#everyone with winter or autumn or whatever go suffer in your cold

[harapeveco]

Happy to announce I wrote a reinochi fic! However it will take a while for it to be posted bc I’m too busy having fun and relaxing at the beach in this very fine November day, enjoying the sun and drinking a piña colada so it’ll take a few days to be translated but coming soon🫡

[woncon]

➳ sick duty.

➶ poly!ateez x gn!reader (yungisang focus) ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ Yunho is sick, and you and Yeosang are on sick duty. When the others still haven't arrived with jelly, you decide to go to the nearest shop in the raging storm and buy some, because Yunho really wants them.

➴ genre: slice of life, sickfic, estabilished relationship, polyamory, non-idol!au

: ̗̀➛ warnings: yungisang focus, but everyone gets screen time, poor yunho has a fever, one sexually suggestive offer, petnames, nudity

⌨ :: 3.5K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ This idea came to me when I saw a double rainbow in early June while listening to Golden Hour Pt1. It was supposed to play in the summer, but I never got to the end. Now autumn came and I decided to write it. But in this rainy, gloomy weather it seemed better to set it in a more autumnal setting. That changed my basic idea a lot, but I'm happy with it as it is.

⁀➷ My lovely @wonsheep, I'm still sorry the rain poured on you so heavily on Wednesday. :( But it was very motivating, as you can see. Many thanks for reading through the story and founding my silly mistakes!

➳ mlist

I'm hot.

I want tea.

I'm cold.

The sickly season of the autumn-winter months spares no one. Yunho, who is hard to dislodge from whatever well-endowed giraffe's legs he has, is now curled up in the middle of the bed, disconsolate because he didn't pull on a thick enough scarf, or was carelessly underdressed in the living room, or simply spent too much time around a co-worker who has been lurking with some virus. Whichever the case, the poor guy is in a terrible mood.

"I want medicine," he whispers his next wish.

You look at your watch.

“One more hour before you can take the next one,” you say, brushing his hair away to touch his sweat beaded forehead. It's still as warm as underfloor heating.

Frustrated, he rolls to the side and buries his head fully into the pillow. You drop your hands back into your lap, helpless. It's simply exasperating to watch him suffer, to listen to his snotty, ragged breathing mix with the rain beating against the window.

“Do you want something to help?” you ask, when he turns to you again and raises his feverish eyes to you. The skin around his nose is flushed from all the blowing.

“Jelly.”

Yunho is convinced that jelly sweets can help him. Or at least when he's sick, he likes to eat sweets. Other times, not so much. Unfortunately, you guys weren't prepared for Yunho being sick in the near future. Plus, there's a storm brewing, the kind you haven't seen in a long time. It's been raining steadily for a week now, sometimes more, sometimes less. The others went to do the shopping with the car, leaving Yunho behind with the promise to bring him some jelly. He responded with a small, grateful smile.

Now, looking at his tortured expression, you would give a lot to see that smile again, the hope in his eyes. You reach out and take his hand. You sigh. Gently, slowly, you caress the back of his hand, knowing how sensitive he is to touch when he has a fever. You don't want to overdo it and hurt him, but at the same time you want to let him know physically that you're there for him.

"It's on the way." You really hope it is. The last time Jongho called, they were already at the checkout. Your youngest friend boasted that they were bringing five full bags of jelly beans. That was about twenty minutes ago. No news since then. It bothers you that you can't offer an immediate solution to Yunho's every wish.

Before Yunho can ask any more questions, the door opens. Yeosang arrives with a tray holding a steaming mug and something wrapped in napkins that you can't identify yet. With cautious steps, he moves to the other side of the bed among some discarded clothes - because Yunho didn't want to shower this morning, just threw everything off the bed he'd chosen as his regular place - and then takes a seat, placing the tray safely on the bedside table, gently moving Seonghwa's half-finished book.

“I've brought the tea," he says to Yunho. "And I found some biscuits to go with it."

Interested, the patient moves up on the pillow, but still looks vulnerable. Yeosang holds the cup in his hand and gives the man small sips. Meanwhile, you get up and gather up the laundry strewn around the bed and take it to the bathroom. On the way, you hear a conversation emanating from the kitchen, from which you hear the word 'jelly bean' clearly spoken at one point. So after throwing the laundry in the hamper, you go to the kitchen instead of the bedroom. The room is filled with the smell of hot water and tea leaves. Mingi is putting away the tea ingredients. The call is already finished, his phone is on the counter.

Originally, Mingi wouldn’t be on sick duty today. Today's subordinates are you and Yeosang, Mingi just didn't want to leave the apartment in this crazy weather and he’s helping you instead. It's not like this sick duty thing is strict in your relationship, and it's set in stone that Mingi can only nurse Yunho on Mondays and Fridays and holidays or anything. That said, there are rules. For example, Mingi usually only needs one nurse when he gets a cold or something more serious, but at such times it is Yunho for most of the time. Then there's Jongho, who, if he falls ill, no matter what the schedule, has all eight of you at his disposal twenty-four hours a day. Or, again, there's Seonghwa, who hides the fact that he's sick until it's too obvious, and you're all freaking out as to why he won't let you take care of him.

Yunho usually hardly gets sick. When he does, even a mild cold will get him down. And when he is ill, he's even fussier than the sick Wooyoung, and only one lover has a hard time coping with his demands. Usually two people are enough to care for him if there are jelly beans nearby. Which, for now, there aren’t.

“Are they on their way home?” you ask Mingi, who's packing honey. 

"It's worse downtown than here," he says. "The traffic's bad. They're just moving towards home inch by inch."

You both look out of the window, and the tapping of the rain remains as unrelenting as the fever that plagues Yunho.

“Is the tea to his liking?”

“I'm sure of it,” you smile at him. Mingi is usually insecure when it comes to Yunho's well-being. You suspect that the boy's illness was a more significant reason for Mingi to stay home than his desire not to get wet. “But you can ask him.”

You return to the bedroom with Mingi at your side. You remind yourself that this room now functions as a ward. The patient is huddled near the edge of the bed, munching on biscuits soaked in tea, so that they don't scratch his throat.

“It's not jelly,” he mutters, then pulls away from Yeosang and lies back on the upholstered cushions.

You look at Yeosang. Your theory is that you're thinking the exact same thing. If jelly beans are the only thing that helps your boyfriend, you'll do anything to get them. You're even willing to go to the convenience store in the pouring rain, because when you are on sick duty, Yunho mustn't lack anything.

"We'll go and get jelly beans," you say. Yeosang nods his head in commitment.

“We'll go?” Mingi looks terrified. “All of us?”

You can't leave Yunho alone in this state. It's a good thing that Mingi is here, in addition to Yeosang and you, ready for action, and not stuck in traffic with the others downtown. 

“No. You stay here with Yunho and look after him.”

Mingi continues to blink. 

“We'll be quick, don't worry, you don't have to multitask. Yuyu will probably fall asleep soon.”

"It's not me I'm worried about," he protests, "You'll get wet and cold."

"The store is not far away. We won't have enough time in the rain to freeze to death."

Yeosang wraps Yunho in a blanket and kisses him on the head.

"Mingi?" The man folded in a burrito addresses the worried individual.

“Yes?”

“Gimme a hug.”

Mingi doesn't resist, but climbs onto the bed, swapping places with Yeosang, who pats his shoulder as he passes. Before you even leave the room, you hear Mingi apologize and ask for Yunho's forgiveness.

Yeosang sticks the umbrella out the door. Just a little to test how much it rains. There's really barely any surface out, but the wind immediately grabs it and tugs it further. He pulls it back in time before the umbrella swings out or the wind wins, and you close the door with a great struggle, which also wants to jump off its hinges from the violent gusts of wind.

“I think this will stay here,” Yeosang says, and then drops the solid black umbrella behind you.

You zip up your raincoat. It occurs to you that maybe Mingi is right, and you're so wet you'll get stuck in a puddle of icy water. Yet the idea doesn't discourage you, doesn't make you stay, because Yunho needs the jellies.

Yeosang adjusts his hood, then holds out his hand. You embrace him tightly. You check your wallet stashed in the waterproof pocket one last time and place your hand on the doorknob. Then you push it down. The door swings open, and you let it drag you along with it. The back of your coat gets soaked immediately. The rain doesn't fall, it instead pours down from behind in a wave with the wind. Clinging on to Yeosang in vain, it's hard to keep up your own pace and not lurch forward like a rag doll. It's a wonder your boyfriend can close the door.

Although the shop is indeed a block away, at this time it feels like you're wandering for eternity. For one thing, the scenery is completely different in the rain, it's harder to navigate, especially in the raging, commanding wind. Around one corner, Yeosang has to pull you in, because out of nowhere a car appears, its wheels gallantly splashing a full puddle onto the pavement.

Somehow, you do reach the store. As soon as the automatic door closes behind you, the storm is out of the way. Inside, the weather is pleasant. Only the clothes clinging to your skin and the small puddles and mud stains on the floor left by other shoppers are reminders of what a doomsday is happening outside.

“Huh,” you sigh in relief. The first game of the war against weather is over. You only have one more to go to succeed in the jelly bean mission.

“We're crazy," Yeosang shakes his head in disbelief. Then he smiles up at you, sweetly and lovingly, because he's proud you're crazy. You return it.

Insanity is part of sick duty to some extent. Last time San must have used up thirty tissues a day, and ran out in the middle of the week. Hongjoong ran so fast to replace the used-up packets that he was almost hit by a truck. And when you were sick and craving nothing but a mug of hot tomato soup when all the shops were closed and there were no tomatoes at home, only ketchup... Well, Jongho tried.

You purposefully seek out sweets. Luckily, you don't have to wander around and scout the place, you'll often find yourself here. You take off two bags of Yunho's favourite flavour, sour apple. You remember again how pitiful your otherwise healthy and cheerful boyfriend looks.

“This will help him,” Yeosang says encouragingly, as if he's reading your mind.

You nod, then head for the cashier. You get in line. From here, you can see the window and the rain pouring down.

For the first time since the jelly bean plan was born, you have time to think about Mingi's excuse when he cuddled up to Yunho. It's my fault. I'm sorry. But how could it be his fault that Yunho caught a cold?

You're rewinding the previous two weeks. Yunho was in home office the whole time. He really enjoyed it, and when he wasn't working, he was playing video games. He didn't put his foot out until one time when he had to pop down to the shop for something. It didn't rain so heavily that day, just a gentle drizzle. Maybe Mingi had taken off Yunho's blanket one night? It couldn't be, either, because they'd been sleeping far apart lately.

It's your turn, so you suspend your musings. When you get back, you'll ask Mingi and hope it's not too embarrassing for him not to tell you. If he feels guilty, you could help him and reassure him that it's not his fault.

You and Yeosang pay. You put the bags in your coat pockets. You pull the hood up, not that it matters. You cling together again, then step out onto the soggy pavement. 

The way back is harder. This time the wind brings the rain from the front. Each blast smacks you in the face. Neither of your hoods can stay up. Your hair gets wet, the rain drips under your coat. You successfully step into a puddle, literally splashing in the muddy water, and the inside of your boots get soaked. You're wet everywhere, from your elbows to your toes. It's really annoying, but you don't falter, clutching Yeosang's arm until you reach the sheltering door of your home to drop in like two wet rags on the threshold and with a combined effort you shut out the cold, ominous wind. Yeosang slides along the door, his hair leaving a wet streak on the wooden panel.

“We did it,” he sighs, and proudly rattles one of the jelly beans he pulls out of his pocket. The bag is intact, of course.

“We did,” you agree, and pull him up off the ground.

Suddenly you're faced with the problem of not knowing what to take off first because everything is equally soaked. It's almost as if your clothes are the cool part of your skin, plus outer layers. Finally, following your boyfriend's example, you throw your coat on the floor first, then your shoes on the doormat, and socks after.

Before you reach for the next layer of clothing, there is the sound of footsteps. You think Mingi is coming, but when he sighs, you realize it's not your tall lover.

“You guys are adorable and dedicated, but silly at the same time," says Hongjoong with crossed arms.

“But at least Yunho’s jellies will hold out until he heals,” answers Yeosang, taking off his shirt.

“When did you arrive?” you ask.

“About a minute ago. But we'll talk later. Now go take a shower before you too end up feverishly next to Yunho,” Hongjoong advises, then retreats and San steps forward. He unconcealedly runs his eyes over Yeosang's naked torso, and yours, which still has your shirt stuck to it, rather tightly, so it might even be useless.

“If you get sick, I'll be on sick duty every day. The thing is, the adorable, dedicated, silly people are just my type” he winks.

“Move over, Sanie," Wooyoung appears and nudges the other one in the side, "You promised to help hyung pack up.”

San hums and walks away, but still smiles in your direction. You all love to oblige Hongjoong and Seonghwa, and that goes for when there's an opportunity to flirt as well.

“You two are sexy, all wet,” Wooyoung admits. “If you need help with the shower, let me know. I'll be within earshot.”

“We'll consider it,” you promise. Wooyoung nods with a grin, and he also retreats to the kitchen.

You pass through the hallway, but before you can go to the bathroom, Jongho stands in front of you with a plate of jelly beans. “Here. I thought you should be the ones to give it to him. You made a greater sacrifice, and most of us stayed dry. Except for Hwa hyung, who opened the door and held the umbrella.”

“Thank you,” you say at the same time. While Yeosang takes the bowl, you press a kiss on Jongho's cheek.

When you retire to the bedroom, the scene is quite cozy. Yunho is in bed, hugging Mingi, craving jelly beans, and you offer him what he craves most, and what you fought Mother Nature for.

“We got it,” you report.

Yunho snaps his head up. The mere hope brings life to his sick features. You stand by the bed, careful not to get rainwater on it.

“Here, hyung," Yeosang hands the bowl to him in a soft whisper.

“I hope you weren’t too desperate, baby. We hurried as much as we could.”

“You're the best," says Yunho, touched, between bites. “I love you.”

“We love you too, giant baby. Very much,” you assure him.

And he smiles up at you. The mission is a complete success. Whether all that time and getting soaked was enough to put you to bed remains to be seen. In the meantime, you bask in success.

Mingi sneezes. Then he reaches under the pillow and takes out a handkerchief. “My throat may be a tiny bit scratchy.”

“Should we set up someone on sick duty for you too?” Yeosang offers readily.

“Our poor boyfriends,” you sigh, watching them. Yunho in the midst of illness, Mingi as he probably slips into a state of flux.

“I deserve it,” murmurs Mingi, looking ruefully at Yunho.

“Why do you think so?” you ask the question that has been nagging at you for a good twenty minutes.

“When we ran out of milk last week, Yunho and I went to the grocery store... I offered to make out with him in the rain. It didn't rain much, and there was no wind. Still, that's how Yunho got cold.”

"Come on," the other protests hoarsely. He sucks on a jelly bean with great enthusiasm. You wouldn't believe he can taste it. “You offered, I agreed, I could have said no, but I didn't. All in all, it was worth it.”

“Worth it?” Yeosang raises his eyebrows. “You were dying before the jelly arrived.”

"If you haven't kissed Mingi in the rain, you won't understand," he declares, then turns to Mingi. “Want a jelly, princess?

Yeosang and you leave them alone, let them romance each other in the infirmary. Barefoot, you stomp off to the bathroom. You open the door, and a thick, fragrant steam rises from the room. A pleasant warm breeze reminds you how cold you are. You hurry inside. Yeosang closes the door to keep the comforting steam from escaping.

Seonghwa is already drying his hair and got dressed. You look at him expectantly, ready to be reprimanded. But he has no such plans. He takes your face with one hand and Yeosang's with the other. “I am proud of you. Take a bath, then we can watch a movie. We made a whole list while we were stuck in traffic.”

Yeosang hums, you nod in response. Good idea. At this time of year, there's no point in doing anything other than curling up on the sofa together.

You bask in Seonghwa's soft touch until the last moment, and the knowledge that he's proud of you. It's really enjoyable to play good cop, bad cop with Hongjoong, and they don’t scold you twice. Regardless, you need to figure out a way to cheer up that boyfriend of yours who called you adorable, dedicated, and silly all at the same time. 

“So he probably caught it while kissing,” you acknowledge what you've heard by tugging your trousers down after Seonghwa has left you alone.

“Interesting.”

“And understandable. Sounds romantic.”

“Do you want to go back?” Yeosang glances up at you as he pulls towels out of the closet. The look in his eyes is willing. It embarrasses you to know that he would take a single word from you and go back with you into the pouring rain to fulfill that desire.

“I wouldn’t do it in this weather. But, for example, standing in a cool summer drizzle, refreshing after the heat. When me and my partner won’t be so likely to have a fever for a week.”

“Last summer Woo did it with someone. I think it was with Sanie, but I'm not sure. Maybe he caught Hongjoong hyung in a moment of weakness.”

“Really? Is it fashionable to kiss in the rain in our relationship?”

“A bit.” Yeosang undresses completely. 

Your hand is over the laundry basket, you've dropped the last of your clothes in it, yet you don't move. You’re looking at Yeosang. At his naked back, how rainwater is dripping from his hair, onto his delicate muscles. The line of his shoulder blades as his back narrows, ending in the lovely hips you'd hold in your hands for days. And of course you can't neglect his ass or his thighs or his whole being, because once you start looking at him, one part of him is not enough, and the whole of him is overwhelmingly wonderful.

He turns back to you. “Are you coming?”

“Sure.” You follow him into the bath. You take his face in the palm of your hand and kiss him on the lips. “Wooyoung was right.” 

“About what?”

"You're sexy when you're wet," you explain, and at the same time you probably reveal that you were just staring at him.

"He didn't just say that to me, love," he replies, pulling you close. Then he opens the water. The warm, soothing drops fall on your head and drip down your chilled skin. Like rain.

“I have an idea. Let's kiss here like it's raining.”

“Oh,” Yeosang smiles sweetly. His thumb caresses your cheek. “Okay.”

And you shower until the hot water runs out.

[vonev]

The Executioner (and the judge) II

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader

Chapter 2: and in the confinement of your heart, leave me haunted

Part I Part II Part III

Words: 4.6k Summary: Coming back isn't easy, nor is the reality that you'll have to face everyone easier.

a/n: so excited to be revealing more of the plot!!

“Hello?”

For an entire second, the world stops around you; your breathing hitches in your throat, teeth biting on the skin of your finger, eyes frantically dancing around every inch of your lap. 

Her voice brings back memories: ones you suppressed to the back of your mind for so long, just to be lit up in flames once more as easily as you’ve smothered it before. 

It brings back the numerous springs fleeting away within the blink of an eye; how the clouds would accompany your loneliness amidst trials and tribulations, during dire times when you’d be left stranded alone somewhere with only yourself to lookout for. To save.

Summers go by just as quick; if not quicker. A knowing, familiar look from your lieutenant—his lips on your skin, breaths fanning across your face, hands grabbing at whatever he could, because he had just realized he’d spend the rest of his life with you; till death do you both apart, quite literally.

It takes you back to the several autumns spent, where the bunch of you would gather in the living room at a safe house with blankets and hot coffee and tea for each of you as you all but wilted away in the approaching cold. 

It reminds you of the last winter wasted with blood on your hands and a gunshot to your oblique, head spinning as voices shouted over your prone figure; blurry eyes and even blurrier nights with a strong hand supporting the back of your busted head, your figure molding into his arms like you had always belonged there: with him.

That’s what you lost, you think. The sense of belonging, of safety. 

There wasn’t a day gone by where you wouldn’t think of him and those sullen eyes of his you adored, and still do. 

Will he resent you? You hoped not, fingers crossed that somehow, someway, he’ll forgive you—the rest of the team, too. Because as much as it hurt them to see you gone; you had been the one quietly suffering in silence, with absolutely no one to turn to: because who would hear your cries in the nights you’d wallow up in loneliness and days spent tucking away in your bed to will the sadness away? No one. None except for him who stuck by, through thin and thick, like the birds of a feather he kept to you.

Yet you couldn’t find a reason to go back; a proper one.

It hadn’t been easy for you to decide to end it all and leave for good; you posed too much of a danger to everyone around you. Misfortune seems to favor you the best amongst all. 

Everywhere you go, people die.

Hells, you somehow managed to bring an entire town down with only your existence.

Yet you live through it all practically unscathed to see the damage, to see what you alone can do to the people around you: nothing good. Demise seems to trail your back, sit in the dark in the corner of your room, live in your shadows. 

“…if this is a prank call, it’s not funny.” 

Her voice snaps you back to the present. 

Mindlessly, you let out a small snort. Even though you haven’t seen her for so long, she still seems to be grounding you in the moment. Her presence has always been. Especially during tough missions when morale would be at its lowest, she would be there to cheer the entire team up—somehow. 

“Kate.”

“I—“

It sounds like she’s choking back annoyance behind the line, trying her best to remain her composure and keep the professionalism intact.

“This isn’t funny, whoever you are.” Kate groans, and from the sound of it, the squeak of a chair indicates her getting up from it; probably pacing around the room as you both speak. “I know you’re using a voice changer, so drop the act, what do you want?”

“I need your help, Kate,” you mutter, still in trance upon hearing her voice grumble through the microphone. 

“And I need you to stop using my friend’s voice—it’s creeping me the fuck out.”

“I am your friend,” you speak up with a newfound confidence, determined to see through this conversation and convince Kate that Yes, I’m alive and No, I have never died. 

“No, no you’re not—“ she sounds really mad now. “—because my friend is dead .” 

Your body freezes up at the venom in her tone, the reminder of your ‘death’ ; back in the foreign forest near a Soviet compound where you should’ve died of blood loss. Because fate just had to play you, even in your ‘last’ moment. You still weren’t sure if you were truly alive after that fiasco with the Barkov, you felt that a piece of you was stripped away, like you’d unknowingly traded your soul for another chance at living.

Not that it’s ever that easy, of course.

“It’s me, Kate, I swear.” 

Silence fills the room once more.

Seconds ticks by, and yet not another word spoken between the two of you.

“…Sweets?” 

Ah. That’s a name you haven’t heard in a while: your callsign. 

It was funny, really, how it was assigned to you in the first place: back at the headquarters with the entire 141 lounging inside the kitchen in a secluded safe house, you had all been bouncing back and forths with a callsign for you—you were a new recruit, so naturally, they’d need a nickname for you to refer by other than, well, your name.

Names felt too personal; like a thin thread no one is exactly allowed to cross unless permitted, you had told yourself you’d scowl at any stranger who dared to utter your name in greeting, it’s only ever reserved for the special people. And during that time, your special people had died in a battle you fought, the vision of their decapitated limbs still fresh in your mind as you felt yourself zone out. 

“—Sweets.” 

The debate halted, and every head in the room simultaneously turned to him who stood by the kitchen countertop, stirring his tea away in silence. His suggestion was a shock to you, especially since he didn’t talk much—not to you, anyway. Your eyes widened in surprise, lips slightly parted as you were about to ask a question hung in the air.

“Why?” Gaz had beaten you to it. His voice rings out in the quiet atmosphere the room fell into; his head tilted as you all stared at the back of his mask intently.

“She likes sweets,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. He continues to stir away with a little teaspoon, his eyes drifting to your dumbfounded face and lingered. 

“Caught her red handed with her trousers down and hands in the snack cabinet,” he shrugged. 

Your mouth hung wide open, not wanting to believe what had just occurred. Your face felt heated, embarrassed at being exposed to so many people you’ve not grown familiar with—naked and humiliated.

“You!” 

You shot up from the stool, internally cringing at the loud scratchy noise of the legs against the beaten hardwood floor. 

“You’ve no right to call me out, hypocrite.” 

“Oh?” 

He turned around, fingers still clutching at the hem of the teaspoon, his exhausted eyes held your stare. 

“That’s right, it has been you who was eating away all my snacks! My sweets!” 

His gaze remained nonchalant, yet you could spot the hint of mischief behind those stares—he shrugged.

“Not my fault we’ve got a rat runnin’ ‘round, no?” 

The audacity—

— “Watch your back, Ghost.” With a final scoff, you stomped away from the kitchen and back into your dorm. His stare still fresh on the back of your head as you burrowed yourself into your pillow and groaned. 

Oh yeah.

You and Simon hadn’t started off smooth and easy. 

“Kate,” you whisper into your phone, fingers gripping the sides of your phone with much intensity. “I missed you.”

“You—“

Knowing her for years, you could see the way she’s desperately trying to maintain her demeanor, to not completely go batshit and lash out on you; even though you did deserve it. Instead, you hear her take a few deep breaths over the phone, a soft incoherent murmur and a couple of shuffling on her side before she speaks again.

“I don’t even know what to do with you right now, you know that?” She chuckles, but it doesn’t hold the lightheartedness it should’ve, it sounds bitter, angry. 

“I know…” you take a moment to yourself and sighed. “I’m sorry for walking out on you.”

“Walking out isn’t even the right term,” she grunts. “You were supposed to be dead!” 

“Yeah I’m—I’m aware.” 

“…and?”

“…and I’m sincerely sorry, from the bottom of my heart,” it’s true; you have always carried the heavy guilt of leaving your teammates behind throughout all your years. 

“I just—“ 

“Before you say anything else, answer me this—“ she halts, and if you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve missed the way her voice falters slightly.

“Are you going to walk out on us again?”

Huh.

Out of all the questions she could’ve asked, you’re rather surprised by the one she does ask. It makes you stop and think over your next words.

“Not doing that again,” with a deep breath, you nod to yourself. 

Never again.

Both of you spend the next half an hour catching up; or trying your best to—because after you were gone, a lot had happened between the 141.

World-ending missions, political conflicts (so much of it), an upgraded headquarters, and Kate being promoted—all of them did, actually. 

It makes sense; you were there for the beginning of it all, when the three of you sat around a table and Price put a name on the task force he created, nurtured. He did a damn great job, too. You’re relieved to find out that everyone you know is still alive and well; saved for a couple of more emotional and physical trauma added on. But who’s still counting anyway? 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you hold back the urge to ask how he has been doing; is he well? Has he been on his usual shenanigans when you’ve been gone? Does he think about you the way you do with him? 

…has he found someone new?

You don’t ask, because you’re afraid the answer might cave your heart in, and you’ve had too much of that. 

“Let me get this straight,” Kate sighed. “You want me to fly you out to Urzikstan?”  

With a hand on your hip, you pace around the cold concrete floor of your bunker. 

“Yes.”

“And may I ask for the reason?” 

“You must know, Kate, it’s quite obvious—“

“—Don’t fucking tell me—“

“I’m going to murder Viktor.” 

There it is again. The familiar silence that only festers deep within the tiny confinement of your room, nestling into the cracks of the wall and the dent in your heart. 

“I can’t let you do that, Sweets.”

“Yes you can, I know you can.” You’re growing frustrated; not particularly at Kate, but the convoluted situation at hand. It’d be so easy: drop you in Urzikstan where the Al-Qatalas reside, then slaughter your way to Viktor, before he joins the rest of his dead comrades as well.

In fact, you’re sure you’ve done something similar before; with the Russians especially.

“You can’t force my hands here, I’m tied. Sweets.” She hesitates. “Plus, Shepherd will kill me if he finds out.”

“What if he doesn’t?” You press on. “Send me along with one of your guys to be deployed there, we’ll come up with a plan, and I’ll be under a new name—new disguise.” 

“It’s not that easy, stop making it sound like we're planning a shopping trip,” Kate grunts on the other end. “This will cause an outright war, a massive conflict.” 

“I fail to see the issue here.”

“The issue is—hold on,” Kate’s voice grows faint, and from what you can hear, someone has knocked on her door. 

The next few minutes consist of a bunch of mumbo-jumbo of words you couldn’t decipher, only movements on the other line and some deep grunts, possibly from the man speaking to her. 

“—we found him—KorTac—infiltrate…König—” 

KorTac? The KorTac? 

The task force had mingled with the private company, sure, but they’ve always been off-limits when it came to being directly involved with missions, mostly providing much needed intel but never their operators; have they switched up their agenda?

Rubbing the knitted tension in your temple, you exhale in annoyance, confused and curious—If KorTac is involved with the task force then, how come they haven’t tried to search for you all these years? Admittedly, it makes you bitter, the grip on your heart only grows tighter and your breathing gets quicker. 

They’ve given up on you so easily.

As the soft murmurs of a chatter on the line continues, your eyes flicker over to a framed photograph sitting atop a couple stacked books: in the picture was the entire 141, grouped together for a quick cheeky selfie Soap took during a downtime in a mission. All your smiles reached your eyes, except for Simon who never has his mask off—he’s the odd one out, always has been.

You know his face though; he’s shown you himself, when he’s the most vulnerable—and honestly, it made him even more desirable: to see a side of him most will never have the pleasure of knowing, the way he’d hold you against his chest in bed, when he’d silently sob into your shoulder during tough times. 

To the world, he was Ghost. But to you, he was Simon Riley himself.

You missed him. You still do.

But you can’t help shudder at the thought of meeting him again; Simon was never a man of casualness, he doesn’t crack jokes with strangers and show how broken of a man he actually is—to everyone else, he’s a human killing machine, a renowned executioner with the guns he’d carry. Everyone would cower at his presence, turn away at the sight of him, anything to not get in his radar; anything to avoid him altogether.

It’s understandable, he’s always had an intimidating aura and a tough shell to crack. Unless you were in the 141, you’d never know that he secretly enjoys Cradburry bars and black tea in his free time, maybe even plays a game of poker or two and religiously sharpens his pocket knives.

Under that tough shell, is a man with an empty void in his heart desperately needed to be tended to; and you filled in that slot easily. 

Oftentimes you’d sleep to the ghost of his warm embrace behind you, that’s how you fight insomnia; the thought of his arms circling your midsection the way it always did, like the perfect puzzle piece to an empty socket. 

You dream of him, too. 

Nightmares would cloud your sleep; of when you’d both meet again, except he’d turn away upon seeing you and scoff. ‘This is what you get for leaving me, for leaving us.’ he’d say in those sequences, unknowingly shattering your already fragile heart to tiny pieces. 

A few times, you’d dream the better of him: both of you meeting under a better circumstance, rekindling an old bond that was once lost and found again, he’d hold your hand in his as you both walk toward sunset. 

You’d always wake up crying after, the thought of a timeline where you both existed in peace and love was too much to bear. 

Because you know it’ll never be true.

Especially not when you both fought tooth and nail everyday to stay alive; your yourselves, for the team. It’d be a miracle if you had a proper room for a breather. 

At least you had him to run to for comfort; just as he does with you. 

“Thank you—“ The muffled sound of doors closing pulls you back from your daydreaming. “Sorry, you're still there, Sweets?” Kate’s voice rings out with a hint of concern; in case you run out on her when she’s distracted.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m here.” 

Kate sighs in relief.

“I think I can do something for you.”

Your ears instantly perk up at her words, listening intently as your head tilts closer to the phone. 

“But first, we’ll need to get you here in the States, sounds cool?” 

“Fuck yes.” 

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

“Fuck no.” 

Kate stares at you, dumbfounded and honestly, a tad bit offended. 

“You need this if you want to do what you wanna do.”

“And die by the hands of the Russians? Not again.” You cross your arms, eyes narrowing down at the file in front of you. 

Kate’s eyebrows furrow, she’s clearly frustrated as well—you’ve been stubborn ever since you landed at the base in the United States, after a quick briefing of a mission taking place in Russia in a secret meeting room with Kate, you quickly suppressed the urge of participating. 

“It’s not worth it, those bastards are ruthless.” You grumble under your breath; maybe it was a bad idea after all, you wouldn’t be able to live if you encounter Barkov’s men again. 

They’d put a bullet through your head on sight.

“You won’t be going alone,” she shuffles through a couple of pages on the file and picks out a sheet from in-between, sliding the piece of paper across the table to where you sit. 

“He’ll accompany you.” 

Scanning the piece of information, you quickly come to a realization that he’s a KorTac contractor. His details sprawl out on the sheet as you slowly drink them in; König—you recall the name from the phone call with Kate, you hadn’t expected he would adorn a veil with two holes for his eyes to peer through…it looked a little silly, but you wouldn’t say that to his face. Because if you thread wrongly, he could snap you with his fingers just as easily; he’s built like a mountain, probably throws a punch that lands like one, too.

“I see that look, and I get it,” Kate rubs the back of her neck. “But he’s harmless—if you’re an ally.” 

You nod, “Alright. When and where do we start?” 

Kate’s fingers press a couple of buttons on the remote she holds before the projector screen behind her flashes a new image; the picture of a map pops, Kate grabs a red pen and circles the area up north of the map.

“We’ll send you both here to infiltrate early, before the other task force arrives to help.” She pauses in her movement, gently putting the pen down to pick up the remote again as a new image flashes through: a clear portrait of Roman Barkov.

The man who almost led you to your death.

“We need him alive, so don’t try anything funny,” you feign offense as you gasp and hold a hand over where your beating heart stands. 

“I would never.” 

Her eyes flicker towards you, a ‘Uh huh, sure’ look plaster on her nonchalant features. “We’ll get started this Friday, I’ve already assigned you a dorm—don’t worry, no one else knows you’re here.” 

She slides another file across the table to you, you stop its momentum with your fingers, eyes glossing over the exposed file. 

“Huh, this copy looks legit.” You pick up the file and stare at the words: on it, is a portrait of a supposed mercenary. Despite all the illegitimate information on it, the copy seems professional, she even laminated the paper, for some reason. “This is me?” 

Kate nods, “It’s you, but obviously not you, you. It’s just a fake to get by, otherwise people would start questioning, and we’d have a lot more on our plate.” 

She wouldn’t be wrong; your sudden appearance would shake the unit up—you’re sure Shepherd would be on your tail right away, which would be the last thing you’d want as of now. 

At the same time, you’re not sure if you’re ready to come back to 141; if you’re still welcomed by your peers, that is. 

“We’ll get you set up, I know you brought your own weaponry, but a tad bit more cover up would set you straight—God, I’m gonna need to do so much paperwork for this.” 

You let out a soft chuckle—you’ve truly missed the lighthearted conversations with the people you love; sharing giggles over a couple of easygoing banter, engulfed in the warmth of a found family. You had thrown it all away when you made the ultimate decision to up and leave; sometimes, as you lay on your rock-hard mattress at night, you wonder how life would’ve continued had you chosen to turn back around. It’s…slightly too late to discuss such matters anymore, not when lives are at stake, your life is at stake.

The only way to bypass tyranny and continue your mundane life was to assassinate Viktor; but you’d need Barkov and his men dead before proceeding with that idea.

Which, as you tilt your head to the side, watching Kate shuffle through several screens on the projector and giving you an in-depth briefing; makes you wonder—

—why does Shepherd want him alive?

“You mentioned calling in a task force to help, who are they?” You yawn, the jet lag from before slowly catching up to you, rubbing your eyes in a sheepish manner. 

“Who else?” A smirk finds its way to the corner of Kate’s lips, and as you ponder over her words, the dread of your realization dawns on you.

“They—I can’t, Kate. Anyone but them.” 

Her brows knits together, her annoyance showing through despite her best effort. 

“Yes, yes you can.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Kate looks up at you, her worried eyes searching for yours that screams terror back at her; you’re terrified. Terrified of the idea of meeting them so soon, everything still feels so raw, so fresh. It hasn’t even been a full day since you stepped foot in America, having to approach a bunch of old friends who thought you’d been dead for the past few years would reopen an old wound, one that you’d been trying your best to nurture—the more you try, the worse you fail.

How would you be able to see Price, Johnny, and Kyle in the face? Laugh with them the same again?

How would you be able to stand in front of Simon, a man who experienced nothing but loss throughout his entire life, and tell him that you are truly sorry for everything you’ve done? What you did to him. 

It hurts to dwell on the thought that things wouldn’t be the same anymore, not after everything. Not after the stunt you pulled.

“It’ll be hard, Sweets, but you can’t keep running away from things.”

For a flash of a second, you see red. 

Anger silently brewing at the pit of your gut, your hand tightens into a fist, and a cold sweat breaks out on your skin. You want to correct her; that no, I didn’t run away—you guys gave up on me long ago. 

Sure, you’d made the decision to leave—but it didn’t count for the sleepless nights you spent inside the cold compound of Barkov’s ground, hiding from his men, surviving only because by sheer luck you had kept yourself safe in an abandoned storage room. Weeks would go by yet as you toyed with the stolen radio and matched its frequency to 141’s, only silence greeted you, even as you begged and cried—for anyone to pick you up, for someone.  

No one else was there for you when you’d puncture your deep gash with staples and rubbing alcohol being the only thing you managed to scavenge, something to keep you alive a little longer; something to keep their hopes up, that one day, they might just come and get you. 

But they never did.

So you left. You left with the loot you found angrily stashed away into a worn duffel bag, you left with the unforgiving winter air biting into the skin of your soles and nearly freezing your blood, numbing your every move as you trek through mountains of snow. You stayed inside a small hut for a safehouse, having gotten sick from hours of traveling through the harsh winter, with only a barely functioning fireplace to aid you in your worst moment.

They gave up on you, so you left.

“Thank you for today, but I’ll be heading to bed now.”

Without another word, you stand up from your seat, the chair rolls away as you continue to stalk toward the door. 

Kate stares at you, her gaze full of concern; she’d never seen you lash out or lose your temper, yet she’d be a fool to provoke you. So she lets you leave the room without another question, without chasing you down as much as she wants to. 

“And another thing, Kate,” you pause, hand clutching at the handle of the steel door as you throw your head over your shoulder, your gaze lingering on the floor. 

“I never run from things.”

And you’d be damned if the one time you were forced to leave would be the cement of your legacy.

The hinges creak, your figure disappears behind the door.

You sigh, clenching and unclenching your fists at your sides, you walk down the foreign hallway with nothing but the fluorescent lights above you guiding your path. Your head stays drooped, not wanting to meet the eyes of anyone else who might pass you by. Just as you stuff your hands into your pockets, another figure emerges from the corner in front of you, their shadow gradually approaching your way as you keep your head low.

Too low, in fact, because you accidentally bump your shoulder into theirs; your eyes lift up, but when you’re met with a glimpse of their mask, you quickly dip your head back down; with a  mumble of an apology, you pick up your pace and practically jog away from the scene.

It took you extra minutes when you made your way to your room—the hallways have totally changed, and it was the uncanny valley of ‘I’ve been here, but where is this?’ feeling that settles at the pool of your stomach and rests at the back of your head–-nearly bumping into walls several times before reaching your dorm.

The keys jingle in your palm; out of nowhere, the hair on the back of your neck stands to alert.

Someone is watching you.

But as you turn to survey your surroundings, you couldn’t spot a shadow that would confirm your suspicion. Groaning, your fingers twirl around the metal before settling on the one with  a number 309 written on it; with the sound of a click, you enter your room.

It might’ve just been the fear that always followed you—the curse of being incredibly alert and anxious even during times when you were safe. You shake off the uneasy feeling.

The room was standard; a sink with cabinets sat to your right, and down the narrow entry to your bed is the door to the on-suite bathroom to your left. You’re grateful Kate didn’t assign you to a dorm that shares a communal bathroom—you’d make do without the kitchen, but having to share a shower with another stranger would tip you over the edge. 

Everything is fast-paced after the quick tour; immediately taking off your shoes and locking your door, you beelined for the bed. The nook of your chin hits the heavenly soft mattress that molds around your body, like how laying on thousands of marshmallows would feel—you exhale into the bedding, feeling tears prickle at the edge of your eye.

When was the last time you had a proper night’s sleep in a comfortable bed?

You could barely remember anymore. 

And as the exhaustion creeps up on you; the warm, familiar memory of you and your teammates sitting around a kitchen bar and having the time of your life crawls into your headspace.

Sleep finds you easy, and for the first time in forever, you sleep soundly.

[tragcdysewn]

hello it's so late because fuck you tumblr but i got it out! if you want to plot, react to this and i'll message you to plot and split up starters!

abigail bishop: abi might be found wandering the edges of the market. she loved the holidays pre turning off her emotions, but she doesn't really care much about them now for obvious reasons. she's not looking to cause problems, but she doesn't really think it'll be anything enjoyable either

ahsoka tano: she is honestly probably making sure no one in her family kills anyone, going to be so real. she likes the holidays and absolutely needs to get gifts sorted for people, but her priority is absolutely making sure this doesn't turn into a ho ho homicide

alice tonner: daisy's two friends both are unavailable right now, and she's not a big warm and fuzzy christmas person anyways. she'll probably be drinking and avoiding the entire thing

allana solo: this is either going to be a really fun date with her girlfriend or an attempt to drag their girlfriend out of her depression cave, but allana will be having a good time either way. any excuse to decorate and buy dumb shit for their friends and family, honestly

ariana dupont: she's got the kids and whatever family members she can get doing the whole vibe. decorating ornaments, ice skating, girl is doing literally everything available and loving it

asmodeus: he's dressing as sexy santa and acting as his boyfriend's personal wallet. that’s all i got. he's very sociable though just approach him for whatever

athenodora volturi: the woman has been out of her tower for a month and you think she's going to a city wide block party? no. be so fucking for real

baxian argos: working security for the event and using breaks to shop for his friends. can you buy a novelty sized bottle of booze here bc that's most of what he's getting for them all

bela dimitrescu: it’s fucking cold she’s not going and nothing will change that

bryce quinlan: she's a sexy elf for sexy santa, because why not, right? definitely here to have a good time, can be found in the ice bar and skating when not being a ridiculous accompaniment to sexy santa

cassie lang: she's probably going with lott which... Yikes, honestly. but she'll probs have a good time even if everyone else observing is suffering. she loves the holidays and will try to get everyone around her to do the same

davina claire: talked her husband into sexy santa while she is running an art booth with a space heater. she won that argument

dewey riley: dewey is alone and depressed this holiday season, expect a bender in his apartment the man is not socializing at all

eleni vanserra: honestly gets a kick out of any season that isn't autumn, but people getting so excited for winter in particular is very charming to her. she'll be happy to try anything you might need a partner for

elphaba thropp: glinda will probably have dragged her to this, and she is reluctantly participating because she knows she can't leave until glinda's done shopping. she will probably complain about it though

eveline: evie is actually really into the holidays? good fake memories and would like there to be good real ones now too. she's never entirely sure how to behave like a person in a big group setting, but she is really going to try super hard

feng xin: he's absolutely dragging his friends to have fun, and probably at least attempting to help xie lian out with his actual booth. but his real priority is making sure his idiots stay sober this year

feyre archeron: eagerly participating in all the kid friendly stuff, and also managing an ornament decorating booth on the side. she's working it a bit, but not nearly as much time as she's spending with the kids

hannibal lecter: i mean... no. he doesn't participate in things like this. will probably throw a very fancy holiday dinner party though. eat at your own risk, none of the food is vegetarian

hazel levesque: she genuinely loves holiday activities now that she has family she can be close to. they will be dragging her brother and friends to every single thing they can think of, so i hope you're all good with that if you hang out with them

he chunyu: i guess she's spending time with fucking ming yi? but honestly the girl gets a kick out of how pretty everything is, even if (in her mind) she doesn't have any family or many friends to enjoy it with

howl jenkins pendragon: dad jokes and buying her kid a disgusting amount of sugar and silly little trinkets that he doesn't need. don't leave dad unsupervised next time, sophie.

james witherdale: he will be going to look for dinner, that's about it. maybe buy a few things for victoria, addie and laurent, but he's not sticking around long

jun wu: another one who does not do things like this, but will probably be dragged into it by nianqing so that the dude doesn't have to spend his own money. he is not happy to be there, and he will not pretend otherwise

kore sekkari: she'll hang out and observe, but it's doubtful she'll participate too much except to antagonize ceres and kaya a little bit. this lovey dovey holiday thing is not her favorite thing to dp

korra: would love to be a sexy santa, but is a woman and therefore cannot. the injustice is real. but they will have a lot of curiosity about the booths and games and all that, catch her poking around everything she can

kriya dura: honestly, she's really trying to have a wholesome family holiday with kaya and brinna, but we’ll see how that goes with her daddy issues going strong. please help her sort through gift ideas because she is so bad at it

lan wangji: he's very neutral on the holidays, but people who are close to him care about them quite a lot, so he'll get some gifts and try to enjoy himself as much as he can

liu mingyan: she's running a booth selling self written horny holiday books. if anyone asks, she is volunteering for some extra cash, and never met the author. but she will absolutely also wander around trying some new food and games

lucifer morningstar: he's seen every christmas since the dawn of time, so he’s kinda bored. but charlie is hype so he'll go all out in support of his daughter's enthusiasm. please help him get something for his kid i beg of you

lute: hates the holidays and has no one she'd want to celebrate with anyways. she will be ignoring that it's even happening

lyra ayala: lyra can one hundred percent be found performing christmas carols and taking requests near the edge of the market. she's not officially part of it, but close enough that she can get a good crowd

lysandra ennar: she will be spoiling their new niece rotten for her first christmas. lys loves shopping and any kind of celebration, and is very excited to explore everything they possibly can

manon blackbeak: nope. not a chance is she celebrating some silly mortal holiday about a big red man with reindeer. she'll go to some kind of dinner or party if her group throws any, but she's not going out of her way

melinoë: she's definitely curious about mortal holidays, and excited to experience anything new on the surface, but she's also absolutely lost. please offer her some assistance the girl is stupid

mj jones: she’s somewhat neutral on it, but she’ll go if she’s dragged tbh. it’s one of those things she’s sure peter would enjoy and knowing he’s not really here right now and they were fighting before it is a bummer

mo ran: he's kind of excited to try more new recipes that he can attempt himself for the restaurant or for chu wanning. otherwise, he's browsing for gifts vaguely

mobei-jun: another one here as a wallet for his weird little boyfriend. but also he fucking loves the winter, and will take any celebration that isn't taking place while it's hot as fuck

monkey d. luffy: newly aware, luffy is having a great fucking time. the man loves any kind of celebration, but especially one he can forcefully drag his little found family into participating in with him

nangong jingnu: she genuinely loves any kind of outdoor festival, and will be trying whatever is available, as well as chatting with any strangers who seem amicable

nie mingjue: honestly is just here to make sure kirei doesn't get herself in any real trouble, what else is he going to do?

nyssa solo: she has no idea what’s going on but is probably involved for the sake of her cover with her family. she's not having fun. not at all. don't say stupid shit

patroclus: probably was dragged by his friends, but doesn’t hate it nearly as much as he pretends to.

qi rong: this man only has any holiday decor because his son wants it around, he will probably make fun of the adults genuinely really enjoying it if he goes at all

renesmee cullen: she's probably having more drinks than she should, but will be having fun about it. will absolutely drag strangers into a snowball fight. it's not powers if you're just naturally faster and stronger, right?

rhiannon matthias: she doesn’t really care about the holidays, but is going hard as hell to keep violet distracted from her bullshit. catch her in a santa hat singing christmas carols

ryden samos: he is kinda lost about all this, because he’s never really celebrated anything like this, but he can enjoy the vibes of it anyways. please explain to him any of this he's so lost

sasha james: it was not her first choice to go to this, she’s definitely unsure about anything put on by this city, but it’s a distraction from The Horrors living at her job

shadowheart: this holiday is not shar approved, so she will be avoiding it like the plague. catch her recruiting people to her cult devoted to the lady of loss and sorrows

sheev palpatine: the vp has no reason to be there, and it's not like his brother would drag him, considering han doesn't care either, so he's not going

shen qingqiu: he has to actually buy things for his friends instead of just giving them cash like he did as shen yuan, please help him the man is terrible at gift giving

shi wudu: he truly doesn't care, but he'll go for qingxuan's sake. doing things that seem stupid to him is part of his attempts at trying to be a decent sibling

thanatos: they don't put a lot of effort into mortal holidays, but they can't help but be charmed by the ones that are so centered on showing your loved ones they're loved. they're also incredibly curious, and have to check it out a little bit

wen qing: surprise, festivals are fun when your creep uncle isn't overseeing them and watching your every move. she's honestly really enjoying this one, and they'll be doing a ton of shopping for friends and family

xaden riorson: he promised his foster dad he'd come home for christmas, so he has to get gifts. he's not thrilled about it, but he's gonna make it work

xiao lanhua: she loves this, and will be dragging strangers into hanging out with them as much as possible in between working sophie's stall. will probably drink a little too much

xiao qing: will try to rob people, but is also working a few stands for legitimate money so dad doesn't give them the disappointed voice

ziva desilijic tiure: not going, be so for real. she's celebrating with an expensive dinner and a glass of wine

[auugustus]

our time here is precious (don’t you ever forget that).

Lilia Vanrouge is your first love.

and he’s also your first love (second love).

and your first (third).

and once again, you’re first (fifteenth). 

He’s your first love and he’ll always be your first true love. Someone who’s not some small hallway crush where attraction bloomed at first glance. No, he’s your first love and he’s also every other lover you’ve ever had. 

But you don’t know that. 

And at this rate, he doesn’t think you ever will. Lilia doesn’t think you should have to know. You are too far gone and yet, too close. You’re just a breath away before he sees the real picture and realizes you were never there in the first place. Sometimes he thinks he might be stuck in some nightmare, other times, he might’ve convinced himself that he was delusional.

Lilia remembers every single time very vividly. He remembers the fall and he remembers each and every landing. Maybe there isn't even a landing, where he hits rock bottom after falling for so long.

Maybe there's just a cold, cold period where he has to suffer alone coping with the loss of someone he's lost too many times before.

You’re gone, gone, gone. 

But you’re still here.

He doesn’t know if this is a blessing or a curse. He thinks it might be both.

Historians will say that the phantom commander, Lilia Vanrouge— one of the most prominent figures in the history of the Briar Valley— had many lovers. 

But to Lilia, there had only ever been one. One lover over the course of countless years. Too much time has passed, he’d think. Too much has been taken as your minute together are stripped away.  

You come and go like the many things in life— like the winds on a sunny day that carries the breeze into a winter storm. He doesn’t know what hurts more: when you arrive or when you leave.

Before, Lilia used to think that he’d be content watching you from afar. Over time, he realized that it hurt more playing a bystander. He thinks it might’ve hurt you more than it could’ve ever hurt him.

If there were ever such a concept in the likeness of the red threads of fate in this reality, he knows for sure that your strings would forever be intertwined. 

Maybe then he could cut those damned strings and end whatever farce this is. But deep down he knows he never could. 

When you’re gone, he thinks he might finally be over it. That he could move on, but each and every time, he’s proven wrong. 

He loves you too much no matter what appearance you take on or whoever you may be in your next life. 

Lilia knows now that the strings may be twisted and knotted over and over again, but they will never break. He’s stuck and he’s hopelessly in love and he’ll doesn’t know which heartbreak will hurt him the most. Because it will.

He knows it in the way that the fairies whisper with their bell-like voices that one more heartbreak might be the last before he snaps. He knows it in the way that everyone in the castle thinks he won’t be able to handle another one. That he’ll be ruined by the time the next one arrives. 

He knows it’s true. He knows it best because after all, he knows you best. 

When the next summer comes to a close and autumn arrives, he prepares to return to Night Raven Academy for yet another school year. It’d been a good number of years since he’d seen you last. Lilia had been busy with taking care of Silver and Malleus that he’d managed to convince himself that he could forget you.

Which is why he knew that this time would truly be his last the second he saw your face in front of the Dark Mirror. 

He thinks that the entire universe might revolve around you if he can see it in your eyes. He knows that this will be yet another tragedy that the poets will write into their books.

Perhaps it could finally be his last. 

Those historians might say that you were just another love, perhaps an unlucky number that led to a tragedy far greater than the last. But the poets know that you were something far greater. 

They’ll write poems and tragedies about us for centuries, my dear.

04/19/2022

hi hi its me again !! bringing you yet another serving of some lilia angst!! this is the first part of a three-shot(maybe?) thing i’m going to write!! when i finish writing the entire thing, i’ll post it on ao3 (i’ll link it to my masterlist eventually,,,)

as always, my asks are open if anyone wants to ask or say anything !!

ALSO if you havent already, please check out the first chapter of the fic i’ve been working on !

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 20, Story #2 is by @floreatcastellumposts

Title: Dittany Author/Artist: FloreatCastellum Pairing: Neville/Hannah Prompt: Bravery Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Discussion of maternal death, mentions of violence. 

Hannah's mother had been a muggleborn, and that had been her death sentence. 

Or rather, she had been a muggleborn with the audacity and bravery to be proud about it. 

Most muggleborns ended up slipping entirely into wizarding society, and as much as they might say that they would keep in touch with their roots, the magic took over. Jeans became robes, electronics didn’t work in their homes so their pop culture references grew stale, the effort involved in keeping the statute of secrecy for extended family and old friends was too exhausting to sustain, so they saw them less and less and eventually… 

This had not happened for Mum, even though the Abbotts were a very old family, well rooted in the magical community. She had agreed with Dad to live in Godric’s Hollow, because the Abbotts had lived there for many generations, but she had insisted on Hannah attending the local primary school, where she could make muggle friends. She was adamant that they make regular trips to Liverpool, to visit her side of the family, who believed that she worked in HR (which she did, but for a potion manufacturer, not for a haulage company as they believed) and that Hannah had received a scholarship to an exclusive boarding school, and that Dad owned a pub (which he did, but they neglected to mention that it was frequented by witches, wizards, goblins, the occasional hag and a half giant). And when the Stephens side of the family came to visit, they would have a flurry of activity where they would hide away anything magical-looking, and from the loft they would bring down the big television, and they would speed read some muggle newspapers so they could give their opinions on Tony Blair or Men Behaving Badly or Charles and Diana’s divorce or whatever else they thought might come up.  

That was life as Hannah knew it, and it never felt complicated or brave or shocking or daring or any of the things she later found out it was. 

She remembered certain details from the day very clearly. She’d been easing sneezewort plants out of their pots, the last repotting before winter, her fingers shaking at the long, pale roots, creating a rain of soil. The last of the cream coloured petals, curled and brown at the edges, fell onto the potting bench. There was a sudden shock of cold air, a breeze from the door opening that hit their faces and whipped through their hair.  

‘Professor Dumbledore’s here,’ said Susan with surprise, and Hannah had glanced up to see him closing the door to the humid greenhouse, his long white beard tucked into his belt, Professor Sprout hurrying over to him. 

Hannah looked back down at her plant. The roots were all tangled together. Professor Dumbledore was probably here for Harry Potter, there were all sorts of rumours flying around about secret meetings between the two of them. 

The plant needed a much bigger pot, but the roots were strong, there was no rot there. 

‘Hannah.’ 

There was no hiding the bewilderment on her face. She had never had a direct conversation with the Headmaster before, and here he was, speaking kindly, gently, softly, one hand touching her shoulder and the other, black looking, gesturing to the door. 

‘I need to-’ she started saying, as he led her out. Everyone was staring. 

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Professor Sprout, and her voice sounded so strange, ‘I’ll finish up here for you.’ 

Perhaps part of her had known then. She knew it was something terrible. She was too afraid to ask. No one was ever pulled out of class for a good reason. She walked up to the castle alongside him as though in a dream, her heart beating up through her throat and into her mouth.

She was not sure how it happened, but suddenly she was in the warmth of his office, staring at Professor Dumbledore’s grave face, his lips moving, without really hearing, except for that first, terrible, world destroying little phrase. 

‘I’m so very sorry to tell you that your mother has been found dead.’ 

There would be no worse event, no greater loss, no stronger pain in her entire life. 

There was still dirt under her nails and in the creases of her palms, she noticed, as she reached into the silver box of floo powder. 

It had been so long since she had seen Godric’s Hollow like this, golden and red in its autumn. Fallen leaves tumbled and floated down the river that rushed through the village, or collected in the gutters along the cobbled roads, damp and heavy. The sun stayed a little lower each day, casting long shadows across the beer garden of The Lost Owl, and the wind ruffled the sign on the door which read ‘Closed due to family bereavement.’ 

During the days, she wondered what to do with herself, stuck between boredom and terrible, overwhelming grief. When she could cry no more, she wondered if there was something wrong with her for wanting to find something interesting or fun to do, but when she tried to read, she could not focus. When she tried to listen to the radio, she would fall asleep. She could not bring herself to ask her weeping father to play cards or chess or anything with her. She thought of going back into school, but how could she see other people? Now that the world had ended? She wanted to tell people about it, wanted to say the words enough until they made sense to her, or until someone found the right words to say back that would make it OK, but she did not want to do this to her friends. 

At nights, she would cry herself to sleep, and her whispers, please come back please Mummy please come back, would grow and grow and grow into sobs, begging into her pillow as the agony of it tore at her, the desperation, the feverish thought that there had to be something, that this couldn’t be it, there had to be a way, a special way, just for them, just for her, because it was her mother and there was no way she could live without her. Mum wouldn’t leave her like this, there was no way Mum would allow it, she would go to the ends of the earth to make sure that Hannah was happy, she had always said so, she had always promised… 

But Death was something parents could not protect their children from, it seemed. The more Hannah thought on it, the more she became crushingly devastated, horrified to realise that each and every human on Earth had to endure this at some point. In different ways, at different times, with different feelings, but the mere act of bringing a child into the world was to condemn that child, one day, to the unbearable pain of loss. Every person she passed, she wondered, have you suffered as I have? Or is it yet to come for you? She wished she could spare them from it.

The aurors said she was probably targeted because she loudly and openly discussed her muggle heritage in the pub, and it must have been heard by the wrong people. That was what passed for bravery these days. 

In the church of St Jerome, the stained glass window pattered with rain, and Hannah looked up at the colours of red and yellow and green rather than looking at the coffin with the splay of lilies, and she wondered when this nightmare would end, when Mum would come back, and tell her that everything would be all right. 

***

Months passed in unbearable agony, worse than she could have imagined. But there were glimmers of light there too. 

Here, at the school she thought she would never return to, in the place that was filled with unimaginable horror and oppression, she had purpose again. More purpose, in fact, than she had ever had in her life. And with it, new friendships that ran deeper than she had ever expected. 

‘This way,’ Neville whispered, and they ran low across the lawn of the grounds. Some of the windows in the castle behind them blazed with light, so that she thought for a terrible moment that they must be visible from the Great Hall, but, of course, the windows would be black with night to anyone who looked out from them. 

It was the summer term now, but the air was still cold as they panted, as though Dementors were close, which, she reasoned, they might be. She could feel the dew of the grass, left to grow long since Hagrid had left, soaking the bottoms of her jeans, seeping through her ratty trainers. 

Following the dark shadow of Neville’s figure, she ran through the grounds until she heard the crunch of gravel underfoot, and, ahead, the slight shine of starlight reflecting off the greenhouses. 

‘They’re in greenhouse three,’ Neville muttered, and her stomach dropped. 

He did not notice, and continued to hurry along the garden path, past the raised beds for the hardier plants and herbs, and she followed, but at a walk now, dread gnawing at her. 

He stopped at the door, holding his hands up to the glass to peer in. ‘OK…’ he said, still breathless from the run. ‘OK, looks clear… Now, while I talk to the venomous tentacula, you grab a tray, and fill it with perlite and only a few handfuls of compost, it’s a mountain plant so it likes it nice and rocky.’ 

‘OK,’ she said, and though she thought she sounded normal, he turned to her. She could barely make out his expression in the darkness. 

‘Are you all right?’ 

‘I… I’m sorry, I just… I haven’t been in the greenhouses for a long time… especially not this one. I should have thought before I volunteered, I'm sorry.’ 

She felt immediately embarrassed for blurting it out, and she had no idea if Neville would even grasp what she was getting at. He had been in the class, yes, but did he even remember that day? What had been the worst day of her life had been a perfectly ordinary school day for the rest of her classmates, and so many terrible things had happened since then. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t leave you out here.’ 

She thought he was telling her off, or saying that they had to go back, but before she had the time to feel hurt or ashamed, he was holding out his hand towards her. 

She swallowed, and then placed her trembling hand in his. She was not unaccustomed to physical touch with him, or many others. Over the past year, she had tended wounds and comforted people as they cried, she had grasped hands and arms and knees under desks to soothe people or tell them to control themselves, she had passed secret notes and morsels of food and whatever else needed smuggling, slipping it nimbly from her fingers into their palms as they passed in the corridors.  

But now his fingers pressed firm and reassuring against hers, and there was something very different about them holding hands. 

She let him lead her into the greenhouse; the humid, warm air surrounded them at once, like an odd sort of hug that sat heavy on their lungs. Tall, leafy plants towered above them, brushing the domed glass high above their heads, which magically reflected the brilliant stars above them and lit the place in glorious silver. 

Now that she was in here, she felt a little better. The dread that had stopped her ever returning here, that had caused her to drop herbology and pretend that this part of the castle no longer existed, had not come to pass. It was, after all, simply a greenhouse, and Mum could not die again. 

‘Are you all right?’ he said gently. 

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Thank you.’ 

He nodded, and reached for some gloves on a nearby bench. She missed his hand around hers. ‘Let’s move quickly, and get you out of here,’ he said, donning some goggles and a thick leather apron.  

She went to the potting tables where Professor Sprout always stood, and seized a large seedling tray. As she took handfuls of compost and perlite, she could see Neville wrestling with the venomous tentacular, saying, ‘I’ll bring you doxy granules tomorrow - I’ll move you to a sunnier spot - I already checked with Professor Sprout - come on, you knew this was part of the deal, we agreed-’

Eventually, when he had tied enough of the writhing vines together with garden twine and stroked the shoots into calmness, he gave a nod to Hannah, and started to remove his protective gear as she hurried over and they squeezed behind the plant

There, on a table surrounded by blue lanterns to make up for the blocked light caused by the tentacula, were long, deep pots, stuffed with dittany. Their slender, arching stems were clustered with pleasant green leaves, with a dusty sort of whiteness, and they were dotted with pink flowers. She had never seen the plant as it was before; she had only ever remembered the little vials of dittany kept in their first aid kit, good for scraped knees and cuts from any broken glass in the pub. Mum had always said it was good to be prepared in an emergency, it had been one of her funny little things like that, along with being a bit of a hypochondriac, and so Hannah had had a vial in the bottom of her trunk when she returned to school. That, combined with her good potions knowledge, had helped her stumble into a kind of mothering role that she found had rather suited her. 

‘I just need the flowers, the book says,’ she said, as Neville started gently pulling some up by the roots. 

‘Yes, but I think it’d be good if I can grow another set somewhere, as a back up so we don’t have to keep sneaking out here. It’s just me and Seamus in the dorm, I don’t think he’d mind if I put them in the window between Harry and Ron’s beds. Here, take these, cut the flowers where the stem splits off - yeah, there - so it’ll grow back.’ 

‘It’s really pretty,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be so pretty. It’s usually that the most useful plants are the ugliest.’ 

‘It is,’ said Neville absent-mindedly. ‘It’s from Crete. The healing properties were only discovered in the 17th century - people used to think it was an aphrodisiac, and it’s still used in some love potions.’ 

She looked at him, and though the light in the greenhouse was white starlight only, she could still see his cheeks burn red. 

‘It’s… it’s not, though,’ he mumbled. ‘Well… a little bit, but I… I don’t know why I said that.’

‘Because it’s interesting,’ she said quickly, as he busied himself repotting the seedlings. He nodded rapidly, and cleared his throat a little, and she cast around for something to say. ‘You… you should be careful, growing these in the dorm. If you’re caught-’

‘There’s no rule against growing plants,’ he said. ‘I’ve had plants up there loads of times. Especially my mimbulus mimbletonia, that’s had pride of place for a while.’

‘You know they don’t need an explicit rule,’ she said quietly. ‘They do what they want. If they think you’re… doing anything good, anything kind. That’s enough.’ 

He nodded, looking down at the delicate, thin roots of the dittany. There was a reason that he and Professor Sprout were growing such an innocent plant in such secrecy. ‘I know… but… it’s worth the risk.’ 

‘That’s very brave.’ 

‘Is it? Just growing a plant? Is that what passes for bravery these days?’ 

‘Yes,’ she said honestly. ‘Anything good does now. And it’s not just that.’ She paused, still cradling one of the delicate, rose pink flowers in her hand. ‘I mean… what were you thinking in muggle studies the other day? I hated seeing you screaming like that.’ 

‘Well I had to say something. It was repulsive, what she was saying about muggle children.’ 

‘No one believes her, no one really thinks-’

‘We don’t know that. Maybe some people might start believing her, because it’s easier. And anyway, it’s not just about that. Remember Umbridge?’ 

‘I try not to,’ she said dryly, and in the pale, washed out starlight she saw him grin. 

‘I know it’s stupid, but as Ginny and Luna haven’t come back, and Harry and Ron aren’t here, or Dean, or loads of other people… I’ve been-’ he sighed, as though frustrated he couldn’t find the words, ‘I’ve been trying to think about what they would do. I can’t afford to be Neville Longbottom, I’ve got to be someone braver. And Harry used to just completely go off on her, used to tell her straight in lessons that You-Know-Who was back, and, yeah, it got him more trouble than it felt like it was worth at the time, but you know what? I always found it really inspiring.’ 

‘I did too,’ she said quietly. ‘I remember thinking… well… why would he stick to a lie through all that?’ 

‘Exactly. He had principles, and if he was here he wouldn’t stand for any of that rot. There’s a lot of times over the past few months where I’ve just tried to…’ he shrugged helplessly, ‘pretend that I’m Harry. That I’m brave.’ 

‘I don’t think you’re pretending at all,’ she said. ‘You are brave. You always have been. You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you?’ 

‘Somehow.’ 

‘No somehow about it. You’re the bravest man I know, and that includes Harry.’ 

‘How on earth does it include Harry?’ he asked, and he sounded like he was on the verge of laughter. 

‘Because he’s had to be,’ she said. ‘I’ve grown up in Godric’s Hollow, you know, I’ve seen the ruined house that he lived in. He’s had to be brave all the way from when he was a baby. But I didn’t. You didn’t. You’ve chosen to be brave, you’ve chosen to channel him. You're a pureblood, you could choose, every day, to keep your head down and get on with things, but you don't. You stand up and call her a bigoted liar in class and get tortured and you never back down. I find that more inspiring than anything.’ 

‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said quietly.  

‘And you were brave lots of times even before. Don’t you remember winning those points all the way back in first year?’ 

He beamed, and looked at her directly, for the first time since he had blurted out that dittany was an aphrodisiac. ‘You remember that?’ 

‘Of course I do. Dumbledore pointing out about standing up to your friends - he was so right, that does take a lot of bravery. I tried to do it next year, when Ernie was telling me that Harry was the heir of Slytherin. I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t as brave as you, but at least I tried, I suppose.’ 

‘I think you’re very brave too,’ he said. ‘Looking after everyone like this, handing out essence of dittany, running out here with me to get more… I’m sorry that you’ve had to come back in here. I didn’t think.’ 

‘I didn’t either,’ she said, and she started cutting more flowers. ‘I was just so focused on the idea of more, I didn’t really think about where I’d be getting it from… But, you know, I’m OK, actually. The thought of it was worse than the reality. It’s just a greenhouse.’ She looked around. The white starlight bleached the dark greenery into shades of silver, bounced off the watering cans, sparkled in the droplets of water from the sprinklers. ‘A very beautiful one.’ 

‘I like to think so,’ he said, a little hoarsely. ‘I always found this whole place beautiful, but now it… sometimes feels like only the greenhouses still are. They’re the only place I haven’t seen people being tortured.’ 

She paused. ‘I’m secretly thankful my mum isn’t alive to see this. Is that awful? I’m just glad she never had to worry about me being here. I feel bad enough for Dad.’ 

‘It’s not awful,’ said Neville. ‘I know what you mean.’ 

‘Do you?’ 

‘My parents don’t know anything about what’s going on, and for the first time in my life, I’m glad,’ he said, and for some reason his words seemed to surprise him. 

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, and without thinking she put down the little secateurs and touched his arm. He breathed deeply, not quite meeting her eyes, pressing down one of the seedlings quite firmly into the tray, before finally turning to her.

‘I live with my gran, because… my…’ He took another deep breath, and suddenly there was a clanging from outside. 

They froze, and heard a low voice swearing. 'Bloody wheelbarrow…' 

Hearts thudding, they ducked down and stayed silent, Neville silently mouthing for Hannah to get onto the large empty shelf under the potting table, where bags of compost were usually kept. He reached up, fumbling for the secateurs, and then started crawling along on his belly. 

'What are you doing?' she whispered, horrified. Alecto Carrow was opening the door to the greenhouse, still muttering and swearing about the wheelbarrow he had tripped over. 

He put a finger to his lips, and then pointed at the venomous tentacula, which had begun to writhe against the twine. The snip snip snip of the secateurs seemed unreasonably loud, but from the other side of the greenhouse Carrow did not appear to hear them, rifling noisily through the plants and shrubs, sending terracotta pots crashing to the floor. 

'Anyone in here?' he demanded. 'I saw your footprints in the gravel. Hello?' 

The vines of the tentacula waved threateningly, and Hannah watched with trembling fear as one of them reached out to Neville, still prone on the ground, and started to wrap itself around his throat. 

'Don't be cheeky,' she heard him mutter to it, and he calmly prodded it with the secateurs until it released him. 

It kept one tendril around his ankle, but Neville seemed to allow it as a compromise, and instead watched through the vines as Carrow upturned a table, still shouting and swearing. 

After several, agonisingly long minutes, Carrow came close to them. The venomous tentacula silently released Neville’s ankle, and raised it's spiked tendrils. 

'OW! Son of a bludger-' 

A long line of expletives followed, and the venomous tentacular shook noisily, whip-like noises echoing through the greenhouse as it reached after Carrow, now bolting from the room. 

'Grab the tray,' Neville told Hannah. 'He'll be heading straight to the hospital wing, we should have a clear path back. Quickly, before the tentacula gets over-excited and turns on us-' 

She did so at once and he held back the spiked vines as she squeezed past the plant, and hurried safely out of range. 

She stood there, holding her tray of little dittany plants and the heads of the flowers. She watched as Neville easily unentangled himself from the tentacula, patted it, said, 'thanks mate,' and grabbed a clear cover for the tray. He came close to her as he fitted it over the dittany, protecting them from the cold night air they would have to hurry back through.  

His face was inches from her own, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat a little as she looked up at him. There was a slight clunk as the lid of the tray found its place. For a moment, they were perfectly still, just their breathing in that humid place, and his eyes, shining light blue in the pale light, lifted from the tray of dittany to meet her own. 

'Do you really think I'm brave?' he whispered. 

She nodded, and he seemed to be steeling himself for something. Please, she thought, please make this place good for me again. Her hands gripped the edges of the tray.

Very gently, very slowly, he leaned closer over the tray. His hand moved as though to softly move her face to meet his, but he didn't need to, for she was already naturally tilting her head, and her heels were lifting a little off the ground without her bidding them to. 

Their lips met, soft like the petals of the dittany between them, sweet like the fragrance. His fingertips were trembling slightly as they caressed against her cheek, but then they calmed as the kiss deepened. 

The tray pressed into them as he tried to move closer, and it reminded them where they were. They broke apart, panting and gasping as though they had just finished the run down from the castle. 

She had never kissed anyone before. She was glad, unbelievably, overwhelmingly, joyfully glad, that her first kiss had been with Neville, in this place where the warm air was scented with damp soil and sweet flowers. 

'We… we should take these back,' he said, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘Let - let me take them.’ 

He took the tray from her, and in her happy daze she allowed it, and let him lead the way out of the greenhouse. Joy had returned to her again, beneath the fogged glass, amongst the green plants, bursting with life. 

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Tangled Up in You

winter prompts day 2  ❄️ huddling for warmth

There are certain things Jaskier is starting to believe his brain willingly forgets (for his own good) as soon as the experience is over. These include, but are not limited to: drinking too much, rough sex the night before a long day of walking, and sleeping with the butcher's husband.

Wintering at Kaer Morhen is one of those things.

It's not that he's ungrateful, because he's been thrilled every year since the first that Geralt has approached him with the offer. And Jaskier is happy to join him, happy to make the trip even through snow and rain and whatever else late autumn has to offer.

And it's not that he doesn't like spending the winters with Geralt and his family, because he does. It's just that he's always given his own room - which is fine, everyone needs their own space, especially for months on end - but it's just so big. Or, rather, the bed is so big and empty with only him in it.

Over the warmer months, he grows used to sleeping in a bedroll next to the fire or, when they find paid lodgings, quite frequently sharing a too-small bed with Geralt. It had seemed like an inconvenience at first, but they've found a way to fit together that makes it easier for Jaskier to sleep with Geralt than alone. And here he has so much room. Too much room; he and Geralt could both fit comfortably without getting in each other's way. Even his bed back in Oxenfurt is smaller than this.

Jaskier shivers as cold air slips under the covers from gods know where. He'd thought he'd tucked in all the loose edges last time, but apparently, he missed a spot. He readjusts, tucking his feet back in and wiggling just a little to ensure he's blocked all the gaps. But it doesn't help.

After another half hour of sleeplessness, he climbs out of bed with his blanket still wrapped around his shoulders and slips out of his room and down the hall. He knows he'd be more than welcome to crawl into bed with anyone, but he hasn't had much time to spend alone with Geralt since they arrived, so he heads for his room.

Outside the door, he hesitates for a moment before knocking. It's pointless because Geralt probably heard him coming, but it just feels polite. There's no response, so he pushes the door open a little bit and he's about to call out to him when there's a grumble from across the room.

"Lambert if that's you, fuck off and go sleep with Eskel I don't want your stupid cold feet on me."

"Um," Jaskier says in a very small voice, "not Lambert. Still cold, though."

"Jaskier?" Geralt asks and Jaskier can hear the rustling of the blankets as he turns over. Jaskier bites his lip to keep his teeth from chattering and curls his toes. He doesn't want to be turned away due to cold feet. He doesn't say anything else, but after a moment there's another sleepy groan and a soft, c'mere. So he does.

He slips up to Geralt's bed, but when he lifts the blankets to climb in, he freezes. Geralt is entirely naked and Jaskier has to fight against the wave of heat that rolls up his neck. On second thought, freezing to death wouldn't be the worst way to go. Or maybe he'll go see Eskel - he had offered, after all. He's already backing away when Geralt climbs out of bed and comes after him.

The noise that comes out of his mouth when Geralt catches him is something like a seabird and he would be embarrassed about it if he didn't have more important things to worry about. Like being carried to bed by a very sleepy, very naked Geralt.

He knows better than to struggle against Geralt, but then he's being plopped onto the bed and Geralt crawls over him. He's barely settled before he wraps an arm around Jaskier's waist and tugs him down with him. Reluctantly, Jaskier adjusts to make himself comfortable, but it presses him right up against Geralt's bare chest. Which is, to be fair, quite lovely and very warm.

But Jaskier is suffering because he's lying in bed with a big, naked Witcher wrapped around him and while the premise may be the subject of many a daydream, he'd pictured it rather differently. The worst part is that the warmest part of him is where his shirt is rucked up and Geralt's bare skin presses against his own.

With as much subtlety as he can manage, Jaskier shifts, pushing the shirt up further. There's a grumble from the back of his neck and then one warm hand settles on his hip, sliding under the hem of his shirt and slipping around to his chest. Jaskier's heart stops as his mind speeds through every possible reason for Geralt to touch him like this and before he can settle on any of them, Geralt is lifting his shirt and tugging it up over his head. Jaskier instinctively goes with it, like a child being changed out of dirty clothes.

Stunned and confused and more than a little aroused, Jaskier turns to ask what the fuck is going on, but when he shifts, he finds Geralt with his eyes shut, the softest little smile gracing his lips.

"Rest," he breathes and when Jaskier tries to settle, he finds it much easier than expected, the warm weight of Geralt's arm around him comforting.

He's not sure what to do with his own arms, so he squirms for a few minutes, trying to find somewhere comfortable to put them. They've shared beds before more times than he can count (more often than not, even) but they've never slept face-to-face like this. And given the opportunity, Jaskier is not about to take it for granted.

Tentatively, he slides an arm around Geralt's side, slotting it just beneath Geralt's arm and finds it rather comfortable. And more than that, Geralt presses into the touch, apparently pleased with it. Jaskier has only just closed his eyes after finally finding a good way to lie when Geralt speaks again.

"How many years have you been coming here with me?" he asks and Jaskier quickly runs through the past winters, trying to remember.

"I don't even know. Many?"

"Why do you never sleep with me?" If his nose wasn't pressed into Geralt's chest, Jaskier's jaw would probably drop. What does that even mean?

"We share at the inns all the time," Jaskier mumbles, "I thought you might want your space."

"Mm," Geralt hums, "but I like to share with you."

Oh. Oh. "Okay." Geralt tugs him a little closer, and one of his knees comes forward to press between Jaskier's thighs. "In that case," Jaskier whispers, "maybe I should move all my stuff in here? You wouldn't want me freezing to death over the winter now, would you?"

"Couldn't have that," Geralt agrees and Jaskier can feel the warmth of his breath in his hair, followed by what he would swear is the softest of kisses. "Couldn't have that."

[booksimp]

Flame of Autumn - Part Two

A/N: Part two of Midnight at Rita’s is finally here, everyone! Sorry it took so long, I started a new job and I’ve been a bit overwhelmed. As you can tell, I’ve named this series something different. That’s because Midnight at Rita’s was supposed to be a smut one off, but it has a mind of it’s own and has become an actual fic. This will be part two of a series called “Flame of Autumn”. This fic is going to be quite long, and more elaborate than anything I’ve written here so far. I hope you enjoy!

“Oh, fucking hell.” I curse, clapping a hand over my mouth in shock.

Azriel chuckles sardonically, running a hand through his already sex mussed curls, puffing out a shocked breath. His cheeks are an adorable shade of pink, eyes wide.  

“Well said.”

For a few moments, we just sit and feel the bond thrum between us, like the plucked string of a cello. We’re still flushed and dazed, our panting breaths the only sound in the room as we stare at each other. 

A strange intermingling of emotion overwhelms me. Elation, joy, desire. A desire to take hold of Azriel and never, ever be parted from him. But all of it is entirely eclipsed by a sense of dread. It wraps itself around my throat, my heart, like a noose of ice. 

A mate is just another person to lose, to endanger with my own existence. 

The faces of all those that have suffered to protect me, that I ultimately lost, flash across my vision. A macabre version of a scrapbook. Just as easily as he perceived my earlier insecurities, Azriel notices the rising emotions in me. With the mate bond newly revealed, I wonder if the connection we’d felt all night had been the first clue. That, and his uncanny ability to read me like an open book. 

“Sabine, I don’t expect anything from you. But I- I’d like to explore this. We can go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with.” 

His face shines with hope as he takes my hand in his, squeezing gently. A hesitant reach down the bond caresses against me. His eyes are open and earnest, a shy smile on his face. The epitome of honest and trustworthy. 

I wonder what he would think if he knew Sabine isn’t my real name. 

A pang of guilt shoots through me, at the dishonesty of it, and it's suddenly hard to breathe. Lying to others has become disturbingly easy over the years I’ve been in hiding. I’m skilled at it now, diversion and distraction like second nature. But the thought of keeping up the ruse with my mate is unbearable. Having to lie every day, and to the person who should know the absolute truth of myself? I can’t do it. I won’t do it. 

I’m opening my mouth to admit things I haven’t in years, when my mothers face flashes through my mind. She was the first to implore me to hide my abilities, and the first to die because of them. 

“You threaten his crown. He will destroy everything you love to keep you quiet, my girl. You cannot give him more ammunition. You get close to no one. You keep moving. Don’t ever come back here.” 

Her words ring in my ears like I’m hearing them for the first time. I shut my mouth with a snap. I can’t tell Azriel anything, for fear of bringing the wrath of my father down on him. Can I even stay in Velaris? 

When I first heard of the hidden city of the Night Court, heavily guarded by the most powerful High Lord, I rejoiced. Isolated and with a varied population, it made the perfect hiding place. Not to mention that Velaris is far outside the reach of my fathers court. I’ve felt almost safe here, and the thought of leaving this city, of leaving Azriel, has my heart sinking into my stomach. Azriel slowly places a hand on my cheek, breaking me free of my internal struggle. Concern shapes his features, hazel eyes heartbreakingly gentle. He is too perceptive to not see the indecision and fear in me, bond or not. Without meaning to, I speak. 

“Okay.” 

A relieved grin graces his lips. I feel the apprehension fading from him, being replaced with soft joy. It makes my decision for me. Azriel is an Illyrian, not exactly an easy target. We’re in the safest place there is for me. If I guard my secret well enough, I can stay. Stay, and see where this newfound bond leads us. I pray to the Cauldron that I’m not making a stupid, selfish mistake. 

“Are you sure?” His brow furrows, intent on my response.

In that moment, I know that no matter how strongly he feels, Azriel will let me walk away. If I decide he’s not what I want, he would honor my choice no questions asked. It only makes me more certain of my decision. I’ve never been one to tolerate a controlling male.

“Absolutely. Are you?” I ask, inching closer to him, still clutching the sheets against myself.

His eyes flicker down to my chest, and back to my eyes. When a faint blush paints his cheeks, I nearly drop the bedding in shock. So the confident male can get flustered. I file the information away for later, barely containing a smirk. 

“Of course I am, I’ve waited almost six hundred years for you.” His voice is low, each syllable more sure than the last. 

My heart soars inside my chest at his words. Depthless hazel eyes bore into mine, and his shadows brush against my bare skin. They send shivers all along my body, and I edge even closer to him. He meets me in the middle of the bed, his forehead touching mine as his gaze roves over me like I’m a precious, once lost jewel. I do the same, drinking in the sight of the magnificent shadowsinger before me. My mate. 

Long ago, some inexplicable force decided that he belonged to me, and I him. I wonder what makes us so compatible, and I find I’m excited to discover every reason for myself. I want to know all the simple, small details of him like the back of my hand. I want to memorize the planes of his face, every color in his eyes.

If my mother could meet him, I imagine she’d remark on the beautiful grandchildren we’d make her. It's that thought, and the sudden realization that we are both very naked, that has a fierce blush coloring my face. 

“Maybe we should get dressed.” I whisper, only slightly breathless. 

Azriel’s eyes run along my sheet-clad form once more, before he pins me with  that now familiar alluring smile. 

“As you wish.” 

He says again, only making me more flushed at the memory. Without an ounce of shame, the Illyrian rises to his feet and walks to the dresser at the other end of the room. He begins digging through the drawers, before selecting some grey sweatpants and a long sleeve black shirt for himself. I’m still wrapped in his sheets, attempting to not gawk at the unobstructed view of his ass, when Azriel looks over his shoulder at me. He smirks at my obvious observation of his body.

“Do you want something other than your dress? Something more comfortable?”

I look down at the rumpled silk garment on the floor and grimace. He’s right, the thought of shimmying myself into it right now is about as appealing as a cold bath in the middle of winter.

“Yes please. Preferably something a bit warmer.” 

He nods, and picks a few items from his dresser. He places them on the bed before me and fixes me with a sweet, slightly shy grin. 

“Are you hungry? I have pastries from the bakery down the street. I could make coffee?” 

My ears perk at the mention of food, and my stomach grumbles in agreement. I like that instead of pushing me to continue our conversation about our future, he’s making sure I’m fed and comfortable. That warm, light sensation flutters in my belly again.  

“I never turn down coffee or carbs.” I manage to get out, smiling coyly. 

“Noted.” Azriel smiles again, a quiet amusement in his eyes. 

He leaves me to change, heading towards the kitchen to start the coffee. I put on the sweatshirt and black briefs left for me. Both are too big, but they’re warm and soft against my skin. Worlds better than the dress. I pull the collar of the sweatshirt up to my nose and inhale his scent of cedar and moonlight and rain. Gods, what does he bathe in that makes him smell so good?

For the first time all night, I’m able to observe Azriel’s bedroom. My eyes widen as I take in the beautiful A frame ceiling with exposed wooden beams. The soft patter of rain on glass draws my eyes to the east wall, which is made entirely of paneled windows. Silver rivulets of water run down their surface, reflecting flickering beams of moonlight into the room. The floors are a dark oak, the walls a calming sage.

Candles burn on Azriel’s overflowing bookcase, and the fireplace crackles merrily on the opposite wall. I reach out hesitantly with my ability, and feel the heat of each flame flicker inside my awareness. For a moment, I watch the candle flames dance and twist under my will. It's rare that I ever have the chance to explore my gift, the small flames too often exploding into an uncontrolled inferno that attracts attention. But I can’t help playing just a little.   

The sound of a kettle whistling startles me from my reverie, and a few tea lights extinguish entirely. I wince, and quickly light them again before following Azriel into the kitchen. 

He’s at the counter, adding hot water to a french press. The earthy scent of coffee tickles my nose as he presses the grounds down, the muscles of his arm flexing deliciously.

“How do you take your coffee?” He asks, gesturing towards a pale box of pastries for me to choose from. 

“Cream and sugar. Lots of cream.” 

“You like your coffee sweet.” He smiles to himself as he pours extra cream and sugar into my cup, as if adding the observance to a mental list.

 I pad closer and peer at the box of pastries over his broad shoulder. On the front it reads ‘Diana’s Bakery and Coffeehouse’ in elegant script. I bite my lip to keep from laughing as I open the familiar box, and take a bagel from inside. 

He notices me smiling at the pastries and raises a thick eyebrow at me, the corner of his lip quirking up.

“What is it?”

“Nothing it's just - well I work at Diana’s.” I laugh, taking a bite of the magically warmed bagel after liberally smearing it with cream cheese. 

“You do? But I’ve been in there everyday this week, I haven’t seen you.” 

He passes my mug to me, filled to the brim with creamy coffee, and I take a careful sip. He leans against the marble counter, hazel eyes looking me up and down, that small smirk making an appearance once again. What is it about males liking us in their clothes? Not that I’m complaining. 

“Well, you wouldn’t. I work in the back with Diana as her baking apprentice. I even baked those cinnamon rolls.”

 I know they’re mine by the slightly imperfect glazing. Diana is meticulous and every single treat she bakes is always flawless.

He points to the icing covered cinnamon rolls inside the box, mouth gaping in shock. 

“These cinnamon rolls? They’re the best I’ve ever had. I’ve been buying you guys out everyday.” Azriel exclaims, eyes wide and alight with surprise. 

“Oh, so you’re the reason I’ve had to make twice as many recently?” I chuckle, pink staining my cheeks. The fact that Azriel loves my baking brings me way too much delight to be proper. 

“I’m sorry, but Cassian and I can’t get enough of them. What do you do to them? They’re like biting into a cloud!”

“I can’t tell you that! It's a secret recipe!” I wink, a goofy grin on my face.

Azriel rolls his eyes and smiles, grumbling about how secretive bakers are as he deposits a large mound of cinnamon rolls onto a plate. A truly genuine smile breaks across my face at the sight. He collects his own mug and leads me to a comfy couch, where we both plop down and tuck into our midnight snacks. 

I can’t help but watch him, completely mystified. This sexy, adorable male is my mate? I’ve never felt lucky a day in my life, but as Azriel finishes his third cinnamon roll, I can’t help but feel like the fates smiled on this one aspect of my life. Having finished my bagel, I sip on my coffee and relax into the couch. I’ve been running for a long time, keeping everyone at arm's length, never staying in one place for more than a few years. But maybe I can stay hidden in Velaris and keep Azriel a lot closer. Maybe I don’t have to be alone. I want that future so badly it becomes hard to breath.

“So you bake. You dance at Rita’s. What else?” 

Azriel’s voice brings me back to the present, and I glance up from my coffee cup. Silent laughter dances in the hazel depths of his eyes, his plate of pastries discarded on the coffee table. Suddenly self conscious under his intent gaze,  I reach a hand up to feel the tangled masses of my dark hair. I grimace when I realize what a mess it’s become. It will probably need to be dyed again as well.

“I play music. Mostly the piano. I write sometimes. And you?”

The admissions, however small, make my throat tight with anxiety. I haven’t told anyone anything true about myself in years, and I haven’t touched a piano in just as long. The feeling is nerve wracking, and I can’t help but feel exposed. My eyes follow the upward curve of his lips as he smiles at me, one arm draped over the back of the couch. 

 “I can see you playing piano. You have the hands for it.”

I blush at his statement, my gaze falling to my entirely ordinary hands. What does that even mean?

“I’m something of a homebody. If I’m not with my brothers, I’m probably here with a book. I train, I work, I come home."

That explains the mountains of novels all over his room. And the incredible body. He reaches over and runs a hand through my slightly curling hair, the hours I’d spent straightening it made useless. He curls one of the ringlets around his finger, giving it a slight tug, before he tucks it behind my ear. Every single nervous thought evaporates at his touch.

“I like your hair like this, especially since I’m the one who made it this messy.” 

He murmurs, a sudden heat in his eyes. I feel my body warm in response to that look, and I have to divert my gaze down at my lap to keep from jumping him right there. Again.

“You’re a shameless flirt, shadowsinger.” I mutter, playing with the silver ring of leaves on my finger, noticing that his thigh is now pressed against mine. When had he moved so close?

“Not usually, trust me. My brothers would be astonished.” He laughs, running a hand through his own messy hair. 

“Not usually?” I trace a finger along the back of his hand, fascinated by the combination of scarring and complex veins. 

He shivers slightly, and I smile in satisfaction. He’s not the only one who can play that game. 

“I make exceptions for my mate.” He whispers, taking my hand from his and pressing a kiss to my palm, lips soft and warm. 

“I was supposed to have drinks with my brothers. They must think I decided to stay in.”  He laughs against my skin, kissing his way to the pulse point of my wrist.

“Little do they know, huh?” I gasp, made breathless by his ministrations and the thought of exactly why he’d ditched his brothers tonight.

“Little do they know. When you’re ready, I - uh. I know they’d love to meet you.” He looks up at me, cheeks filling with color as he straightens. 

My stomach drops, and a bit of reality comes crashing down. A mate is one thing, but letting his family into my life? They’d be two more people to lie to, two more people in danger because of me. I avoid any straight answers, and decide to divert his attention elsewhere.

“Tell me about them?” I drink from my mug, using it as an excuse to break eye contact. I can’t shake the feeling that he can see down to the very truth of me when our gazes meet. 

“Their names are Cassian and Rhys. Complete idiots. But those two have saved my life in so many ways.” His eyes glow with a warm, far away look, a goofy smile on his face. 

“It sounds like you love them very much.” I speak softly, not wanting that radiant look to ever leave his face.

“I do. Do you have any siblings?” His eyes flicker back to me, the distance clearing from them. 

“An older brother. Micah.” I try not to let my voice break on his name, the longing slamming into my chest like a horse at a full sprint. 

I curse myself for using my brother's real name, a slip up I wouldn’t have made with anyone else. Azriel’s mere presence is enough to disarm me, and it's a struggle to focus with him this close. I haven’t seen Micah since the day our mother was murdered by my fathers sentries, and we both fled for our lives. In opposite directions. The day that started my life on the run. 

“Are you two close?” Azriel’s shadows curl around me as he squeezes my hand in silent support, like he already knows the answer. 

“We used to be, when we were young. Not so much anymore.” 

I tense, hoping that he doesn’t push the subject. I can’t exactly tell him the truth of our forced estrangement. At least not yet.

“Where are you from?” 

 His tone is light, and I am endlessly grateful for the change in conversation. He doesn’t seem to miss a thing when it comes to me. The thought is a constant inkling of worry in the back of my head. 

“Not Velaris.” I reply quickly.

It technically isn’t a lie, but the evasion feels even worse.

“I could’ve guessed that, love. I’ve lived here for hundreds of years, if you lived in Velaris I would’ve found you sooner. Are you from the Night Court?” 

He chuckles, taking up another strand of my hair to play with. For a moment, I forget that he’s waiting on a response. 

“No, Summer Court. Adriata. Did you grow up in Illyria?” 

 I attempt to change the subject, the subterfuge like spoiled milk in my stomach. I wish I could tell him all about my little cottage on the outskirts of the Autumn Court, about my mothers smile, and Micah’s penchant for getting me into trouble. Instead, I have to wriggle my way out of letting him get to know me. This is going to be harder than I thought. 

“Unfortunately, I did.” Shadows rise from deep within his eyes, blotting out almost all the light in them. 

I’ve heard many stories about the brutality of Illyria. Their perilous winters and sprawling mountains, the discipline that they ingrain into their children, how they throw themselves into the path of war. I wonder who put the scars on his hands, his wings, and I feel sick for an entirely different reason.

I search his eyes for answers, glimpsing an age old sadness there. I feel him trying to shove it down deep, but he can’t hide from me anymore than I can from him. A burning rage seethes in my chest at that sadness. It makes me want to grow claws and rip and tear, scorch those responsible with my flames.

He closes his eyes and rests his head where my shoulder and collarbone meet, a deep sigh leaving him. From the tension in his body, I know he wants me to let the topic drop. So instead of asking the questions on the tip of my tongue, I kiss the top of his head and stroke his back softly. He practically purrs, pressing closer, telling me to continue. I smile softly, trailing my fingers down his spine in slow circles. His back is deliciously firm, and rippling with muscles from his often used wings. Heat scorches across my face as I remember how I brought him over the edge just by kissing them, the absolute unleashing of it. 

“I- I didn’t realize. That, well um- your wings. That they were so-“ I stutter pitifully, the blush spreading down my neck. 

Azriel leans back to meet my eyes, a slight smile beginning on his face, previous troubles forgotten. 

“You didn’t know?” He asks, disbelief in his tone and a glint of amusement in his eye. 

“No, they just looked very kissable.”

He throws his head back and gives a loud, full belly laugh. I beam at the musical sound, satisfaction flowing through me. I want to make him laugh like that again and again.

“An Illyrian males wings are the most sensitive part of their body. If touched in the perfect spot, we can finish from that alone. As you saw. But they are also our greatest weapon, and we protect them accordingly. For that reason, I usually keep them far away from any - partners.” He explains after sobering from his laughter, voice soft and a slight blush painting his elegant cheekbones.

“But you make exceptions for your mate?” I ask, eyes downcast as I play with the cuff of his long sleeve shirt.

“I do. Only for you.” He takes my hands from his sleeve, and presses them to his lips once again.

I glance up at him, to find his eyes already on me. The warmth and tenderness I find there has my heart flying in my chest, and tears pricking my eyes. I blink them away hurriedly, looking to his wings instead of the intense emotion he’s showing me. For some reason, the adoration I see there has a small burst of fear running through me. 

“I’m glad you let me touch them. They’re beautiful.” I whisper reverently as l behold the incredible expanse of his wings. 

Vibrant plum and lavender, veined with maroon and the silver of scar tissue. I can’t even think of these beautiful, majestic wings being mutilated like that. My hands ache to touch them again, feel their silky warmth. 

“You definitely showed your appreciation for them.” He leans closer, his breath fanning across my cheek as he whispers in my ear. 

It sends shivers deep into my core, and I have to squeeze my thighs together and hope he doesn’t catch my scent. The confident, seductive Azriel of earlier tonight is back. 

“Not yet I haven’t.” I murmur, emboldened by my renewed need for him. 

The need comes quickly, overwhelmingly. Especially now that I know what being with him is like. Entirely world shattering. He may have ruined every other male for me. Again, not that I’m complaining. A low rumble comes from deep in his chest, and he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me onto his lap with ease. 

“Is that so?” There’s a sultry promise in his voice, and I feel him stir against my thigh. 

The room is filled with our mingled arousal as he inhales against my neck. 

“I still can’t believe I found you.” He groans, pressing kisses against my throat. 

I let my eyes fall closed, shocked anew at how easily he reduces me to a gasping mess. His hands begin to roam over my hips and waist, his touch worshipping and disbelieving. When I begin to slowly move myself over his growing arousal, I feel a shift in him. His hands halt their exploration, and he tenses beneath me. I open my eyes to find his face veiled with worry, his brow creasing. 

“You don’t have to, Sabine.” He cups my face in his hands, dark eyes gleaming with concern. 

I try not to flinch at the false name, and I wonder what his voice would sound like saying the name my mother gave me.  

Shoving those thoughts away, I shake my head, a small grin forming on my lips. Does he not see how infatuated I am already? Of course I don’t have to, but I want to. 

“Az, you idiot.”

And with that, I plant my lips on his. He doesn’t need further convincing. His body responds to mine eagerly, a low growl building in his chest. My back meets the leather couch as Azriel maneuvers himself above me, his hands sliding under the hem of my sweatshirt. He is somehow gentle and commanding all at once, his skin burning hot against mine. I sigh into the kiss as I give myself to him, entirely content to do so this time. 

“You are the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.” 

He whispers against my lips, that reverent tone back in full force. My eyes prick as my chest fills with equal parts warmth and fear. I can see how easy it would be to love my mate. To fall fast and completely. And the part of me that’s been running scared from those I once loved is terrified.  

“I’m scared.” I murmur back, surprised at my own honesty.

I feel his frown against my lips, and he only holds me tighter. 

“I’m scared too, love. But I won’t ever hurt you. You’re - You are everything.” His eyes, soft and dark and endlessly kind, convince me. 

I smile sheepishly at him, holding out my left pinky. 

“Promise?”

Without hesitation, he wraps his finger around mine. 

“I promise.” 

The next morning, sunlight streaming in through the expansive windows wakes me. A sleepy contentment keeps me drowsy and warm, and I stretch like a cat after a particularly restful nap. 

“Good morning.” 

Cauldron, his morning voice is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

I blink my eyes open, the blurry image of a very amused Azriel coming into focus. His black hair is tousled and falling onto his forehead, and pillow marks color his cheeks. 

Delicious.

I cuddle closer to him instead of replying, not ready to start the day yet. He wraps both arms around me as I bury my head in his very bare chest. Memories of last night rise to the surface, and I feel my cheeks warm. After his pinky promise, Azriel made love to me. That's the only way to describe the beautiful, tender way he touched me. He made sure every ounce of doubt was replaced with complete trust. It was the most intimate I had ever been with anyone in my entire life. 

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?” He asks, a teasing grin curling his full lips.

I can’t help but remember those lips on my body in the living room. And the bedroom. And the bathtub. Needless to say, we didn’t sleep until dawn.

“W-What did I say?” I can only imagine the mortifying things my sleep self has to say to this male.

“Just my name. Over and over again.” His voice deepens, eyes darkening.

“Shut up! I did not!” I hiss, giving his shoulder a shove. 

He only chuckles and waggles a brow at me, before placing a kiss to my forehead. He smells even better in the morning, his cedar scent more potent. How is that even possible?

“How did you sleep?” 

He brushes my hair over my shoulder, peppering even more kisses across my collarbone. I shiver under his attention, my eyes falling closed again.

“Better than I have in a long time.” I admit, my voice still raspy with sleep. 

“So did I.” 

He runs gentle hands through my hair, our legs still entwined intimately. I haven’t felt this safe and content in someone’s arms since I was a girl, when my mom would hold me after I woke from nightmares about monsters under my bed. Azriel already feels like home, and the thought doesn’t scare me as badly as it did last night. Thoughts of my father seem distant and insignificant now, chased away by the bright morning light and warmth of my mate’s presence. 

“I wish I could stay here with you all day, baby.” He groans, a deep sigh leaving him. I can feel his reluctance in how firmly he presses me to him, strong arms locking me against his chest. 

“Then stay.” I grumble moodily, a frown curling my lips downwards. I know we can’t stay sequestered in his apartment forever, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. 

“I have to do some work for my brother today, but you’re more than welcome to stay in my bed. In fact, I hope you do.” Azriel chuckles, untangling his limbs from mine and kneeling before me. He drops a tender, lingering kiss on my lips  before standing.

My cheeks warm as my blood sings in my veins, and my breath catches in my chest. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way his touch affects me. I hope I never do. 

“Oh? What kind of work do you do for him? Does he have his own shop or something?” I yawn my way through the question, cuddling myself into his vacated warm spot. 

Azriel smiles over his shoulder at me, while sliding into Illyrian fighting leathers. My mouth goes dry at how the skin tight garment outlines his muscular thighs and powerful chest, accentuating the golden tones of his skin. Hubba Hubba.

“Actually, Rhysand is High Lord of the Night Court. I’m his Spymaster. I have spying to do.” His lips twitch as if he’s trying to not let the easy smile fall from his face as he continues dressing. He watches for my reaction intently.

The blood in my veins turns to ice, freezing my heart in place as my eyes shoot open in shock. 

Azriel’s brother Rhys is... Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. All sleep leaves my body, and I have to fight to stay still. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, run far and fast. 

Because Rhysand knows my father, seeing as he’s High Lord of the Autumn Court.

In fact, I know Beron has met Rhysand many times. He often spoke about the half breed bastard who challenged his authority at meetings.

I met Rhysand at Beron’s court once, when I was barely fifteen. It's been decades, but he could easily recognize me as Beron’s bastard daughter. And he could tell my father where I am, maybe even deliver me to him. 

Even if he doesn’t recognize me, grown and changed as I am, Rhysand is a Daemati. He could rip the truth from my own mind with hardly a thought. And the High Lord of the Night Court has a reputation for finding pleasure in that sort of thing. The thought has me shivering despite the warm blankets tucked around me. 

“Oh. You didn’t mention that last night.” I rasp, trying not to look like I’m about to throw up. My stomach roils, and my palms dampen with cold sweat. 

“I forget that he's High Lord sometimes. He’s just Rhys to me.” Azriel shrugs, with his back now turned to me as he readies himself for the day. I thank the Cauldron for it. 

I can only imagine the stark horror in my expression, and I take a few extra moments to reign my emotions in. Gods, no wonder Azriel can read me so effortlessly. It's not only because of the bond, he’s a spymaster. Reading people is his job. A job he performs for a mind stealing, murdering monster of a High Lord. Bile rises in my throat, and I feel my heart crack in my chest. 

Azriel is not who I thought he was. The trustworthy, gentle male I spent the night with could just be another mask he wears. A tremble begins deep within me.

“When will you be back?” I try to sound eager, like I can’t wait for his return. 

In reality, I’m trying to find out how far away I can get before he even realizes I’m gone. 

“Tonight. I just need to visit some - colleagues in another court.” He says, while lacing his sturdy looking boots into place. 

What court is he ‘visiting’? Will he be spying on other High Lords for Rhysand? Despite the new revelations about his dangerous brother, I feel a stab of fear for my mate. Any High Lord would slaughter him in a moment if they caught him spying on the Daemati’s behalf. 

“Will you be safe?” I hear the worry in my own voice, and Azriel either hears it as well or can feel it from me. Damn mate bond. 

The male perches on the bed next to me, a reassuring smile on his striking face. The two versions of him that exist in my head clash terribly; the vulnerable, kind Azriel of last night and the formidable Spymaster I’ve heard grave stories about. My gaze falls to the dark dagger strapped to his leg. Truth Teller. I try not to shiver as the light glints lethally off its razored edge. I wonder how many truths he’s tortured out of his enemies using it. 

“Of course. Always, but especially now.” Azriel strokes stray curls out of my face, his eyes brimming with unabashed tenderness. He kisses me soundly, a promise to return. 

My stomach flips and suddenly my heart is no longer racing out of fear. For a moment, I almost forget the hidden lethalness and only see Az. But that’s foolish. I can’t shiver at the sight of his famed blade and crave his touch at the same time. 

“I’ll see you tonight?” I ask, mentally calculating how long I have to leave Velaris. I go through the well rehearsed steps of my escape plan, focusing on mundane details to keep the fear and longing from rendering me completely useless.

“Of course.” Shadows of worry cloud his eyes, and I can almost see the sharp, spy's mind calculating behind them.

Azriel kisses me once more, his lips hesitant for the very first time.

His mouth tastes like sorrow, and I feel a flicker of something down the bond. It's gone too quickly for me to decipher it. I curse internally, hoping he only thinks I’m intimidated by his brother’s position. Between the bond and his spymaster abilities, who knows what he can decipher from my reaction alone.

“I’ll be back soon, okay?” He stands, tucking his wings in close and letting his shoulders droop slightly. 

He searches my face, lips slightly turned down at the corners, brow furrowed. 

“I’ll be here.” The lie burns my throat like acid, and I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.

Instead, I pretend to settle deeper into the bed, closing my eyes as I bring the blankets up to my chin. I don’t want to see the confusion and worry in his gaze. And I can’t watch him leave, knowing that I may never see him again. Azriel squeezes my thigh softly, whispering another farewell as he leaves the room with a sigh. 

I wait until I no longer feel the thrumming current that is Azriel’s presence,  when I know he’s well and truly gone. Then I spring into action. I burst from the bed, and head straight for Azriel’s dresser. I yank a pair of sweats from the drawer and pull them on hurriedly, shaking so hard it takes me three tries to get my legs through the correct hole.  I practically run through the living room, propelled forwards by thoughts of obliterated minds and the dank cells beneath the Autumn Court. 

I glimpse the forgotten mugs and pastry box from last night on the coffee table. Tears prick my eyes at the memory of the hope I felt during that meal. I told Azriel, my mate, more than I’ve shared with anyone in years. He let me see some of the anguish he carries with him, buried so deep it's become a part of him. I gave my body to him. And he felt like home. Can I really run from that?

Yes, I can. I have to. I was a fool to think that I could ever be outside my father’s reach.

On impulse, I hunt down a pen from the kitchen cabinets and scrawl a quick, cowardly note on a scrap of paper. Shame coats my tongue so thoroughly I think I may choke on it.

I’m sorry. - S 

  With the note finished, I raise the hood to conceal my face and tear down the stairs, avoiding the elevator Azriel first kissed me in. Soon enough, my bare feet are slapping against the rain slick pavement, my heart cracking with every step. I don’t stop to notice the people that watch me fly by, or the sun shining over the Sidra. I let the fear cloud every guilty thought, until all I know is adrenaline. 

Once I reach my apartment, I change into clothes more appropriate for an escape attempt, and collect my emergency bag from beneath some loose floorboards. Not the most creative hiding spot, but it’s better than my underwear drawer. 

Less than an hour later, I’m standing on the rickety, wooden deck of a foreign boat, sailing away from Velaris. Tradesmen man their vessel, hardly paying attention to me as I stare out over the water from their starboard side. I can imagine the mystery I pose. A lone, cloaked female, begging to stow away on their watercraft.

The money I slipped to their captain keeps the curious glances to a minimum, and I hope it keeps their mouths shut in the future. Either way, I won’t be settling where I first disembark. I’m not entirely sure where I’ll go yet, but maybe that’s for the best. If I’m entirely impulsive, my actions will be harder to predict.

I’ve run scared so many times over the years that I’ve lost count, but I’ve never been so conflicted. Every mile I put between me and the shore of the Sidra is another knife shoved up under my ribs, and it becomes harder and harder to breath. Eventually, the vibrant colors of the Rainbow fade from view and the citrus scent of the river becomes the salty brine of the ocean. Hot tears sting my eyes, and I let them fall. The hood of my cloak covers my face anyway. 

“Goodbye, Az.” 

[hljournal]

Today’s author is suspendrs / @suspendrs​ ! Don’t forget to give the fics kudos and leave a comment! 

to the cloud and the cold (2k)

Or, Louis is a Summer Fairy, Harry is an Autumn Fairy, and the autumn equinox is the best day of the year.

fearless (97k)

“You’re my best friend, Louis,” Harry says, barely above a whisper. Even if he was yelling, Louis wouldn’t be able to believe his ears. “And I know it’s been a while, but you’re still the person I consider my best friend,” Harry says.

Louis blinks, and then blinks again. “I honestly cannot say the same, Harry,” he says.

Or, Harry left home without a word after high school, and a lot can change in ten years.

just a little dance (1k)

“Keep your head up, love,” he says, pulling away and grabbing Harry’s hands. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t want to dance,” Harry pouts, but he lets Louis pull him into the center of the dark kitchen, anyway.

“Just a little dance,” Louis says, tugging Harry’s hands until he’s flush against his front.

Or, a tiny drabble based on the cutest lyric from perfect now

ferricadooza! (65k)

Harry can’t even fathom the idea of surrendering; he’d fight ‘til he died, if he had to, anything to keep from surrendering.

Or, the year is 1963, homosexuality is illegal in the UK, Louis owns a gay bar, and Harry’s an underground boxing champion with an unfortunate enemy.

at last, at last (41k)

“Come with us,” Tommo says, stopping at the other end of the gymnasium, near the doors. “Don’t let them make you suffer any longer. Come with us, and be human.”

Before Harry has even finished thinking it through, he’s on his feet, gaining the attention of every single person in the gymnasium. What has he got to lose, anyway?

Or, Harry is born into a cult in a post-apocalyptic world, and Louis is the leader of the rebel group tasked with the mission of shutting them down. Together, they make a rather effective team.

the act of making noise (32k)

“Oh,” Harry frowns, waving him off. “No, I could never. I respect myself too much to sing for a living.”

It feels like a slap across the face, but Louis does his best not to stiffen, blinking once and then frowning. “What?”

“Those people are always so miserable, you know?” Harry says, hopping down off his stool and straightening his sweater. “There’s so much pressure on them, and they have to work so hard to keep up appearances, I can’t even imagine how difficult that is. I can’t even stand to listen to pop music today, let alone watch TV or read the magazines. It makes me so sad, thinking that those people, you know, the ones who actually went into it with heart, they only ever just wanted to make music and instead they got turned into things on leashes being paraded around to make money for other people,” he says. “Anyway, you can have the stool.”

Or, Louis's famous, Harry has no idea who he is, and they get snowed in together at a ski lodge in Vermont.

walls (20k)

The thing about having been on the move so much for the past five years is that now, once they’re finally able to sit down and rest for a bit, they don’t really know what to do with themselves. Louis loved the pace of the band, for all he and the others complained about it; he isn’t very fond of sitting still, and he absolutely loathes boredom, and there was very little space in their lives for either of those things while they were so busy putting out an album every year and touring more often than not. Being in the same room as Harry while neither of them are under the pressure of keeping up appearances feels like being in a room with a total stranger, and the amount of trouble they’re having trying to get to know each other again is really rather alarming.

Or, a love one whole decade in the making, inspired by Louis's debut album.

fine line (22k)

There’s still a lot of things they don’t talk about, a lot of things they don’t bring home with them at the end of the day, and a lot of things that don’t even need to be said. The world is the world and it sucks sometimes, but it’s far away when Harry’s at home and Louis’s here with him and none of it needs to matter when it could just as easily be ignored. Harry tries to open up sometimes, tries to bring Louis into his world, but Louis’s got a world of his own to tend to, and it feels like more often than not they are on two separate planets and the universe just keeps expanding.

Or, a love three more years in the making, inspired by Harry’s sophomore album.

out for a duck (2k)

“Well, once I got control of Clifford, I took him right back to the house and changed my clothes and gave him one hell of a dressing down, let me tell you,” he scoffs. “And then I felt so bad I went back out to see if the duck had gone back to her eggs, and that Clifford hadn’t damaged them or hurt the duck at all. She wasn’t there when I got back, and I sat there for hours waiting for her, but she never showed her face! She just up and abandoned her babies, just left them there cold and alone, all because a dog barked at her,” he sighs, shaking his head.

“Still not sure why the eggs are now in my kitchen,” Louis frowns.

“I couldn’t just leave them there!” Harry says. “It was my fault they were abandoned! Well, Clifford’s fault, but whatever. I couldn’t live with myself if I just left them there to die. So I came back to the house and got a bowl and some gloves and scooped them up so I could bring them home and keep them warm until they hatch.”

Or, Harry accidentally adopts two duck eggs.

what’s inside your imagination (is as real as anything else) (3k)

“Hey!” Niall shouts suddenly, scaring Harry nearly out of his hat. “We like your costume!”

The ghost turns to glance at Niall, producing a hand from under the sheet and giving him a thumbs up. Harry can’t help but laugh a little more, the casual gesture adding to the entire vibe of the sunglasses-wearing ghost.

The ghost looks at them for a moment longer before turning and disappearing into the crowd again, and Harry sighs. “I love Halloween,” he says thoughtfully.

Or, Harry's a witch who likes to pretend he's a human pretending he's a witch, and Louis's the human in a not-so-clever costume that keeps catching his eye.

satellite (100k)

“It’s been three years since I’ve had a proper hot meal,” Louis says finally. “I have no idea where my family is, or if any of them are even still alive. The only reason I’ve been able to keep myself alive for as long as I have is because I keep to myself, stay guarded, stay hidden. It’s the only way I know how to live,” he says.

Harry wants to cry, but he tries to put on a brave face when Louis finally meets his eyes. “You’re safe here. You don’t have to be so guarded around me,” Harry says quietly, earnestly.

“That’s very sweet of you,” Louis says, putting his fork down. “But yes I do. Especially around you.”

Or, Harry finds out that someone's been living in his house without him knowing, but instead of kicking him out, he falls in love with him.

sugar in a plum (4k)

“I’m your dad,” Harry says softly, extending his hand to Plum for her to have a sniff. Plum considers for a moment, looks up at Louis, and then bites Harry’s finger.

“Ow!” Harry shrieks, pulling his hand away quickly. He’s not bleeding, but Plum’s teeth are incredibly sharp, he feels like he’s been stabbed with ten tiny needles. “Jesus, Lou, I thought we were getting a cat, not a demon.”

Or, Harry's new kitten is out to ruin his life.

there are no atheists in foxholes (64k)

“Do you think we’ll ever see it again?” Harry asks after a minute. “London?”

Louis blinks, looking down. They very well could spend the rest of their lives on this island, and they’re both very aware of that. Everyone probably already thinks they’re dead, anyway. Their flats are going to be sold, and their families are going to have funerals, and life is going to go on without them. Even if they do get rescued, it’s already been days. The news of the shipwreck has definitely reached London by now. They don’t know if there’s been any effort to look for survivors, but they also don’t know how far away from the wreck they are, or how far people are going to go to look for them, or if anyone even knows that this island is here and, like, it’s very possible that they’ve already looked and stopped looking for survivors, and no one knows they’re out here-

“I don’t know,” Louis says, before he can start spiraling. “I hope so, but I don’t know.”

Or, the sea takes everything from Louis, but it gives him back more than he ever could’ve asked for.

it ain’t right, but isn’t it amazing (7k)

It’s all Niall’s fault, as most things are. Niall’s the one that made the bloody Tinder account in the first place, and the one that added every decent looking photo of Louis he could find on his phone, and the one that swiped right on the first fifteen guys that popped up. Yeah, Louis might have done the rest of the work that landed him here, in the men’s toilets of a Japanese restaurant in west London with vomit dripping down his chin and down the very, very attractive chest of the very, very attractive man in front of him, but Niall started it.

Or, Harry takes Louis for sushi on the first date. It doesn't go well.

keep this love in a photograph (48k)

“I could never forget a damn thing about you, Harry Styles, not even if I wanted to,” Louis says. His hair falls into his face when he glances over at Harry, the moonlight reflecting off of it and making it glow golden, like maybe Louis himself is the sun.

Harry thinks of how dark and cold his life got once Louis went away, how Harry got a taste of the sweetest sunshine imaginable and then was plunged into the longest winter of his life. He feels like he’s been buried under mounds of snow for months, years, and he’s finally made it to spring, finally getting another taste of how wonderful life can be.

Or, it’s 1919, and Harry’s been falling in love with his best friend for his entire life.

thrills don’t come for free (4k)

The night before comes back to him slowly, puking in the toilet at the club and then falling asleep in his car in the parking lot. He closes his eyes again for a moment until he realizes that the car is on and moving, and someone is driving it that isn’t him.

He picks his head up and peers between the seats, catching sight of a perfect stranger sitting behind the wheel, singing quietly and driving Louis’s car.

Or, Louis has a bit too much to drink and falls asleep in the backseat of Harry's car.

not even the gods above (25k)

The thing is, though, this isn’t good enough for Harry. Sure, he has the rest of his life to be a notable king, but he wants to be notable now. He wants to bring the two kingdoms together and he wants to do it early on, wants to be the one to facilitate the merge until it seems like the two kingdoms were one all along. He doesn’t want to wait, but everyone he’s turned to thinks waiting is the right choice, so he supposes he has to trust them.

That is, of course, until a declaration of war from the Kingdom of Tomlinson shows up at his palace.

somewhere far away from here (12k)

“Harry,” Louis says, squeezing his arm. “Do you know her?”

“My sister,” Harry mutters, eyes glued to the screen.

“What’s she saying?” Louis asks, voice quiet. “What does she want?”

“Me,” Harry murmurs, hardly a breath. “She knows I’m here.”

Or, Harry's sister comes to Earth to bring him home, but Harry's got a few things keeping him here.

i’ll take your pain (2k)

It’s kind of romantic when Harry thinks about it, feeling all the pain of the person he’s supposed to love for the rest of his life. Sure, it’s rather inconvenient when he’s in class and his soulmate gets kicked in the balls, or when he’s sleeping and his soulmate knocks his head or his knee off something. It’d be nice if the function helped them to find each other, but Harry supposes he can live with knowing that they’re destined to run into each other someday.

Or, soulmates have the ability to feel each other's pain, and Harry finds his after getting his arse waxed. (Or, the soulmate au crack fic I can't believe I actually wrote.)

the pink album (31k)

They don’t really discuss how hard it is to be in this situation, or to be doing the things they have to do to continue being together. It’s just something they don’t talk about, and that’s alright. Or maybe it isn’t, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

Or, a love seven years in the making, inspired by Harry's debut album.

i’ll make this feel like home (41k)

It’s nerdy, much nerdier than anything Harry would have engaged in back home. Perrie and Ed are singing some song from West Side Story and Stan is just giggling along, and it’s almost weird how weird Harry doesn’t find it. Liam and Niall would be running as fast as they could from this interaction, but somehow, Harry finds himself giggling along as well.

Maybe it’s because no one in this group seems like they should belong in this group, but Harry feels like he fits right in. He feels more himself than he has in weeks when Louis plops down beside him for a couple moments and throws out another title to add to their movie marathon. Even though he can’t contribute to the conversation about musicals and he has no idea whether The King and I or Oklahoma is more important, he never feels like an outsider.

Or, Harry is new to Plymouth and has had a rough start, but Louis won't rest until he makes it start to feel like home.

dirty laudry looks good on you (19k)

“So um, Niall mentioned you haven’t lived here long. What brings you to London?”

“What is this, an interview?” Louis smirks, stealing Harry’s drink and taking a sip. “Wanted a change of scenery. Dunno.”

Harry hums and takes his drink back, narrowing his eyes playfully at Louis as he takes a long sip. “Can I buy you a drink, or would you rather keep sharing mine?”

“You most certainly can buy me a drink,” Louis grins, grabbing the bottle back out of Harry’s hand, “but I’m still going to be stealing yours.”

Or, Harry is jaded and sad and resigned to be forever alone, until Niall sets him up with a friend of his whose broken pieces may just fit pretty well with Harry's.

we’ve got to get away from here (23k)

“It is my understanding that you are the most comprehensive member of this agency in the field of extraterrestrial life, is that right?” the agent asks. He’s trying to sound calm, but Louis can tell he’s shaken as well.

“Um, I guess so,” Louis says, glancing over at the man in the blanket again.

Suddenly, Louis’s blood runs cold. There’s something off about the man, something in his gaze, something Louis can’t put his finger on. It’s terribly unsettling, but excitement bubbles in his gut.

Or, Louis is an FBI agent who likes to think himself a paranormal expert, and Harry is the alien that somehow ended up in his office.

in midnights, in cups of coffee (15k)

“Sorry about the sugar,” Louis says, backing toward his own flat. “Bundle up before you go out.”

Harry smiles so sweetly then that Louis can’t imagine he’ll even need the sugar, if the muffins aren’t sweet enough just because they were made by him. “Thanks,” he says, eyes lingering a little longer on Louis before he lets himself back into Gemma’s apartment, and then Louis is just standing in the hallway by himself.

Or, Louis is overworked and cold, Harry is stressed out, and they might be in love.

come away with me (80k)

Or, Louis has to pick up the pieces of his and his daughter's life after his wife dies, and Harry is a beautiful stranger that just wants to help.

in the night (19k)

Or, the self-indulgent reversed pov and slight continuation of come away with me.

my song has not been sung (2k)

Or, Harry is watching a protest from the sidelines until a boy with a rainbow flag and a pretty smile drags him right into the middle of it.

i’ll be home for christmas (12k)

Or, Louis and Harry can’t decide where to go on Christmas.

autumn leaves (27k)

Or, Harry is an American soldier in France during World War II, and Louis is a French waiter that doesn't mean to fall in love with him.

we’ve got unfinished business (7k)

Or, there’s a ghost in Harry and Louis’s apartment that seemingly just wants them to date.

falling in love with you again (4k)

Or, three times in which Louis fell in love with Harry all over again.

heading for a small disaster (20k)

Or, Harry drives an Uber and Louis’s life is falling apart.

don’t stop to worry (4k)

It was just supposed to be a trim today, to skim off the dead ends of his hair. He had no idea it’d end the way it did.

Or, Harry cuts his hair. It's kind of a big deal.

diamonds, they fade (1k)

The cold does nothing tonight but remind Louis of the boy he left inside, the boy that’s curled up under the blankets by himself right now, the boy that’s probably going to come looking for him soon when he wakes up and Louis isn’t there.

Or, Louis has insomnia.

maps can be poems when you’re on your own (19k)

Or, Harry falls in love with the guy his best friend is fooling around with.

we could be enough (4k)

Or, Harry runs an anonymous crush confession column in the school newspaper and Louis has quite the crush to write in about.

no place to call home (22k)

Or, Louis isn't Peter Pan and Harry isn't Wendy and Neverland is nothing like Harry thought it would be, but it's perfect anyway.

show a little mercy (3k)

Louis hates him so, so much. But then again, he’s never loved someone quite so fiercely.

Or, Louis and Harry try to break up. (Or, a drabble based on Love You Goodbye)

kiss me on the mouth and set me free (17k)

Or, Louis is a gamer and Harry is a beauty guru, and VidCon is a good place to fall in love.

sing me like a choir (17k)

Or, Harry is nervous to do actual makeup on his channel, until his boyfriend Louis helps him out.

please don’t bite (21k)

Or, Harry releases his own line of beauty products, and Louis feels abandoned when Harry’s newfound fame gets the best of him.

underneath the christmas tree (17k)

Louis sends Harry on a scavenger hunt on Christmas Eve.

to be loved and to be in love (50k)

Harry and Louis' first year as a couple, as captured by snippets of home movies.

hope your heart is strong enough (4k)

Prompt: Set in the US, Harry spends Thanksgiving with Louis' family, or vice versa. Chaos ensues.

to watch you fall (16k)

Or, Harry is lonely and Louis is engaged to be married.

give me your hand and i’ll hold it (18k)

Prompt: Harry (9) moves in next to Louis (11). They have little roofs under their bedroom windows and like to sit there and talk. Seven years later, Louis has to leave for college.

you make me strong (14k)

Louis comes home from war with a few more problems than he left with, but Harry can't find it in himself to let him go.

[bettydice]

I didn’t expect you to be lonely (too)

Xicheng, Modern AU, JC&WWX reconciliation, E-Rated

Chapter 1

When Jiang Cheng opens the window in the morning, crisp, cold air hits his face. The leaves on the tree in the courtyard of the apartment complex are turning colours.

When did that happen? When did summer end?

It’s a new semester, a new season, and Wei Wuxian still hasn’t returned. Hasn’t called, hasn’t messaged. Jiang Cheng had thought… had hoped…

He should’ve known better.

The wind picks up and raises goosebumps on his skin. A leaf, dark red, is torn from a branch and flutters through the air.

He used to like autumn.

Jiang Yanli was spring, Wei Wuxian was summer, Jiang Cheng was autumn. Winter was them together, because it was cold and they had to stick close.

Jiang Cheng scoffs and closes the window. There’s no use in remembering or hoping. He has work to do anyway.

He makes himself an unsatisfying breakfast that consists of instant coffee and - oh, there isn’t really anything else. Of course the fridge is fucking empty.

He goes jogging, but he’s hungry and it’s cold and he hates jogging.

He takes a shower, but the water is either too hot or too cold.

When he sits down at his desk and opens his writing program, it doesn’t fucking work. Because of course not.

Error #234871FUCKYOUJIANGCHENG

“I don’t even know what that means, I’m not a fucking COMPUTER SCIENTIST!”

Like some people. Some people, who betrayed and abandoned him and moved in with some random-ass people to look after a random-ass child for no good reason and left him all alone. Now he has no one to share his meals with, so there’s no point in making sure his fridge is full, and no one who also hates jogging, so they can suffer together, and no one to fucking help him with fucking computer issues and this is all fucking bullshit.

Jiang Cheng slams his laptop shut.

Fuck you, Wei Wuxian. This is all your fault.

Another headache creeps up his temples. He’s already completely done with this day. At 9:37 AM. Fuck. He has a fucking essay to write about some bullshit topic he doesn’t care about, but how is he supposed to do that when his laptop hates him as much as everyone else does and his head feels as though it’s splitting apart?

His phone rings, and the sound feels like someone is applying a power drill to his brain. And of course it’s not on his desk but far away on the counter. Because nothing in his life can ever be easy or convenient, oh no. He stretches his arm and then his whole upper body to try to grab it from the counter without having to get up from his desk and then there’s a TWINGE and oh no, that’s not good. His shoulder feels as though it’s on fire and… yep, he can’t fucking move his head.

FUCK. FUCKING FUCK SHIT BALLS CRAP FUCK SHIT. FUUUUUUUUCK.

And his phone keeps ringing.

Everyone ignores him for DAYS but NOW when he’s literally DYING and can’t reach his phone, they want to talk to him.

He gets up, ignores the pain shooting down his right arm, carefully shuffles towards the counter, and answers the phone with his left hand.

“WHAT?”

“A-Cheng?”

It’s his sister. Jiang Cheng’s stress levels automatically lower by about 13% as soon as he hears her voice.

“Jiejie, hey. Sorry, I just…” He switches his phone to the other hand and then gets a painful reminder that this side is fucked. “Fuck, ow.”

“A-Cheng? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing! I just... pulled a muscle or something.” He sits down again and bites his lip to suppress a wail of agony. “Why did you call, Jiejie?”

He can basically hear Jiang Yanli’s gentle, slightly concerned, smile through the phone. “Ah, then I’m calling just at the right time. You’ve been struggling with tension for a while now and as you know, your birthday is coming up and -”

“Don’t remind me. That’s still over a month away. And I’m not struggling!”

“- and I have the perfect gift for you. You don’t have to wait until November to do it either. And I think it would be so good for you, A-Cheng, especially now with your pulled muscle.”

“And what exactly is ‘it’?”

“Do you remember Lan Xichen? He’s a friend of Nie Mingjue, and his uncle is Lan Qiren. I think we met him a few times during one of those large business-people dinners we used to get invited to, when father…”

Was still alive.

“I don’t remember anyone I met there, because I was bored out of my mind.” Because Wei Wuxian wasn’t invited to those. And because they were fucking boring. “What does this have to do with my mysterious birthday present anyway?”

“Ah, well, it turns out he works as a physical therapist and I guess you could call him a sort of life coach. Massages, yoga, meditation, physical therapy. He has his own little studio in his apartment, so it’s very private and intimate, and he spends a lot of time with every client, it’s not just a twenty minute massage and then you’re done.”

His sister speaks with rare urgency and Jiang Cheng feels a little bewildered by having this just thrown at him. “So, you want me to-”

“I met him recently, such a lovely man, and asked him whether he had time to take on another client, and he does! So I booked you ten sessions and the first one is Thursday, 5 p.m. We were going to meet that afternoon, so I know you have time, and we can just reschedule our meeting!”

“Jiejie! Ten sessions… I don’t… I’m not a massage person! I don’t want some stranger touching me!” This is all really very sudden, so of course his first instinct is to say no.

His sister, of course, is used to that, and expected it. So she laughs softly and continues convincing him. “Ah, but he’s not a stranger, he’s Nie Mingjue’s best friend and as I said, I met him recently - he’s very kind and sweet and he doesn’t just do massages. I’m sure he’ll be willing to listen to what you’re comfortable with and figure out what’s best for you. A-Cheng, why don’t you just go to the first meeting and see what happens, hm? It’s my present for you.”

As if he could ever actually say no to his sister. Nobody can.

“Alright, alright. But if it’s not my thing, you’ll use the rest of the sessions, okay? I could watch A-Ling while you go get pampered a little.” His sister deserves this much more than he does anyway. Not that she would agree with that.

“Just go and meet with Lan Xichen first, before deciding that it’s not for you.” She’s using her stern voice, oh no.

“I will! I’m just saying!”

“Alright. Let me know how it goes then.”

“I will.”

“Did you have breakfast?”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“Good. Remember to drink tea or water, too, not just coffee.”

“Yes, Jiejie.”

“And-”

“I’ll call you after I’ve met with Lan Xichen,” Jiang Cheng interrupts, before she can shower him with even more care. “And thank you. I… could probably use some… relaxation.”

“Great! I’ll text you the address in a bit.”

They chat a bit more about A-Ling and what shenanigans he gets up to now that he can walk, and when Jiang Cheng ends the call a while later, his mood has significantly improved.

His phone makes a noise again. He looks at the screen, expecting a text from his sister with Lan Xichen’s address, but... Fuck. He unlocks the screen and stares at his daily Wei Wuxian selfie. Today he’s wearing a bathrobe so fluffy, it seems to swallow him, and he’s making… duck lips. Jiang Cheng’s mood plummets to the ground.

Why can’t he delete this stupid alarm or app or whatever his brother has infested his phone with? Why doesn’t he just change his fucking number, get a new phone? Why does Wei Wuxian keep up this nonsense, even though he’s obviously not interested in being in contact with Jiang Cheng anymore? Why torment him with these little glimpses into a life that he lives without his brother? The selfies don’t arrive at a set time every day and it’s a new one every time, so it’s pretty safe to say, Wei Wuxian takes them and sends them himself every day. They used to arrive between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m., but recently he sometimes gets them as early as 9 a.m. On one shocking occasion it was 6:45 a.m., though Wei Wuxian did look very sleepy. Since when does Wei Wuxian get up that early?

He also seems to be spending a lot of time at a place that is not the flat he moved into with the Wens. Not that Jiang Cheng spends a lot of time analyzing the background of the pictures. Because he does not care what Wei Wuxian gets up to. Wei Wuxian does not care about him anymore either, beyond annoying him like this.

Jiang Cheng shakes his head to make his brain stop thinking about useless things. Immediately, pain shoots down his arm, burns in his neck.

Fuck.

Maybe he should just go back to bed. Clearly getting up was a mistake.

Thursday

Lan Xichen lives on the outskirts of the city. Not quite the suburbs, but in one of those areas where rich people enjoy having a garden, or at least a balcony, and less busy streets, while the city centre is still only a few subway stops away. The kind of area where his own family once lived.

Jiang Cheng checks the house number again and rushes towards the building, wrapping his jacket closer around him. It is colder now, he’s known this and yet didn’t take that into account when getting dressed.

He enters the building, takes the elevator to the 2nd floor, finds the right door and rings the doorbell.

He doesn’t have to wait long until Lan Xichen opens him.

Oh.

“A-Sang… who… who is that next to your brother?”

“Huh? Aaah, that’s Lan Xichen. Da-ge’s best friend. Why do you ask?”

“No reason!”

“Oooooh, I see.”

“Shut up!”

“Well, now I finally know your type, Cheng-Cheng. You’re into impossibly beautiful people who you’re too scared to talk to.”

“I said shut up! I just asked who it was!”

“First Wen Qing, now Xichen-ge… But don’t worry, he’s super nice. Now, his brother on the other hand… So hot, but-“

“I’m leaving!”

Fuck.

“Hello! You must be Jiang Wanyin.”

Lan Xichen smiles at him and yep, yep, Huaisang was right, impossibly beautiful. Fuck.

Oh shit, he still hasn’t said anything.

“Ah yes, that’s me. Hello. Nice to meet you.” Jiang Cheng couldn’t be more awkward if he tried. Except he can, because then he bows, way too low.

Lan Xichen seems to be too polite to laugh at him, but his eyes sparkle as though he wants to, while he invites Jiang Cheng inside.

The apartment is large and bright and… full of plants. Lan Xichen leads him into the living room, where a pot of tea and two mugs are waiting for them on the coffee table. Jiang Cheng sits down on a very comfortable chair, next to a large houseplant with beautiful green and red leaves. All in all, the surroundings help him feel way more relaxed than what would be appropriate for the situation. The situation being: Sitting across from the man Jiang Cheng has seen maybe three times, back when he was 17, from afar, and whom he used to spend quite some time thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. More than three times. The same man who is supposed to give him a massage.

“Is tea alright? Would you prefer something else?”

“Tea is lovely, thank you.” Jiang Cheng hurries to take a sip and hopefully smiles instead of grimacing.

Lan Xichen picks up a notebook and a pen, rests it on his legs, then takes a deep breath. Despite his gentle smile, and the soothing smell of jasmine tea, and the literal urban jungle he’s sitting in, Jiang Cheng thinks he can pick up a hint of nervousness from Lan Xichen. But no, he must be imagining it.

Lan Xichen opens his notebook and looks at Jiang Cheng. “So, your sister already told me that you’ve been dealing with a little tension and stress. If you’re comfortable with it, I would like to ask you a few questions and make myself an overview of where you hold your tension and how it affects you, so we can think about how to best help you.”

Jiang Cheng only smiles and nods.

“This is only a preliminary meeting, so I already know how to best proceed, once we start our sessions.”

Lan Xichen asks him a few questions about his daily schedule (repetitive), whether he does any exercise (yes, well, sort of, sometimes), is he sleeping well (eeh), does he often have headaches (yes), and so on. Jiang Cheng answers as best as he can, and even though Lan Xichen shows no judgment at all, it is mortifying for him. His life is a mess and clearly he’s responsible for all of it. Why doesn’t he do more exercise? If he has headaches all the time, he should be doing something about that!

“Mhm, have you ever tried Yoga before?”

“No.”

“Can you touch your toes?”

“I don’t know? Why would I need to touch my toes?!” Jiang Cheng regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth but Lan Xichen only looks amused.

“Excellent question.” Lan Xichen puts the notepad he’s been using back down on the table and stands up. “Would it be okay if I touch your neck and shoulders to have a closer look at your tension?”

“Yes, yes. That’s alright. Sure.” Jiang Cheng puts down the mug and rests his hands on his knees, trying to project that he’s totally casual and relaxed and that he never spent even a minute wondering how those hands might feel on his skin. Why do these things happen to him? Why can’t he even nurse a schoolboy crush for a few months and then forget about it without suffering consequences???

Lan Xichen’s hands are warm, but not too warm. Perfect temperature for being touched, really. His fingers are long and smooth and it feels really good, the way they’re digging into his muscles and-

“Fuck!”

“Sorry. Looks like I found a sore spot.” Lan Xichen strokes his fingers in a soothing apology over the spot and that’s almost worse, because it feels really good.

“I, uhm, apologise for the… rude language.”

“Oh, haha, I’ve heard worse from clients. No need to hold back, I’m of the opinion that it can be beneficial to find release.”

“Right.” This is like one of Jiang Cheng’s dreams that starts out beautiful and turns into a horrible nightmare halfway through. Will he make it through this without horribly embarrassing himself even further and/or offending Lan Xichen in the process?

“You’re really... “ Lan Xichen runs his hands up Jiang Cheng’s neck and slightly presses his thumbs into a spot between his ear and his jaw. Jiang Cheng groans. “You’re very tense. In a lot of places. Do you grind your teeth at night? Or clench them?”

“Maybe?”

Lan Xichen rests his hands on Jiang Cheng’s shoulders for a second, then sits down opposite of him again. Jiang Cheng immediately misses the warmth of his hands, which is ridiculous and he needs to get a grip.

“Alright, well, I think for the beginning we will be focusing on relaxing and loosening your muscles. So, massage, thermotherapy, some gentle stretches. I’ll also help you find things you can do at home to destress and relieve tension. Does that sound good?”

“Uhm, yes. It does.” Jiang Cheng kind of tuned out after Lan Xichen said ‘massage’, because… He has this dreadful feeling his schoolboy crush never went away and instead just laid dormant until right now. Which is so fucking inconvenient, of course it’s happening to Jiang Cheng. “Thank you, Lan-ge… uhm… Lan Xichen.”

How should he address him? Apparently, he’s sort of a family friend (Where and why did Jiejie even meet him? Why didn’t he ask?) but now he’s also taking care of Jiang Cheng in a professional, sort of medical sense...

Lan Xichen is, of course, not oblivious to his discomfort, but smiles and pours him some more tea. “Whatever you feel comfortable with. Laoshi is fine, too.”

Lan Xichen then goes through a few formalities with him. He informs him he’s being paid per session, not by the hour, so they’ll never have to hurry. They exchange phone numbers, in case someone needs to reschedule or Lan Xichen wants to send him some exercises or something. Jiang Cheng only smiles and nods and agrees. When Lan Xichen proposes they have the first session tomorrow afternoon, Jiang Cheng smiles and nods, too.

After, Lan Xichen escorts him to the door, wishes him a lovely evening, says he’s looking forward to their sessions and Jiang Cheng should remember to wear something comfortable. When he smiles again, Jiang Cheng almost walks into the door.

As soon as Jiang Cheng arrives home, he calls his sister.

“A-Cheng! How was it?”

“Uhm, fine, but that’s not why-”

“He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

“I… what? Why… why would you bring that up?” Jiang Cheng gives his phone a side-eye, even though his sister can’t see it.

“Well, it’s impossible to not notice. And he has such a lovely personality, too.” Jiang Yanli says this as casually as though she’s talking about the weather.

“Yes… I guess.” While both of those things are true, it’s unlike his sister to bring it up. Or at least, to bring it up so quickly and directly. “Jiejie, how do you know Lan Xichen again? Where did you meet?”

“Oh… he came over for tea recently.”

“And why did he do that?”

“Because I invited him.”

Well, his sister clearly is keeping something from him, something connected to his old-new crush and physical therapist and Jiang Cheng hates not being in the know when other people are clearly keeping secrets from him.

“How did you meet him? Why did you invite him? Why do you not want to tell me?”

“A-Cheng…”

Oh, of course. “Wei Wuxian.”

Jiang Yanli sighs audibly, probably frowning in the way she always does when they skirt around the topic of him and Wei Wuxian not talking. “Yes. Lan Xichen is-”

“I don’t want to know!” Of course this has something to do with Wei Wuxian. Because he can’t have anything in his life without Wei Wuxian. Are they… they’re not dating or anything, right? That would just be… actually that would be fucking typical.

“Jiang Cheng!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Is his sister… getting cross with him???

“I just… he misses you.”

“Yeah? I don’t see any evidence of that!” His headache is back with a vengeance.

“Because you’re not looking. Because you’ve convinced yourself he doesn’t!” It’s rare for Jiang Yanli to raise her voice, and compared to Jiang Cheng, she still sounds gentle. But he can hear her frustration, hear how tiring this is for her, and… He sometimes forgets he and Wei Wuxian aren’t the only people who are involved in this. Who suffer.

“Then why doesn’t he call me? He obviously still has my number!”

“Why don’t you call him?”

Because he doesn’t want to call someone who doesn’t want him. Because he doesn’t want Wei Wuxian to come back because he feels pity or obligation. Because he’s scared Wei Wuxian would still not come back.

“He’s the one who left.”

“It’s been over a year. Can’t you… I’m so tired of holding louder than normal conversations with my husband in the kitchen while one of you is in the living room, so you know the other is okay without actually asking for it.”

“A-jie, I’m sorry. I didn’t know… I… It’s just… “ Great, now Jiang Cheng feels mad at Wei Wuxian, guilty for upsetting his sister, who should never be upset, and sad… because he misses his stupid brother, doesn’t he.

“I can’t force either of you to make the first step, but… you’re both suffering. A-Cheng, I just want you both to be happy.” Now she just sounds resigned. Fuck.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll think about it. I promise.” If only because his sister deserves better than this - being stuck in the middle between them.

“Thank you. I love you, A-Cheng.”

“… Love you, too.”

“Now, tell me about your meeting today. Did you already get a massage?”

Right. Lan Xichen. “Jiejie… is Wei Wuxian dating Lan Xichen?”

Jiang Yanli laughs. “No. No, no. He’s dating his brother. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worrying! Just… wanted to know how you met.”

“He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

“Stop asking that! That’s not why I… you know what, I have to go. I have… university… stuff. Talk to you later!”

“Bye!”

He can hear his sister still laughing when he ends the call. Mortifying. Why did he have to ask?

Wei Wuxian is dating Lan Xichen’s brother… That’s… Why is the world so fucking tiny? He couldn’t have picked anyone else?

Not that it matters. It’s not like Jiang Cheng was ever gonna do anything about… Lan Xichen is attractive and nice and lovely, which is simply a fact. Like his sister said, it’s impossible to not notice. Doesn’t have to mean anything. Jiang Cheng will only concentrate on… being less tense and maybe having fewer headaches.

And maybe… thinking… about… contacting Wei Wuxian…

“He misses you.”

Jiang Cheng is not convinced.

But…

[watchtower-feed]

Platonic or Three

Anon: ... the reader who usually wears baggy clothes, just because they’re comfy (who is dating both older!Jaime and older!Bart) is actually wearing a black bikini... Notes: I love love love OT3s. I can’t believe I’ve only written one now. Words: 1,561

     You joined the team near the end of Autumn when the biting cold was fast approaching and your body is ill-equipped for such weather. So when you walked through the Zeta tube, your teammates thought you looked like a burrito.

     But they’re a great group of young heroes and you quickly adjust and fit in seamlessly. The first month was even filled with you deftly avoiding Bart’s advances. The moment you first laughed out loud at one of his jokes, he fell for you on the spot. He never knew someone in your line of work could be so carefree and in the moment, even when you’re knee-deep in Clayface sludge and sinking inch by inch.

     Bart tried the upfront approach and you definitely gave him a run for his money. You’re just new. You know relationships can make or break friendship groups and you don’t even want to know what it could do to the team.

     So he goes to his best friend Jaime, whining and asking for help. Telling him about you and how the littlest things he sees you do makes his heart skip. Even the way you slice pizza and place it on a napkin before you eat it, has his heart thundering.

     Jaime rolls his eyes and lets the scarab have a field day on insulting Bart. But because of stupid Bart, halfway through Winter Jaime starts seeing you too. He can’t help but turn to you at the sign of the smallest movement. The more he watches you, the more his heart is sinking into the same pit.

     “This is all your fault, amigo!”

     “Me? I didn’t tell you to start liking my girlfriend!”

     Jaime chuckles mockingly, “First of all, Y/N is not your girlfriend. Second,” he glares at Bart and yells at him, “This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t keep talking to me about her!”

     The yelling is so loud. As you cover your ears with your hands, you wonder if they’ve forgotten that they’re fighting in the sparring room during actual training hours. Team training hours.

     Dick mutes them and he and Artemis turn to you while grinning. After constantly refusing their invitations into the League and the rest of their batch members have moved on, they’ve been handling the team a few years before you joined.

     “What?” you ask wearily, scared of whatever they may say next.

     “So,” Artemis starts, “Who’s it going to be?”

     You stare at them dumbfounded. You turn to your teammates for help but you’re met with similar grins and curiously raised brows. “What do you mean?”

     Dick chuckles as he walks over to you and places an arm around your shoulder. “Who are you going to choose?”

     “Bart or Jaime?”

     “Because this has to stop.”

     You stare through the glass where Jaime is shooting lasers at Bart who keeps appearing and disappearing in random spots, more like teleporting than speeding around. You can still feel the curious gazes around you and honestly, this has gone on for too long.

     Bart was obvious and Jaime is terrible at hiding the fact that he stares at you. You knew you’d have to choose one of these days, you just hope they’ll agree with you and you won’t regret this.

     You push away Dick’s arm and go through your teammates to enter the sparring room. You can already tell how closely they’re peering in from the other side of the glass.

     Bart and Jaime immediately stop when they see you. You keep walking straight ahead, toward Bart. You grab his collar and kiss him on the lips. His face goes red in an instant and you can hear the electricity on his skin.

     You pull away and turn to Jaime who’s frowning at the floor. You cup his face and tilt his head up to kiss him on the lips. Jaime’s eyes widen but he quickly melts into the shape of your mouth. When you pull away, he has a dreamy look on his face.

     Just as suddenly, he shakes his head and stares at Bart’s stunned expression. Before they could say anything, your declaration has to be made. “Either we make this work, the three of us, or we stay friends, and you have to stop with the advances,” you point at Bart, then at Jaime, “and the staring.”

     “I can deal with that,” Bart quickly answers, surprising you and Jaime.

     Jaime proved to be a lot harder to convince. He grew up in a more traditional household and Bart is… well, he’s from the future. He’s seen more than the two of you and to him. This is a straightforward arrangement.

     Bart tries to reason with him, “It’s an easy equation, amigo--”

     “Don’t say that.”

     “Platonic relationships or a relationship of three,” Jaime still won’t look at him so Bart speeds to his left, putting his arm over his shoulder, “Let me simplify this for you, either you want Y/N or not at all.”

     Jaime glares at Bart and the speedster only raises his eyebrows at him. “How does this come easy for you?” 

     “I like Y/N. It’s as simple as that.” Bart shrugs. “You’re also my best friend. If I ever had to share my girl with anyone, I’m glad it’s you.” Jaime gives it some thought and almost sighs in resignation but Bart leans in and smirks at him, “Plus, she kissed me first.”

     Scarab instinctively powers up and Jaime starts shooting lasers after Bart.

     “Hey!” Dick yells out fruitlessly.

     Artemis jumps down from the second floor and lands expertly on where Bart was going to speed to next. She then throws an escrima stick at Jaime’s laser. “You’re already working off one window. Don’t make it two!”

     You chuckle from the second floor as you watch in amusement and fondness.

     Springtime came and you’re happy to finally lose some layers. T-shirts twice your size and baggy pants were definitely the way to go. They’re even more comfortable when your legs are draped over Jaime’s lap and he massages your thighs.

     “Seriously, Y/N. You have powers. You don’t need to push yourself so hard when working out. You’re going to pull something, princesa.”

     You hate it when he calls you that because Jaime thinks you’ve been spoiled. And truth be told you have. Once Jaime was on board, you’ve been getting more attention than you can handle from both of them.

     The first few weeks were full of honeymoon bliss but it was a nightmare on the mission. The three of you were having a hard time prioritizing orders over your gut feeling to stick together. In the end, Dick and Artemis kept the three of you on different teams just to force you to get used to it.

     This only intensified all the touching, kissing, and moaning when you got back to base. You lock yourselves up in your room, the neutral zone, and Bart and Jaime fight for every patch of your skin.

     There was a time when they tried it, kissing each other. It was awkward and weird and they immediately regretted it. Instead, they focused all their attention on you. You, their spoiled princesa.

     Bart suddenly appears in front of you, holding two DVDs, “So which one’s it going to be? ‘Easy A’ or ‘She’s the Man’?” Jaime groans as you excitedly point at She’s the Man. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He leans down and gives you a peck on your cheek before he sets up the TV.

     Yep. Definitely spoiled.

     Summer is finally here and you can finally bask under the sun with as little clothing as possible. Your powers let you manipulate the light around you, rendering you and others invisible or eye-blindingly illuminated. But your powers feed on your body heat so you suffer through layers upon layers of clothing to conserve it.

     But Summer is all about the natural heat. The sun. The beaches. 

     Young Justice has an annual party to commemorate the team’s anniversary. Near the old cave, there’s a private beach where everyone can feel safe in their own skin. And Bart and Jaime are about to find out that applies to you more than anyone.

     Everyone’s already hitting the water and splashing each other when you’ve finished lathering your body in sunscreen, and there’s a lot to cover. The moment you step out of the bioship and under the sun, you let out some of your body heat and illuminate yourself.

     If that wasn’t enough, then the matte black bikini hugging your curves definitely stole Bart and Jaime’s attention and made their jaws drop to the sand. Some of the team members wolf-whistled as you swayed your hips in glee, finally free from the layers.

     The boys didn’t even bother glaring at them. Before Bart could react, the scarab zaps his foot and Jaime jogs toward you, reaching you first.

     “Y/N, you-- you look--!”

     “Hot! Ha! I said it first!”

     They glare at each other but quickly look back at you because they couldn’t stop staring at all the skin. Sure they’ve seen every inch of it in the privacy of your room but seeing it now, bright, illuminated, under the sun, it’s mesmerizing. It’s--

     “Beautiful,” Bart and Jaime say at the same time.

     You giggle and loop your arms through theirs. “Let’s make this summer a great one!”

✧ Watchtower Masterlist ✧      

[turquoise-stones]

Umbrella Pt. 2

Bakugou x fem!reader

Anonymous said:

can i rq for a part 2 for the umbrella fanfic of bakugou? i really love your writings!!

A/N: Sure! Just a little warning though, I wrote Umbrella about 2 years ago (and it was one of my first one-shots ever or maybe my actual first) so my style is a bit different now. I hope it’s not too noticeable (or at least it’s better!) 

You don’t have to read the first one to read this one, but it does give context. Here it is. 

Also, this isn’t a songfic, but listen to the music for maximum feels.

. . .

There was nothing worse than rain in the winter. Unlike the warm rain of the summer or the cleansing rain of autumn, winter rain fell in never-ending icy sheets.

Much like the sudden onslaught of heavy rains, class 1-A was suffering from a change in tone as well. It had only been a couple of weeks since Bakugou Katsuki had been kidnapped from the training grounds, and while he came back unscathed, the fear and paranoia he brought back with him stuck. The thought that villains could invade supposedly “safe” places whenever they wanted, and kidnap even the strongest of students, loomed over everyone’s heads. 

You let out a loud sigh, packing away your gym clothes and preparing to go home. The one good part about the rain was the fact that you were staying later at school and training more. You could watch the sunset too, and empty wet buses are always better than crowded wet buses.

You walked swiftly to the main entrance, thinking of the root of your worries: Bakugou. Even if he acted tough, he was still human, and humans don’t just walk away from a kidnapping completely fine. The changes were subtle but there: he trained harder than before, was a bit jumpier when you caught him by surprise. You had always considered him this impenetrable force of nature, but sometimes you forgot, sometimes everyone forgot, that he was still just a teenager.

Standing under the overhang, you pushed rustled out your umbrella, still wet from use this morning. You clicked open and stepped out into the soaked gray world. Water beat mercilessly down for a split second as you slipped under the curtain of water streaming down the roof, before turning into a lighter drumming. You shivered as wind whipped through your clothing, misting your face in rain. It really was freezing outside. 

You didn’t even know why you were so worried for him. One would think that they would fear their own safety first, but maybe that just wasn’t in your nature. You just cared for him and you couldn’t help it. The two of you weren’t lovers, in fact, you wouldn’t even count yourself among his close friends, yet you just cared for him. 

The closest spark of romance between you two was that time months ago when he had kept you safe from the rain, and while the rain was much more pleasant that day than it was now, your thoughts still traveled back to that moment. Even though nothing came from it, it was still the sweetest display of care that you had seen from him since. At the very least, you never forgot your umbrella again.

You glanced left and right down the long deserted sidewalks to cross the street, but paused when you noticed a bright splotch of red through the blurry rain. It was many streets down, and you could barely make out the small blonde tuft. He was just standing there, still.

Your heart skipped a beat, feeling a little uneasy. Perhaps you were just unused to seeing him calm, but he just looked so sad and lonely, all alone. Despite the biting winds and your desire to get home, you felt compelled to stray from your path and go comfort him. As you veered off the main road, you found yourself clumsily dodging more and more puddles as the sidewalk became less and less smooth. Rain ran downhill from you, kicking up at the fronts of your shoes and flowing in a sheet down. He spotted your brightly colored umbrella bobbling towards him, and he watched with amusement as your rain slicked form tottered into view. 

As you got closer you realized that he was standing in a park, or more like a small patch of grass scarcely large enough to house a swing set. And as you crossed the street to him, you realized that he was actually looking at the far more impressive view of the city below, sparkling with wet golden light. Panting slightly from the uphill climb, you finally reached him.

“Bakugou! What are you doing up here?” You called.

“I could ask you the same, (y/n).”

“What?” You made your way closer, as the drumming of rain on your umbrella seemed to drown out all sound.

“Why’re you here?” He asked, much louder. You flinched at the harsh tone but understood that that was just what Bakugou’s normal voice sounded like. Somehow, he wasn’t nearly as wet as you were, and was remarkably just in a t-shirt and sweats, while you were bundled up in a thick jacket.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay!” You said, reaching a point where the two of you couldn’t get any closer because your umbrellas were bumping.

“Of course I’m okay why wouldn’t I be.” He grumbled.

“Well I didn’t think you were the type to just stare at pretty views, so of course I got worried.”

“I can stare at whatever I damn so please.”

You were about to drop the subject, but you remembered the small changes in his demeanor over the past couple weeks, and decided to press him more.

“You don’t have to act tough around me okay?.”

His lips curled and he stepped away a bit, and you were afraid that you went too far. 

“Who said I’m acting?!”

You gave him a pointed look and he let out an angry huff, looking to the side and biting at his lip.

“C’mon Bakugou… you can talk to me.”

He frowned, before muttering something you couldn’t quite hear. 

“Say that again?” You asked, trying to move closer but the jostling of the umbrellas merely flicked water in your face.

“Nothing. Just… What's said here stays here okay?”

You smiled warmly at him, happy that he was allowing himself to open up. The smile quickly vanished when a brutally cold gust of wind flew by you. Bakugou and his hot quirk didn’t seem to be all too affected. He seemed to think for a moment, parsing through his feelings before forming words.

“I guess… I guess I feel like I need to appreciate this more.” The tips of his ears were starting to turn red. He didn’t understand why in the world he was admitting this to you, but you were the first person to genuinely ask him like that. 

“What’s ‘this’?”

“Like the world and stuff.” He huffed, gesturing vaguely at the wet streets, embarrassed that you were making him explain more. 

“Yes, the world is lovely.” You said patiently, not quite understanding.

“Cause what if they killed me? I mean it’s not like they could have. But what if they did?”

“Then you wouldn’t be able to treasure pretty things anymore.” You finished sadly for him.

“Yeah.”

He turned away from you to look down at the city again, face finally looking a bit more relaxed. You let him collect his thoughts for a moment.

“Were you scared?”

He narrowed his eyes at you and you thought for sure he was going to yell at you for even suggesting it. But his answer surprised you.

“Of course I was fucking scared. I thought they would torture me for information or some shit.”

In the many months that you had known him, you had never heard Bakugou outright admit something like that. 

“Like yeah I attacked them, but that’s only cause I knew that was my only chance. If I didn’t fight they would tie me back up and probably kill me. And… and if fucking Deku didn’t come I would have lost.” He let out a loud groan, obviously upset that he had to be rescued. “Fuck.”

You let out a noise of concern, reaching out to touch his arm.

“It’s… I’m…” He struggled for the word, the frustration building back onto his face. His eyes were starting to get glassy and he was practically shaking in frustration. “I’m weak. Fuck… I’m so damn weak.”

“Bakugou no you’re not.” 

You pulled your umbrella closed and dropped it on the ground with a clack, before stepping forward to give him a big hug. He jolted back in surprise, almost dislodging you. 

“You aren’t weak. All this shows is that you’re not invincible.”

“But-”

“Stop it. One defeat doesn’t mean you aren’t strong. You accessed the situation and fought because that was the best solution. You fought even though you knew you would lose, because you had to. You decided to go down taking as many villains as you could with you, instead of just accepting defeat. And if that’s not heroic… then I don’t know what is.” You murmured, voice softer now that you were close enough.

“Don’t… don’t say that…”

You patted his back soothingly as his arms gripped your back, pulling you closer away from the rain. His unsteady breath ghosted over your ear.

“Why not? I believe it.”

“I don’t… I don’t want your pity.” He choked out, starting to shake. “I-I’m…”

“Shh… shh…” You cooed gently. “Let it all out.”

“I-I don’t…”

You hummed lightly as he squeezed you tight, his shoulders shaking as warm tears fell into your hair. 

“It must be hard… right? Pretending that everything is okay all the time?”

He only sobbed harder, and it pained you to know that he had been holding these fears in for weeks.

“It’s alright… you’re alright. We can stay here as long as you need.”

As you looked over his shoulder at the rain blotched city, you realized that you weren’t cold anymore. All that mattered was you and him, tucked away together in the washed away world.

[uwua3]

family.

🌸🌷 sakuma sakuya

summary: sakuya remembers when the dorms were silent, but he never wants to go back to that time ever again

dedication: written for my friends in the golden gays discord server. i love you all ♡

warnings: anxiety, family trauma, the future

author’s note: hi!!! this is the first writing piece i’ve published~ sorry for the delay; school kept me busy for so long! i hope you love it as much as i love my great friends!

i wanted to reflect on sakuya’s deep fear of being alone again that stemmed from an absent household. i believe there is power in reclaiming yourself from people who took advantage of you and doing your best for the people who love you ♡ this is a tribute to everyone who decided they wouldn’t be held back anymore at the expense of their families and found happiness in friends!

word count: 1,702

music: to die for – sam smith

Celebrations were being held inside the Mankai Company dorms as the four troupes partied, laughing about the Winter Troupe’s latest success against the God Troupe and effectively paying off the theatre’s debt. Stepping out into the courtyard, Sakuma Sakuya escaped the loud and irresponsible shenanigans that could only ensue between 20 boys with a quiet sigh of relief. The glass door closed behind him as the noise faded into the background. Unfortunately, the sound of something breaking and frantic screaming became a normal occurrence in the dorms. Leaning against the building’s brick exterior, Sakuya pushed his hands in his hoodie pockets before realizing he wore the same clothes at his Mankai auditions almost a year ago. The printed “SPRING” words across his chest was closest to his heart, making him subconsciously smile at the thought of his troupe members.

His Spring Troupe members... Sakuya could vividly recall meeting each and every single of them for the first time. Each one of them, at completely different parts of life, and they all found each other to be the start of something absolutely life–changing. Sakuya basked in the warmth of his fondness for his boys despite the cold frost solidifying his breath in the thin air. Yet, it didn’t feel like it was a winter dusk underneath the full moon. Sakuya swore he opened his eyes and was embraced by the spring warmth of blooming cherry blossoms above his head as he practiced by Hana High’s river with the Romeo & Julius script gripped in his hand. Sakuma Sakuya felt the same as he did right before his first performance as leader of the Spring Troupe: completely, and utterly, happy.

Masumi was Sakuya’s right hand man no matter what, where his harsh criticism and natural talent influenced all of them to become a troupe worthy of a sold out show. Tsuzuru’s persistence and unrelenting drive to be the best playwright possible inspired Sakuya to work even harder to expand his range of abilities. Citron’s perseverance and unwavering spirit that defined his charisma made Sakuya laugh into the night, reminiscing on Citron’s faulty Japanese that somehow got pulled all together to recite his otherworldly stories way past bedtime. Even Itaru’s rocky transition into acting was monumental, where it’s like the spark that died in the adult’s eyes was ignited back to life, like a firecracker in a summer festival. At the thought of summer, which led to Summer Troupe, then Autumn and Winter, Sakuya became overwhelmed with the thought of his friends, the boys he would do anything for just right behind him. Never in his life, did Sakuya ever fathom he could feel this happy. But, did he deserve them?

It was enough to make Sakuya suddenly cry alone, outside in the freezing cold as the rambunctious bunch continued celebrating into the hours of the next day. At first, a single drop fell from his eye and before he knew it, it was an onslaught of a repressed emotion he had to hide as the first Mankai company leader: fear. Dropping to a crouching position, Sakuya attempted to muffle his cries as he hid his face in his arms, pretending like it was the comfort of a beloved family member. Yet, no particular face came to mind. It was a blurry, distorted mixture of everyone who has ever abandoned him.

Nothing was permanent, if Sakuya learned anything from his family. He almost pushed out the feeling of that cold house but it came back in the form of his turbulent childhood, living to please and seeking to serve in any way possible as he was taken advantage of senselessly. You’d think after all that, he would know to disguise his true feelings and thoughts with his quick acting impulse, but Sakuya was just as naive as before. Sakuya was so honest in his face, his expressions betraying his intentions. Like right now, where his theatre company members were having the time of their lives together, without him.

How awful of him to be so sad on a night of fun and new beginnings! Sakuya sniffled as he roughly rubbed his eyes, muttering comforting lies to no avail. He was being selfish... maybe, he was really crying because Sakuya knew deep down he didn’t deserve any of this. The spring glow faded away as Sakuya opened his eyes again only to face the snowy scape of the courtyard. The gray stone was slippery with ice as the salt was scattered under his feet. At the center of it all, the building’s massive tree was rustling with the wind. Sakuya’s tears froze in their tracks as he exhaled, his body shaking as his thoughts ran a mile a minute. It didn’t feel like time existed in that moment, like the world stopped as he endured years of suffering and guilt in that very moment.

But, the world didn’t stop for anybody. In fact, for a moment, it sounded like the bubbly and catchy J-Pop blasting from Kazunari’s modern smartphone sounded even louder. It’s as if his ears became heightened to notice the amplified sound of the expensive alcohol Azuma swindled out of his eager customers spilling into multiple glasses. Sakuya heard the sizzling of the frying pan as Omi was feeding the peanut gallery, even Banri’s exaggerated mockery of Juza’s excitement for the desserts Tenma received as a gift from his newest movie set. Sakuya could envision it now: Taichi impressing Misumi with making triangular origami and enjoying the amazed grin on the latter’s innocent face, Muku & Yuki doing their schoolwork at the sofa before Yuki started cursing out the puppy pair for screaming, even the Winter troupe’s quiet disbelief but immense pride amongst themselves. Sakuya knew, for once, Hisoka wasn’t taking a nap. That’s how electric the energy was throughout the room. The party was in full swing, Sakuya even caught out of the corner of his eye Director and Sakyo sharing an intimate moment before it was ruined by the Director’s spices rant. Thank god Kamekichi and the manager didn’t hear it, or else a very sad Matsukawa would be paying a hefty sum to the scheming parrot.

Maybe he would vocally never admit it, but Sakuya felt himself turn as pink as the sakura petals that led him to a flyer for the Mankai tryouts. Sakuya felt the same as that moment: like he was staring into the face of his destiny. Sakuya pushed himself off the ground, catching his own mind off guard before it morphed into a phase of curiousity, like even his own brain couldn’t have any idea what could come next. Sakuya faced the moonlight shining upon him, like the stage spotlight he couldn’t wait to be underneath again. Sakuya could almost see the future in the clear surface.

Sakuya could see the next Spring Troupe play. The fantasy elements, the strong message of friendship, and the bond between him and his boys growing like the cherry blossoms. They would take a bow together in front of a standing ovation, where they’d celebrate by having a hanami picnic beneath the petals as they sat in the crowded park. They’d share their favorite parts and sleep that night on stage, just like the old times. He could imagine the spring nostalgia shifting into an exhilarating summer heat, even hearing the sound of traditional drums and booth workers advertising their games cutting the night air as chatters of his friends enveloped him in the best place possible to see the fireworks. The hot, humid summer would become a chilly and spooky autumn where they’d all have cool costumes and a competition to see who could trick & treat the most candy that night. It would move into the frigid but festive winter, as Secret Santa became too complex in a group of 20 as they would decorate the dorms to look like a Christmas bomb exploded. No matter what season it was, Sakuya knew they’d pull off whatever they put their heads to. The cycle would repeat another year. That was enough for now.

Sakuya stopped crying. There was nothing to be sad about; how could he when his true family was inside? Turning on his heel, Sakuya felt the warmth against his face as he opened the glass door to the cheers of his fellow Mankai members. He was right; Kazunari was DJ-ing with glowing cat ear headphones at the kitchen counter as he pushed the mic to his mouth with a wide, infectious grin.

“Just in time! Sakuma Sakuya, everybody! Everyone give it up for Mankai’s first member and leader ever!”

The room cheered even louder, pushing Sakuya into the group celebration as Yuki jokingly got on his case for letting the cold air in. But even then, Yuki’s smile reached his eyes as Sakuya took in everyone finally went quiet, waiting for his speech. They all looked towards him for guidance, for words of wisdom, something to remember for the rest of their lives. Then, it clicked. Sakuya hugged himself, the distorted face in his mind suddenly becoming 20. This was his family.

This home was warm. It was filled with endless, unconditional love & support. No hurtful judgement or prejudices, not even serious scorn for one another despite Juza and Banri & Sakyo and Yuki’s petty arguments. This was what family is: love, no matter what. Sakuya loved his brothers, his Mankai boys and his favorite Director. That was enough. They’re family.

Whether it was due to the sudden embarrassing attention or the quick beating of his resurrected heart, Sakuya smiled as he stood up on the coffee table, ignoring Sakyo’s comment about how they didn’t have the budget to fund a hospital visit if he fell. Picking up an opened soda can besides his feet, Sakuya lifted the discarded drink in the air as everyone mimicked his actions like it was a professional banquet. With absolute pure joy in his voice, Sakuya felt the tears threatening to pour from his eyes but for a completely different reason. They are happy, he is happy.

“To Mankai!”

“To Mankai!” The room chorused back with just as much love, and would do so for many, many more years.

[highgaarden]

7+57+67 sounds like an interesting mix for one fic for the great if u could 🥺🥺

as a special treat for reading this, you are all allowed to suspend your disbelief for extra enjoyment. 

prompt: peter/catherine + “a kiss for good luck?” + “i’m tired, just cuddle me.” + “is that my shirt?”

green was the grass;

The Swedes decide to visit one summer that could only be described as vividly sweltering. Hugo and Peter spend long afternoons yelling ‘rabbit’ and shooting at nothing; Agnes and Catherine take a turn about her private library, commenting on this title or that. Their first ever royal couple friends bring along with them dogs and cats and acrobats; hallon and körsbär and jordgubbar; theatre and art and a brand new printing press of the latest model.

Peter presents the grand appetizers of their summer dinner: pan-seared foie gras spelling out KING HUGO, and a relatively smaller queenagnes. Hugo giggles in glee.

Hugo takes an immense liking to smash bottles. Agnes kisses his ball before he swings it back - all but three of his bottles go down.

Two turns later Peter gets the same idea. He rushes to Catherine, who looks bewildered to have been pulled out of her commentary with Orlo. With unpracticed swiftness Peter pulls her up to him and presses a kiss to her lips.

“For luck,” he says when he pulls back. He has the temerity to wink at her.

Catherine wills her fingers not to to graze the spot  on her lips that Peter had touched with his.

&

The days continue.

The days get cooler.

On the first day of autumn Hugo and Agnes leave in a crash and bang of fireworks that Peter had insisted on. Many of the court suffered singed wigs for that night, all but Peter, who had pulled Orlo in front of his line of fire.

Hugo’s brilliant smile had dimmed somewhat by the time he climbed into his carriage, but all in all it was a pretty good visit.

And finally, there is peace and quiet in the court.

More importantly there is a tree on the edge of the vast greens that Catherine has a particular fondness for. It reaches up into the sky with the vigour of a child excited for first snowfall. In the winter it looks especially  dashing, and she used to enjoy imagining it in battle-weary uniform, finally come to take her away from this madness.

Now she mostly comes here to read the days away when her study feels too stifling. Back home she always had the run of the garden whenever she had a new book; mother knew well enough to leave her lunch on the little table father had set up just for her, and she would lay nestled in the roots of their great oak tree, turning pages with enraptured focus.

She cannot quite tether her joy the same way anymore, not since coming here. But it remains a pleasant respite. For once, she does not have to think about anything more pressing than the new tome Volti - as she had come to calling him as well much to Peter’s delight - had written. He had sent it to her with nothing but a little caricature of his wink scrawled on the cover, that French fuck.

She is barely a quarter way through when she hears the sound of panting and leaves breaking underfoot. She shifts under the blanket she’d brought along and tries to peer behind the thick trunk of the tree. Craning her neck, she sees nothing.

Someone taps on her shoulder, and she screams.

“Wife!” Peter yelps back.

“What are you doing here!” she splutters. In my sanctuary, she adds, silently dismayed.

“I run here,” Peter says too casually.

“You run in the woods on the north of the palace,” she accuses.

Peter shifts his gaze to the leaves overhead. “I have decided to try a new route.”

“This path is utterly uninteresting for a run.”

“I dare not say the same. It led me to you, did it not?”

Catherine falls silent, struck.

“I suppose you will be on your way now,” she prompts once she finds her voice. She looks pointedly down at her book, barely broken in.

“Oh, is that the new Volti?” Peter asks with interest, and with no invitation whatsoever crawls into the space her blanket allowed and grabs the the note Volti had written, slipped from the middle of the book, from her hand.

“Interesting,” Peter muses.

“You’re studying the diagram upside down.”

Unperturbed Peter just flips the note over and nods as if impressed. “Even more so!”

Catherine chuckles. “You are ridiculous, husband.”

“ You are the ridiculous one, isolating yourself on such a beautifully orange morning.”

“Perhaps I wanted the solitude.” Her lips twitch. “The quiet.”

“Do you not want for company?” Peter asks, a little too quickly to be feigned as glibness.

Catherine looks at him closer. “Do you?”

Peter just huffs. “I am tired and cold from my run. Shift over so the blanket covers both of us properly, thank you very much.”

Their knees knock together. The blanket was barely big enough to cover one person, let alone two. She has to practically sit between Peter’s legs. It didn’t occur to her that maybe she could have just let Peter have the whole blanket, it was not that col--

Peter’s breath ghosts her ear and she gives a full bodied shiver.

Forget it, it was cold alright.

Peter clears his throat and solemnly announces, “ Results of the execution of Jean Calas.”

Catherine hides her smile as Peter attempts to read what must be to him ancient Latin. She rests her chin on his shoulder as she reads with him, and every so often laughs when Peter says something stupid like, “I don’t know about you, but Volti’s hair seemed a little phallic on his last visit, did it not?”

“Just turn the page,” she says instead of confirming her agreement.

&

At the end of Winter it starts to heat up miraculously quickly. Everyone rejoices, and Peter demands a bonfire. The fire does not survive as long as everyone wants with the ground still so damp from melting snow still, but does its job in cheering the court.

Perhaps too good a job, because with the screens to bear the harsh cold of their winter still secured to the windows, it became an obstacle for the sudden heat spell and for Catherine, who was trying to adjust to the sudden warmth of the night.

It was odd: all winter she’d longed for a burst of heat, for her bed to be placed right next to the fireplace. Her night gown was not suited for the occasion: all at once it seemed too thick, too long. She huffs out in frustration as it becomes clear she won’t be able to sleep until she’s cooled.

She wishes for the thigh-grazing hems of Peter’s breezy tunics.

Her mind made up, she creeps her way down the hall and turns corners until she finds Peter’s quarters. He is sleeping soundly which she is grateful for, and makes her way as quietly as possible to his wardrobe. It is a little deeper than expected, perhaps put away to make space for the thicker clothes this winter demanded, but she finds what she is looking for. Shucking her nightdress quickly in favour of her husband’s shirt, she sighs when the cool material skims the skin over her shoulders, her stomach. She is comfortable in an instant.

In fact, Peter’s room was a lot cooler than hers. She frowns and goes to investigate.

Her eyes land immediately on the gash in the screen of his windows. The obvious tool for the crime was in an axe lying on the floor amongst splinters. Had he really smashed his screen in, in a fit of rage? Was she really all that surprised?

Not really.

At any rate, it isn’t fair that he gets to sleep in comfort while she absolutely writhed in the heat - in her lack of sleep she may have, perhaps, exaggerated the details a little.

Peter wakes immediately when she clambers into bed beside him, dipping her toes into his bed which is devoid of any warming pans. Of course. She had forgotten about them, too used to them by now to think anything out of the ordinary.

“Mmm,” Catherine sighs contentedly as she burrows herself deeper into the covers.

“I see you are reaping the benefits of my hard work,” Peter smirks. “You are lucky I have just learned that intolerance is humanly unlawful, so I suppose you may stay.”

“You suppose,” Catherine coos mockingly, and Peter blinks in her change of demeanour. He remembers distractedly that she had received word from home today. She is always extra bouncy whenever that happens. He wonders if her father had sent her any trinkets like last time, when he’d found her turning a little chess piece in her hands over and over again, her eyes sombre.

Peter decides to say nothing about it lest he break whatever spell she is in, but does tug his share of the blanket back to his side. He had not been exaggerating earlier; Catherine was hogging the sheets and he did not abide that.

Catherine rolls her eyes and relinquishes her grip on his blanket, and Peter stumbles once again.

“What are you wearing?” he asks dumbly.

“A tunic.” She sniffs. “It is objectively unjust how men have far more liberating choice in clothes.”

The candles that usually lit his brain had all gone out at the same time.

“I petition for you to decree corsets unnecessary for the coming spring and summer.” She leans in conspiratorially. “It would be most progressive.”

“Indeed,” he repeats, not understanding one bit. “Shall we - shall we get to writing?”

“In the morning,” Catherine says, satisfied. “For now let’s sleep so spring comes faster.”

Peter nods. Their thighs press together. He smells her hair. They fall asleep.

&

On the first day of spring he finds Catherine waiting for him at breakfast, standing in the first rays of sun, haloing her hazy silhouette her hazy silhouette revealing the natural shape of her body. She turns and grins at him.

When he reaches for her cheek, she lets him.

leave me prompts from here  + i’ll write something for you!

[secretlyatargaryen]

I'm really, really tired of Tyrion haters getting up in arms about his thought about how Sansa's grief made her "more beautiful” like it’s somehow the worst thing in the world.

Y'all will be like "how dare this disabled man feel attraction, gross" and then use the quote on ten thousand queen Sansa gif sets.

fyi I’m talking about this quote:

Her hair was a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful.

I mean, yeah, the quote is an obvious example of Tyrion idealizing Sansa and he's thinking of her as less of a person here and more of what she represents to him, as a romantic ideal that is out of reach. Sansa is everything he wants but can't have and is told that he shouldn't want to have because of his disability, beautiful, high born - the fact that she is a hostage of the Lannisters only idealizes her more because it makes her unattainable. Of course this is problematic, but Tyrion knows this. He also knows he shouldn't feel this way and part of his policing of his own thoughts are about how horrible this situation is for her and he doesn't want to put her through any more suffering, and part of it is him thinking that he shouldn't feel this way because he's a dwarf and the internalized ableism he constantly puts himself through as a result of his own trauma. So when I see y'all be like "how dare he" I think about how Tyrion himself thinks of any romantic/sexual feelings he has (towards anyone) as inherently wrong because of his dwarfism.

I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Yes, and I want to be tall as Jaime and as strong as Ser Gregor the Mountain too, for all the bloody good it does.

I mean, of course Tyrion idealizes women and especially tragic women. He grew up with a horribly abusive father and an absent mother who was constantly held up as a tragic ideal and whose death he was directly blamed for. I also suspect this is part of why he sees Sansa as someone who he both wishes he could save and feels responsible for. Which makes it really strange that people ignore all that in his pov and claim that Tyrion doesn’t understand or empathize with Sansa’s grief.

He had expected anguish and anger when he told her of her brother's death, but Sansa's face had remained so still that for a moment he feared she had not understood. It was only later, with a heavy oaken door between them, that he heard her sobbing. Tyrion had considered going to her then, to offer what comfort he could. No, he had to remind himself, she will not look for solace from a Lannister. The most he could do was to shield her from the uglier details of the Red Wedding as they came down from the Twins. Sansa did not need to hear how her brother's body had been hacked and mutilated, he decided; nor how her mother's corpse had been dumped naked into the Green Fork in a savage mockery of House Tully's funeral customs. The last thing the girl needed was more fodder for her nightmares.

It was not enough, though. He had wrapped his cloak around her shoulders and sworn to protect her, but that was as cruel a jape as the crown the Freys had placed atop the head of Robb Stark's direwolf after they'd sewn it onto his headless corpse. Sansa knew that as well. The way she looked at him, her stiffness when she climbed into their bed . . . when he was with her, never for an instant could he forget who he was, or what he was. No more than she did. She still went nightly to the godswood to pray, and Tyrion wondered if she were praying for his death. She had lost her home, her place in the world, and everyone she had ever loved or trusted. Winter is coming, warned the Stark words, and truly it had come for them with a vengeance. But it is high summer for House Lannister. So why am I so bloody cold?

Tyrion knows he can’t do anything for her and he knows he shouldn’t try and that he’s just imposing on her or making it worse. He also knows that he shouldn’t be feeling bad for the Starks because it’s technically treason and that complicates his feelings towards her as well.

Tyrion also relates to Sansa's sadness and allows her to feel and express her grief in a way that few other people in King's Landing do, perhaps because he relates to her as someone who also feels trapped by his family and who knows what it feels like to be helpless. 

"I . . ." Sansa did not know what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth? She stared at the dwarf's brutal bulging brow, the hard black eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard. "I only want to be loyal."

"Loyal," the dwarf mused, "and far from any Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I wanted the same thing." He smiled.

Tyrion’s very first interaction with Sansa is him expressing validation of her feelings and her grief - that she’s constantly being forced to deny - and her feeling comfortable enough to actually trust him because he’s in a similar liminal space as her, being seen as a “traitor” to her family and having to act the part but a hostage of his.

His grin turned into something softer as he studied her face. "Is it grief for your lord father that makes you so sad?"

"My father was a traitor," Sansa said at once. "And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well." That reflex she had learned quickly. "I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey."

"No doubt. As loyal as a deer surrounded by wolves."

"Lions," she whispered, without thinking. She glanced about nervously, but there was no one close enough to hear. 

Lannister reached out and took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. "I am only a little lion, child, and I vow, I shall not savage you."

Of course, Sansa can't truly trust him and she thinks he's trying to trick her when he does validate her grief aloud, and it's understandable why she feels that way, and it becomes even worse once they’re forced into marriage together, and Tyrion understands this, too. He’s constantly self-flagellating about it. It’s hard to miss. (Unless of course you didn’t read Tyrion’s chapters, lol)

She was not eating, either. "Sansa, is aught amiss?" He spoke without thinking, and instantly felt the fool. All her kin are slaughtered and she's wed to me, and I wonder what's amiss.

But knowing that he can’t help her and that she’s not in a position to fulfill his own emotional needs doesn't stop him from wishing that he could get through to her because like, people have complicated emotions. But it’s always tinted with the knowledge that he can’t and that it would be unfair to her for him to expect it, not entitlement. Even in the context of the quote that begins this meta, his thoughts are more like a confused attempt to reach out to her which he also criticizes himself for, not an expectation. And disabled characters should be allowed to have complicated emotions especially when it comes to love and sex without fandom going "ew gross" or treating it as predatory. 

People idealize other people all the time, and of course he does this with Sansa. He doesn’t know the real her and his attraction to her is much more about an ideal that she represents. But it’s a very human emotion and it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t care about her suffering, as is blatantly untrue in what is shown above, or that he “doesn’t see her as a real person.” He sees her as much as he can without actually being able to communicate with her. They don’t know each other, they’re not in a relationship, they’re married only in name and on opposite sides of a war. Still, he reaches out to her as a person and empathizes with her suffering long before the marriage and identifies with it in a very personal way (much like he does with Bran and Jon), divulging to Sansa information about his own history of abuse which he has rarely spoken aloud to any other character. He actually empathizes with her in much the same way that she does him, in a confused, terrified, vulnerable and detached sort of way, without actually being able to communicate or trust each other but feeling a deep pity for the other person and a sense of shared trauma.

Even without that, though, it’s not intrinsically wrong for a disabled person to think that a stranger is beautiful, even in a sad sort of way. Grief can be beautiful. Seeing people be vulnerable and wanting to comfort them can be incredibly attractive. It’s not like he’s saying he enjoys her suffering. And this fandom goes way off the deep end for some reason *cough* when it comes to disabled people just thinking about attraction.

[callmeasyouwantidk]

3, 6, 12, and 21 for the Writer Asks, please! 🤗 💜

Thank you for the ask Hiro!

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3. What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing?

My favorite is the feeling you get when you have finished writing so you reread it to make sure everything is correct.

My least favorite is writers block. AHHHGHHHHGHGGGGGGGG

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6. Favorite character you've written?

I never wrote originals yet (even tho I'm thinking on it) so my fav is Butsuma with completely different attitude in my mid-century AU. I made him like, as strong, as serious, but now he takes everything close to heart and just had to go with it because a good king can't allow himself to be a crybaby in the war. He was suffering and I loved to reread about it. Usual writer stuff, nothing new)

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12. Which story of yours do you like best? Why?

Honestly I'm not sure here. There are like three stories that r good enough to be my favs. I can't decide... Ugh. Whatever. Basic review of them 😅: First story is basically about Tobirama getting kidnapped when he is a child (like, 6 months or so) by Tajima. That happened while Butsuma was at his mission and Tobi's mom was about to give birth to Itama so Hashirama and Tobi were with their nany. But what can a regular human nany do when at the window she sees the head of the Uchiha clan? Only try to get the children to safety or get help. Unfortunately, Tajima got his hands on one of the boys before nany could. Now Tobirama grows up among the Uchiha as one of them, with only one goal - to kill his father, brothers, mother, and his own clansman. He succeeded at killing two of his brothers at young age, and killing his mother while a teen. Tajima gets physical pleasure when he sees Butsuma clutch his teeth in anger and dispare every fight Tobi includes. Not gonna go farther, too long, but you got the spirit.

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Second story is about Hashirama getting caught prisoner while Tajima is still ruling the clan. He learns that he was caught when he used himself as a shield to save Tobirama from a wicked two way attack that would have killed him. He also learns that even tho he did save him, the poisoned blade did a little cut, so Tobi will die from it in few days. Gotta get out. While trying to find his way out, Hashi stumbles upon his father and father's good friend who went missing four years ago, who's also held prisoners. Same story - too long to tell, but you got the spirit.

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3rd story has two versions. This is Ver 1. It's the AU I'm currently working on. Mid-century AU, where people have wings (type and colour of wing depends on personality, hair colour, and mobility of the person. Also it might depend on the wings your ancestors had.) and magic. Butsuma is the king, Tajima is the king. Senju kingdom grew weaker lately, because many of their blacksmiths have been slaughtered in one of the attacks on kingdom, and the army needs weapons. Because now the knights gotta run around the field looking for a weapon in case they don't have their anymore, they grow more and more tired after every fight. The Knights of the Round Table (which includes Butsuma and his knights) decided that the kingdom is growing too weak, and judging from Uchihas actions, they realize it too and don't hesitate to use the opportunity. They have decided that if the Uchiha kingdom does one strong enough strike with all their power, it might even be the end of it. To prevent this happening Butsuma calls Tajima for negotiation. He says that both armies are tired and that it might be good to take a break and form temporary peace, let the armies rest for a while, heal up, and continue. Tajima, of course knew where it was coming from, and it was far from the deal he was willing to make, so he asked for a payment. He said that he will consider such deal, if Butsuma gives him one certain payment to stay away. The payment is Butsuma himself. Tajima asked Butsuma to give himself in as a prisoner. A slave. Only in such case will Tajima agree. Having no other choice Butsuma agrees, signs the contract, and gives himself in, leaving a wife and his four children. While being an Uchiha slave he is treated even worse then a homeless alcoholic. Leaving in a cell in dungeons. In summer/autumn and spring working on the fields, and in winter helping as a servant. For every little mistake he was punished with a certain amount of whip blows that would leave him a bloody mess, and a lot of deep bruises. He was given only the things that he need not to die to quickly. In cold winters he had to swallow his pride and beg for something warm. The only way to get a little food for him was to pleasure Tajima in a naughty way (if you know what I mean ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). His status here was lower then a dog's, so anyone and everyone could do whatever they wanted with him. He had to do every request regardless of anything. Because of constant physical and emotional stress of more or less regular punishments and the inability to say "no" to all the perverted guards around the castle he aged greatly in a not so long amount of time, even tho he also did a lot of work to adapt. Madara was helping him tho, as much and as well as he could. He would call him in for said "naughty time" but would let him just sit and rest for an hour after which let him go. He would bring him a little of bread if Butsuma didn't eat for more then 3 days. He would help him get treatment if Butsuma got ill. Ten years later, when Madara grew to be 24 he made an assassination on his father because didn't agree with his perverted way of spreading tyranny not only on Butsuma, but through the kingdom itself. He became the king, and let Butsuma back to his family, shortly after which they made a permanent peace treaty.

Ver2. All the same but instead of asking for Butsuma to turn himself in, Tajima asked for one of his children. Through days of thinking of a way to get out of the situation, and Tobirama saying his word, Butsuma sends Tobi to Tajima as a prisoner. For Tobi it's all the same story but only that people get their wings only when they turn 18, and in the Uchiha castle it is forbidden for anyone to use wings except the royal family. Tobi had to learn to control his wings while always being at risk of them opening randomly and getting him in a lot of trouble. Bit again, Madara helped him with that.

Very 2 has a different ending tho. At some point when Tobi is around 22 the Uchiha kingdom suffers an attack from a big enemy coming for Tajima. During that attack, Tajima dies, but so does Tobirama. Tobi goes to the other world, but instead of resting in peace he spends a his time looking over his family and kingdom. With years passing, he becomes the Guardian of the Senju kingdom, and he looks over it and all the people living in until the end of times.

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21. What aspect of your writing are you most proud of?

Um... I guess that I make kinda very dramatic content, and a lot of people actually like drama but usually are ashamed (for whatever reason) to say about it so there are not much actual dramatic fanfics.

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Hope you had good time reading my 3 page essay answering these. I really couldn't decide on the story could I?😅