#flurry-of-writing

[flurry-of-stars]

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼 -𝕴

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝒩𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝐹𝓎𝑜𝒹𝑜𝓇 𝓍 𝒜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒: Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU, angst, fluff, eventual smut, multipart story. 𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: “Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion–” “His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. You were already struggling.” 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 6.5k or so (A/N: I know, strange to write an author AU when the characters are based on authors but here we are. I want to say Novelist AU Fyodor may have a few similar traits to IRL Dostoyevsky but he is not supposed to be a complete one-for-one in every sense of the word. They’re supposed to just be minor nods to the real Dostoyevsky.)

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒? 𝒮𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝓅𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹? 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝐼 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝑒𝒹? 𝒪𝒽...𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝐼'𝒹 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃. 𝒯𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝒸𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈.... ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵ The lake always looks mystical early in the morning at this time of year. A faint mist rolls over the mirrored surface as dancers in orange and yellow descend from their places in the comforting embrace of timber and bark. Soldiers of fading green, browns and oranges line the lake, swaying in the soft, chilly breeze. Bird song and the gentle scurrying of the forest’s dwellers is the perfect symphony to this backdrop. Yes. This was why Fyodor always sat outside to write. He felt a peace unlike anything else when he sat at his small outdoor table, the earth claiming the furniture by wrapping tendrils of green around its leg. He doesn’t mind. He never had any intentions of moving it after all. A single page sat at his hands, one hand elegantly moving across it as he writes in Russian, his mother tongue. The sound of his pen scratching against the white sheet tickles his brain pleasantly, each stroke deliberate and careful. Fyodor would only write the drafts of his novels on paper. He would never touch a keyboard. Even when conversing with his agent he would only use his phone. With his long distant friend and fellow author, he opted for letters. Technology was something Fyodor wasn’t fond of. His deep, purple eyes rise from the page, tired eyes scanning the horizon before him. He notices a few russet sparrows flying over the lake. For a moment, he even thinks he can see a fox on the other side of the lake, disappearing into the treeline. Yes. This view was far more enjoyable than some television or computer screen. He breathes deeply, taking in the rich, earthy air around him. It wouldn’t be long until this view would be painted in white, the frigid air forcing him to stay indoors far more than he would have liked to be there. The novelist was a homebody, that much was true. But he spent most of his time outdoors when he wrote his stories. Or rather, attempted to. His current novel had been giving him a bit of grief as of late. “Romance novels are popular right now!” He could still hear his agent’s voice insisting. “With the works you’re already known for, I bet the world is dying to see your take on one! Plus, if we partner with this company and make it an international release, the revenue would tie you over so you can focus on a novel you actually want to write!” Fyodor scoffs. He wouldn’t have even considered writing such a novel, were it not for the fact that his funds were looking a bit depressed as of late, due to a few recent large expenses that needed to be paid. His eyes scanned over to his wristwatch; it was still a few hours yet until his guest would arrive. Another matter his agent had been too insistent on that Fyodor had begrudgingly accepted.

He didn’t understand why she had been so pushy about the matter of an assistant. He had managed so far on his own. He didn’t need any help. These were his stories to tell. Sighing, Fyodor rises from his chair. He moves towards his small, cozy dwelling, his raven hair ruffled by the Autumn breeze. Perhaps a nice pot of tea would get those creative juices flowing again. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ A soft breeze teases your hair and scarf as you walk up the winding stone path, heading deeper into the heart of the forest, an eerie fog cast across the sky. The trees sway their branches in the wind as if greeting you as sunlight filters through the thick branches, showers of yellow and orange descending on your path as you walk. You see an old, rough-looking tabby cat that gives a low mewl before disappearing over the fence like an elegant shadow. You notice a few small cottages scattered around the area. One is at the top of a flight of narrow cobblestone steps. Another is nestled near some thick bushes and trees, almost devouring the structure in its natural embrace.

The thin fence lining the pathway is overgrown with thick vines and small flowers here and there, with tall trees and other flora about, creating an almost fairytale-like appearance. Everything here is quiet and still, aside from the chirps of a few insects and the whistling of birds. You clutch your orange coat closer to your body, the fabric blending in with your environment as excitement runs through every inch of your veins. This was the opportunity you had been searching for! What were the chances that you’d run into a literary agent while heading to the unemployment centre to ask for help? It was as though God himself had lifted an olive branch for you.

The agent, Vivian, had looked at you with such joy when you explained that you were looking for experience helping authors get their works published. You wanted to help however you could, whether that be as an editor, a translator or even a beta reader! You just wanted a way to step into this field finally. You had grown up with a love for books and stories. You wanted to be part of the process to get these books created. “Well, I have just the guy for you,” Vivian had replied, a small smirk on her lips as she handed you her business card with a name written on the back. The name of the novelist she had been helping for the past decade. Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

You had never heard of the man before. Walking along the quiet stone path, heading towards a large archway overgrown with blossoming flowers, you wonder if he wrote under a pen name. You were so excited to meet him! Oh, but you needed to calm down and relax. Don’t make this weird! You walk through the archway, the gentle aroma of the blossoming flowers filling your senses as your eyes fall on the crystal-clear lake before you. The water was a calm, almost mystical blue, with nothing disturbing its perfect surface. It looked like it could have been the subject of an oil painting. You blink, the trance broken as you notice movement. An older gentleman sits at a small outdoor table, a small porcelain teacup in hand. You notice a few strands of grey in his otherwise dark hair, along with the dark crescent moons under his mystifying yet cold purple eyes. You wondered if they were from late nights of writing stories or brainstorming.

He looked more frail than you were expecting. Quite lithe. He reminded you of a scarecrow. He was almost swimming in the dark coat covering his shoulders, even his white scarf seemed to be looped multiple times more around his throat. You tense as his eyes flicker up, meeting yours. The teacup moves back towards the saucer, resting upon it with a soft clink. He lifts one of his hands, beckoning you closer. You come to stand before him, your heart pounding out of nervousness and excitement. This was it. The first day of the rest of your life! Things would only be looking up from here! Before you can speak, the gentleman interrupts you. His thick Russian accent sends a slight shiver down your spine, “You’re the assistant Vivian sent.” He looks you up and down slowly. You can feel the judging look in his eyes as he scans you carefully, “You have no experience in this field and yet you agreed to be my assistant. Fascinating…” You swallow, trying to calm yourself. You almost burst into excited rambles as you begin to speak in a rather rapid tone, your giddiness getting the better of you, “Y-yes sir! You see, it’s always been a dream of–” “Enough.” He says suddenly, shaking his head. Those dark eyes of his stare coldly into yours, your excited heartbeat being frozen still in your chest as he adds, “I do not wish to hear your life story. You are here to do a job. And I expect you to do it well.”

You try and speak up, “Shouldn’t we go inside–” “No. You will work out here,” he cuts you off as he reaches down to a leather bag by the side of his chair, hidden from view. He lifts it, passing it over to you as he speaks, “Within this is the first three chapters of my latest novel. I need you to proofread, edit and translate it into English by the end of the week.” You tense; the end of the week? You supposed you could handle that. What’s the most he could have done? Really? Maybe ten thousand words total? You take out the first group of papers. It looks like he’s stapled each chapter together. There’s no title page yet, so it starts straight on the prologue. One issue becomes apparent very quickly. One big, glaring issue. Fyodor’s handwriting. He had written in fluent Russian from what you could tell. But his handwriting was quite…well, it was cursive? It was hard for you to put into words. The best way you could describe it was like a doctor’s handwriting. “Excuse me, Mr. Dostoyevsky?” You look up from the first page. Fyodor is gazing across the lake, sipping on his tea once more. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you continue, your tone soft and polite, “I’m having some trouble reading your handwriting. I don’t suppose you have a typed version I could reference instead?” His dark eyes slowly turn over to you. You swear you feel the cold of a hundred Winters rush through your body at once, “If you can’t translate it, then I shall call Vivian right now and inform her that sending someone illiterate does not help me in the slightest.”

‘Illiterate??’ You quietly think, feeling both offended and furious. ‘At least my writing doesn’t look like a chicken walked all over my page!’ Biting your tongue, you nod. You would make this work, just to spite this guy. ‘Just think about the end goal. Someone out there is going to love this book. You just need to focus on your goal..’ It’s a daunting task, one you weren’t sure you could achieve. But you were going to put your damnest into this job more so than ever now. ✩

Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion and anger. Vivian didn’t mention that she was sending someone like you. Had he known that, he would have called his overseas friend to go and stay with him while working on this novel that he didn’t even want to write. His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. He notices the way your brows furrow in irritation. You were already struggling. It was only a matter of time before you gave up and admitted defeat, running away from his little piece of heaven with tears in your eyes and a white flag in your hands. He liked that thought. That thought brought him peace. “You’re going to have to work faster than that,” he suddenly says, sounding very proud of himself. You don’t look up, your hands and eyes continuing to move as he adds, “Vivian wants the book by the end of the year. If you can’t handle getting three chapters done by the end of the week, you’re useless to me and any other author.” He notices your jaw clenching. He sees the way you swallow down whatever response you keep to yourself, instead replying with a soft “Yes, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” If he breaks you down enough, will you submit faster? Will that get you away from him faster? He’s silent for a long while, his gaze slowly returning to the scenic view before him. It soothes him and assures him he will soon have his space and peace returned to him. He lifts his teacup, sipping the warm liquid slowly. He just had to bide his time and wait. You would crack eventually. He would make sure of it. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

Even though Fyodor treated you coldly and barely even spoke to you, you were intrigued by his writing. It felt like his words had a grip on you, filling you with the urge, that desperate need to know what happens next. The novel was about a young man. From what you had read, he was an extremely lonely man. No matter how Fyodor wrote him, or what scenes he was in, he was always alone, even when surrounded by people. But there was one thing you wouldn’t understand. “If this is supposed to be a romance novel,” you say slowly. “Then where is the other lead? What’s this guy going to romance, himself in the mirror?” “Oh come on now, cut him some slack,” the warm voice of your best friend chimes over the phone. “This is just the first three chapters, right? He’s probably just laying down the groundwork for now. I mean..” She pauses, hesitating before adding in a teasing tone, “The main female lead in that story you read didn’t get a proper romantic interest till like, what, book four?” “Hey, you say that like I wanted her to have one!” You joke, giggling as you walk up the winding stone path on your way to Fyodor’s. It was almost week’s end and despite having a handful of paragraphs left, you were almost done translating the first three chapters. Though it wasn’t an easy task. You had learnt that Fyodor had a habit of rambling in his stories. Sometimes, this made parts more fleshed out. More interesting and intriguing to you. But you didn’t need to know the full backstory of some random man sitting by a lake if he wasn’t going to be important to the story later on. “I want to give him some advice,” you say into the phone, your voice suddenly more serious. You notice the pair of village cats nearby as you pause in place. The younger orange tabby cat attempts to play with the old tabby, the older of the pair growling as he backs away, “But is it my place to give him advice? I mean…he is the author. It’s his story. I have no right to tell him how to write it.”

You hear a hum on the other end of the line as you start moving again, approaching the familiar archway. Then, “You could always try it. But this Fyodor guy doesn’t sound like the type who would take your advice onboard. You’re still so new to this field, your ears are still green!” You chew on your inner cheek, sighing. The chances that Fyodor would listen to you were slim to none. You understood that already. It didn’t take a genius to know where you stood in his regard. But you wanted to help Fyodor make improvements to his book. You look up at the archway, a gentle breeze pushing against your back as you sigh in defeat. “I’ll call you tonight and let you know how badly he chews me out.” You end the call, hiding your phone in your pocket, walking through the archway and into the lush clearing. You were already expecting to be greeted with the typical iciness from the author as you approach his table. “Ah, you’re finally here,” he greets you. His tone isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s not as frosty as you were expecting. There’s a faint hint of hibiscus in the air as the soft breeze draws the scent of his tea of the day to you. Yesterday was ginger. The day before was turmeric. He always had a fresh pot every morning when you arrived. But he never offered you a cup. Regardless, you come to sit at his table, your chair creaking faintly as you reach into your messenger bag, pulling out the last few pages of the first three chapters of his novel before speaking, “I’ve almost finished with these chapters,” you let him know, a flame of warmth in your voice. “I only have a few more paragraphs to go. Though I have to say–” You rummage around your bag, searching for your lucky pen as you continue, “--I quite enjoy your writing. It's captivating. Sometimes I feel like I’m hanging on the end of your every word–” “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Fyodor quickly interjects, deep eyes narrowing at you, the dark hoops under his eyes making him look more menacing. A shiver runs down your spine as he nods at the paper before you, “Get to work and stop wasting your time with idle chatter.”

‘Oh, so I can’t even compliment you?’ You quietly think, your hand wrapping around your lucky pen. You pull the gold and black ballpoint pen out, clicking it to life as you begin working, huffing and puffing in annoyance in your mind, ‘Fine then. Maybe I just won’t speak to you again. God, I hope all writers aren’t this entitled.’ You catch yourself, your fingers caressing the side of the ballpoint pen as the gold edge shines in the early sun. No…you knew all writers weren’t like Fyodor. He was a rotten apple surrounded by batches of bright, red fruit. He wasn’t going to stop you from reaching your dream. He would not stomp that flame out. A silence falls over you and Fyodor. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but it’s not quite pleasant either. It just simply is. You glance up now and then to see Fyodor sipping on his tea, his eyes always drawn to the distance. You scan his expression for a few moments, your pen stopping its movements. He doesn’t notice you looking at him as he stares almost longingly into the distance, his dark eyes shrouded with depths of emotion you struggle to comprehend. But there is one emotion there that is most obvious to you. It’s a look of deep, suffocating loneliness. He stares, as if seeing something in the distance you cannot. He is silent and still. You barely even see his chest rising and falling with his breaths as a gentle breeze tousles his raven hair, as though an invisible hand would be combing through each lock with a careful, almost affectionate touch. Then, as if returning to reality, he blinks, his gaze slowly shifting to meet yours. You stare at one another, frozen in time for just a heartbeat. There is no coldness, no scolding. Just you and him and his sad, lonely eyes. For a moment, you almost decide to ask if he’s okay. Almost.

But as quickly as you see this side of Fyodor, it disappears under frozen blinds and walls of ice. His dark eyes glare at you, hiding the emotions you saw behind a careful shield as he scolds, “Why are you wasting time staring into space? Get back to work.” You shake your head, snapping out of your trance, eyes gliding back to the paper at your hands. You don’t speak a word and merely focus on those last few paragraphs. You knew what you saw. That cold facade cracked for just a moment to reveal something more to this man than you originally thought. There was more to Fyodor than the cold wall you kept smashing again. Your pen glides across the paper, finishing the last few translated lines. You smile to yourself, placing the ballpoint pen down on the garden table before looking up at Fyodor, pride glittering in your eyes. You’d completed the first obstacle he’d put in your way, “I’m done, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” His eyes graze over your smile, the proud glimmer in your eyes, then move down towards the sheet of paper at your fingertips. He turns his body, sitting at the table properly now as he nods at you, “Let me check.” Taking the rest of the pages out of your bag, you slide each completed chapter over to him, your hands carefully caressing the top sheet before passing it over. You were hoping this would prove your value to Fyodor and get him to start treating you…well, like someone trying to help him. Like a proper translator. Like someone actually trying to get his book published. He’s silent for a long while as he flips through the translated chapters. He murmurs to himself every now and then in Russian; sometimes he sounds almost fascinated. Other times, he sounds annoyed. Then, at last, when he’s midway through the second chapter, “This is precisely why I didn’t want to do an international release. My words simply do not translate well into English.” “We could work together to find a suitable substitute for your words in English,” you suggest. The moment his dark eyes pierce into yours, you gulp. “If you wanted to. It won’t be exactly the same but I’m sure we could find a nice middle ground.”

He’s silent for a while as if thinking over your words. Then his eyes travel back to the page, murmuring, “We can try. But I assure you, you won’t be able to translate it perfectly. The English language is incapable of properly translating what I’m attempting to convey–” ‘There he goes again, acting all high and–,’ your grumpy thoughts are interrupted as a thought strikes you like a bolt from the blue. You resist the urge to gasp. Wait…was this the first proper, positive reaction you’ve gotten from Fyodor? He accepted you reaching out a hand to him? Then maybe now was your chance! You gasp a little, suddenly standing up, much to both yours and Fyodor’s surprise. He looks up at you, taken off guard as you suddenly blurt out, “Um! In that case, I had some other advice I wanted to give to! It’s in regards to that man you focus the second chapter on!” “I don’t know if he has any significance to the plot or not, but is it really necessary to have the last twenty pages focused just on his backstory?" "Because it seems like you could use these pages to develop the male lead further or even bring in the female lead! Are you intending for him to have a larger role or–” “You dare to have the audacity to lecture me on how to write my novel?” Fyodor’s cold voice cuts you off, his eyes narrowing at you dangerously. You can almost feel your voice being stolen by his anger, as he continues you glare daggers at you so sharp, that you feel that little shred of confidence and pride you’d finally gained being ripped to shreds before you. “You translate three chapters and that’s it? You’re suddenly an expert in the writing world, are you?” He scoffs, laughing at you mockingly. He tosses the translated pages onto the table, his eyes continuing to stare into your own shocked eyes. His voice grows harsher as he suddenly begins to speak in his native tongue.

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа, я хочу напомнить вам, что ваше право на собственное мнение не обязывает меня слушать этот бред. Молчание - великий талант. Мой совет вам: если у вас будут мысли, держите их при себе; в наше время умные люди молчат, а не разговаривают. Я вас здесь не нанял для авторского выступления, так что будьте любезны, работайте и не стройте из себя Александром Сергеевичем Пушкиным.” *

He stands suddenly, leaving you stunned in place, unable to find your voice. You watch in stunned horror as he storms towards his cottage, tucked and hidden within the wilderness of the trees and shrubbery. He enters it, slamming the door behind him before you can utter another word. You feel both stunned and horrified. You had no idea what he had just said to you but why did it feel like you just lost your job? ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ “You should have cut him some slack.”

“Do you really think I need to hear that right now?”

“You know it wasn’t your place to criticize him like that–”

“I know…I don’t know what came over me…” You sigh heavily, sinking into the thick duvet on your bed as your heart aches within the tight confines of your chest. The sound of the city beyond your apartment blares outside. The distant siren of an ambulance. The loud yells of passerbys. A dog’s loud barks as the scent of cigarette smoke and fumes waft through your apartment window.

It wasn’t the classiest apartment, very far from it, but it was the only place you could afford right now with the allowance you were receiving from the government, along with what little savings you had left. You sigh, running a hand through your messy hair, “I genuinely didn’t mean to do it. I just got so excited. I felt like he was finally accepting me into his world…” You lower your voice, sounding more upset. “But now I’ve gone and ruined it all…not even a week in...”

You lift your other hand, holding up your gold and black ballpoint pen once more. You twirl it between your fingers, Fyodor’s harsh expression still vivid in the back of your mind. You felt like you really offended him. You hadn’t meant to. You just wanted to help. But you understood how your words had come across as hurtful. You didn’t know the story Fyodor was plotting out. You didn't know if this man was going to play a pivotal role and yet you–

You hear a loud crunch on the other end of the line, causing you to wince and yelp in surprise, your thoughts broken through instantly, “Ack! Trixie! Hold the phone away next time!” “Mrm! Sorry girl, but look-” Trixie goes silent for a few moments while she finishes chewing whatever she’s eating. Then, she speaks again, sounding quite calm as she gives you her advice, “--I think you owe him an apology. This guy is not only your senior career wise, but he’s the literal author of the book you’re translating.”

You frown as she goes on, your eyes glued to your ballpoint pen as the streetlight outside touches it, making the golden parts gleam, “What kind of things does he like? You know, besides sitting and staring at the lake all day.”

You think over Trixie’s words, eyes sparkling with the golden hue coming from your pen. Fyodor hadn’t spoken to you much these past few days since you began working as his translator. He greeted you, scolded you to start work and then sat in silence until the day’s end. Did he like anything besides staring at the lake and–

Suddenly, you sit up in your bed, and your loose, white nightgown drops over your frame, the old springs of the bed squeaking softly. That was what you could get him to apologize! You would need to get some research in tonight and wake up early to head to the store tomorrow. You were sure there was a speciality store for this type of thing on the other side of town.

Moments before you’re about to hang up, you get a second call. Your eyes widen as you read the name on the screen; Vivian. Your heart leaps into your throat. “Sorry Trix, I have to go,” you quickly say, rising from your bed to move over to your kitchen counter where your laptop was sitting, charging. “I’ll call you when I can.”

“Keep me updated on your situation with your author man!” Trixie manages to chime back before you end the call, picking up Vivian’s seconds later.

“Yes? Hello, Vivian?” You quickly answer, holding your phone with your cheek while typing into your laptop’s keyboard, searching through the specific results you had pulled up.“I’m surprised you’re still up. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; all those involved in the literary world seem to be night owls.” She chuckles, before clearing her throat.

You scroll through the results page as Fyodor’s agent keeps speaking to you, “I presume you know why I’m calling. I just got off the phone to Fyodor regarding the…incident.” The incident…

You cringe at it being referred to like that. Your heartbeat picks up as you stand up straight, a deeply apologetic tone in your voice, “I know, I know, I was in the wrong. It’s Mr. Dostoyevsky’s book and he’s free to write however he pleases. I just got a little head of myself and–!”

“Easy,” Vivian whispers soothingly. It almost feels like she’s there with you, patting your shoulder and assuring you it's okay. “Fyodor is still a tad…appalled at your behaviour, but I have managed to convince him to give you another chance due to how efficiently and well you translated his first chapters.” A gasp escapes your throat; before your hopes can get too high, she quickly adds in a tone that reminds you of a stern teacher, “But this is your last chance. He’s said if you step out of line again, you’re out.”

“No…no, I understand perfectly!” You run a hand through your messy hair, resisting the urge to jump and dance around in glee. Oh thank God, you didn’t lose this chance! Your gaze flickers back towards the laptop screen, the results still silently waiting for you. You knew you still had to apologize properly for what you had done.

“I promise, neither of you will regret this.” You begin writing down an address frantically on a sticky note, looking up the coordinates to the location on the other side of town. You click your tongue, planning everything out in your head. Yes, if you wake up earlier, you will have the time to swing by and get everything ready before visiting Fyodor tomorrow morning without being late.

Suddenly, Vivian’s voice breaks through the silence, cutting you out of your thoughts, “I shouldn’t be saying this but do me a favour, would you?” She pauses for a moment. You focus more on her as she adds, “Cut Fyodor some slack.”

“Wh-what?” Is all you manage to breathe out. Everyone keeps telling you to do that. Were you in an echo chamber? Or did everyone else just see something you couldn't? She continues, sighing heavily and you swear you hear a pen being placed down, judging from the gentle tap you hear on her side of the call.

“It isn’t my tale to tell, but I will inform you that Fyodor has been through a lot as of late.” You frown deeply as you hear this. “This is his returning novel after taking some time away from his career, so all I ask is that you show him the same patience you would want to be shown.”

Your mind stews those words over silently as you chew the inside of your cheek. The novelist you were working with was an enigma. He was more mysterious than the deepest pits of the ocean, and more closed off than a crime scene. You only had his name. His career. And the gift of being able to read his captivating story. Well, part of it.

Just who was Fyodor exactly? And what had he gone through to make him the way he is now?

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

The sky was overcast and angry as you began to make your trek towards Fyodor’s quaint cottage. You sprint along the stone path as the sky rumbles like a beast, growling as the clouds light up, warning you of the upcoming downpour that is about to begin. Clutching the bouquet you’d bought close, along with the small gift bag, you run through the archway.

The usual clear, mirror-like surface of the lake was black and menacing, nowhere near as picturesque as it had been for the entire week. No birds were singing. Branches waved violently in the strong winds that buffeted against them, sending spirals of leaves cascading around, like mini tornados of color.

You barely manage to hold onto your bouquet and gift, grimacing as you notice Fyodor isn’t sitting at the usual spot today. You look towards his cottage, the trees and shrubbery around it rustling violently against the strong gusts as well. They almost look like they’re clinging onto the cottage to keep themselves rooted. You catch a glimpse of that old tabby cat sprinting up to the door, his paws reaching up and scratching at the timber desperately and at once, it opens.

You see Fyodor, wrapped in a thicker cloak than normal along with what seems to be an old ushanka on his head, keeping his face warm. He opens the door to let the feline inside, cloak dragging on the floor behind him like a cape. Rubbing against the Russian’s legs, the tabby darts inside, away from the rough weather. But he doesn’t follow the feline; his dark eyes lift, meeting yours across the way.

He watches as the wind tousles your long hair as though playing with the elegant strands, your bright, vibrant coat of orange a stark contrast against the blackening sky but matching perfectly with the leaves falling from rustling trees around you. He sees the way your brown scarf aggressively sways in the violent breeze as the sky growls a final warning. He says nothing as he watches you. Is he waiting for you? His eyes scan you once, twice…it’s like he’s taking you in for the first time.

Like this, you look like a single glowing ember in the darkness of the world, seconds away from being snuffed out and devoured by the shadows.

Not wanting to be left out in this downpour, you sprint towards Fyodor, a loud crack echoing across the sky as it lights up, lighting striking somewhere in the distance as you pick up the pace. Without a word still, he steps aside, letting you run in just as it begins to storm. Cold droplets pour from the sky as it roars, another loud crack is heard in the distance. Rain begins to patter loudly on the roof of Fyodor's humble home, almost cleansing the land.

You hear the door close, along with a lock being turned, clicking into place. You turn to face Fyodor, noticing that the room is not illuminated by the bulbs hanging overhead but by candlelight. There are candleholders along the wall, lighting the hallway in a warm, welcoming light. Flickers of yellow dance across Fyodor’s face, his dark purple eyes practically invisible in the dark of the cottage.

Gripping the bouquet tighter, you hesitate to hand it over. Then, at last, you do, presenting the brilliant bouquet with a gentle hand. “Here,” you say softly, almost silently. “These are for you.”

You watch as his calculating eyes trace along each chosen flower; the blue hyacinths to the white orchids, to the few lilies of the Valley. He hesitates to accept them as his eyes turn back to you. He must be waiting to hear her apology out loud, “I’d like to say I’m sorry for overstepping.” The plastic around the bouquet crinkles as you grip it tighter.

“I am both your junior and not an author,” you begin, fighting back down every inch of your pride to make sure your apology comes across as genuine. “I had no right to tell you how to write your story. I’m only here to translate it into English so I’m sorry. It will not happen again.” You also present your other hand, holding the gift bag out to Fyodor. “I hope you can forgive me and we can start fresh.”

He eyes the gift bag, reaching for it first. He peers inside, hiding his surprise behind his cold eyes as he notices the variety of tea leaves you’ve purchased for him. These are all high-quality leaves from a teashop on the other side of town. Passionfruit drop. Cream black tea. Autumn spice. He looks up at you, raising a brow curiously.

You squirm under his gaze, anxiously waiting for a reply. Would he accept the apology? Would he not? It felt like time was frozen as you and Fyodor stared at one another, his deep, purple eyes peering into the very depths of your soul as if trying to see if you were truly sorry in the very pit of your heart.

Then he moves past you. You feel your heartbeat freeze in your chest and then–

“Come along. I will brew some tea while you begin work translating chapter four.”

Warmth spreads across your chest instantly, your heart fluttering in your chest, a smile breaking out on your face as you turn, following Fyodor through the candlelit hall towards what you presumed to be the kitchen, your apology bouquet in hand.

You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you were both glad Fyodor had seemingly accepted your apology…and excited to read the fourth chapter of his novel. Even if he rambled on for the next forty pages and didn’t progress the plot. Your ankle boots click against the old wooden flooring as you hurry after the author.

✩ You were an enigma to Fyodor. Despite the cold walls he had placed securely around himself and the distance he had tried to keep from you, you kept coming back. Did this job really mean that much to you or were you just that desperate for money?

Or perhaps you were here for other reasons.

The kettle’s loud whistle shakes Fyodor from his web of thoughts. He takes it off the stove, bringing it over to his preferred ceramic teapot, decorated with painted pink carnations, filling it with the boiling water before moving on to inserting the mesh tea infuser, full of some of the new leaves you brought him.

As the aromatic smell of spices fills the air, he turns his thoughtful eyes to where you sit at his dining table, reading over the fourth chapter of his novel. He sees your smile behind the pages. The way your eyes gleam as you read and reread paragraphs. It even looked like you were no longer struggling to read his handwriting.

He felt warmth stirring in his heart. Fyodor had seen from reviews and heard from Vivian that his works were well-beloved, but seeing you smile and the joy in your eyes was something else entirely. It stirred something deep within his soul.

You actually did enjoy his story. You weren’t just going along with the crowd or agreeing with a friend because it was a popular piece. You were genuinely enjoying his work. He feels his heart pound for just a second before he turns away, focusing on the tea.

With slender hands, he pours the rich, orange liquid into the prepared porcelain teacups, the fragrance growing even stronger in the room. Between the sound and smell of the pouring rain and terrifying thunder and the earthy, aromatic smell of the Autumn spice tea, Fyodor felt his shoulders relaxing as he brought the two teacups over to the dining table, just in time to hear you gasp quietly.

Ah, you must’ve gotten to the part where the female lead is fleetingly introduced. For a moment, Fyodor finds himself smiling.

𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡ © 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦

Next

Dividers: @/saradika * Translation:  Dear Madam, I want to remind you that your right to your own opinion does not oblige me to listen to this nonsense. Silence is a great talent. My advice to you: if you have thoughts, keep them to yourself; Nowadays, smart people are silent, not talking. I didn’t hire you here for an author’s speech, so be kind, work and don’t pretend to be Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin.

[clovariia]

hasbro is killing g5 mlp, which means it's officially my city now...say hello to my new and suspiciously familiar "ocs"

[zorosdimples]

happy valentine’s day to my most beloved <3

i’m late.

it’s the only thought that buzzes around zoro’s mind—the only sound he can hear—nagging as a fly. he sprints down the bustling streets, darting through dank alleyways, dodging loiterers and tourists and townsfolk alike. he may have gotten lost along the way to his destination, but he can find his way back.

he always finds his way back to you.

the swordsman quickens his pace as he reaches the town’s outskirts, boots thumping heavily on the stone path that ambles through the forest and leads to the beach. the sun is setting—bidding daylight goodbye, the sky streaked with supple peach and sumptuous orange, wispy clouds alight.

i’m not cut out for this, zoro thinks to himself, afraid he won’t make it to you before the sun kisses the horizon. his heart thrums, but not just from physical exertion; he’s anxious to witness your reaction, to see your eyes spark with excitement, to watch your lips curve into an infectious smile. he’s wildly out of his depth, but he can’t help but feel like it’s worth it every time you cross his mind.

hopefully you will forgive him for being late.

when he reaches the beach, sand aglow and dotted with seashells, zoro spots you wandering along the shoreline. he stops for a moment and takes in the scene: your shoes are in one hand as you let the foamy tide wash over your feet, hair blowing in the salty breeze. his chest twinges and his breath grows shallow as he approaches you.

he reaches your side and you look over to him, a smirk curling the edges of your soft lips. “what?” the swordsman asks testily.

you giggle and shake your head. “you got lost on your way here, didn’t you?”

for once (he blames it on his nerves) he doesn’t argue. instead, he pulls out the gift that he has held tightly behind his back, thrusting it towards you. your gaze flickers down to the bouquet of stargazer lilies—your favorite flowers.

“what’s this for?” you ask as you accept the gift with a devastating smile, one that cracks open the swordsman’s ribcage and pierces his beating heart.

zoro huffs, brows drawn in a scowl, the faintest flush on his sun-kissed cheeks. “valentine’s day,” he mutters, steel eye darting between you, the ground, and the flowers in your hands. “you told me you celebrate it where you’re from, and today’s the fourteenth,” he explains. he prays he didn’t mix up the date.

“but,” you say, fingers delicately brushing one of the petals, “you don’t celebrate. you didn’t need to do anything for me. i—i didn’t even expect you to remember.”

“i remember everything about you,” zoro says before he can stop himself. his scarred palms caress your face with worshipful care. you lean into his touch, warm and comforting as the evening sun, and your lips brush his.

“thank you, zo.”

a lone tear drips from your lashes and rolls down your cheek, smearing between your lips and his own.

[myreitha]

So my friend @charminglyantiquated shared a story-game with me that she's working on for @elsewhereuniversity and I became kiiinnnddadaa obsessed so for Christmas I had to make a little surprise for her about for the next letter I sent her.

Without giving spoilers, the narrative features an origami swan with writing on the back, and a special ring and I was like "I CAN DO SOMETHING WITH THAT".

So I did. Pls enjoy my beautiful origami that's hiding SECRETS.

[Image Description 1: A photo of an origami swan. The swan is made of fancy paper with gold detailing, but hiding in the underside of the wing can be seen some handwriting Image Description 2: On the backside of the unfolded swan is a number of quickly scratched notes in different handwritings and annotations in black ink as well as a drawing of a simple ring. There's also faded writing in blue ink that can't be read. One note points to the faded ink and reads "Looks like there might be something up here?" Pointing at the ring is a back and forth between different handwritings "Why a ring?", "Who's is it?", "no idea", "do we need to know?". The last writting at the bottom of the paper is in all caps and reads "These secrets are by season sealed, Only by winter's bite revealed." and had written comments point it it reading "riddle from Canyon, no idea where they got it" and "this is important??" End Description.]

Riddle solution and revealed text and under the cut

The blue writing was written with a temperature-sensitive ink, which was revealed by making it cold - in this case, she stuck it in the freezer, which is exactly what I did when I tested the ink on the paper. The poem is about the central problem of the narrative :)

[Image ID 3: Another look at the back of the paper, now with small, neat cursive writing revealed in blue ink. A poem has been revealed written above and around the ring, and mysterious symbols written on the inside of the ring. The poem reads: "In time of love and trust betrayed, The Queen in birch and sleep had laid. For ruling Knight had little known, that grudges left unchecked had grown. A worthy soul the crows had found, To bring Spring Queen back to her crown. Now revels sing of Queen’s old songs, the friend of crows you find is gone. Replaced by neighbor, form eschewed, Their fate, you find, is up to you. Choose well, dear friend, which path you take, Soon all will know the story you make." End Description.]

[friendlybatteringram]

Grodus: Move one step and she will breathe no more!

Goombella: What if I take two steps?

---

Grodus: Move one step and she will breathe no more!

Koops: Oh no... That's how I walk!

---

Grodus: Move one step and she will breathe no more!

Flurrie: *floats over*

---

Grodus: Move one step and she will breathe no more!

Yoshi: Whoa, Princess Peach can hold her breath that long?! Cool!!

---

Grodus: Move one step and she will breathe no more!

Vivian: No! Then who will step in as Mario's cute, girly sweetheart??

---

Grodus: Move one step and she will breathe no more!

Bobbery: CAN she breathe in that absurd green bubble? Did you think this through, old boy?

---

Grodus: Move one step and she will breathe no more!

Ms Mowz: Wrong.

[starrystevie]

🌿 where the spirit meets the bones 🌿

an appalachian eddie munson fic written for @steddiebang with art by @paintedpatroclus

after finding out that his father passed away and that the munson family home in tennessee is now wayne’s, eddie munson makes his way back to the little house nestled on the outskirts of the appalachian mountains. he brings along someone to help with the heavy lifting, to help carry boxes and clean out the junk the house has accumulated over the years. in walks steve harrington with his hands and arms open and ready to do much more than just the heavy lifting. together, the two work through eddie’s grief and anger, acceptance and closure. it’s all wrapped up in a family house in the mountains of east tennessee. it’s where eddie learns how to let go, how to let people in, and how to live as free as the winds blowing through the overgrown weeds. and if it means seeing steve trying to catch crawdads in the sunshine and seeing the stars twinkling in his eyes in the moonlight, then eddie’s happy to be along for the ride.

read here on ao3

[thevioletcaptain]

as someone who normally reads a script over on the tv writing site every day while eating breakfast like it's the morning paper, but who didn't have time today because i'm trying to meet a deadline on my own script that i've been slow to work on due to an assortment of fire related stress as a resident of los angeles this week........ i am experiencing some severe fomo over these new spn script drops

[teamdilf]

Me: I'm so happy Solas and Iris got a happy ending so I am going to write a fic about the first years of their eternity together.

Also me: But what if I write a tragic time travel AU where Solas dies at the hands of the Executors 20 years post-Veilguard and Iris goes back in time to the Inquisition era in an attempt to stop his death, only to find herself in conflict with the Solas of that time period because she's fundamentally a different woman, changed by grief and also lying about her identity just as much as he is? 🥲

[hendolish]

————

declan rice/anthony gordon - dazed

————

The stadium is electric, the crowd roaring in elation as England secures their place in the Euro 2024 final with a last-minute goal.

The energy is palpable, a living, breathing thing that pulses through every player, every fan, every corner of the stadium. Anthony stands amidst the chaos, his heart pounding with exhilaration. The team is a mass of jumping bodies, hugging, cheering, shouting in triumph.

Anthony’s eyes can't help but follow Declan, who’s caught up in the euphoria, going around and celebrating with everyone, despite the two of them never really spending anyone one-on-one time together.

But Dec is currently the epitome of joy, his face alight with a dazzling smile. Anthony watches, bemused, as Dec plants a sloppy kiss on Luke’s cheek for the cameras, making Luke laugh and push him away playfully before he's moving onto the next victim of his jubulation.

Dec’s joy is infectious, and as he approaches Anthony, Anthony can’t help but grin. He feels it spring onto his cheeks as he says something congratulatory. He must have, becuase Declan is beaming at him like the sun in an English heatwave. Overwhelming and unstoppable.

But Anthony’s words almost feel like background noise, because Dec has this dazed, far-off look in his eyes, like he can’t believe he’s awake and not dreaming right now. It’s ridiculously intoxicating to see so closely and Anthony’s own heart swells with the shared thrill of their victory.

Dec might say something in return, but Anthony can’t focus on the words, too captivated by the sheer wonder in Dec’s expression. Instead, he squeezes Dec’s shoulder in silent communication. In this moment, words seem unnecessary.

Before Anthony knows it, Dec is being tugged away by another teammate, their connection breaking as Dec is swept back into the celebration. Anthony’s gaze lingers for a moment longer before he turns back to the jubilant chaos around him, his spirits soaring with the collective joy of the team.

The dressing room afterward is a riot of noise and excitement. Everyone is still buzzing, the air thick with triumph. Dec is at the center of it all, as always, his laughter ringing out as he shares the moment with their teammates. Anthony hangs back a bit, content to watch for now, absorbing the happiness around him as Adam wraps an arm across his shoulders.

It’s not until they’re all winding down, the initial frenzy easing into a more subdued, yet still vibrant, atmosphere, that Anthony finds himself next to Dec again. This time, they’re in the hallway outside the dressing room, where it’s a bit quieter, on their way back to the coach.

“You had such a good game, mate,” Anthony says, more composed now but no less sincere.

Dec turns to him, his smile still wide but his eyes more focused as he answers through a laugh. “Thanks, we must’ve all played our hearts out. I've got nothing left in the tank at all.”

There’s a pause, a moment where they just stand there, the weight of what they’ve achieved settling in. Anthony feels the sense of... something from earlier lingering in the air. He cocks his head in interest as Dec goes to speak again.

His voice is softer now, more introspective. “Can you believe it? We’re actually going to the final.”

Anthony shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “It feels unreal.”

Dec’s gaze is intense, his eyes reflecting the same disbelief and wonder that Anthony feels. “We’ve worked so hard for this. It’s… it’s everything.”

Anthony nods, feeling the truth of Dec’s words deep in his bones. “Yeah, it is.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, the noise of their teammates still audible but distant. In this moment, it’s just the two of them, standing side by side, sharing the enormity of what they’ve accomplished.

Anthony's lying in bed at the hotel that night when he feels his face split into a grin after he sees what Dec has commented under his Instagram post about the win: "Together ❤️".

Then, he thinks, "Oh fuck."

He brings his phone to lie flat against his chest, stares up at the dark ceiling and then wonders, when the hell did that start happening? That swoopy feeling in the pit of his stomach staring at Declan's Instagram handle of all things. And, more importantly, when did he get so ridiculous?

This is a problem, Anthony thinks.

If he can't even read Declan's social media messages without his heart skipping a beat, how on earth is he expected to spend the entire day with him training tomorrow?

Anthony calms a little after remembering that they never really talked all that much before.

It'll probably stay the same, right? Dec was just swept up in post-match emotions, he probably was himself too, thinking about it. There's no reason to make a big deal out of all of this.

But when Anthony answers the knocking on his hotel room door the next morning to find Declan standing there and Anthony feels his stomach drop, he starts to think that maybe there is.

"Um, hey?" He says, half in greeting and half in question, wondering in the back of his mind if Dec had really intended to knock on his door and not, like, Luke Shaw's or Harry Kane's or anyone else's really. He smiles through the confusion anyway, belatedly wondering if his hair looks like a complete mess just to add to all of this.

"Hey," Declan sounds as cool and as calm as ever, his teeth shining through his grin as his gaze jumps to where Anthony is now attempting to tame his bed hair. Great.

"Was just wondering if you wanted to grab breakfast together."

His words take far too long to register with Anthony, who's still blinking sleep out of his eyes. Declan waits patiently anyway, seemingly bemused by the transparent fact that he's only just awoken.

"Hmm? Oh, uh, yeah sure. Just let me-"

Shuffling back into his room, Anthony exchanges the hotel slippers for his Adidas sliders and starts slipping off the old U21s training shirt he sleeps in for luck in exchange for the team gear, only he hadn't expected Declan to take his awkward fumbling for words as an invitation into his room at all.

"Wow, it’s well clean in here."

By that, Anthony just assumes he's referring to the lack of clothes littering the floor often found in most of their teammates rooms. He huffs a laugh as he admits, "Didn't unpack that much, really."

Belatedly, he remembers to pull the shirt clutched in his hands over his head. If Declan notices he pulls it on back to front the first time he tries, he doesn't make any comment.

"And that's the neatest suitcase I've ever seen at an England camp too."

Anthony smiles shyly as he shrugs. He likes to know where everything is; it makes him less stressed, but he forgets not everyone here knows that about him.

"Alright?"

He asks after a moment of silence and Declan doesn't make any movements back towards the door like Anthony had been expecting him to. He rocks back on his feet as he watches Dec's eyes drift out of the window and then back to him.

"Yeah," Dec reassures him before going on, but his words feel distant. Like his mind is elsewhere, "Yeah, I just... about yesterday..."

After stopping there, Anthony isn't really sure what he's reffering to. The game? Their win? Their... whatever it was? He opts for a silent nod instead when Dec doesn't go on for a while, seemingly mulling something over in his mind. Anthony isn't one to push when he doesn't like to be pushed himself.

"There's something I want to..." Declan sounds unsure for once in his lifetime, "I mean... can I?"

Anthony isn't sure that Dec is aware that he hasn't really asked him a question. Confused, he repeats slowly, "Can you..."

His eyes widen when Declan comes closer. They weren't too far apart to begin with really. Now they're practically face-to-face, and Anthony starts to feel as though they aren't talking about the game.

Dec's got that dazed look on his face again, like there's something to get lost in in Anthony's eyes, before his gaze darts down to his lips, long eyelashes fluttering as he asks, "Can I kiss you?"

The thumping beat in Anthony's chest increases tenfold. The answer's out of his mouth before he thinks about it too hard, swiftly followed by Declan's lips meeting his own.

It's soft at first. The kiss. Nothing more than a press of lips against his own. But then he feels it at the same time Declan gasps against him and grabs one hand at his waist, drawing him closer.

Sparks. Like a fire has finally caught on to its kindling in his heart.

Like it's always been there, waiting.

Anthony's arms wind their way upwards until they're looped around Declan's neck, pulling the taller man closer to him as he opens up his mouth into the kiss, gasping out a breath he didn't know he was holding when Dec squeezes a hand at his waist again.

The other soon finds its way into Anthony's hair, and thank god it was already ruined because Dec does a good job of mussing it up in holding Anthony against him. The thought makes Anthony crack a grin and soon Declan's doing the same, that ever-so-familiar chuckle breathed out against his cheek.

"What?"

"Nothing." Anthony shrugs. Although he can tell Dec doesn't believe him, he lets it go in favour of planting another kiss to his lips.

"That was good, right?" Declan feels the need to check after a couple of seconds, pulling back slightly despite the hand he still has in Anthony's hair, "You liked that? We're cool?"

Chuckling at his choice of words, Anthony pulls him back to him, his arms still looped around the other's neck, "Yes, we're 'cool'."

Dec ducks his head as he laughs, "Good. I'm, uh. It's just I've never really had this, you know. With a guy before, so I don't... don't really know how it goes."

Anthony smiles at Dec when their eyes meet again. He can still feel that excitement from before curling in his belly; the way he felt on the pitch.

"It goes however we want it to." He tells him softly, and that seems to calm Declan a bit, he shoulders relaxing under Anthony's forearms as a grin tugs at his lips again.

"That mean I can kiss you again, then?"

Anthony's laughing as he tugs him back down for their lips to meet.

♡

[diazsdimples]

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

It’s snowing!!

A snowstorm in my inbox!! 21 frosty sentences just for you (we're pretending that last section in the speech marks is one sentence okay)!

Frostpunk AU ❄️

Hope surges through Buck at the news – it’s the closest thing either of the Diazes have made in terms of visible progress and he clings onto it like a lifeline, Bobby’s words from a few days prior echoing in his head. “Do you think he’d be able to hear me, you know, if I talked to him?” Buck asks Hen later that morning. She’s doing her routine cares on Edmundo, checking his IV sites to make sure they haven’t tissued and taking his vital signs, and Buck hovers around her, his fingers itching to thread through Edmundo’s steadily lengthening hair. “Who, Christopher?” Hen asks as she turns Edmundo’s hand over in hers, checking the length of his nails and the colour of the IV site. “I mean, both of them really, but yeah, Christopher,” Buck replies, shifting restlessly from one foot to another. “I was thinking of reading to him, so he knows he’s not alone.” Hen give Buck an almost sad smile, ones that he’s become more and more familiar with as the days have passed. He’s seen it on Hen’s face as she works and watches him keep constant vigil at the Diazes bedsides, and Bobby and Athena’s whenever they come and check on him. Maddie doesn’t try hide her sadness behind a smile, he sees it whenever he walks into a room these days. Be careful with yourself, Evan. Don’t get too attached. Yeah, well, Buck’s never been very good at listening to instructions, even if it’s for his own good. “I’m sure he’d really appreciate it if you read to him, Buck, that’s a good idea,” Hen replies, and Buck’s already pushing through the tent flaps and pelting down the icy streets before he knows what he’s doing. It’s -30 degrees Celsius today, fairly mild for this time of year. The sun hasn’t quite crested over the big ridge that shelters the city, leaving the streets and buildings sparkling with icy dew from the frozen night. The slats of streets are still slippery with black ice, and more than once Buck has to grab onto a streetlamp to stop him from slithering sideways as he takes a turn too quickly. He reaches his tent in record time, sporting a new scrape on his knee from a misjudged corner, and shrugs off his coat, barely sparing a moment to brush the snow off his pants before continuing on his mission.

[insert this snippet about the Princess Bride here]

With the book clutched tight to his chest, Buck makes his way back to the med tent, this time with much more care. There’s a new chair waiting for him between Edmundo and Christopher’s beds, this one lined with furs and complete with a small section that pulls out, should he want to prop his feet up. There’s no indication of who made the switch, but Buck sees what looks suspiciously like the back of Bobby’s head over in the supply section of the tent, and Buck’s throat constructs a little. He settles himself down on the chair, kicking his boots off, and leans over Christopher’s side, speaking quietly to the kid. “Hey bud, it’s Buck. I- I don’t know if you can hear me but I’ve bought a book with me today, and thought I’d read it to you. My sister used to read it to me when I was little, and it always made me feel safe so I figured I’d do the same for you.”

Tagging friends who have shown interest in this work

@neverevan @cal-daisies-and-briars @exhuastedpigeon @thekristen999 @spotsandsocks @hippolotamus @jesuiscenseedormir @theotherbuckley

Make me write things!!

[flurry-of-stars]

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥𝕴

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩

𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩

Fluff.

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 7.1k 𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 *сонечко- Little Sun

“You truly are a remarkable assistant. Simply amazing.”

Nikolai’s voice is smooth as velvet, with the charm of a warm fireplace in Winter. He had a voice that could draw people in like a siren's song. From the kitchen, Fyodor could practically visualise the familiar gestures he was making while speaking.

The grand gestures, the elegant swoops of his hands...

Knowing him, he’s likely touching your shoulders and arms here and there too…Fyodor stirs the porridge a little faster as it bubbles and boils.

Yet beneath his charming voice, something about his rambunctious friend's tone causes Fyodor’s jaw to tighten. He shifts uncomfortably as he listens from the kitchen, wooden spoon scraping gently against the sides of the saucepan.

Nearby, Tolstoy lays across the kitchen table, head tilted and ears directed down the hallway. He's gazing down the hall, the tip of his tail twitching faintly, his eyes half closed.

A small huff of amusement escapes Fyodor; it’s as though even the cat knows what's going on too. That small flicker of humour dissipates faster than a flame being doused with a bucket of water as Nikolai’s voice reaches his ears. 

“Back when I was an author, I saw seasoned professionals crumble under less pressure than this. But you—” Nikolai’s voice escalates, changing from charming to flirtation. “—handle it with grace.”

“And with that wrist of yours on top of it—” Fyodor can almost picture Nikolai reaching out to touch your hand, gently caressing the soft beige bandage. He imagines him kissing your hand, his large hand enveloping your smaller one. Suddenly, it feels hard for Fyodor to breathe. “—You are an inspiration to us all. We could all learn to be harder workers from you. You, my dear, are one of a kind.”

He hears the flustered stammer in your voice, the tap of your ankle boots echoing like distant thunder against the floorboards; it’s a rhythm of retreat, each step a hesitant heartbeat, pulling you away from him as if the very air between you has thickened.

Nikolai definitely kissed your hand. “Ah…I’m just doing my job as Mr. Dostoyevsky's assistant,” you insist, tone trembling. Fyodor is quick to assume you’re not used to interactions like this. “I take my job seriously since I want his book to succeed, is all....”

A brief flare of pride ignites in Fyodor’s chest, only to be swiftly extinguished once more by Nikolai’s next words: “There’s no need to be so modest! You, my darling, are a true gem in the literary world. And so early into your career! Perhaps I should start calling you the muse of Mr. Dostoyevsky himself~ After all, every great writer needs one, don’t you think?”

“Except,” he continues, his tone shifting. Fyodor frowns, straining to catch his old friend’s flirtatious murmur as it softens to a near seductive purr that causes his lip to curl into a deep, displeased frown, “Maybe you’d prefer to be my muse instead~? Perhaps you’re just what I need to be…inspired to write again~”

Suddenly, the walls feel like they’re closing in on him. He swallows roughly, his throat parched and his chest tightening as he grips his wooden spoon tightly. Before he even realises it, Fyodor's opened his mouth and called out for you, his tone firm, “Огонёк. I require your assistance in the kitchen. Now.”

He barely hears your murmured apology, but the swift pace of your footsteps echoes in the silence. His gaze drags across the countertops to take in your appearance—your rosy cheeks, the way you struggle to hold his gaze while your hands fidget nervously with the fabric of your skirt.

His stomach churns uncomfortably, as if caught on the rough waves at sea.

“Bowls,” Fyodor replies, forcing himself to look away from you. The longer he stares, the more queasy he feels. “Please.” He adds, the wooden spoon circling the pot, his hand never pausing in stirring the thick, bubbling porridge. Swiftly, he removes it from the heat, shutting the stovetop off.

“Y-yes, of course..!” you stammer. Your flustered response makes his throat constrict. He feels a faint breeze as you rush behind him, grabbing a trio of porcelain bowls from the cupboard. He clears his throat and turns his dark eyes in your direction.

“Just two, Огонёк,” he remarks, watching as you look up at him in surprise. “I was not expecting Nikolai’s presence this evening, so there isn’t enough for three.” He notes the slight relaxation in your face, before he watches your lips tug downwards.

“But what’s he going to eat? We should at least serve him something.” Your insistence makes his shoulders tense. Even his own upbringing taught him not to let a visitor go hungry. His hand hesitates in its stirring as you place the bowls on the countertop.

He could think of a few of the meals you'd both prepared for the week that Nikolai may enjoy that you wouldn't. He had begun to learn your tastes this week especially, so he has a pretty good idea of what could be served to Nikolai.

As he begins portioning the food, Nikolai’s mischievous voice wafts in from the hallway.

“Your assistant and I could share a bowl,” he suggests deviously. Though deep down he knows his old friend is teasing, Fyodor feels his chest clenching tightly again, his gaze never wavering from the porridge he’s serving. The gentle tap of Nikolai’s footsteps approaching makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his chest seeming to tighten further. 

Nikolai adds, his voice growing more flirtatious once more, “Maybe you can even feed me a few spoonfuls, Огонёк~” The moment he tries to walk past him to get closer to you again, Fyodor holds out his wooden spoon like a barrier, making sure not to splatter porridge across the kitchen.

“Only I can call her that,” Fyodor states, his dark eyes finally lifting to meet the playfully charming gaze of his best friend. Nikolai holds his hands up in mock surrender, his charming smile turning into a devilish smirk. He steps back, his voice sounding as cheerful as ever. 

“Oh, my apologies! I didn’t know, Fedya!” Nikolai replies, his voice as devious as ever. As Fyodor turns his attention away from his old friend to watch you organise the table, Nikolai steps passed him, adding, “Do you need some help setting the table, сонечко~?” 

For a brief moment, something ignites in Fyodor’s chest. He’s tempted to smack Nikolai in the back of the head with his wooden spoon. Just a little bop, nothing too bad--

Goodness… over their three decades of friendship, Nikolai has gotten under his skin countless times, but he’s never felt the urge to strike him like this…

The earlier argument he had with you must be why he’s still so agitated.

Shaking his head briskly, he dispels the odd thought and focuses on filling the now-empty saucepan with water, tossing the wooden spoon in alongside it. As you set the table, he hears you reply, “Oh no, I can handle it. Thank you though, Mr. Gogol—”

“Just Nikolai is fine, dollface.” Fyodor turns his gaze as Nikolai continues, “Although, I’d much prefer if you called me Kolya~” As his gaze lingers on you, Fyodor notices the small smile blooming on your face as you pick up Tolstoy, your hand idly caressing his fluffy head.

“I’m sorry, but you’re my senior in the writing world,” you respond kindly as you continue scratching behind the cat’s ear. The corners of Fyodor’s lips tug upwards into a smirk as he scatters defrosted berries across your bowl of porridge. “It would be disrespectful to call you by your first name.”

“Come on, сонечко. I insist! After all you’re friends with Fedya, right? Any friend of his is a friend of mine, so there’s no need for all this last name business!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Gogol, but I just can’t–” 

Before Nikolai can whine again, Fyodor interrupts, “You are not making a good first impression on my assistant, Kolya.” He smirks at his friend as he places your bowl of porridge down first, adding a drizzle of honey on top. “Do not force her to call you by your first name. And besides—”

He sets his own bowl down, crossing his arms. “You still have not told me what you are doing here. The convention isn’t for another five days. Vivian told me that you and the others would be arriving as a group the evening before the convention.”

Nikolai’s flirty smile shifts into a mischievously devilish grin. Like a cat that's about to do something devious. He rocks on his feet, speaking in a carefree, warm tone, “Can’t I just show up early to surprise my bestie?” His voice takes on a mockingly hurt tone. “And here I thought you’d missed me this past year…woe is me, unloved by my best friend. I might just shed a tear…”

Fyodor scoffs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “There’s always a reason for your actions.” As he takes his seat across from you, he eyes Nikolai suspiciously as he settles into the chair closest to you.

He watches as Tolstoy leaps out of your arms, the feline disappearing into Fyodor’s bedroom. Feeling his jaw tighten, he picks up his spoon and digs it into his porridge, idly stirring it. “So?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Nikolai holds up his hands in feigned defeat. “Alright, alright, you caught me! I was supposed to arrive here in four days.” He leans back, hands behind his head. “But a..shall we say, opportunity presented itself that allowed me to be here early.”

Mid-scoop, Fyodor pauses, narrowing his dark eyes at Nikolai’s carefree expression. Silence stretches before he lets out a heavy sigh. “You stole Ivan’s ticket again, didn’t you?”

Nikolai’s lips curl into a barely concealed smirk, the kind only Fyodor would recognize. “Ivan’s ticket, my ticket—really, who’s to say whose it was? What matters is…first class is cushy, especially when you’re not the one paying for it!”

Fyodor can’t help the amused smirk that rises on his face. “I always knew those hacking techniques our old technology teacher showed us would come in handy in one way or another.” He grabs the honey, giving himself a smaller drizzle as he mumbles, “Imagine what else he could've taught us if we kept praising him--”

“You two have really been friends for that long?” Your voice snaps Fyodor out of his small moment of banter with his old friend. Placing the honey back down on the table, he casts his gaze toward you, noticing the curiosity lighting up your face. 

“Oh yes, yes!” Nikolai speaks up before Fyodor can even think about replying. He casts his gaze towards him, noticing just how eager he is to talk about their past. “We’ve known each other since…” He looks at Fyodor, pursing his lips together. Holding his hands up, he mumbles, fingers twitching as he counts the years.

A low chuckle escapes Fyodor. “Since we were very small.” His voice softens as he turns his eyes on you. The way your eyes twinkle with curiosity is captivating, and he can’t bring himself to look away. “Kolya was visiting the area on vacation right before Winter one year—”

“—When I swear I saw this huge bird! It was one I'd never seen before! ” Nikolai interjects, his excitement as palpable as the day their paths first crossed. Fyodor’s shoulders slump slightly as your sparkling eyes turn in Nikolai’s direction. “So, like anyone else would, I ran after it! And I’m glad I did. This place always becomes so beautiful in Autumn…”

Nikolai turns his multicolored gaze toward Fyodor, grinning widely. His eyes are vibrant and alive, burning with the memory of that fateful day. Fyodor can practically see it playing over in the colourful hues of his eyes. “I lost sight of the bird but Fyodor here just so happened to be outside!"

"Well, I say he was outside," Nikolai adds, gently nudging Fyodor with his elbow as he smirks at him, "But really, he was huddled by the front door of this place reading a book!" He raises an eyebrow at Fyodor, as if saying 'what was up with that?'

"I was told to spend time outside," Fyodor nonchalantly replies, shrugging. "I was not told I couldn't take my book with me." Nikolai scoffs, rolling his eyes in response. You, on the other hand, giggle in amusement. Fyodor's dark eyes turn towards yours, gazing into your soft eyes, twinkling with mirth.

"That sounds exactly like something you'd do," you jest back, grinning at him. "You'd be the type to read at an amusement park instead of enjoying the rides."

Nikolai cackles softly, giving Fyodor another playful nudge, "I see she already has you all figured out, huh Fedya~?" He teases, earning a scoff from Fyodor. His eyes linger on you for a few moments as Nikolai continues his story. "If his mother didn't come outside and ask him to help her with the gardening, he probably would've sat there all day!"

Suddenly, Fyodor's heart clenches at Nikolai’s words, and he finds himself staring into his porridge as if it holds the answers to his unspoken questions. The meal suddenly seems less appealing, his stomach feeling constricted. He tries to swallow but his throat is abnormally dry.

“It was hilarious, honestly!” Nikolai continues, his laughter ringing through the air. “She dropped his ushanka on his head-- It was so big on him! It kept flopping down onto his face! Not to mention, his Winter coat was so big, he had to keep stopping to roll the sleeves up! At first I was shocked, because I didn't think he had hands!”

He laughs heartily. Fyodor hears your soft giggles mingling with it. His spoon glides through the porridge, a stone settling uncomfortably in his stomach. “—But it was honestly adorable how much he was helping her, with his little hand trowel and tiny watering can. All the while, he looked like a little puppy with floppy ears!”

Nikolai's voice is filled with the warmth of a sunny day. Each soft chuckle and tease made that ball of cold ice in Fyodor's stomach grow havier, weighing him down. “Why, if you ask me, I’m almost certain he—”

Suddenly, Fyodor clears his throat, interrupting Nikolai. He takes a deep breath, briefly locking eyes with him before his gaze drops back to his bowl of untouched porridge. He stirs it once, twice, before finally looking back up at Nikolai.

All traces of mischief have vanished from Nikolai’s face; even his smile feels empty. Despite this, the understanding and sympathy in his expression are unmistakable. In a heartbeat, he hums, turning his gaze back toward you. “Aaah…I can’t seem to recall…! It was quite a long time ago, so you’ll have to forgive my fuzzy memory.”

A sense of comfort washes over Fyodor. Even if he was intent on teasing him to death, Nikolai still understood and respected his boundaries without question. Fyodor couldn't help but appreciate that. As your warm tone of understanding reaches his ears, he relaxes further, “That’s okay; I have trouble remembering a lot of my early years too.”

The sound of your spoon tapping against the inside of your bowl as you scoop up more porridge isn’t lost on him. “So then, Mr. Gogol, if you gave up being a writer, what are you doing now?”

“Oh? Interested in my career, are you? What, want to make sure your future husband is earning enough~?” Fyodor feels his body starting to relax as the topic of conversation shifts. He hears you splutter a bit, coughing and dropping your spoon, clearly to Nikolai's delight, judging from his amused cackle. Fyodor keeps his gaze down at his porridge, stirring the thick, pale substance around as Nikolai continues, “Well, I gave up writing…god, quite a while ago at this point!”

Fyodor listens to Nikolai’s story, his stomach slowly feeling lighter as he reaches for a glass of water. His gaze briefly rests on Nikolai’s cheerful expression. He nods a few times in confirmation as he sips from his glass. Just like that, Nikolai’s gestures become more animated as he leans toward you.

“I stopped writing after Fedya’s published his first novel, under his pseudonym of course. I'd already been writing for a few years before this one started publishing.” He rests his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his knuckles.

He nods, enthusiasm sparkling in his eyes, “I'm very proud of the novels I've published and I'm glad so many readers enjoy them too.” Fyodor can practically see his best friend’s ego swelling. “Since then, I’ve just been in and out of jobs, travelling the world and–”

“Basically… Kolya struggles to hold down a job,” Fyodor teases, his eyes flickering toward you. He notices your amused smile beneath your curious eyes and adds, “He’s always been a bit of a wanderer. A free spirit, if you will. Don’t follow in his footsteps, Огонёк, or else this porridge may become a staple in your diet.”

Your gentle giggles fill his ears, causing his lips to tug a little higher. His eyes soften as he watches you, even as Nikolai starts to scoff. The sound of your laughter and the sight of your smile are almost soothing to him.

It doesn’t seem like you’re still upset about earlier—

Nikolai’s loud voice shakes him from his thoughts. “I’ll have you know, сонечко—” That nickname again. Fyodor's hand clenches tighter around his spoon. “—that just because I enjoy drifting between jobs and places, that I have, in fact, had many jobs and have quite a decent nest egg, if I say so myself!"

"I didn't work for a while after I published my last book. All of my freetime went into planning my future trips around the globe! But when I finally did get another job, I--"

Before Nikolai can continue, his phone buzzes and chimes. He glances at the screen, scoffing as an amused smirk tugs at his features. “Ah, I’ve been caught already, it seems. I’ll be back in two shakes of a bird’s tail! Don’t miss me too much~!”

He looks towards you, kissing his fingers and blowing you a kiss. Fyodor doesn’t miss the way your cheeks light up at the gesture, his eyes trailing after Nikolai as he leaves as he notices your turning to stare into your bowl.

Before Fyodor can correct the expression he used, Nikolai gets up from his spot beside you, heading for the front door. He lets out a silent sigh of relief as he hears him answer the call, the door gently shutting behind him.

Then, he turns his attention back to you. “I apologize for his sudden appearance. I would have warned you if I’d known Kolya was going to show up on my doorstep today. He can be a bit… much.”

“Oh, no, it’s completely fine. Mr. Gogol just seems very… eccentric. I don't mind his company." Your voice is quieter now, more relaxed. Fyodor’s gaze drops to your bowl, noticing you’ve been eating the whole time. There’s about half of the porridge left in your bowl, while his remains full. “But you still haven’t had a single bite of food.”

Blinking a few times, Fyodor looks up at you, mildly surprised that you’ve noticed his untouched bowl. “Ah… I suppose I just got caught up in our conversation.”

He watches as a frown tugs at your lips faster than you realise. You sigh, shaking your head lightly, your tone slightly exasperated. “I thought we fixed your eating habits.”

Before Fyodor can respond, you stand up, sliding your bowl across to the spot next to his before taking a seat beside him. He’s taken off guard, his mind short-circuiting for just a moment as you gaze up at him, that familiar warm smile finding its way back onto your face.

“Taking care of yourself is important, you know.” He can hear the care and worry in your gentle tone. His dark eyes turn down to watch as you grab his spoon with your non-dominant hand, scooping up some of his porridge along with a berry or two. “If you don’t eat, how are you going to keep coming up with those fantastic ideas of yours?”

“And what of you?” he replies, his gaze rising to meet yours with a hint of sternness. He gently caresses the back of his hand and wrist, reminding himself to soften his tone. “Your wrist won’t get any better if you keep forcing yourself either.”

A huff escapes you, a mix of frustration and understanding. “Okay, fair enough…” There’s a pause, the air thick with unspoken words with a dash of anxiety. When you speak again, your voice has grown softer, barely above a whisper. He notices how you look down at his bowl of porridge, as if it holds the secrets of the universe within its creamy texture.

“I’m…sorry. For earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” His brows raise slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. He leans closer, silently urging you to continue.

“It’s just… I feel like I’m the one responsible for making sure your international debut goes well. If the work isn’t done in time or my translations are poorly done… I feel… I just…” You take a sharp breath in, fingers twisting the fabric of your skirt for comfort.

Your gaze shakily lifts, meeting his, revealing the intense sea of disquiet swirling in your usually bright, burning eyes.

He watches the way your lip quivers, the furrow of your brows deepening as you seem to search for stability in him. “I feel like I’ll be the one responsible for ruining your career. And I can’t… I just can’t do that to you…”

The weight of your words hangs in the air, heavy with apprehension. Fyodor can only imagine that this same burden has been weighing on your mind and heart all this time.

His chest clenches as he starts to realise the weight you’ve been silently carrying, that burden that’s been pushing you to work harder and harder, despite the agony it’s bringing you.

Despite the risks that come with it. 

He wants to reassure you, to tell you that you’re not alone in this, that the success of his book relies on so many other factors outside of you. But the intensity of the moment leaves him momentarily speechless.

Taking a deep breath, he finally speaks, his voice soft, “Огонёк, you could never ruin my career. Your translations are…phenomenal. This is your first job, yet you have the talent of someone ten years your senior.”

He notices the way your eyes widen as if his words have struck a secret chord within your heart. Slowly, he lifts his hand, his slender fingers gently brushing against your bandaged wrist resting tenderly on your thigh. A silent gasp escapes your lips at his touch. With deliberate care, he caresses your wrist, his gaze firm yet warm.

“You are the best assistant I could ask for. That’s precisely why I need you to look after yourself.”

“I only scolded you earlier because I’m concerned about what could happen if you keep pushing yourself this way.” His tone softens, fingers pausing their gentle caress as he almost whispers, “I care about you, Огонёк. I don’t want to lose my assistant. So please, let’s find a middle ground so you can continue your work without risking your wrist.”

Without skipping a beat, a soft, shaky “O-okay,” escapes you. Fyodor smiles gratefully, his hand sliding off your wrist as he sits up straight. He's fast to notice the brief pause of silence that flows between the both of you. He lets it continue for a few seconds before he decides to speak up.

But before he can break the silence, he blinks in surprise as you lift the spoonful of porridge toward his lips, a playful- though still somewhat shaky- grin on your face.

“But if I’m going to start taking my wrist more seriously, you need to promise me you’ll keep eating well and looking after yourself too, okay?”

A small chuckle of amusement escapes Fyodor. He pauses for a moment, as if considering it. Then, with a shrug, he murmurs, “I suppose it’s a fair deal…”

Leaning forward, he accepts the mouthful of porridge, letting you feed him. He sees the way your eyes light up with relief, despite the anxiety still present in them. The way your smile doesn’t light up your face like normal, how your brows are furrowed….

As he swallows the porridge, he reaches out once more, his hand easily finding yours without him so much as glancing down. Instead of touching your wrist, he tenderly grasps your hand. He notices the way your eyes widen as he leans forward, his tone a serious whisper, “I’m serious, Огонёк. I want you to lean on me, okay? I do not want to see you pushing yourself again.”

His eyes peer into the shimmering surface of your eyes, watching as you fully absorb his words. Your silence is telling enough. It’s a silent sign to him that this will be more difficult than he initially thought. “Promise me, Огонёк. Promise me you won’t do this again.” His fingers gently intertwine with yours, his touch careful as he squeezes your hand.

A silent plea to agree to his terms.

“Mr. Dostoyevsky…” He notes how breathless you sound as you whisper his name. He remains unwavering, his hand gripping yours, refusing to let go until you agree to his terms. There’s a flutter in his chest as he remains silent, waiting with bated breath for your confirmation. Just a simple okay will be enough…

“Ooh la laaa~” Fyodor jolts, his shoulders going rigid as Nikolai’s mischievous voice fills the kitchen once more. His hand quickly releases yours, but it’s too late.

As Fyodor turns to meet Nikolai’s teasing, devious grin, he knows Nikolai has already drawn his own conclusions. “Have I interrupted something~? Oh dear! Fedya, you should’ve told me your assistant is—” He shifts his gaze back to you, his Cheshire-like grin widening, “—more than just your assistant.”

You take the bait before Fyodor can even think to stop you. “It isn’t anything like that!” You sound so flustered that it almost catches him off guard. You’ve never sounded like this around him before—it’s strange to hear your usually resolute and passionate voice tremble like this. But it’s almost… cute. “We were just talking–!”

A mischievous hum lingers on Nikolai’s lips as he approaches the table, a taunting sway in his steps. You've snatched the bait, hook, line and sinker.

“Talking while holding hands, hmm~? Forgive me for saying so, but that seems a bit more—” He moves closer, almost standing behind Fyodor now, “—amorous than a boss should be with his assistant~”

“She’s wounded, Kolya.” Fyodor interjects, stepping in before you can reply. “I was checking the condition of her wrist. You haven’t strayed so far from writing that you’ve forgotten just how valuable our hands and wrists are, have you?”

Nikolai holds up his hands, that sly grin transforming into an innocent smile that could fool anyone else. “Hey, don’t let me stop you from being a caring boss. I just think that normally, when you’re checking someone’s injury—” His smirk reappears just as quickly as it had vanished. “—you normally… well… check the injury. Not stare into the patient’s eyes.”

Fyodor interrupts calmly, “I was watching her expressions for any signs of discomfort or pain. Огонёк and I may be on friendly terms, but I wouldn’t put it past her to hide her pain from me if she thinks for even a second that I’m going to stop her from translating those chapters.”

“Oh, so she’s resilient? That's interesting...” Nikolai clicks his tongue, his eyes gleaming deviously. Fyodor sighs, mentally preparing himself for whatever flirtatious comment Nikolai might make next—aimed at you, of course—when your voice cuts through the banter.

“So… you’d say we’re friends then…?”

The question catches Fyodor off guard. It’s not just the question itself, but the soft, almost meek tone you’re using, as if you’re afraid he might deny it. His dark eyes shift to meet yours. You look up at him, uncertainty etched on your face, a glimmer of anticipation shining in your eyes.

Friends… 

Fyodor hadn’t considered the nature of your relationship before you said that.

At first, he had to admit he hadn’t enjoyed your company that much. You were a brilliant translator, an asset to him as an author and in achieving his current goals. But having someone else’s presence lingering in this cottage with him after the past year he'd spent here alone had felt unpleasant at first.

You didn’t know how sacred this place was to him. You didn’t know how long he had spent in these walls, absorbing their atmosphere and essence, burning the memory of thi splace into his memory. Wanting every small detail etched deep into his soul so that when he ultimately met his end, he would remember it in the afterlife.

But that wasn’t your fault.

You had come here to perform a job, plain and simple. You hadn’t come to trample all over the sacredness of this place. You probably didn’t even realise how deeply this building and its location means to Fyodor. When he finally came to accept that and let you in, he couldn’t deny that he began to enjoy your presence.

You'd even gone out of your way to spend your paycheck on food these past few weeks, just to make sure he was eating well. You even helped him get some much needed rest that fired his creativity and drive to write into overdrive.

In fact, a part of him desired your presence now. You brought warmth back into his life that he had lost a year ago when his spark had been swept away. Stolen from him in the blink of an eye, leaving him cold and alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. 

It wasn’t the same burning intensity he had known, but a gentle flame, a determined, passionate one, unique and all your own, that you’d brought with you was warmer than any candle currently lit around the cottage. He was drawn to your captivating flame, your burning passion and drive, like a helpless moth. 

He couldn’t deny it, even if a small part of him didn’t want to admit it: Fyodor enjoyed your company.

“Yes.” He pauses, considering his words carefully. His dark eyes never leave the hopeful shimmer in yours, the words leaving his lips causing that flutter in his chest to grow as he continues, “That is to say....I would consider us to be more than acquaintances…”

He watches your eyes light up, that shimmer becoming a full sparkle. Her doesn’t even realize you’re leaning slightly closer to him, that hopeful undertone to your voice growing more intense, “And more than acquaintances is…?”

He huffs at you, pulling back. He looks away, returning to swirling his porridge, “Forget I said anything.” Despite his dismissive tone, he stifles a chuckle as you whine beside him, pleading for him to say the words you want to hear.

“Aww, come on! It doesn’t count if you don’t say it!” He can easily hear the joyful mirth in your voice, the slight rise in pitch as you plead with him.

He may not have openly called you friends, but his words have nonetheless brought you happiness. Alot of it by the sounds. He can tell that much, at least. That’s rather sweet; he didn’t expect his words to make you this happy.

Something about it warms his chest, that fluttering feeling growing more intense. Before he realizes it, a faint smile is sneaking onto his face.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“Dad, I’m home!”

Your keys jingle in your hand as you push open the apartment door, greeted by the musty smell of mildew and the irritating flicker of the lightbulb in the dining room when you switch it on. It buzzes and flashes a few times before settling into a soft glow, illuminating your dingy little apartment.

You know it might seem odd to others, but it’s hard to break this habit. Whenever something makes you particularly excited or happy, you find yourself coming home, calling out for your deceased father just as you did in your youth.

The last time you'd done this was the day you'd graduated from university. Even though he’s gone, you can’t help but share the good news with him as if he were still here.

“Sorry I’m late,” you continue, turning to securely lock the door behind you. You giggle happily, hanging your still damp amber coat on a clothes hanger by the window, the chill of the evening still clinging to your skin. You crack the window open slightly, hoping your coat will be dry by morning.

The silence of the rundown apartment wraps around you; the only sounds you can hear is faint honking in town. It’s a familiar silence. A lonely silence. “One of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s friend’s showed up early. Something about hacking and stealing tickets?”

You giggle, the sound echoing in the quiet space. “I don’t know. I didn’t really get it, but that friend of his was quite the charmer.” Your smile softens as you think of the encounter, a flicker of warmth igniting a memory.

“Oh, and get this!” You almost squeal as you walk toward the kitchen. Pausing, you turn to gaze at the dining room, imagining your father sitting at the table, listening to you gush about your day, that big goofy grin of his on his face. “Mr. Dostoyevsky said we’re friends!”

You know you have the goofiest smile on your face as you open the old refrigerator. It hums loudly as you reach in, grabbing a chilled water bottle before heading back into the dining area.

Your tone hushes slightly after you take a few mouthfuls of the cold liquid—the last thing you need is for your neighbors to think you’ve finally lost your marbles. “Well... he didn’t say the word ‘friends,’ but that’s basically what he meant!”

Giggling happily, you feel like you’re on cloud nine. Maybe it was silly to be so happy about something like this, but the thought of actually being friends with Fyodor filled you with the warmth of a cozy fireplace in winter.

During your time working for him, you’d come to admire both him and his work. The idea that someone as talented as him saw you as a friend made you want to jump around and squeal.

“I wish I could introduce you to him and Mr. Gogol,” you mumble, a wistful tone in your voice as you approach the dull gray buffet table. “They’re really interesting people, Dad. I bet you would’ve loved to share your stories with them too…”

It stands sturdy, even after all these years, with three lockable drawers and two sideboards. But you only make use of one sideboard and the top drawer.

The second drawer holds your school report cards and the arts and crafts projects you’d made for your father during your childhood. He’d lovingly labelled the front of the drawer with your name, decorated with worn-down holographic butterfly stickers and beloved cartoon characters that once filled your days with joy.

As you lean closer, a faint scent drifts up from the surface—something sweet and sharp, reminiscent of overripe fruit mingling with the dust of distant memories. Memories of your youth that now left far behind you. 

Despite knowing better, you attempt to unlock the bottom drawer with your key but it doesn’t seem to work. The key slides in but doesn’t unlock the drawer as you rotate it. It was an oddity that always piqued your curiosity, made worse by the fact that it couldn’t unlock the right sideboard either. 

The key slides into the lock for the left sideboard, unlocking with a satisfying ‘click!’ as you turn it. Opening the door, you smile nostalgically, greeted by the sight of all the short stories your father wrote for you—from the fading, tattered yellow spine of his very first storybook to the deep red of his final creation.

‘Mister Fox.’

Your non-dominant hand reaches out, gently sliding the final storybook free from its slot and into the warmth of your palms. “I bet you’d want me to show them this one. You told me it was your favorite…”

Nostalgia begins to pulse through your veins as you sit down on the floor, your fingers tracing the letters written in gold across the cover, accompanied by a whimsical illustration of a fox.

As your hand glides over the gold letters of your father’s name, a dull ache settles in your chest. You brush away small remnants of dust from the cover, a gentle reminder of time passed.

This was a storybook you had only read once with him, a cherished moment before the day that irrevocably changed the course of your life. The crimson of the book in your hands feels almost too bright against the sombre memories, a stark reminder of what you’d found, what you’d seen that day.

You inhale shakily, your hand pausing on the cover as your heart pounds, the weight of those memories suddenly pressing down on you. The book in your hands feels like it’s carrying the weight of the world within it’s pages. The harsh scent of iron and the rancid, sour stench of bile assault your nostrils, pulling you back to that day as if you were reliving it all over again.

You exhale deeply, reaching for the cold bottle of water you’d brought to the buffet. You clench the plastic, causing it to crunch in your grasp. The chill spreads across your palm and fingers, before you jolt, realising too late that you’ve grabbed it with your damaged hand. Pain shoots through your wrist like a thousand lightning bolts.

You wince, groaning as the bottle slips from your grasp, hitting the floor with a soft thud. You draw your injured wrist close to your chest, clenching it firmly into a fist, waiting for the pain to subside.

On the bright side, the memory has faded like a ghost, disappearing into the deepest depths of your mind until it's roused once more. On the less bright side, you can already hear Fyodor’s morning lecture on being more careful echoing in your mind. 

  As the pain dulls, your attention draws itself back to the small crimson, hardcover notebook that your father had written ‘Mister Fox’ in. It was the same size and brand as the other storybooks tucked away in the sideboard, though in much better condition. 

The artwork on the front cover was whimsical and cute, depicting a charming orange fox with a long bushy tail, surrounded by delicate purple foxgloves. It's pouncing forward, a large cartoonish grin on it's face as it's frozen in time, caught midleap over your father's name written on the cover.

It was pure luck, your father had told you, a wide, lopsided grin on his face. He had just come back from the store, his breath faintly tinged with the smell of something sweet, when he ran into an amazing artist who’d happily drawn the cover for him, free of charge.

Although he couldn’t remember the name of the artist when you’d asked him…

You gently open the notebook, reading the dedication inside. Each book held a different message, all addressed to you.

“To my beautiful daughter,

Remember that I have always and will always love you. I have countless regrets, but you, my little Dahlia, will forever be the single most precious thing in my universe. You are a blessing to me.”

Your lips quirk upwards as your fingertips gently trace over the last dahlia he’d ever tried to draw for you at the bottom of the dedication, scribbled in with a black marker. It was shakily rendered with a nearly empty pen, but to you, it was perfect; imperfections and all. 

“I love you too, Dad,” you whisper sorrowfully, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before you begin reading through your father’s last storybook.

The story tells of a charming fox who lived deep in the forest, enjoying a peaceful life. He had everything he could ask for; comfort, peace and food. Until one day, he heard a baby bunny crying and rushed out to find a giant wolf threatening her. The brave fox confronted the wolf and, after a tense standoff, the wolf retreated.

The grateful bunny called the fox her hero, but he felt guilty about his past. He took her back to his cozy den, where they shared food and comfort. He raised the baby bunny for a long while, as his guilt was eating at him from the inside.

Later, overwhelmed by his guilt, the fox confessed his dark history to the bunny, warning her of the danger he posed. He knew the bunny would despise him, hate him for revealing himself as the monster he is. No different than the wolf who had cornered her and tried to eat her when she was a kit.

However, the bunny, undeterred, expressed her belief in his goodness and forgave him for his past. Touched by her words, the fox promised to change for her sake. From that day on, they lived happily together, with the fox dedicated to protecting the bunny he loved like his own daughter.

Your eyes linger on the final scribble in the notebook, a depiction of the fox carrying the bunny on his back. That’s what it was supposed to represent, at least. In truth, it looked more like a smaller, paler orange atop a larger one, with sausage-like legs.

Your father was a writer, not an artist, after all.

Gently, you close the book, holding it tightly to your chest for a moment. This was your father’s final gift before his passing. He didn't get the chance to take it to the writer’s convention himself.

You just knew that if they had read it, this book would have been his breakthrough. It would have been both his first and only step into the literary world...

He had passed his flame to you, his torch now yours to carry. His legacy rested solely on your shoulders.

First, you would get his book out there, and it would be published. Then, after helping get Fyodor’s book out into the world, you would continue to carry the flame for your father.

This book would be the first of many that you would see to publishing under your father's name. The rest of the books in the buffet table would come after. You'd make sure each and every one would see the light of day.

This was the least you could do for him. After all the sacrifices he made for you, after all he had done for you, you owed him that much, didn’t you?

𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡ © 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦

Next

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove @slowlyfoulenthusiast @youngkidchaos

Candles divider- @/firefly-graphics  Orange heart divider- @/adornedwithlight

[inexplicablymine]

Time for an ask!

How do you think Alex’s introduction to David went? Who was more excited?

Short Answer: They are equally excited and Henry is a little butt hurt that Alex is able to get along so easily with David (but secretly thrilled).

Long answer: a canon-compliant if you squint Ficlet for you because this ask SENT ME PLACES. (see below to keep reading)

My Two Favorite Royals

“Oh stop wait you know what would make this better,”

“What Alex,” Henry asks in an exasperated tone, he is already hanging on by a thread at seeing the object of his every fantasy in threadbare joggers and glasses. Alex grabbing his hand only moments ago to take a photo for Instagram almost made him vibrate out of his skin.

“Where is your dog?”

Henry sputters back, “My, my dog? What on earth- how do you know about my dog?”

Alex sends a lazy smile his way, “It was on your fact sheet sweetheart do keep up.”

Henry tries not to let the momentary confusion or the nickname get the best of him. He knows with certainty that anything about David wasn’t on that blasted fact sheet that was so wrong it could have been made for a complete stranger.

Alex is standing now pushing his laptop closed and looking up at Henry eagerly. It's a face Henry couldn’t possibly ignore.

With a resigned sigh Henry turns and walks towards his bedroom. He can’t help but think about how he has never had a boy in his bedroom. Sure Pez, but that didn’t count. And now… now his inescapable insufferable crush was going to be waltzing into his bedroom of all things looking like a wet dream walking.

Henry is ripped from his internal monologue by a shout and Alex running in front of him to David.

He can’t tell who is more excited, his beagle, who is shaking so much his entire body is wiggling with every tail wag, or Alex, who immediately drops to the floor arms open wide to accept the wriggling dog into his arms.

“Ohhhh such a good boy, yes you are, what a handsome dog, the most important royal yes you are,” Alex coos. Henry can feel his heart bursting at the sight. Alex’s uncontrollable laughter when David starts licking him, and the way he sits fully against the wall legs splayed out and glasses askew is giving him heart palpitations.

Alex looks up smiling, “Not sure how such a cute dog got stuck with such a stuck up owner but I might just have to take him home for myself.”

“Excuse me! Stuck up? You can’t take David he is the only thing that keeps me sane in this prison cell.”

Alex looks a little startled by the outburst and pauses to pat the ground next to him.

“Want to elaborate on that sweetheart.”

Henry isn’t sure when the nickname came to be but he isn’t going to ask for it to stop. So he sits down, completely undignified in his jim jams, and lets David break the ice between them.

The next two hours are spent with their hands accidentally touching while they pet David. Alex pesters Henry for more answers, real answers, about his life than he has ever been asked before.

They argue about David’s name and Alex says his only saving grace is that he is no longer a mystery to Alex but the rest of the world can stay that way. It warms him up from the inside. He doesn’t want to look too hard into anything or give himself a false sense of hope.

Maybe Alex is just this touchy with everyone. Maybe the nicknames aren’t just for him. Maybe he also holds someone’s hand in his own as he puts his number into their phone demanding daily updates of David or incurring his wrath.

When Alex is somewhere over the Atlantic he gets a notification link on his phone to an Instagram post.

Alex in his glasses and sweats holding David mid laughter. Henry next to him also laughing. The Crown is going to kill him for looking so unprofessional, but the caption is what stops him short.

“Had to hop across the pond to visit my two favorite royals (don’t tell Henry that David is really my favorite)”

Henry can’t stop the way his heart jumps at being called a favorite anything of Alex’s.

He scrolls down to the comments and sees a wave of support.

Comments about how real their friendship is, how cute David is, how real friends wouldn’t have photos like this together, how the bromance is real.

His heart doesn’t stop thumping with every text back and forth with Alex that evening. Or the next.

His heart is in his throat with every phone call, it pitters restlessly when he receives selfies from the bed, it leaps when he gets a phone call at thanksgiving, and clenches dangerously when he finally ends the call on Christmas Eve.

A year and a half after that selfie was posted to Instagram they are sitting on a low leather couch in a brownstone in Brooklyn. A place that Henry never expected to call home. Alex is in sweats and Henry is wearing one of Alex’s NYU sweatshirts. They are currently arguing over which season of The Great British Bake Off to watch when Alex gets an alert on his phone.

He looks down and laughs. Henry doesn’t have a moment to ask what it’s about before Alex is dragging David up from his place between the two of them into his arms. David lets out a small huff but quickly relaxes back into Alex, where he has found home in the past year just as easily as Henry.

“Smile babe,”

Henry has learned not to question Alex so he leans in and smiles, realizing just how easy it is now to let the corners of his mouth curl up.

A few moments of tapping and Alex sets his phone down on the table with a flourish.

“So are you going to share what that was about?” Henry lightly pesters.

“Only putting an online debate to rest, you might want to mute your notifications sweetheart.”

Oh god what has he done now, is all Henry can think as he pulls his own phone up.

Posted on his Instagram Alex has created a slideshow of photos. The one he just took at the front of the group. As Henry swipes through he can’t help but smile as image after image of the three of them, Alex, Henry, and David are together. The final photo makes his breath catch. There they are on the floor of Kensington Palace, long before anything happened, long before Henry knew just how wonderful his life might turn out to be.

The caption is simple and sweet,

“Just wanted to update y’all on how it’s going with my two favorite royals. (Don't tell David but Henry is my favorite.)”

[waywardsalt]

anyways. my very first attempt at malenia

[zorosdimples]

a little hurt/comfort. angsty at first.

sadness.

it slowly seeps, at first. from your heart—always from that fragile spot beneath your breast—too soft to do any good. blue bleeds until it settles in your bones, clouds your mind, wearies your soul. until it wholly consumes.

it’s painful to watch. it doesn’t matter how many times he sees you crumble into dust; each and every instance is no less devastating than the last.

“it’s just one of those days,” you said in the morning, eyes devoid of the brightness that should have accompanied your smile. he knew something was wrong. but he can’t force you to share your burdens.

now, he is witnessing the life leave your body.

you close and curl in on yourself, shrinking, wishing to disappear before him. as if he would let you.

the warmth of his skin against yours makes your eyes sting. he can’t see the tears that sparkle as they wet his shirt—your face is buried in the soft fabric, fingers gripping the garment like a lifeline.

words of comfort light as air leave his lips, but most don’t reach your burning ears. the sentiment is what counts. and the hand that soothes up and down your back is all you can really focus on, anyway.

he never tells you to stop crying. he lets you have your way, shifting to pull you into his lap, palm moving up to smooth over your hair. his chest is damp with your sadness, aches in tune with your own.

how long you stay like that doesn’t matter; it always ends the same. you come up for air, face a mess (your words, not his). your gaze is puffy and your voice is thick as you whisper, “sorry.”

“don’t apologize,” is his reply, kisses dotted on your eyelids and cheeks and nose for good measure.

sadness comes and goes. but the two of you always remain.

[waterfallofspace]

What A Way To Start A Year

T/im learns a little something about karma, friends, and care. Seems even J/on isn't quite as cold as he seems.

A M/agnus A/rchives fic, set somewhere pre-season 1. Shouldn't have any spoilers, but proceed with caution just incase~ (nothing late game, just character dynamic things)

Welcome to "I meant for this to be a little drabble and I wrote 3k words"~ Having a bit of hyperfixation and burn out as I started this new year, soooo I decided to make T/im suffer <3 Not promising quality seeing as I wrote this all in the span of tonight, but consider it a lil 'too long' drabble, and happy new years!

Best way to start off the new year, giving one of your lil guys a lil snz <3

Characters: T/im, M/artin, S/asha, and J/on. Word Count: 3.9k

(CW: There is some swearing, and light descriptions of high fevers)

Christmas had been good this year, maybe the best it had in a long time. Life of the party as always, Tim had enjoyed getting to spend it with his old, and new, colleagues. On top of that, Jon had been laid up with a pretty awful cold for a couple days leading up to it, so he wasn’t around to crush any brilliant ideas Tim came up with. 

This led to the budget receiving a fairly substantial hit, though many researchers donated to the cause when they learned this borrowing wasn’t exactly approved. Hell, even Elias had pitched in, claiming something or other about ‘archivists fit for the job not exactly growing on trees’, and wanting to ‘save some of Jon’s sanity’. 

“Tim? Are you even listening to me?”  

Pulled back to the conversation at hand, Tim lifts his gaze to the taller man fidgeting nervously in front of him. Martin was never one for confrontations, and usually the first ‘no’ would have been more than enough to lead to a string of apologies for even asking. Today however, he seems to have grown a spine. At the worst possible moment. 

“Oh come on,” Martin continues, missing the groan slipping from Tim’s throat. “Even Jon agreed to it!” 

“I’m not really in the party mood,” Tim retorts, leaning back in his chair. “Besides, Jon didn’t agree to celebrate, he agreed not to stop the celebration. Not the same thing.” 

From across her desk, Sasha gives a low chuckle. “He’s got you there, Martin.”

“Can you at least give it a little thought before turning it down?” Martin insists, completely out of character for someone usually so eager to please. 

What the hell has gotten into him today? He didn’t even seem to enjoy himself that much at the Christmas party. Sure, he had a few drinks and mingled with the staff, but he’d left as soon as it was over, not waiting around for chatting like Tim and Sasha.

Clearing his throat with a grimace, Tim casts Sasha a dark look as she chuckles again. Knowing far too much, as usual. Especially when it came to him. If it was anyone else, Tim would hate it with all his being, but given that it’s Sasha… well it’s a welcome invasion. 

Still, it would be nice if she didn’t rat him out. And to Martin of all people, well let’s just say he saw what happened when Jon was sick. Yeah, passing on that one. Attention is great, Tim lives for it, but the coddling? Not really his style. 

“hiEH– guh…”

Damn, that had been a close one. Thankfully Martin seems oblivious, though Sasha sits up in her chair, reaching down into a drawer to fish something out. 

Turning his focus back to Martin, Tim provides an offer, desperate to just have the interaction come to an end. 

“Fine, I’ll show up, but I don’t want any part in planning it.” 

“Oh of course, I’ll handle all the details, I mean it’s just a new years party, how much can there really be to do? I mean food, timing, gotta make sure we have keys to the building– oh but if Jon’s there, that shouldn’t be a problem…” Martin says, rambling beginning to fade into the background as Tim finds himself unable to- 

“hH– ek’CHhiew!” 

“-Oh, bless you!” Martin says, his own thoughts long forgotten. 

Unable to get a word out, Tim merely waves a hand, ducking into his shoulder for another, “eTChhew!” 

“Bles-” 

And another, “iTSChh’ew!” 

“Oh ble-” 

And another, “ehh– kTChh’iew!” 

Silently Sasha stands, handing Tim a pack of tissues. Must have been what she was looking for in the desk. Once again, knowing more than she should, of course she picked up on his patterns. 

Accepting them gratefully, Tim pulls a few out and roughly rubs at his nose, pointedly avoiding Martin’s worried gaze. Gripping his still trembling nose through the tissue, Tim sucks in a tight breath through his teeth, holding for a beat, before finally spinning around in his chair for a final- 

“hH’ETCSHh-ieuw! Whew, bless me.” 

Martin’s hands are fidgeting again, seemingly unsure of what to do with himself as Tim gives his nose a light massage through the tissue. He’s aware enough not to point it out, but is nearly shaking with the effort of suppressing his concerns. 

With a sigh, Tim meets his eyes. “I’m fine, Martin. I always sneeze like that.” He leaves out ‘when I’m sick’. It also happens if he’s suffering allergies, though he doubts that would be a point in his defense given it’s the middle of winter. 

“Yeah he’s not kidding,” Sasha pipes up, throwing Tim a wink as he glares. “You should hear him in spring, once it starts he can be going for hours.” 

“I wouldn’t say hours, Sash-” 

“Remember the cherry blossom incident?” Sasha interrupts, sending a sugary smile over to Martin. “He was wrecked for the rest of the day, I was almost certain he was never gonna stop. Even considered giving a statement here, that reaction was almost supernatural.” 

Tim winces, an audible moan slipping from his lips. “We swore to never speak of it again.” 

Sasha laughs, Tim giving her another playful glare from behind his tissues. “You swore that, I did no such thing.” 

Thankfully Martin doesn’t pry, having enough common sense to offer a polite chuckle, and offer some excuse about ‘planning’. Still, he can’t help himself from shooting a meek “I hope you feel better soon” over his shoulder, Tim giving him finger guns in return. 

“This is karma, you know,” Sasha calls after Martin’s outside earshot. “You took pleasure in Jon’s suffering, so now it’s your turn to suffer the same fate.” 

“No, thi- eTChhew! Scuse me,” Tim says, rubbing his nose with the tissue one last time before depositing it in his nearly overflowing trash can. Another tissue is plucked as his eyes begin to water, nostrils flaring with reckless abandon. Never just one. 

“kTChh’uew! hh’iTChh –uew! Tihhckles… eTCHh! etchh’uh! hiehh–” 

The last one toys with him, tracing the rims of his nostrils, back up his sinuses, a gentle itch that seems to burn against every inch of his nose. Finally, with a desperate gasp, Tim ducks into his wrist for the last, “heh’ATChhh –iew!” 

“Many blessings. Sounds like you need them,” Sasha offers with a wince, tossing another pack of tissues over, which Tim catches with a single hand, the other still gripping his nose. 

After taking a moment to clean himself up, Tim shoots her his signature smile, ignoring the eye roll she shoots back. “Where was I?” 

“Admitting this is karma?” 

“It’s not karma, it’s lack of common sense. Going to a party where a coworker is sick, and still drinking and eating the same meals” Tim says, aiming a rough cough into his sleeve. 

Sasha winces once more at the quality of the cough, hands rummaging through her drawers once more as she tosses a reply back. “And yet you’re the only one who caught it. Seems like karma to me.” 

Closing the distance between them in a single stride, Sasha places a hand on Tim’s shoulder, voice softening. “It’s two days till new years, why don’t you go home and try to get some rest? I doubt Martin will object, and I’ll cover for you with Jon.” 

Before Tim can form his rebuttal, Sasha places a box of paracetamol and a jar of vapor rub in front of him. Nodding his thanks, Tim lets out another harsh cough into his arm, leaning as far away from Sasha as he can manage. 

With a light rub to his shoulder, Sasha walks to the door, holding it open with a pointed look. “Go home, you sound awful.” 

“Alright, alright. I got the message. hH’ETchhiew!” Tim says, gathering his care package and beginning his walk down the hallway. 

“If I hear the rest of that fit happening in this building, I’m telling Martin how ill you really are,” Sasha calls after him, a smile flashing over her face as Tim holds up his hands in mock surrender, before ducking back into his arm with another muffled burst. 

— 

“You look horrible.” 

Tim manages a weary smile from behind the tightly wound scarf. “Thagk you.” 

Martin winces, standing in the doorframe, seemingly oblivious to the winter chill soaking into Tim’s bones. Even just the walk from the train station was hell on earth, standing out here is doing him no favours. 

Turning away with a throat scraping cough, Tim manages to clear the congestion enough to finish the sentence somewhat understandably. A great feat, given how fast his voice is retreating. “May I remind you that I’m only here because you insisted.” 

“Right, well I… I didn’t know how bad-” Martin begins, realizing spreading across his face like a wildfire as a chill leaves Tim breathless. “Oh god, I’m making you freeze to death while you’re already this sick, I’m so sorry, come in, I’ll go make you a tea.” 

Tim nods his thanks as he piles inside the warm institute, cursing his aching lungs as each breath of warm air seems to burn them from the inside out. Martin rushes away, nearly crashing into a few researchers as he makes his frantic dash for the kitchen. 

The scarf is reluctantly removed, a shudder running through Tim’s back as the warm air does nothing to soothe what he’s now certain is a growing fever. A few researchers wave to him, offering some idle chit-chat as he makes his way inside.

For the most part, people give him a wide berth, apparently he looks as bad as he feels. Tissues in hand, gripping them like a lifeline, Tim finds his way to a couch and lets himself sink into it. The party buzzes around him, fading into background noise. 

Martin returns soon after, the mug vibrating slightly as he attempts to steady his hand. “I wasn’t sure what kind you’d want, we have a pretty limited amount, but I have a few extras in my desk– oh I could have probably found one for colds and flus, I’m not sure which this is, I thought cold before but you look-” 

“Martin,” Tim interrupts, voice cutting uncomfortably through his raw throat. “Can I have the cup?” 

“Oh, right, sorry!” Martin says, a sheepish grin crossing his face, nerves more than anything else, as he hands Tim the mug. Tim gives another appreciative nod, taking a cautious sip. 

The warm liquid feels like heaven against his throat, and he barely manages to choke back a whimper. The flavour is still a mystery, Martin never actually got to that part. Given how little he can taste at the moment, seems it’s gonna remain that way. Still, the heat beginning to warm his chest is a welcome relief, and Tim has to fight to keep his eyes from drifting shut…

“Watch out!” 

The voice rouses him, his eyes snapping open just in time to witness Jon dropping to his knees in front of the couch. The realization doesn’t sink in for another minute, Tim blinking the tired from his eyes and trying to figure out why people are staring… and why there’s a hand on his finge– 

Oh, the tea. Thankfully Jon’s reflexes seemed to kick in just in time, his hands guiding Tim’s cup to the table next to him. Judgement clouds the boss's eyes as he turns back, fully ready to chastise Tim, no doubt. Jon opens his mouth, one hand beginning to point, but as his eyes scan Tim’s form, his demeanor changes instantly. 

“You don’t seem well.” Jon’s voice is still firm, but with a hint of something Tim can’t quite place. On anyone else, he’d call it concern. On Jon… perhaps concern isn’t far off, though the underlying criticism of the statement irritates him. 

“I wonder why that could be? It’s almost as if someone came to the Christmas party sick enough to fall asleep standing. Twice.” Tim says, sarcasm lining his words, alongside the congestion he can’t seem to fully shake. 

“Well in that case,” Sasha chimes in, cheerful voice a natural antithesis to the misery coursing through Tim’s system. “Seems you’re halfway there!” 

“Hey, I was lying down, that’s hardly the sahh… same thing– hH’ETchh!” 

“Here we go,” Sasha says, already turning on her heel to find a tissue box as Tim’s hitches increase in desperation. 

“aHTChh’ew! gn’tchhew!” 

“Bless,” Jon offers, a brief confusion crossing his face as Sasha laughs, shaking her head. 

“He’s not done,” She says, handing over the tissue box. 

Tim grabs for it blindly, too caught up in the fit to even attempt dignity. Still, the eyes on him do leave him with a hint of embarrassment, and the onslaught is muffled as best he can manage. “hH’MMpshhew! eMPFShh’ieh! hh’MFSHhueh!” 

Blessings sound out from the room, Tim managing to wave a hand towards the ones offering them, eyes still watering. As the fit seems to stall, he lowers his tissues, red nose now visibly twitching. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, the hint of concern from before now plainly evident. That’s frankly more alarming than it should be, and Tim finds himself wanting to… reassure the boss. 

“I’m okay, it’s juhh… j-just… huhh–” But it seems his nose has other plans, a tissue being raised once more as Tim paws at the appendage. “‘Scuhhse me, I still have… hahhve to… to… hiHh– eTCHh’ew! hk’ASCHh–oo!” 

This time the tickle fades with the final pitchy sneeze, Tim letting out a low groan as he mashes his nose into the ever growing collection of tissues he’s clutching. A few people call out final blessings, Sasha laughing out hers as Tim’s face goes red once more. 

Martin picks this time to enter the room with drinks, Tim letting his eyes flutter shut as the focus shifts off his misery. A gentle touch keeps him from drifting off to sleep, prying open an eye to find Sasha settling onto his left. 

“Careful, don’t want to catch this,” Tim manages, leaning against his right shoulder to muffle another stream of chesty coughs. Sasha winces as it goes on past the realm of comfort, her hand finding his back. 

“Don’t worry about me, I haven’t earned this cold, I didn’t make use of Jon’s or your suffering,” She says, the playful tone not masking the growing worry in her posture. 

While she can read him like a book, she’s no mystery to him either. The tension in her fingers, absentmindedly stroking patterns on his back. The way she subconsciously tries to support his body weight, despite them both sitting. The look in her eyes when he manages to stall the coughing long enough to meet them. 

With this brief respite from the attack, Sasha takes the chance to bring Tim’s tea back, his fingers wrapping around the warm mug. The first few sips burn, his lungs protesting, begging to return to their efforts to expel all the irritation. By the third, however, the warmth is spreading once more, easing the spasms. 

“Alright?” Sasha asks, beginning to stand from the couch. Tim nods his reply, taking another slow sip. “Think you’ll make it till midnight? We’ve still got a few hours to go.” 

He nods his approval again, not yet trusting his voice enough to make an attempt. Sasha simply smiles, easing back into the party that– Tim had almost forgotten existed. That fever must be worse than he thought, given how loud it is. A fact that’s now pounding against his head in harmony with his heartbeat. 

The party continues on, Sasha and Martin taking turns checking in on Tim as he slips rapidly in and out of consciousness. Seconds turn to hours, and before he knows it, it’s two minutes to midnight. 

As Tim blinks against the harsh fluorescent lighting, it’s Jon that stands before him, hand hovering near his side. Tim begins to speak, breaking off into a cough as his voice comes out rough with sleep and congestion. 

“What’s up boss?” He manages with the second attempt, not missing Jon’s wince at the nasal quality. 

“You simply look… well, the festivities are nearly over, I was just inquiring as to…” Jon seems to get stuck, eyes wandering down to the couch as he finishes. “I know you took the train here, I was seeing if you needed an escort home.” 

“How kind, I’d be delighted to have your accompaniment,” Tim responds, the wit clouding the fact he… hadn’t actually considered needing to go home. Jon seems to take this answer as satisfactory, ignoring all the sarcasm as he gives a tight nod and an out of practice smile. 

From across the room Martin calls out, something about a countdown. Tim attempts to pull himself to a stand, finding Sasha’s arm around his waist, guiding him to the wall. Leaning against it, he lets his rough voice join the chorus as they count into the new year. 

Despite how the lights and noise had pounded into his skull, everyone chanting in unison helps Tim realize that… there actually aren’t that many people here. Aside from his coworkers, there’s only a few researchers, and Elias is not in attendance.

Honestly, thank whatever cosmic being may exist for that one, he had been none too fond of Jon’s arriving sick. Tim shudders to think what he would have said about this state. He shouldn’t have come, but… something about how insistent Martin was… well he just couldn’t disappoint that loveable idiot. 

Somehow Tim finds he’s managed to keep up with the counting, despite being worlds away in his thoughts. As they approach the final numbers, a feathery sensation begins to spread through his nostrils- no. 

Absolutely not, this is not the time. It’s never just one, there’s not enough people here, someone’s gonna notice. And I mean, it’s not like he’s hiding the fact he feels like death, but… drawing that much attention is also not the goal. 

“Five! Four!”

“hiehh- h’ngTchh!” He manages to stifle the first, the congestion pounding in his head as the tickle seems to only get worse. 

“Three! Two!” 

“I cad’t– nNDtch! nGTCh’uh!” 

“One–” 

As the cheers begin to erupt, Tim ducks into the tissues with a scraping, “ehg’TCHhiew!” 

“Happy new years!” 

“yiEShh’iew! etchh’uh! hH’AESHH –oo!” Tim dips into his hands again, managing to sink down against the wall as he lets out a congested blow, ending the fit.

“What a way to ring in the new year,” Comes Sasha’s voice, her form blocking the light from Tim’s eyes as he looks up, fever blurring his vision.

“Shud ub.” 

“Christ Tim, you sound awful,” Jon adds, his form appearing behind Sasha’s. 

“Thagks boss,” Tim retorts, groaning as he notices a third form, Martin’s nervous fidgeting easy to spot even from this angle. Martin remains silent, though his eyes seem to hold more concern than any of them, and… guilt? Or maybe that’s just the delirium. 

Glancing up to meet Sasha’s gaze, Tim offers a weary, “Tibe to go hobe?” 

She nods softly, kneeling to help him to his feet, Martin wordlessly taking his other arm. Jon stands off to the side, hesitating. What for, who knows. All Tim can focus on is one step after the other, just gotta make it home, then he can sleep. For the rest of forever, at this rate. 

As they get to the door, Martin helps wrap the scarf around Tim’s neck, forcing him to lift it from its perch against Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha, for her part, supports his weight with ease, she was always stronger than she looked. 

Martin keeps casting glances towards Tim, obviously fretting over something. Too tired to manage his usual charm, Tim gives Martin the softest look he can manage. “Jusd say id, please. You’re makigg me nervous.”

“I’m so sorry I asked you to come, you’re obviously so unwell, and I know I didn’t really know that at the time, but I should have, or at least texted and checked in, I just… I wanted us all to get along so bad and I thought if you came it would mean more fun because you’re always so lively and good at talking to people and-” 

Tim holds up a hand, eyes glazing over as Martin stops short, breath coming almost as rapidly as Tim’s. After a minute goes by, Martin starts to open his mouth, seeming confused by the interruption, before nearly jumping out of his skin as Tim ducks into his fist. 

“eTCHh’ew! hH’YEAShh –iew! Sorry, I feld those cobigg… waid– hih’ETCHhew! heAYSHh’oo!” Tim ducks down again, Sasha grabbing him tighter to support the harsh shudders as he attempts to keep his balance. 

“Oh bless you,” Martin offers, voice coming out timid. Tim gives him, what he hopes is, a warm smile despite the fever taking hold of the last corners of his mind.

“If I didn’t wanna cobe, I would have stayed hobe. I dod’t blame you.” 

Martin nods silently, a relief seeming to flood his face. Taking his place once more supporting Tim, they move towards the exit. Opening the door, the first wave of cold floods the entryway, and a chill so violent runs through Tim that both Martin and Sasha take a step back to brace him. 

It’s now that Jon speaks up, voice strained with a type of worry Tim hadn’t heard before. “No, we’re absolutely not doing this, I refuse.” 

The trio turn towards him. Though perhaps a more accurate description is that Martin and Sasha turn, Tim simply goes along for the ride. Martin mumbles something about ‘no other choice’, but Sasha asks what Jon’s on about. 

“It’s too cold out there, it’s the middle of the damn night, there’s no way I’m letting him go home like this.” 

“And what do you suggest we do as an alternative? He can’t stay here-” Sasha begins, pausing as Jon turns towards her. 

“Why not? I’m the archivist, this is my archive,” Jon begins, pausing for a moment, before adding, “Well, Elias’s, but I hardly think he’d suggest we send an employee home in this weather while they’re this sick. That’s just bad management, he’ll freeze to death before even reaching the train.” 

As if to confirm this assumption, Tim shudders violently, ducking into his chest with a tired, “hh’eshhew! eTCHh’iew!” followed by a heavy sigh. Martin mumbles something about covering, but quickly silences himself as Tim begins to tremble again. 

Sasha gives Jon a look, seeming to read him for any hints of doubt, perhaps searching for an ulterior motive. After a brief pause, their eyes meeting, she gives a tight nod, approval of some kind. 

“Come on Martin, let’s get him back to that couch, he can sleep there for the night,” Sasha directs, Martin nodding his acceptance. 

Tim manages to catch snippets of the conversation as they get him settled. Jon fetching him a blanket he keeps in his office. Martin providing some more tea. Sasha grabbing tissues and medication for when he wakes up. Something about Jon sleeping in his office so he’s not alone, and Sasha coming in early to help him home. 

With his final bout of consciousness, Tim holds up a hand, the conversation immediately pausing. “Thagk you guys. And… esSHhh’ew! And, I’b sorry.” 

All three stare at him for a minute, before Sasha breaks first. Her laughter fills the silence, Martin joining in soon after, and even Jon letting a few chuckles slip out. When they’ve finally collected themselves, Sasha gives Tim a warm smile. 

“Sleep well, Tim. I’ll come fetch you in the morning.” 

With a content sigh, Tim lets his eyes drift shut again, his consciousness fading to the soft hum of his friends in the background. 

Alright, so maybe coddling isn’t quite so bad after all.

[ask-healthy-light]

The sincerity and sorrow in his voice meant a lot to Cadance and the two Young Princesses, but Luna and Celestia knew that Shining was merely using it as a facade to hide his fear, and when he pulled them closer for a tighter embrace, they could feel their hearts ache; but Shining knew he could not embrace his Family forever, and to his dismay, he was forced to let go of them not long thereafter.

After Shining wiped clean his tear-stained face, he helped his Daughters and his dearest beloved to dry their tears, before he sweetly offered to give Flurry and Twila a lift on his back to the aura, where they could wave each other goodbye; and to his relief, the Young Princesses happily accepted, and they swiftly jumped onto his back, but Shining did not even notice, as if they weighed nothing.

Packed and fully protected from anything that could be thrown at him, Shining slowly turned around, and solemnly told their friends in the Great Hall that they were welcome to join them, but he would not fault them if they stayed; but to his pleasant surprise, not a single being remained seated, as Eclipse and Spike, Star and Amethyst, Sunburst and Starlight, and even Frost all rose to join them.

It was clear that Shining never expected that everyone would be willing to accompany them, but when Eclipse walked up to him, Twilight whispered that he should not be so shocked, before they gestured for him to lead them to the border; and after Shining shook his head, he said that they were right, as he would not want the others to wait for him much longer, which startled the Two-Headed Alicorn.

As Shining walked to the doors to head outside, always keeping a close eye on his two Daughters, he politely asked a worried Eclipse if they could help Cadance out with looking after Flurry and Twila while he was away from here; but Eclipse did not answer his request, and instead, after he repeated himself a moment later, they quickly agreed, and quietly asked him who 'the others' were in return.

Fortunately, when Shining realised what he said, he managed to stay calm, and he politely told them that he meant the Guards at the Outpost, of course, whom had been waiting there for an awfully long time already, and it was time to head there to help them; and he loudly told himself that he had to remember to arrange another shipment of supplies, trying to cover for his mistake as best he could.

To the others' relief, Cadance believed Shining at his word, and she merely looked at him in wonder and awe, overjoyed to have met and married such a helpful, honourable, and honest Stallion; but out of all these qualities, Shining was breaking the latter, as he, and the Princesses with whom he was conspiring, were lying to Cadance for her own good, despite feeling terrible over the mere thought.

But although Eclipse smiled in return, and encouraged Shining to make haste to head to the Outpost, Celestia discreetly whispered to them that their friends were not ready yet, and they were not able to bring Shining to the Dragon Lands yet; but they could not make Shining wait for them, either, so the best thing they could do for them all was to warn Shining, and to tell him it may take a while.

While Celestia and Eclipse discreetly spoke with one another, miraculously without Cadance noticing their conversation, Luna frequently reached out to Nox to ask her for an update, to which she often received little more than a request for patience in return; but eventually, just as the whole group in the Empire stepped into the grassy fields, just as they silently passed the Mirror, she stopped.

A small and warm smile grew upon Luna's face as she put her hoof to her chest, and listened closely as her Daughter let her know that they were finally close to an unremarkable area, which Ember said was a neutral area; but they had to be careful, as only half of their group was able to fly towards it, while Light, Boom, and Courage either had to travel by hoof or paw, or had to be carried there.

Almost in tears to know that Nox and their mutual friends were close to safety, Luna told her:

"Do what you must, but I beg you to stay safe, and to take no unneeded risks…"

(Thanks for reading! And if you enjoyed, please reblog! Thanks in advance!)

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Featuring: Nox Lunarwing from @nox-lunarwing Boomlord from @thedumbguywithaheart43 Princess Twila from @twila-bloggin Solar Eclipse and Twilight Sparkle as Twilight Eclipse from @asktwilighteclipse

(P.S. At the moment of writing, I’ve just crossed over into Germany, about to get off at my next station, where I’ll have an hour of transfer time. Still have like 6 hours to go… and waiting is one of them.)