy-to-fairy)

"Oh. Right..." Mu-yeol didn't know what he was feeling. He wasn't...averse to the idea. He just thought that if this did happen, it would be planned. Anticipated. That they'd've decided on it. "And how do you feel?"

Are we happy about it? Should I apologize profusely?

"I'm...okay about it. I think." The 'I have to be' was silent. "Are you?"

Mu-yeol nodded, gesturing to her. "I am if you are. But. You should eat."

"I'm too nervous, I have so many things to consider."

"I know. We'll talk about it more after you eat. No major decisions on am empty stomach." He reminded her, then pointed to the pregnancy test on the table. "And remind me to clean the table, you peed on that thing."

So-yeon snorted and picked at her plate.

2003, Honghap miyeok-guk

The baby wasn't supposed to be here for almost another month. So-yeon had quit her job a week ago to spend time finishing up baby-proofing their apartment. Their parents were coming up to Seoul in two weeks to make sure they would be there for the baby-- except, they'd all be two weeks too late.

Their son was born on October 9th, a couple hours ago, at 35 weeks into So-yeon's pregnancy. Too early. He was smaller than he should've been. He had a small wing. But -- as Mu-yeol and the healing talents from the Seoul pixie hollow that came to their apartment to assist them kept reassuring her-- he was healthy. The first few weeks with their newborn would be extra rough as Mu-yeol understood it, but, they could keep him at home with his healing talent father looking after him.

"Here. I'll hold him." Mu-yeol said, holding out his hands for the baby. So-yeon handed him over, the baby quickly being replaced by a tray and a bowl of seaweed soup with mussels carried over by one of the other healing talents.

So-yeon made to pick up the spoon, but it was like the second she handed the baby over, every muscle in her body was shot. Mu-yeol quickly adjusted him to he cradled the baby in one arm and picked up the spoon with the other. He even blew on the hot soup so it wouldn't burn her mouth as he fed her.

"I know I said I would think of names too, but. All I could think of were girl names." Mu-yeol said, chuckling. "So. What's his name?"

So-yeon scrunched her brow as she eyed her new baby. "What about Nam-min? I've even figured out the hanja." She stared at their son longingly, as if he wasn't just inches away from her, held by his father so she could eat. "I think it's a very pretty name for him."

Mu-yeol smiled at the sleeping baby cradled in his one arm. "Nam-min is cute.".

So-yeon grinned, before her smile faded. She looked from the soup, to the baby, to her legs, back to the soup. "Mu-yeol-ah. He was just-- he was just in me. I grew him. I just, like, did that!"

He laughed low in his throat and leaned over to kiss her forehead. "You did great, jagi. He's wonderful. A 10/10 baby. At least five stars."

2008, Doenjang-jjigae

(Reader note: lol sorry Laur if 5-year-old Nemo is off)

"Appa?"

Mu-yeol swallowed his spoonful of soup. "Eo? What is it, adeul?"

Little Nam-min crinkled his nose. "Appa, are we...im'grinz?"

"Are were what?"

"Im'grinz. The other fledglings don't understand what seob-seob means. Our teacher says it's because we're im'grinz and we use different words."

"Oh!" Mu-yeol got it. He laughed before clearing his throat. "You mean immigrants. Eo. We are."

Well. This seemed to distress his son, as his mouth made a little 'O'. "What's that? Is it bad?"

Mu-yeol shook his head. "Ani. And nobody in the Hollow thinks it is." He was sure of that; and just as sure that Nam-min's teacher was only trying to explain to all of the children why Nam-min said Korean words sometimes. "It just means we weren't born here, in the country this Hollow is in. We're from Korea. We're Korean. You speak Korean, that's why some of your chingu don't understand some of the words you know. Because you know two languages."

"Ah...okay." Nam-min had more questions. "Is Korea in another forest?"

"It's very far away, and it's so big that there's lots of forests in it. It wouldn't fit in one forest."

"Huh. So...is...that where my mom is?"

Mu-yeol blanched. Aish. He was too young to explain things to in detail; who made him ask these things? "We lived together with your eomma in Korea, yes."

"Is she still there? Can we go visit?"

"Ah...your eomma...you know how Old Miss Maggie isn't at the circle anymore for meal time?"

Nam-min nodded. "Mhm. Mr. Flitterfoot said she finished the cycle of life so someone else can start."

"Yes, exactly. Your eomma had to finish...well, a bit earlier than Miss Maggie. But she loved you so much and if it were up to her --" and me "-- she'd be here. But remember what you learned the other day? Everything..."

"-- has a season!" Nam-min piped up. "And we have to welcome new seasons and accept when they end!"

"Mhm. Exactly. Sometimes seasons end before we want them to. And that makes us very sad, and doesn't feel very fair. Sometimes we don't really remember that season. But that doesn't mean that season didn't happen. Your eomma loved you very much, as much as Appa does. Even if you don't remember."

"So that's why the other kids have a mom and a dad? Or two moms and a dad? Or-- because eomma had to finish her life cycle early?"

"Yes. That's right. Do you feel...I hope you know it's okay. That you just have an appa."

"I know, Appa!" Nam-min chirped.

Yes, he was still very small, he didn't fully grasp how small and how odd their family was for the hollow.

2023, Haemul sundubu-jjigae

"You've been asking to come cook for us a lot lately." Miss Anna said, wriggling her eyebrows at him.

Mu-yeol choked on his soup. "Huh?"

"Come on. Share with the class. Who is it we're guinea pigs for?" Her granddaughter asked.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Mu-yeol said.

"Oh, please. 'Is this Korean spicy or British person spicy? Should I make it milder? Is this good?' Who are you trying to impress with your cooking?" Miss Anna was going to get to the bottom of this!

"Nobody! I just want to make sure you two like it. That's all." Mu-yeol reached for his glass of water and took a sip.

A beat.

"Ah. So I guess you aren't flirting with Hatter after all."

Mu-yeol damn near choked again, swallowing his sip of water before sputtering. "What? Why-- who would th-- why would I-- who's saying that?"

Miss Anna and her granddaughter shared a look. Who indeed.