#he almost never leaves the vaults (it’s quite cozy in there)

[clownsuu]

BRO DUSTY IN MOB AU????

It’s Dusty smhhhh

[awhilesince]

Thursday, 30 August 1827 (travel journals)

7 3/4

10 40/60

Breakfast at 9 in the public room – at 10 1/2, 3 guides and as many mules, and off to the Mer de glace –

at 12 stopt to let the mules drink at the Fontaine des Caillés 1/2 way –

at 12 much Rododendron (rose des alpes) what we saw so beautifully in flower –

at 12 1/2 arrived at the pavilion (maison des plaisirs) at the top of Montanvert – several goats about, and a shepherd there all the day – very arduous ascent – formerly one could only go about 2/3 the way on mules – obliged to walk the rest – about 2 years ago the path made up to the Top – Took all the 40 guides 100 days labour – the pavilion a little room where one Takes refreshments, the provisions one takes up, tho’ there are cupboards there full of bread and wine – magnificent mountain scenery – looking Towards the Mer de Glace (in front of us, and on the east side of the Mer) L’aiguille de Bonchard, then ditto de druis, ditto rectes, ditto du Moine (behind which is le jardin, 5 hours ascent from the pavilion and 3 hours to return), then la petite Jorasse, then the grand ditto, then the Tacul, then the aiguille du géant, ditto des Charmots – ditto du Grepon – the behind one is the aiguille du Bletière – all these are the chain of mountains that one sees round the mer de Glace –

off to it from the Pavilion at 12 40/60 – went above 200 Toises (about 1/4 mile English upon the ice – no idea it was great an Exertion – the iron heels of my boots very slippery – I could scarce keep foot-hold at all in ascending and descending the very steep parts – the mer de Glace Extends 12 lieues in length – consideringly less in breadth just under the pavilion within these 4 years – the large blocks of granite one sees now left bare at the margin called in the country patois moraines – brought away a small piece – called the mer de Glace down to about as far as the Chapeau, a very little knoll with a few (7 or 8) larches upon it, which we afterwards saw in descending le chemin de la figlia down upon the source of the Arveron – called the glacier des bois from where the ice becomes more level, which descends almost close upon the village des bois – gained ground upon it till within this last year or 2 – (but is now losing ground and becoming smaller – one can get very easily to the Chapeau to look down upon the mer de glace) but must there cross it to get to Montanvert – the crystals are found 7 lieues from Montanvert at the very foot of the needles – dangerous going there on account of the stones that fall from the needles – l’aiguille de Druis the finest in the whole chain of alps – One ought to go to the top of Mont Breven (4 hours to ascend and 3 to descend) for the finest view of mont Blanc –

In returning from the mer de Glace at 1 18/60 sat a little while on the Pierre des Anglais, – and then ascended by a longer but much less steep path then we had descended – a Frenchman and his wife and little boy who had breakfasted this morning at one of the Table d’hôte while we breakfasted at the other were dining or eating their provision at the pavilion – we had ours (I took very little) and we all became very cozy – They were going down to the source of the Arveron – we went too – the man at the pavilion was very well satisfied with a franc each of the 2 parties –

off at 2 35/60 – not time to send our mules round – they went down before us – very steep – much worse than the way we had come – quite impossible to go it on mules – wonder how the animals could get down – 1 of the guides led one and the other 2 followed – 1/2 down heard the thunderous fall of an avalanche –

at the bottom of this Chemin de la Montagne de la figlia at 4 10/60 – the fine cascade from the glacier des bois forming the source of the Arveron we had seen almost as well en montant this morning – the fine vault there was under the ice in the month of July now quite destroyed by the heat of the summer – sauntered about admiring the fine view of the Aiguille de Druis, and then down the valley to Prieuré – we found the French man sketching the mer de Glace – we left him sketching along the Arveron, crossed the broad bed of Debris to the other side the valley and set off home at 4 10/60 – I was very hot, so had my mule led, and walked to the end of Prieuré where I mounted merely for the sake of riding up to the Inn where we alighted at 5 1/4 –

Mrs B– [Barlow] foot sore from descending the Chemin de la figlia, and both she and Miss B– [Barlow] very much fatigued – I not fatigued at all – in mounting this morning rode à la califourchon up the roughest and steepest ascents and thus saved both myself and mule Exceedingly –

spoke to my guide seriously about my liking to ascend Mont Blanc next year – too late this year – there had been fresh snow – danger of avalanches – Jane’s guide brother to 1 of the 3 guides who perished 6 years ago – the guides (9 of them) were unwilling to go – knew the danger but Dr. Hamel (a Russian gentleman with him) would go – an avalanche swept them all away, but the 3 guides that were 1st were hurled into a crevasse, and never heard of more – the rest of the party then returned, not having much more than 1/2 way to the top – 1 of the guides that perished was particularly averse to go – he had been up 11 times before – but Dr. H– Hamel persisted – they discovered a new path about a year ago, by which the danger from avalanches is mainly avoided – the danger now is from ‘fausses ponts’, crevasses covered over with snow – these on the glacier beyond the grand mulet – they go all tied together by cords, that if anyone falls in they can pull him out – July the best month this, and perhaps the beginning of August the only time – but one should not go after the fall of fresh snow – 6 guides for 1 person – 9 Ditto for 2 persons – 90/. per guide, and feed them, but 100/. per guide will pay all – ladders, keep, tout compris - 3 days work – I must sleep 1 night under the rock of the grand mulet – The father of Mrs B–‘s [Barlow’s] guide was 1 of the 17 guides with Saussure – (slept 3 nights on the summit and 14 on the grand mulet), and by sleeping in the cold got a rheumatism he never cast, and was never able to walk much afterwards – for some time before he died (only a year ago) could not move a limb in bed – no stranger lady has ever been at the top – but a woman from this valley has – the 1st man who went up (from this valley) went up by himself and was 2 nights at the top by himself – not long before Saussure went up –

to make the Tour of the Alps hereabouts would take one 14 or 15 days – long to steal away next summer and do it –

Last night very cold – hard frost – had spoilt all the potatoes that were just beginning to do well after the rain – great loss to the people – grow corn enough except for finer white bread, and this comes from Salanches and Bonneville – Have no mares (so do not breed mules) buy them young at Salanches – mine cost £15, Jane’s £17. Mrs B–‘s [Barlow’s] £20 – no cretins here – very fast goitres – the valley very healthy – shed the junction of the Arve and Arveron – both streams milky from the white sand (decomposed granite fine as dust, – quite white) brought down from the mountains – huge masses of granite (moraines) near the cascade – granite boulder and debris spread widely over the valley –

Dinner (table d’hôte) from 5 1/2 to 6 1/2 – between 20 and 30 people? – all very respectable looking – did not speak to any of them – came upstairs to write – very fine day –

40 guides. each one pays (on being enrolled) 400 to the Chief guide pour son traitement (for his maintenance – he never leaves his bureau), and afterwards 5 sols for every course or job which goes or is to go towards a general fund for the relief of infirm guides – may be serving guide till 60 – 1st and 2nd class of guides – but all paid the same – only that of the most intelligent a certain no. [number] are called the 1st class – 24 porters these too divided into 1st and 2nd class – rank below the guides, but whenever a guide’s place is vacant, Tis filled up from among the porters – a lady and gentleman carried over the tête noir this morning to Martigny – 6 porters per person –

reference number: SH:7/ML/TR/2/0017 - 18

[kharonion]

🥀🏡💕

Ah, thank you, Megh! 💚 Heck, I'm in the mood to ramble... so buckle in, I'm about to talk about all the OCs. [Hence the read more... lol]

🥀 Has your OC ever been hurt by someone they love? Ever been betrayed? Abused? Attacked? Give the angst!

Gail: Even to date, the most hurtful moment they've experienced was the sudden absence of their father. When he left the vault with absolutely no warning--leaving Gail to fend for themselves in the chaotic aftermath--it left them lost, wondering why he wouldn't at least tell them. Did they do something wrong? Not work hard enough? Failed his expectations? And still, those are questions unanswered.

Esper: Her biggest heartbreak came when she infiltrated the Institute during the War of the Commonwealth... only to find her son pulling the strings. After countless months of trying to find him, fearing the worst... there he was--an enemy of the people. She knew what she had to do... but needless to say, it messed her up.

Charon and Gob: Both grew up in households in which being hurt by loved ones was commonplace... just in different circumstances. Their fathers tend to get quite physical; Charon's due to quite aggressive PTSD episodes out of his control, and Gob's as a result of a bigoted, abusive mindset.

🏡 Describe your OCs ideal house! Give us a tour around! What’s their garden like? Their bedroom? Kitchen? Where is it and how many people live there?

Gail: They'd definitely be more for a small, quaint little home in the wilderness, away from most civilization (which Charon definitely would appreciate, too). Cozy spaces, big kitchen, a large and full garden to grow their own veggies, a large yard for Argon to romp about and play.

Esper: Honestly, she’s had enough of that American dream and picket fences shit. And frankly, if you were to ask her, she’d just smirk and say “the State House... but bigger. And more fucking private.”

Charon and Gob: They’ve pretty much got what they’ve wanted: a just-big-enough house on the outskirts of the city with just the two of them. Complete, of course, with a big enough kitchen for Gob to go bake-crazy and a large garage for Charon to tinker with motorcycles like no one’s business.

💕 How is your OC like with physical affection? What are their boundaries? Do they enjoy being touched or is that a no-go? Is there any reason behind this?

Gail: Generally, they are okay with it, so long as it’s with those they know; and even then, they might not reciprocate like they do with Charon or the found family that is Underworld. With absolute strangers, however? Definite no-no. They’ve never been comfortable being touched by others... mostly due to how often they were bullied physically in the vault.

Esper: As long as there isn’t a clear ulterior motive, she’s fine with it. Hell, at parties in the Third Rail, she has difficulty keeping her hands to herself--always giving hugs to drifters... and Ham, much to his bemusement. Anything more than friendly gestures, however, is strictly reserved for Hancock; she has a strong sense of commitment, very much of the idea that sexual touch is reserved for the spouse.

Charon: If it’s anyone other than Gob, he wants nothing to do with it. He’s never really been a touchy-feely guy anyhow, but this is even further solidified after his war injury that left his entire body scarred. Not only is touch sometimes simply painful and uncomfortable... but he also doesn’t want to be judged or made a spectacle of anymore than he already is.

Gob: He’s okay with friendly gestures, for the most part, such as hugs or an arm over his shoulder. However, that changes if the touch reaches his torso--where his scars are; that makes him jerk away almost immediately, an innate reaction to his father’s physical abuse. This is different with Charon, who’s more than earned trust in regards to that.

25 OC Questions!

[rahleeyah]

what if jen and jean swapped places?

This is SUCH A FUN QUESTION OMG

Jen would be FURIOUS. If she's trying to play along, the restrictions suddenly placed on her by Jean's role in the house and position in society would, I think, be a grave insult to her. Jen is used to a certain degree of convenience in life, and a certain degree of responsibility and professional pride, and I think she would find this position sexist and insulting. What do you mean there's a separate room in the pub for women? What do you mean she has to cook and clean and organize the surgery for Lucien when he can't even bother to put his own laundry away? What do you mean she has to wash his dirty undies and they're not even married? What do you mean she can't take out a loan, or buy a car, or do what she sees as proper police work? She sees the way women are treated by their husbands, owned by their husbands, trapped by husbands and babies and the church and all of it, and she is seething.

I love the idea of Jen trying to explain the situation to Lucien, and him believing her completely. Like "yes, you most certainly are not Jean, I can see that now, but no one else will ever believe you so let's keep this between us bc otherwise they're gonna lock you in an asylum."

I love the idea of Lucien being fascinated by what she can tell him of the future, and I also love the idea of Lucien showing Jen that like, yes, the treatment of women in this time period is Not Great, but he respects Jean and cares for her and Jen doesn't have to pity her. Pity others, sure, but not Jean Beazley.

I love this: "you look just like her, you know," he says softly while they sit in his office sharing a drink one night. "Except for the...erm..." he gestures to her hair. Jen arrived in this place looking just like herself, ten years younger than Jean and blonde to boot, and Lucien has been trying to keep her home and out of sight as much as possible, just in case.

"You miss her, don't you?" Jen asks. She can see it in his eyes, the way he watches her, the sorrow that seems to linger on the edge of every word he says. He helps with the dishes, and with the dinner, sometimes, has been kind and done his best to assist her, to make her feel comfortable and work through this problem with her, but she knows when he sees her he doesn't see Jen. He sees her.

"Very much," he says, softly. "Not that I'm not delighted to have you here, Jennifer, it's just that Jean...well, Jean is...she's..."

Jen smiles, and lets him flounder. She knows what it is he can't say.

BUT THEN

Jean, thrust into the modern day. It is so loud and so bright and everything is moving so fast and there's a roughness to the people around her she doesn't quite know how to manage. They aren't...well...they certainly don't hesitate to say what they think, and Jean is learning, day by day, how to deal with them.

Picture that first morning. Jean wakes up in a bed that is definitely not hers to the sound of a small device on the side table making a truly terrible sound. It alarms her so much she just stuffs it under the pillow, and goes to explore the little house where she has found herself.

It is, she thinks, exactly the sort of little house she might like to have herself one day, two bedrooms, cozy, with a neat little garden, only the furnishings and decor and by god the clothes are all...it's like her world, but everything slanted a little bit to the left, almost the same but just strange enough to leave her uncomfortable and afraid.

The kettle in the kitchen is familiar, though, so she goes and makes herself a cup of tea. She has no sooner sat down at the table, wondering what on earth has happened to her and how she's going to get out of this one, when she hears someone pounding on the door. It's a man, and it sounds almost like he's calling her name. Almost, but not quite. Jen, he says, not Jean. But he's not going anywhere, so Jean wraps herself in the robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door and then goes to see who's come calling.

His suit is black, and nice, but nowhere near so fine as Lucien's. His face is handsome enough, his hair thick and soft. He's tall, too, though not so broad as Lucien. And when he sees her, he swears.

"Jesus," he says. If Jean knew him she'd chide him for his language but the man is a stranger to her, and she bites her tongue.

"Where is she?" He asks after a moment.

Jean deliberates with herself. She doesn't know this man, doesn't know if he means her harm, but she doesn't know where she is or how she got here, and his eyes are kind.

"You better come in," she says.

So Jean tells Nick her story, and Nick tells her about his Jennifer. Nick "runs interference" (that's what he calls it, anyway) between Jean and Jennifer's job. He takes her out, shows her the city, helps her buy groceries, keeps her company when he can, around the job.

"You miss her, don't you?" Jean asks him one night. They're eating Chinese food Nick picked up from a shop, and while Jean has come to find she quite enjoys it, she can't bring herself to eat out of the cartons and insists she plate up their meal properly. Nick doesn't protest.

"Yeah," he says. "I do."

Nothing more than that. He's a quiet man, Jean's found. Not brash and endlessly jabbering like Lucien, but kind, still, for all that.

Jean and Nick are the ones who figure it out, in the end. Jennifer Mapplethorpe, born in 1969, is the daughter of none other than Amy Parks, Jean's wayward niece. Since it was only 1960 when Jean left her life she has of course never met her great-niece. Jen never met her great aunt, having spent her childhood in Melbourne, believing she had no family beyond her parents.

"Maybe that's why," Nick says quietly as they look over the family tree they've drawn out together. "Maybe you're here so that we can fix it, so that whatever made Amy leave Ballarat doesn't happen. So she doesn't feel so alone."

"But if Amy never leaves Ballarat, you'd never have your Jennifer," Jean points out.

Nick smiles. "Oh, I don't know," he says. "Fate's thrown us together twice already. Third time lucky, and all that."

The next morning Jean wakes up in her own bed, and she thinks of Nick, and she smiles. His quiet, steady nature was a comfort to her in that wild world, and she has learned so much from him. The most important lesson being: don't waste time.

So she races downstairs in her pink nightgown. The light is on in Lucien's office and she doesn't hesitate to approach. At the sound of her footfall he calls out, "Jennifer?" And it is that, more than anything, that convinces Jean that this is real.

"Expecting someone else?" She asks softly as she steps through the door.

Lucien vaults to his feet, his eyes full of wonder.

"Jean?" He breathes.

"I'm here, Lucien," she says, and in the next instant he is racing out from behind his desk, crushing her against his chest.

"I missed you," he whispers, and when Jean lifts her chin, and sees the look of devotion in his eyes, she just smiles, and kisses him senseless. No time like the present, she thinks.

In Melbourne Jennifer wakes up in her own bed, and she's so happy she could cry. Lucien has his Jean back, and they'll be happy, she knows. Now Jen has her car and her mobile and her little house and the Chinese takeaway place she loves so much; now Jen is home, and home means work, and the boys, and Nick, Nick more than anything.

The thought no sooner occurs to her than she hears someone knocking on her front door. She knows, somehow, that it's Nick. Who else would it be?

She races out of her bedroom half dressed, flings the door open, and watches as his mouth drops open in shock.

"Jen," he says, and she has missed the sound of his voice saying her name so much that to hear it now shatters her restraint. With a little cry she breaks, and races into his arms; Nick lifts her bodily from the ground, her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, her face pressed in close to him.

"I missed you," she says. "I missed you."

Nick just kicks the door closed, and carries them both to her bedroom. They both call in sick that day.

[fallout4reactsblog]

Companions react to in-game glitches and other inconsistencies happening around (/being used by Sole)? Flying on an engine, cars jumping around spinning at crazy speed, corpses/items moving like they're possesed, settlement structures hovering in the air with a single ladder piece attached, people "swimming" on land, instantly getting all items from a smallest piece of meat... (Just not normal gameplay features like saveloading and Pip-boy stopping time, but 100s of items in pockets will do)

 Cait: She wiped the sweat off her brow, letting her ball bat hang loosely at her side. A trail of blood followed her fingers as her eyes surveyed the room, taking in the blood, guts, and general gore that now decorated the floor and walls. Her and Sole sure had made a mess.

They folded their arms, a satisfied smile on their face. “The loot’s gonna be great. You take that half of the room, I’ll take this half?”

��Yeah, alright.”

She moved toward her half as sole crouched down in front of a man whose head had been cracked open like a walnut, brain spilling out of the ruined shards of his skull. Without hesitation, sole picked up a lump of brain flesh, turning it over in their hands before sinking their fingers in.

“Sole, what the fu-”

Her words stopped short as sole pulled a 10 mm pistol from the chunk, looked it over and made a face, then tossed it to the side. They pushed their hand in again, this time emerging with a stimpack, which they tucked into their pocket.

“What the fuck?” Cait whispered as sole pulled out several pieces of armor, a set of road leathers, and a tattered but still-intact box of InstaMash.

Sole looked up, the box still in their hand. “What’s wrong?”

“You just- all that- from one chunk of brain?”

“Uh, yeah? That’s the stuff they had on them. Not much of interest.”

“Normal people don’t do that.”

They just laughed.

“I’m serious, sole. That’s fucked up. You can’t pull a pistol out of somebody’s brains and not expect people to look at you funny!”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Curie: “Madame/Monsieur, do you think that man is… alright?”

“Which one?” Sole looked up from their drink, peering around the bar.

“The man over there, who is having a seat on, ah, nothing.”

Sole squinted toward where Curie was pointing, and sure enough, some strange man was relaxing next to a table, seemingly comfortable in a ninety degree squat. He took a sip of beer as if to prove it.

They hummed, eyebrows furrowed. “Goodneighbor folks sure are strange, huh?”

“I do not think he is well.”

“Maybe he’s just had a bad dose of Jet? Or too much to drink?”

“Best not to stare, I think. It is not polite, oui?”

They laughed a little and turned into their drink. “I suppose so. let him do what he needs to do.”

“At the very least, it will be an excellent workout for his thighs.”

Danse: He’d pinch the bridge of his nose, if not for the power armor, so he settled for folding his arms instead.

“Sole. Carrying all of that junk around is just going to slow you down. Let it go.”

They huffed, shoving another tin can into their pocket. “They have more uses than you think they do.”

“Is the same to be said for the empty beer bottles?”

“Actually,” they said, scooping two up and shoving them into the same pocket, “it is.”

“The alarm clocks?”

“Even more useful.”

“The typewriter?” he asked, watching them shove a whole one into the chest of their vault suit, never to be seen until they found a workbench.

“The most useful of all.”

He eyed how smooth the pockets of their suit were, despite the number of items he knew they were carrying. He was surprised they had room for junk at all, given the number of weapons, ammunition, and armor they were carrying.

“Sole, how strong are you, exactly?”

“Not sure,” they replied, scooping up a screwdriver and a hammer, tucking them into the same pocket the tin cans and beer bottles had gone into.

“Better question, how do you manage to pack all of those items into your pocket?”

They looked down at the pocket, which hadn’t even begun to look full. “I don’t know. I just put stuff into there until I can’t carry any more.”

“That works?”

They shrugged. “Somehow. How do you think I get you to carry all that stuff?”

His eyebrows shot up. “I’m carrying things?”

“Uh-huh. You’re great at it.”

“What am I even carrying it in?”

They just smiled at him. “Does it matter if I take it all out after?”

“Yes. It does.”

They refused to answer, and all Danse could hope was that they didn’t try to store things in his power armor joints.

Deacon: “Hey, sole, come over here a sec.”

Sole wiped the super mutant blood off their arm, flicking it to the side as they picked their way over to him. “What’s up?”

He pointed wordlessly at the body of a super mutant that was slowly sinking into the ground, headless. Sole stood silently at his side, watching the Earth slowly devour the carcass, inch by inch consuming it. They seemed to stand there for hours as it sank. There was no sound, no wet sucking or movement of Earth. Simply a super mutant defying any laws of physics that Deacon had ever known.

When all was said and done, and the last of the body had disappeared, Deacon nodded sharply. “His soul and body are with Todd now.”

Sole stared at him a moment before laughing, an ugly snort-laugh that turned their voice up an octave. “Todd? Who the hell is Todd?”

“I don’t know,” he said, giggling a little himself. “Someone who likes super mutants I guess.”

“He must like them a lot!”

They laughed a moment longer, then sole sighed and reached into their pocket for a tin can. Solemnly, they placed on the spot that the super mutant had disappeared.

“Here lies Howard, consumed by Todd. May he find his peace.”

“Howard is a terrible name for a super mutant.”

They stuck out their tongue at him. “I don’t see you coming up with any ideas.”

“Super mutants need weird names, like ‘Blood’ and ‘Guts’ and, uh…”

“Hamburger,” sole supplied.

He nodded sternly. “Exactly. Now you’ve got the hang of it. Here lies Hamburger. May he find peace with Todd.”

Sole placed another tin can on top of the other with a flourish, and they walked away, discussing other good super mutant names.

Gage: “Boss, I’ve got a question.”

“Shoot.”

“How, uh, solid would you say the average ghoul is?”

“Depends on the ghoul. Bloated ghouls are about ten percent, because they’re all, y’know, bloated. Your standard run-of-the-mill crazy ghoul is about forty percent. They get pretty squishy because of the rads. Sane ghouls are a solid eighty, which is higher than the human seventy, because they lose a lot of soft tissues.”

“So they should not be able to be halfway through walls?”

They hummed thoughtfully. “Not unless they’re in a hole.”

He eyed the wall the ghoul was stuck in, nudging it with the butt of his gun, and determined it to be quite solid. “No hole. Just a ghoul through a wall.”

“Gage, ghouls can’t go through walls if the wall is solid. Someone chopped a ghoul in two and mounted it on either side of the wall.”

He poked at it a little more. “It’s definitely in one piece, boss.”

“Gage.” Their tone was warning. “I’m going to come over there, but if I find out you’re fucking with me, or pulling my leg, I’m going to kick your ass. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

They appeared at his side, almost scarily quiet. He gestured to the body vaguely, half-disgusted.

“Yeah, they shouldn’t do that.” Sole nudged at the thing with their boot, making a face. “Just leave it.”

“Doubt I could get it out of the wall anyway.”

They snorted, then leveled their pistol to put one round in its back. Gage leapt away as the wall suddenly decided the ghoul shouldn’t be in it and launched it across the room. Sole’s hand shot out as if to protect him, and they stared at it a moment.

“Just leave it,” he echoed.

“No kidding.”

Hancock: He stared down the road at the body of a now-dead raider, one hand gently rubbing his forehead. He turned back to sole, who was now shaking out their wrist. He looked back down the road.

“Damn, this batch of Jet is fucked.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I swear you punched that guy all the way down the street.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. That actually happened.”

“Huh?”

He peered back down the street, suddenly trying to put reality together where he thought there was only illusion. “So, how strong did you say you were?”

“Definitely not strong enough to punch a guy down the block, I’ll tell you that.”

He considered that. “So the Jet’s not fucked, but physics is?”

They laughed. “Seems so. Gravity decided to not come in today.”

“Hey, he earned it. Hardest worker around. Let him take a vacation, right?”

“As long as I don’t go floating off, I’d love to keep punching people and watching them fly away.”

“Pretty entertaining if you ask me.”

They turned to him with a mischievous smile. “Bet it’s even better on Day Tripper.”

“I’ve got some of that. Right, ah, here.” He pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket, shaking it enticingly.

“Well, let’s go find some more raiders and see if we can make it happen again.”

MacCready: He stretched out, listening to the bones in his back pop. “I say we call it a night. It’s dark, and I’m getting tired.”

“I could go for a nap,” they replied, though they didn’t look all that tired. “I think that Outpost Zimonja is close to here, we can catch some shuteye there.”

“It’s safe?”

They chuckled. “Should be. I built the place myself.”

“I guess it’ll have to do then,” he said teasingly. “Though how good your judgment is, no one knows.”

“Jury’s still out,” they replied, happily playing along, “but the other settlers aren’t complaining yet.”

They made their way to the settlement, sky darkening around them. Sole pushed through the gate at the front of the settlement, and showed him past the turrets and guard tower to the rest.

It was small but otherwise cozy, and sole beckoned him over to the workbench. “I need the stuff you’re carrying for me.”

“Sure.” 

He rifled around in his pockets, passing every item to sole’s outstretched hands. That it took a few minutes was expected, but after the tenth desk fan and thirtieth ball peen hammer, he was getting suspicious at the amount of stuff he was finding on him. How did he carry that much weight? It seemed, well, impossible.

“That should be it,” they said after nearly twenty minutes, tucking a handful of pencils into one of the workbench drawers. “Thanks.”

He stared down at his thin arms, trying to imagine how he hadn’t even noticed all the items he’d been carrying. “What the heck did you do to me?”

“Oh, with all the stuff you were carrying. I just asked you to pick it up. You don’t seem to notice when I ask you to grab it for me, as opposed to when I hand it to you myself, so I just asked you to grab the junk I couldn’t carry.”

“But- I- I don’t-”

They slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to think about it too hard. Let’s just get some rest, okay?”

“Sure,” he said, but the way his thoughts were spinning told him he wouldn’t be sleeping at all.

Nick: “Sole,” he said, honestly trying his hardest not to laugh, “you can’t do that.”

“And why not?” They grinned at him, hands on their hips, clearly pleased with their work.

“It’s just- It’s not right sole. You can’t put beds in walls and expect everything to be okay.”

“I think I can,” they replied. “The settlers can sleep in it just fine.”

“How the hell do they do that?”

“Simple. They lay in the wall too.”

That was enough to make Nick Valentine, synth detective, lose his composure, and he burst out laughing. Not a small giggle, either, a full laugh, one that left him doubled over and leaning against the wall for support. He hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time, but the thought of some poor settler laying in a wall to sleep had him in absolute fits.

When he finally calmed, only a smile lingering on his face, he gestured to the half-inside, half-outside bed and simply said, “How?”

“Oh, silly Nick,” they teased. “It’s on a rug! Don’t you know that if it’s on a rug, it can do anything? I can put beds through walls, I can put bookshelves though walls, I can put anything through a wall, as long as it’s on a rug.”

“Oh my God.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, still smiling. “I don’t even want to know how you figured that out. So you saw the ways you could break all the rules and immediately decided you’d put beds through walls.”

“Of course! What else does one do with such power?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Are you going to put the bed back inside?”

“Heavens no. Then it wouldn’t be funny at all, just boring. It’d look like every other house out there.”

“It does add a certain, ah, uniqueness I suppose.”

They bumped his shoulder with theirs. “Now you get it.”

Preston: “Sole, when I asked you to build a settlement in Hangman’s Alley, you know this isn’t what I meant.”

They shrugged. “You said to build a settlement, so I did.”

He raised an eyebrow, still staring at the supposed settlement they’d built. A single staircase touched the ground, and the rest of the building expanded from that, hovering above a grid of garden plots that held the crops and water pumps that fed the settlement. As impressive as it was, he couldn’t imagine it was safe.

“I know what you’re thinking.” They spoke before he could even open his mouth. “I promise that it’s safe. I just got tired of building the same old buildings over and over again, so I wanted to do something different. I tested it before I let anyone in and I did the math, and I swear that it’s not coming down anytime soon.”

He glanced over at them, and though they were his general, all he saw in their eyes was a need for approval. Maybe a hint of embarrassment at having been caught, but mostly a need for him to trust them and like it as much as they did.

“Well,” he sighed, turning back, “it’s definitely new. And practical, given the small space.”

“Do you like it?” Their voice was so hopeful, so bright, and yet so fragile.

“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I like it a lot.”

“Do you want to have a look inside.”

“I’d love to.”

X6: “You cannot fly.”

“Yes I can,” they said cheekily.

“No, you cannot.” He folded his arms. “Not without the assistance of some sort of machine.”

They held their hand out. “Give me your jacket.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly conveying his displeasure with that idea.

“I promise to give it back,” they huffed. “I’ll even clean it for you after. I just want to show you that I can, in fact, fly.”

He considered the offer a moment, then begrudgingly removed his coat. Their face lit up and, for a brief moment, he almost didn’t regret it.

“Alright, X6. Watch and learn.”

He watched, slightly curious, as they laid the coat on the floor, the crouched down and positioned themselves so they were standing on it. He almost protested their dirty boots on the leather, but they had offered to clean it, so he decided against it.He simply observed them grab to solid handfuls of fabric, getting a good hold on it, and then he watched them jump.

And somehow, they stayed there, floating in the air on top of his coat.

He slid his glasses down his nose, and softly murmured, “Holy shit.”

“See?” They jumped again, rising further into the air. “I told you I could fly.”

“You did. My apologies, ma’am/sir. Though I would recommend you bring this to the attention of our scientists immediately.”

They released their hold on the coat, falling gracefully to the floor. “Why, you think they’d be interested?”

He leveled a stern look at them over his glasses. “You just broke physics, ma’am/sir. I think the term ‘interested’ is an understatement.”

[minervahopebeyond]

Blood Daffodils.

Hi!! Sorry it took so long, this was very difficult but here it is! I hope you all like it!! Let me know what you thought💕 I love reading you comments! I’ll try to respond to all of them!

Ps. I’ve checked but sorry if you find any errors in this one!

Chapter 22: The Battle of Hogwarts (part 1) <<1/2>>

Harry, Theo and him were running up the stairs. The students were terrified pushing everyone out of their way. Weasley and Granger had taken the shortcut to the second floor bathroom, their mission was to enter the chamber and fetch as much Basilisck fangs as they could. Apparently Potter had the brilliant idea to offer the sword of Gryffindor, the one that Draco almost died trying to get, in exchange of a goblin’s help to get into the vault. Yes, it sounded just as ridiculous when Potter had explained it in the middle of the chaos.

Pansy and Blaise where charged with helping McGonagall setting the wards around the school with the Order of the Phoenix. Granger and Draco were the experts in protecting spells but they clearly had more important things to do, horcrux hunt and all.

“Harry!” Draco heard an agitated voice behind them. But there wasn’t time so the three of them kept running when they got to the first floor’s hallway. Trying to make their way in the sea of students.

“Hey! Stop!!” It was Lovegood. Draco almost didn’t recognized her voice with how loud she was yelling, he thought that he had never heard her yelled in his six years on the castle. “Theodore!”

Theodore yelled back, not even looking at her, he just yelled around the hallway.

“Lovegood, now it’s not the time!”

“THEODORE NOTT, YOU LISTEN TO ME RIGHT NOW.”

Draco kept on running, he only stopped when he realized that Theo had, in fact, stopped dead in his tracks and turned around to face Luna. He blinked, watching as the brunette walked towards her with his arms over his head in exasperation.

“What?” He heard Theo hiss at her.

“Oh, yeah...” he heard Potter whisper, hesitant, Draco could see him looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

Theo kept arguing with Lovegood. She kept pointing to places around the castle, showing directions to the brunette. Draco could only stare at them, while Potter shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly nervous.

“Do you...?”

His voice sounded almost like a whisper, weak and embarrassed about what he was about to ask.

“Do I what?” Draco said, taking his eyes off Theodore and Luna to look at Harry. When he did, he noticed the worry in his green eyes, worry and something else that he couldn’t quite place.

“Do you still feel something for him?” The last part was almost inaudible, he only heard it because he was really focusing on Potter, trying to listen, trying to understand what was making him so uncomfortable.

Draco offered a small smile before lifting his chin with his hand to kiss him softly.

Harry returned the kiss almost instantly, it was short, Draco just wanted to calm his nerves, to shut whatever stupid rant was going on inside of his head.

There was longing though. Draco could feel it in Harry’s lips, in the way he kissed him. In the way he grabbed his arm and pulled, trying to get him closer.

When they broke apart, he looked at those gorgeous eyes and spoke as clearly as he could.

“I just coughed out a whole daffodil, roots and all, after you told me ‘I love you’ and you are asking me if I have feelings for Theodore?”

It wasn’t a question, not really, Draco just wanted to point out how ridiculous it sounded, but Harry just looked away, his expression even more conflicted than before.

“What?” Draco asked.

“You are not denying it.”

Was he joking? Draco didn’t think it was even worth to answer. To make it a ‘thing’, the fact that him and Theo had a very unfair arrangement, he felt bad enough as it was.

“I don’t have feelings for him. Maybe I did, before us, but not anymore.”

Potter didn’t seem to be happier to hear that either, but he nodded and whispered a soft ‘okay’ before leaving Draco standing there. The dark haired boy ran towards Theodore and Luna and joined their conversation.

Soon enough they found themselves looking for a ghost, hoping that she would have a clue about where the horcrux was.

—————————

“So... Lovegood?” Draco asked, looking at Theodore.

They were keeping guard as Potter talked to Helena Ravenclaw. It needed to be him, she almost dissapeared when she had seen Theo’s mark.

“What about Lovegood?” He replied shortly, still not looking at him.

“I don’t know, Theo. You tell me.”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Why not? I’m not mad... It just surprised me-“

“Are you really asking why not?” He hissed at him. His hazel eyes seemed to be on fire and something in Draco’s stomach twisted painfully. He shouldn’t had asked. Fuck “Because it’s you. Because the fact that I’m glad that you are alive and got your happy ending, doesn’t mean that I’m not heartbroken. I made my peace with it. It’s fine. It’s great. Just-“ Theo took a deep breath. “Don’t fucking play matchmaker.”

And Draco couldn’t resist to put his arms around him as he sighed, defeated.

“Okay. Sorry.”

He could feel Theodore leaning into it, not quite hugging back, his pride was too big to surrender to the touch, but he wasn’t pushing him away either.

“I know where it is.” Harry’s voice echoed in the hallway.

Draco quickly stepped away from Theo and turned to look at the green-eyed.

He tried to say something but Harry just walked passed them. Draco cursed under his breath as he and Theodore followed him.

They should have been high in love. They should have been smiling while the war was going on because finally they were on the same page... Why was Harry acting this way? Like Theodore were something standing between them... When he wasn’t, he never had been. Theo was something else entirely and that was why Draco felt so bad, because the hazel-eyed knew it, he never had asked more from him...

He took a few steps forward and reached over to take Harry’s hand but he moved away.

“We should hurry.” Potter said without looking at him and Draco didn’t like his tone at all.

—————————

The Room of Requirement was filled with crap. That was Draco’s first thought when he entered it. He had never been in that room. Theodore used to conjure one for them that looked a lot like his room, simpler, cozy. Then, there was that time with his birthday party, when it had looked like a mixture of the gryffindor and the slytherin common room. It had never looked like this, so utterly filled with crap.

Theodore had (in a very obvious way) left Harry and Draco alone so they could talk. Potter didn’t want to, though. And of course he understood, the horcrux was more important. At least he thought that was the reason why Potter didn’t want to talk.

“Do you feel it close?”

“No.” Harry responded shortly. “If my horcrux detector worked with a large radio I would have found them all already.”

The sass. Draco was deciding whether he wanted to punch him or snog him.

If only the conversation would have ended there.

“Maybe you know where it is. Or Nott. You two used to spend a lot of time in here.”

“You can just say whatever you are thinking, you know? There is no need for this circus.”

But Potter did not respond. He turned left, stood next to a pile of old chairs, and his body became very rigid.

Draco didn’t say anything. He waited as he watched Harry take four long steps, slowly, to a box on top of an old trunk. It seemed plain at first, not at all special, but when Potter extended his hand to touch it, he could see him wincing in pain, his scar was hurting.

He walked towards him and helped him, opened the box for him and Draco felt its dark magic come off it in waves. The beautiful diadem was silver, shiny and just so mesmerizing to see...

“This is it.”

“Yeah. I wonder if Ron and Mione could get into the chamber. We need the fangs.”

The sound of spells being fired filled the room. It was impossible to see where did it come from but they grabbed the diadem and followed the sound of Theo’s voice and furniture blowing up all the same.

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Wondrous Tails: First “I Love You” (replacement) / Bandaging Wounds

("First "I Love You"" is a replacement for "Going on a Cruise")

Time Frame: Post Canon (years after Shadowbringers(?)), Minimal Spoilers for 5.0 end. Notes got long so they are under the cut.

Notes:

I continue to refer to Alphinaud as a Scholar instead of Academician for no reason but laziness and bad habits.

I understand the ‘time bubble’ issue of MMO’s, but for writing I subscribe to time actually passing between expansions. I don’t keep a hard and fast rule, but sort of lean toward roughly 1 year per expansion if not longer. Otherwise everyone would be mired under so much PTSD I don’t know how the Scions would get anything done, and please let my WoL breathe?

Somehow, someway, Alvaar has gotten the better of me and it’s eventual committed relationship polygamy with the Leveilleurs up in here. After actual months of telling myself no, I give up. If you hate that, pass on my stuff and have a great day.

Just for posterity, there will never be twincest. I don’t have a personal stance on people’s fiction about fictional people, but it just doesn’t make sense for the twins to me.

   The first time Alphinaud hears Alvaar utter those words, he’s seventeen. Seventeen and full of fire and determination to help right the wrongs of a thousand-year war and maybe redeem some of his own foolishness.

Seventeen and half scandalized to catch his Warrior of Light buried against Lord Haurchefant’s chest before they readied to infiltrate the Vault after Ser Aymeric.

It wasn’t as if he’d gone looking of course. Such things would have been kept a better secret behind a closed door and not front and center to whomever strolled into House Fortemps expecting an audience. But romantic subtly wasn’t... exactly Lord Haurchefant’s forte and neither was it Alvaar’s. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known when it was the talk of Camp Dragonhead and the house servants anyway.

But it is perhaps the first time the Arcanist had seen any hint of the word “love” meaning something beyond dutifully repeated and expected phrases. Spoken as if it’s some personal secret, or more of a promise than just a response. Something alive and wild instead of the light and flippant ways he’d heard it used in Sharlayan and among nobility.

There’s a weight to those words that’s like aether humming in an incantation.

It means something when Alvaar says it and the Lord’s sharp features soften as he nuzzles into blond hair, and it means even more when Haurchefant answers in kind and some of the tension in the Bard’s shoulders ease. There’s a thousand words held in that phrase, like pages and pages of information distilled in a single line of arcane shorthand. History condensed into a lone footnote.

He never had to ask why Alvaar’s wails of pain as he’d held his dead lover mere hours later sounded like a heart breaking in two.

    The next time he hears them, it’s not quite the same.

He’s twenty (or was it twenty-one?) and farther from home than he’d ever dreamed. Fresh from facing off against Emet-Selch as they’d fought to save the First from destruction. Twenty and exhausted and content to doze quietly in the newly returned night alongside the beds two other occupants, arms draped over Alisaie and Alvaar both. He remembers feeling Alvaar’s knuckles brush his cheek, tiredly meeting the Bard’s gaze in the dark and hearing those words again.

They don’t mean the same thing, but it doesn’t overly bother him after the torture Alvaar had endured for the worlds. After the last several months Alphinaud had spent fighting sin eaters, stubborn short-term mindsets, and bitter loneliness in Kholusia.

Being called family, being called ‘home’ had only echoed what he’d felt too. The Scions, his Sister, and Alvaar, were what felt most like home. Not a large but empty feeling manor back in Sharlayan, cut off and indifferent to the world.

It’s a different kind of love but it doesn’t mean any less nor is it remotely insincere.

And even if there’s a faint disappointment in his heart he would never admit to, it’s fine. More than anything he’s simply happy that they’re still together. Still alive. Still able to fight and produce another miracle for the people of the First and the Source.

    He’s twenty-two and he knows Alvaar loves him deeply. He’s said it in every other conceivable way. Let poetry and sweet words fall from his lips or sent the meaning across in those brushes of familiar contact. Had the feeling burned into his body and mind more times than he could ever hope to keep track of...

But Alvaar hadn’t ever said it.

It’s silly and he knows it. He has no reason to doubt Alvaar and truly he knows the way the Bard feels for him isn’t anything less than his previous lover. That there was room enough in that gentle heart for all three of them. Jealousy is a terrible thing after all, so he convinces himself it doesn’t matter. Comforts himself and chides Alisaie gently when she inquires on it herself. Alvaar had been through a great deal of hardship and pain. And as they both didn’t doubt the depth nor truth of his feelings, the specific words should hardly matter.

    He’s twenty-three, and when Alvaar finally says them he barely notices. There’s too much blood, and Alvaar’s laugh is too weak and lilting from it. His mind is too busy on spells and incantations to register it as he works quickly.

Alvaar is fine. He’s always fine. He comes back beaten and bloody and smiling and laughing and visibly delights in being doted upon and taken care of. A routine scouting of the border wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near as deadly as the hopeless situations he’d been sent into before. He’s fine.

The Scholar is internally utterly terrified of course, but he knows from too much firsthand knowledge that there’s no room for panic as a healer. If he panicked, things would quickly turn into ‘not fine’ and neither of them had time for that.

So for right now, spells and aether humming in his veins, it’s fine.

        “Did you get a haircut recently?” Alvaar asks, letting Alphinaud clean, tape, and bandage his wounds. Magic had healed the critical damage and stopped the bleeding, but it would take time to heal the rest and a few more applications of white magic tomorrow. Cleaning and bandaging would ensure a smoother transition through the process, so it’s a step he takes anyway, perched on the edge of the medical bed while the Bard sits propped up against pillows.

“You should be taking this more seriously,” the Scholar returns flatly, pushing Alvaar’s hand away from his hair gently so he can keep working.

“I am. But I’m just so... very happy,” Alvaar murmured, a smile stretching across his exhausted face. “I made it back this time, I’m here, and you’re here, and it will work this time.”

It’s said with such offhanded confidence it makes the Scholar blink. “What? Alvaar you’re delirious, stay still.”

A hum of agreement rings in the Bards throat as he nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re done and listening. He said I didn’t say it enough... That when I made it back to be sure to tell you something.”

He wants to pay more attention to Alvaar’s curious words but there would be time for it later. Though he was comfortably stabilized and would no doubt make a full recovery in a matter of days with the Warrior of Light’s sometimes obnoxious recovery speed, it’s never something he likes to leave to chance. If he overlooked something now, it could be disastrous later.

“He?” The inquiry slides off his tongue in a distracted manner, during which his moonstone carbuncle chirps with interest where it’s bedded down along Alvaar’s legs.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alvaar replies, glossing over it as his attention shifts back to the carbuncle eyeing him expectantly. “Can I have my hand back now?”

Another deft turn of the roll of bandages, a swift snip of the medical shears, and a tidy tie off had him releasing Alvaar’s arm with a nod. “Sure. Other arm if you would.”

Swapping obediently, Alvaar quickly settled his freed hand into plush white fur, grinning brightly. “Hey Carbi... I missed you too,” he cooed, chuckling at the fond chirp and purr he got in answer. “You’re the best summon ever aren’t you?”

Snorting under his breath, Alphinaud keeps at his work until he’s finished, letting his summon keep up its job of distracting Alvaar’s focus from pawing at him so he can work in peace. Alvaar was always a good patient, but woozy with blood loss he sometimes got sillier than was helpful. It made his moonstone carbuncle an utter lifesaver, and there were few helpers he would rather have working beside him. Though he had long developed more potent summons, Alvaar’s preference and the sheer number of revisions and intricacies of its design had left moonstone as one of his masterpieces. The patient bedside manner and attentive nature had made it a nursemaid second to none, and given the way it was currently cozied into Alvaar’s side and subtly keeping him quiet and still as it soaked up affection like a sponge, it remained a staple of his repertoire for good reason.

Inspecting the last of his work, he gives a satisfied nod before starting to pack things away. After almost seven years of chasing Alvaar’s shadow and tending to his wounds, his first aid is as neat and tidy as an experienced chirurgeon. A far cry from his fumbled and panicked work the Bard had coached him through with grit teeth in Coerthas. It’s only once he sets the supplies back on the shelves that he finally gives himself leave to think about anything but healing.

He’s seated back at Alvaar’s side before he realizes he’s made the steps, a bandaged hand curling warm at his jaw and pulling him closer until they bump foreheads together. It’s a movement that he’s long used to, a familiar gesture that helps to quiet the panic that had boiled over in his chest if not the emotion that threatens its place.

“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from frightening me like that again,” Alphinaud murmured softly, a faint tremor in his voice but refusing to cry. Alvaar was fine! There wasn’t any reason to overreact!

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Was the best I could manage,” Alvaar replied in the stilted way he picked up when he was exhausted. Given how much harder he was leaning into the Scholar, none of it surprised him.

Making a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat he leaned the faintest bit back into the Warrior of Light, soaking up the steady warmth that wicked off him and the silent reassurance he was still there. “Just... be more careful next time. For now you should focus on healing.”

“Thank you for saving me Alphi,” Alvaar whispered with a heartfelt gratitude.

It was enough to make the Scholar flush. “I... Any other healer would have done the same.”

“Maybe. But any other healer wouldn’t be worth me dragging myself back to. Sides, Alisaie was too far,” he joked fondly.

Alphinaud tutted under his breath, pulling back to grip Alvaar’s face in his hands and press a featherlight kiss to his brow before burying his nose into soft golden strands. “Jokes aside, thank you for coming back. If scaring me half to death means that you’ll pull through, then I would take that burden every time.”

There’s something about the way Alvaar relaxes into him, the faint breath of a sigh before tension eases out of his neck and jaw, that has always meant the world to him. It was too many emotions to articulate clearly, but it always made his heart feel warm. Reminded him that even if he wasn’t able to command the same fear and awe as the Warrior of Light, to be a brilliant blade that cut through the dark and evil that threatened them, the rallying cry that brought their forces to victory, what he could do was no less important.

All great hero’s needed a home to return to, else they would eventually feel they had nothing left to fight for.

“Alphi?”

“Yes Alvaar?”

Pulling back enough to regard him a moment with scrutiny, the Bard leaned in with a purposeful ease, lips brushing against his chastely for a moment before murmuring something against his skin.

This time he heard them. Felt their movement and the warmth of them against his lips and burning against his skin. Poetry and promise and providence all in one.

“I love you.”

It was no big deal. It was a sentiment he’d always known from 1,001 things Alvaar did all the time. Something he had long convinced himself didn’t matter. A phrase used over and over until it’s meaning was practically lost.

But oh.

Oh...

How those words shook him to the depths of his soul and cut him in two regardless.

    He’s twenty-one again for just a moment. Full of questions and a heart fuller still with longing, listening to Alvaar speak of love he’d known with that easy and sincere air of his. Brutally honest as ever.

Love was ruinous. Love would destroy you in ways you didn’t think were possible. Love was thirst and hunger. And all your days, when you’d known the taste of true love, of something that clutched past your heart and into your soul, you would always want for more of it.

In the present with his face buried against Alvaar’s shoulder, tears welling over and soaking into clean white bandages, he feels like a beast half starved.

“I would really like it if you stayed,” Alvaar murmurs, still running his fingers along the Scholar’s back soothingly. He’s infuriatingly casual for having just reduced his lover to tears. If he hadn’t just spent an hour healing and bandaging him up, Alphinaud would probably have swatted him.

Instead he just nods.

He’d never been very good at refusing that particular request anyway. Even when he was the one chastising Alvaar on why sharing a medical bed was in poor interest of his health.

But it’s late, and he’s tired, and nuzzling into the warm muscle of Alvaar’s shoulder he doesn’t want to leave anyway. So, he pulls himself up onto the bed fully, curling up beside him and keeping his cheek settled against the Bard’s shoulder that’s free of bruises. He knows he won’t sleep well but the situation is unfortunately familiar enough he knows that he’ll still get plenty of rest for tomorrow’s troubles.

“Alvaar?” he asks softly after they’ve both settled into the pillows, sheets, and each other accordingly.

“Yea?”

“You really need a shower.”

It has Alvaar laughing enough to make him wince, “Brat... don’t make me laugh that hurts.”

Alphinaud just smiles softly and hums an amused note as Alvaar settles further against him.

“Alvaar?” he asks again after a few minutes, getting a soft grunt of acknowledgement.

Shifting enough to study the soft and unguarded profile he’s sketched a hundred times before from memory, he presses a brief kiss to the Bard’s jaw and settles in for sleep.

“I love you too.”

[visenyatargaryn]

D, H and K for anybody, I wanna know about your kids!

thank you! and I love talking about my children who are all disasters almost lol

D: Decoration1. how would they decorate a house if they had one under their name?

we’re just going to forget the ugly decorations we saw in fo4 for a second because Evie would DEFINITELY not do that okay. when she lived in sanctuary before the bombs dropped, her home was simple yet cozy. the bedroom and living room had an abundance of pillows and blankets lol. the kitchen was more on the modern side, however, but with a cafe’ warmth and feeling about it. since they had a small family, the house itself was normal sized and nothing too crazy about it.

2. how would they decorate their child’s room?

shaun’s room was her favorite thing to decorate, and she did it entirely herself... paintbrush and all. his room was painted in a dusty blue with white accenting the decor itself. the decor was elephants that decorated the walls and even the dressers and small bookshelf had little elephant engravings along the edges of the woodwork. the carpet was a dark grey because she wouldn’t dare to have a white carpet in a child’s room because of the mess it would be!

3. how do they decorate their own room?

this room was her second-favorite and her husband, daniel helped decorate it (mostly). the walls were a light green, accented with dark brown dressers and nightstands. it had artwork along the walls, with the most important pictures of her family on the nightstands. it had a large closet for herself, while her husband preferred just a normal dresser. the bed itself was quite large as well and was covered with plenty of pillows and blankets.

4. what type of clothes and accessories do they wear?

Evie... had a multi-load of clothes to wear. she typically wore dresses and heels during the spring/summertime, while in the colder months she wore sweaters and high waist jeans. she was normally seen sporting a bandana in her hair. being a detective, Evie wore a suit (something like peggy carter would wear tbh). however, after the bombs fell and she was left to an apocalyptic world, she had to switch up to a black leather jacket, black tank top, and jeans paired with black boots.

5. do they like makeup/nail/beauty trends?

to a certain state, yes. she’s not particularly crazy on makeup and mostly sports winged-eyeliner, mascara, and red lipstick. however, she will sometimes wear black eyeshadow on special occasions. Evie isn’t one to get her nails done, as her job prevents that from happening, and she doesn’t care much on ‘keeping up’ on the beauty trend and just wears whatever she likes and makes her feel good about herself!

H: Heat1. do they rather a hot or cold room?

as much as she dislikes the cold, Evie would definitely prefer a cold room as it would give her an excuse to cuddle with Hancock, which he has no complaints against of course! 

2. do they prefer summer or winter?

summer, because that’s when all fun activities are... like drive-in theaters and fairs. Don’t forget that’s when milkshakes taste the best!

3. do they like the snow?

she despises snow quite a lot and wishes it would never come again. however, after the bombs fall and there’s no longer snow, she does miss it then... especially the beauty and peacefulness it brought.

4. do they have a favorite summer activity?

going to the fairs is probably her favorite. Evie loved enjoying the rides, eating cotton candy as well as caramel apples, and playing games and winning giant stuffed animals (well daniel won them for her).

5. do they have a favorite winter activity?

although winter isn’t her favorite season and dislikes the snow... Evie isn’t one to refuse a good snowball fight!

K: Kill1. have they ever thought about suicide?

yes... after leaving vault 111, Evie became severely depressed and wished to end her own life for quite some time, but could never do it because who then, would save her son?

2. have they ever thought about homicide?

Evie has thought of killing others a multi-load of times if I’m being honest. those that are on that ‘list’ are those who have dreadfully wronged her or other innocent people. Kellogg and the Institute being at the top of that list, of course.

3. if they could kill anyone without punishment, would they? who?

I mean... in the Commonwealth you can basically kill anyone without punishment almost, but those she wishes to be dead would have no consequences from the law as they too wish for them to share the same fate.

4. who would miss them if they died?

Hancock, Codsworth, Nick Valentine, and of course Dogmeat would miss her the most I believe. Hancock would definitely miss her the most out of the exception of Codsworth who knew her before the bombs fell. however, Hancock would perhaps go feral or even grow distant in the loss of Evie.

5. who would be happy they died, anyone?

the brotherhood of steel and the institute perhaps? since she keeps fucking with their plans lmaoo

ABCs of your OCs

[tenyada]

Hi! I wanted to request a scenario (or head-canons, you can choose!) with Iida where their S/O and him just cuddle after a long hard day (Bc ohmygod who doesn’t want to cuddle with him?) (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵) Thanks! 💙

Tenya Hug™

Word Count : 1154

Iida Tenya 飯田天哉 x Reader : 2nd Perspective : They/Them

this made me really happy to write, tenya solidarity, please. sksksk i hope you enjoy, anon!

Work was so long. So, so, so long. So long in fact, that you found yourself dragging your feet from the front porch to your mudroom. First it was the new intern who didn’t have a brain cell within her tiny head to even notice where she was walking, promptly running you over and dumping scorching coffee and tea upon the front of your suit. Luckily, a coworker with a liquid quirk had saved your clothes for the most part, but you weren’t convinced that the chai tea would want to leave it’s new home made in the threads of your white blouse. Next it was the Caption of the Police, coming to complain to you that the investigation you were leading wasn’t sufficient enough. You could only point out that the resources (that the Captain had equipped you with) wasn’t enough to give him the results that he wanted. You were labeled ungrateful, though you were about to drop a potted plant on the mans head to see just who was grateful. Then, to close out your day, you had to chase down a suspect that had slipped away from the officers who detained him. This ended with your lobbing a shoe at the back of the suspects head and in some stroke of luck, managed to knock him out cold before you dragged him back to the frantic officers. You considered using them as a foothold against the Captain to gain more information in order to help your case, but you decided against it.

Just what would your husband think of this immoral way to gain the upper hand?

It was late for you to be home, two hours late to be precise, so no wonder your forever loving husband immediately appeared from around the corner. His patrol got done earlier and he made it a point to be home at 17:30, so you were happy to find your husband without any cuts or bruises upon his recently cleaned visage. Some of the stress of your day wore off of your shoulders at the mere sight of Iida Tenya in a loose fitting shirt and sweatpants. He smiled at you and removed his hands from sweatpants pockets to open his arms, a silent welcome for a hug that was specialized just for you.

But you politely declined, “Sorry, babe, but I’m all sweaty and grimy. It’s not worth another shower until I’m done with my own,”

Tenya, in his undying and ever growing love towards you, could immediately pick up on your very apparent distress. He frowned ever so slightly and still moved in enough to engulf you in a tight, comforting ‘Tenya Hug’™. They never failed to make you feel better, even if it was the tiniest bit, they still helped. “I made some beef stew, would you like me to make you a bowl and put the blankets in the dryer for a warm bed when you get out of the shower?”

“You’re too good to me, Tenya,” you smile into his peck and pulled away from such a nice hug. “I hope that you’ll join me for some cuddles?”

“O-Of.. of course, I will,” Tenya, throughout your two years of marriage and countless of dating, still became nervous upon the most childish yet cutest of things. He almost burst up into flames at your wedding, the moment he saw you, the man nearly busted a nose bleed out onto the front of his suit. He had to ask the officiant to pause in the vows when you leaned in close to say in a hushed whisper just how much you loved him. Sometimes even referencing just how you two slept in the same bed was enough to make his ears tinge a pretty pink, just like they did now.

“Thank you, Tenya,” you placed a warm kiss upon his cheek, happy when he returned the notion with one upon your forehead before brushing past to go and shower in the bathroom off of your shared bedroom.

You took your time, but remained mindful of the time to avoid another one of Tenya’s earth conscious lectures about not wasting water and how you should always only use the amount that you need and not the amount you want. Sometimes what you needed and what you wanted didn’t align, and that definitely occurred during any shower that you decided to take part of. Tenya just didn’t understand. You wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel and exited the bathroom just in time to see Tenya laying out freshly warmed blankets upon your bed. You smiled gently again and on your way to the closet, you kissed on of his clothed shoulder blades as a silent thanks.

It was a cozy night, you decided, slipping into one of Tenya’s shirts and a pair of basketball shorts before you almost vaulted yourself into the bed, next to where Tenya was leaning back against the headboard with an arm behind his neck while he searched for your favorite show. You almost didn’t believe that you needed the blankets heated up in the way that they were, as Tenya was already a living furnace, but you weren’t about to refuse blankets that felt as nice and as relaxing as these did. You gave a side glance to the stew sitting on your nightstand and instead made it very important to get comfortable against Tenya’s body.

He accommodated for you, happily turning onto his side to pull you in closer so you could rest your cheek against his chest. You were wrapped upon in yet another Tenya Hug™, otherwise known as the most comforting thing known to man. He grumbled each time you shifted, mumbling something about how it was time to just relax and eventually you had to give into the large hand splayed across your back, rubbing soothing shapes into your skin. You settled with a lazy leg thrown over Tenya’s hip and your head tucked underneath his chin, did you even think of the beef stew, but you were too comfortable. It would have to wait.

Tenya seemed to get the gist (and he honestly didn’t mind you not making a move for the food since he too, was quite comfortable) and finally settled down. The blankets were tucked to your chin, your favorite show played in the background, and your husband’s warm body was pressed against yours.

“You’re so cozy, Tenya,” you eventually yawned out, the stew was eventually eaten as a joint effort and your show had ended long ago, the comfort was beginning to exchange itself and morph into sleepiness- which you were sure Tenya was getting to as well.

“I try… thank you,” he grumbled against your hair and lazily turned off the TV. His deep, gravely baritone was enough to lull you off into a peace and uneventful rest. Hopefully for a better day and a better intern.

[actualsunflower]

How about 8, 20, 33 and 39 for Jay and Nick? :)

8: What do the like best about their partner?

  Their answers would be pretty similar here, as what they both love the most is each other’s caring and giving nature, their loving and selfless personality. It’s something Nick and Jay both have and both look for in other people, and found in each other. But Nick also loves Jay’s hair and vitiligo, he often thinks of it as Jay’s “metal hand”(if you know what i mean), and just thinks they’re beautiful. 

20:  What does their home look like? Their room?

  Jay and Nick have quite a few houses, one at Abernathy Farm, Homeplate, a private room at The Castle, and Jay’s old pre-war home in Sanctuary, but their Home home is their house at Abernathy Farm. Jay loves the Abernathys and loves growing plants, so naturally he started spending more and more time there, doing a lot of his research and growing a lot of important herbs in a greenhouse they build. However in Tales of the Commonwealth Hero vol.2 The NukaWorld Scourge, Abernathy Farm gets destroyed by The Pack and the Abernathys are killed. This is, obviously, very hard on Jay.

   Their room is decently sized, and pretty cluttered. Jay has a hard time focusing on one task so he never folds and puts his clothes away or makes the bed, he always misplaces things, and is clumsy so he accidentally drops and knocks things over a lot. Nick is more tidy, but honestly not by much. He will make the bed in the morning, though he personally doesn’t care if it’s left a mess or not. No electric lights, they both prefer the dim, warm lantern light. Very cozy in the cold, with as many comfy blankets and pillows they can find and clean well. A good sized desk for Nick’s case work and Jay’s medical research. If they could find fairy lights, Jay would decorate the whole room with them, and we all know Nick wouldn’t complain (though he’d never admit he likes them)

 33:  What kind of presents do they get each other? Do they only do it on special occasions?

   Jay gives Nick gifts all the time. Anything he finds while they’re out he thinks Nick might like even a little bit he’ll grab and bring to him. Typically Nick keeps these things no matter what they are, lighters, working pens, pencils, blank paper in good condition, neat prewar trinkets, intact coffee mugs and tea cups, though sometimes he has to leave things behind because they just can’t take it with them. Jay also likes giving Nick flowers, and this goes both ways. Jay is a “any time all the time” gifter. He probably gives Nick gifts on a weekly basis. 

  Nick gifts Jay mostly food, and occasionally any prewar trinkets that have cats or lizards on them, as Jay loves cats and reptiles. Nick brings back any cameras he can find too, but so far they haven’t managed to find a working one. As soon as they do they’re recreating their wedding and taking a picture of them kissing. Nick is more of a ‘special occasion’ gifter.

39: Who initiated the relationship? Who kissed who first?  When did they realize they were in love?

Who initiated first: Jay

Who kissed first:  Nick

  Nick was in love almost from the very beginning. He was awestruck by the super handsome and unique, blind man who searched a city and a vault to rescue him, and then turned out to be the most kind and sweetest person he’d ever met, who just truly did not care about him being a synth at all. He thinks Jay is strikingly beautiful as well.

  Jay realized he was in love after Nick saved his life during the deathclaw attack that caused Jay to lose his right leg. He woke up one morning to find Nick against him, petting his hair to comfort him in his sleep. They talked about what happened during the attack, and Nick admit he’d been sleeping beside him like that since Jay was brought back to Sanctuary because he was scared and it seemed to help calm Jay. Jay knew he had a crush on Nick, but didn’t realize how far it had progressed until then.

  Neither of them thought the other shared the feeling and didn’t get together until after Jay got his sight restored. 

Im so sorry this is so long but god I just... hnnnnggggg lvoe talkin abt their relationship 

[fourthstagestories-blog]

The Teacup Killer

A dark re-imagining of The Ladykillers, by Jess. 

I may or may not have went a little too dark. 

*********

It was raining. A thick fog was settling over London, and an ominous chill spiked the skin. Constable MacDonald hurried nervously toward her house. He wasn’t sure what would torment his sleepless nights more tonight: the atrocities she committed, or knowing she would get away with it again.

Almost like a mythological phenomena, the light from her front porch peaked through the thick fog, like it was vapor itself, ready to disappear back into the echoing vaults of eternity. His heart stopped and his stomach twisted as he heard a loud, sickening thud on the train tracks, and a locomotive careening toward the house. He knew what it was. His pace quickened, sweat beaded down the back of his neck, his uniform almost choking him. If he turned back now, he could spare himself the torment. Alas, even if the victims were criminals - they didn’t deserve this damnation. He gave an oath.

His trembling hand rose to ring the doorbell; he wasn’t even sure if he remembered how he got there, what streets he walked down, how many people passed him. The house consumed him. She consumed him. 

Riiiing. 

Silence.

He could hear his choked back breath, and nothing else. Then, a shadowed figure grew bigger, and loomed in the doorway, just a moment, waiting.

A creek, and the warmth of the charming home welcome the constable in. Seemingly ready choke him. He caught his breath as she stood before him. He felt ready this time.

“Mrs. Wilberforce.” 

“Constable MacDonald,” She smiled, uncannily. A small, old, woman, meekly and sweetly greeted him. “Please come in! I rang as soon as the disturbance occurred.”

He stepped carefully through the door, observing the eerily still sitting room. The air was different here. Thinly veiling the atrocities he knew but could not prove.

“What seems to be the trouble?” He asked cordially. 

“Well, that professor I took in was, in fact, a criminal! I suspected as much, but you didn’t listen” she taunted, waving her finger at him. “He and his comrades pretended they were musicians and -”

“You offered me no proof. I had nothing to go on. You and he left me no choice” 

“Oh, constable, it’s no matter. What’s done is done. Will you have some tea?”

“Where are they now?” He didn’t want to know, but the oath bound him to answers he didn’t want to find.

“There were five of them. All of them, criminals. Can you imagine my surprise?” Her smile grew, a particular glee behind her voice. 

“Where are they now?” 

She gestured for me to sit down, “please, constable. It would be so much easier to explain.”

Apprehensively, he sat down, on his guard. Ready. She took a sip of tea.

“Do you remember when I told you about the Nazis on my radio? You couldn’t imagine the fear that went through me. But who would believe me?”

“It was an explainable - ”

“And the conspiracies I brought to you. And there you were: just waving them off as poppycock. Oh, but you were so polite.”

“Mrs. Wilberforce -”

“Will you please have some tea? I should feel dreadful if I called you out of your cozy quarters in this weather, and have you chilled to the bone.” He took the cup. He had no intention of drinking it. He knew better. 

“Now, you were going to tell me -”

“Oh yes, Professor Marcus. He was such a dear. But a terrible liar. But so were all the other tenants living here before him. I must say, though, he was my favourite - a musician! That was a unique one. Poor dear.”

He suddenly wondered how many unsuspecting souls he didn’t account for. “Will they be returning soon?” He asked.

“Yes, but all in good time. Please, let’s have some tea, this is a long story, and they won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. It’ll be like old friends catching up.” 

She told him the whole story: the heist, how she found out, Major Gordon, how each member went missing - or rather, how they killed themselves off, one by one. How she discovered the money Marcus was planning on taking, how he tried to kill her. The constable mindlessly sipping the tea, waiting for a clue to use against her in her sick game. “- And that’s the whole story, and the whole truth. Right hand to God.” She dramatically raised her hand, left hand over her heart. “And where is the money now?” He asked.

She went to the closet, and pulled out a large suitcase. “Well, shall I take you to them?” Her voice, it was empty. Stoic. “Please do.” He gulped his words.

“They’re upstairs.” She gestured to the second floor. 

They climbed the lopsided stairs, with lopsided pictures, and through the lopsided hallway. She opened the door to the spare room: not a soul. All was still, just as the air downstairs, their final moments, imprinted, in this room. Just an open window, the curtains fluttering from the chill. Stepping carefully toward the window, Constable MacDonald knew he would regret looking, but he needed the truth. But suddenly, before he could go any further, the chill from the air sent a wave through his body - prickling.

The walls, furniture, the air - it quivered. He could see stars coming from the wallpaper. He could hear his hair standing on end, his heart trying to claw its way of his chest. The constable’s mind became dizzy, expanding and heavy. 

“It was quite the story, how he tried to kill me… pity I got there first. Just like how I got to you first”

“The tea -!”

Her face darkened the way the sky does before a storm, a sickly shade of green. He could feel his knees weaken, and every fiber of his being on fire - the prickling moved up from his feet, heat swimming through his veins, and up his legs. He could hear the demons weeping in the shadows, all of the lost souls moaning. The room was suddenly deafening. He caught a glance of himself in a mirror, his face twisted, becoming unrecognizable, flushed, and hollow. 

“You must be heavy with burden. When did you last sleep? I heard you needed to take a leave.” 

“I -” But his face grew hot before he could register the words he wanted so desperately to say. The prickling had frozen his face. Electric shocks surging through his brain, jolting him. The shadows started to move in, ready to consume, their eyes feasting on him. He couldn’t hold on much longer.

It’s funny, you never believed those silly stories, but ironically… nobody believed you when you told them about me.”

The house rumbled, another train. The light in the distance grew, creeping into the room. The floor tilted, and felt just as lopsided as the rest of the house. He needed to know; he needed the truth. His feet made their way to the window, the cold air offering relief. A soothing calm to the burn that paralyzed his face. He looked down out of the window, the lump in his throat near jumped out of him, the ground below seemed bottomless, but the light from the train illuminated the contours of the twisted and mangled bodies.

“It’s okay, Constable. Your secret is safe with me. You can sleep now.” 

The shadows had found him. And with one fatal push, the light from the train devoured Constable MacDonald, the rumbling overcame him. 

Sleep, at last.

End.

[thegoldenmink]

Ambiversion

This is the prompt I received from @mantha-has-fallen 

I think it turned out well! I hope everyone likes it!

No paring

Word count 1157

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

--Patton is known for his silliness and boisterous personality. As well as his affinity for affection. He knows this as well as anybody. However, he hasn't told anyone that it isn't all of him.

--In between videos Patton was actually rather reserved. However, he acted as if he was just spending time in his room. No one knew the difference or questioned it. Patton went through great lengths to hide his need to be alone. He's the affectionate and happy one, he can't let anybody down. Patton hadn't actually known the term for quite a while, at least not until he had heard Logan use it in passing. Posing the question as pure curiosity, Patton had approached Logan and asked about it.

--Logan was happy to explain the differences between introverts, extroverts, and ambiverts. Patton was glad to have Logan, the new term made so much sense! Patton loved interacting with others, but after a while it can become tedious and tiring to deal with others. Not that he would tell them that! He loves his family, he just needs some time alone occasionally.

--Patton had made a plan that day. Be as happy and excitable as usual, and when the need to be alone arises, do it in between videos. If all else fails, feign tiredness. This plan worked for quite some time, never raising suspicion from the other three.

--Then a day came when Thomas was swamping himself with work. Patton hadn't gotten a chance to seclude himself. It was taking a larger toll than he would have liked to admit. Just as Patton was getting ready to retire to his room, he'd been approached by the others.

--"Patto! We're going to watch Disney in the Commons, care to join us?" Roman had asked, buzzing slightly due to the excitement he always had when it came to Disney.

--Patton smiled, but internally he was groaning. He had gone too long without seclusion and he could feel his nerves beginning to fray. But he couldn't let his family down! They needed him!

--Patton nodded eagerly, following behind the three other sides. Everyone had sat on the couch, Roman on one end and Patton on the other. Virgil and Logan squeezed into the middle, though they didn't seem to mind much.

--Roman grabbed the remote and began playing the movies. Patton discreetly turned his head away and closed his eyes, trying to at least simulate being alone. The beginning narration from 'Moana' eventually got drowned out. Patton was glad that this technique was at least helping slightly, though not nearly enough.

--Roman and Virgil were quietly talking to each other about the movie. Sharing theories and revealing hidden messages. Patton tried to enjoy it, but he just couldn't. Everything was too close and overbearing.

--Before he realized what he was doing, Patton stood up and announced loudly, "I have to go."

--Patton vaulted over the couch and bolted up the stairs into his room. As he went, he noticed everyone's confused and slightly hurt faces. What made Patton feel worse, is that he didn't have the capacity to care very much. He was just too drained.

--When Patton reached his room, he locked the door and belly flopped on his bed. The silence was instantly soothing, as was being by himself at last.

--Patton eventually sat up and hugged one of his many stuffed animals. As he cuddled his stuffed rabbit named Kookie, the implications of what just happened hit him full force. Patton felt his eyes begin to wet. The sting of tears coming forward. Before the tears could fall, Patton wiped them away with the sleeve of his hoodie.

--Patton laid down and stared at the ceiling, wishing that he hadn't hurt his family.

-=+=-

--A little while later, Patton heard whispering outside of his door. It sounded angry, almost like arguing. Then a knock.

--Patton frowned and sat up again, debating whether to fake sleep, or answer the door. Before he had decided, Virgil's voice drifted in.

--"Pat, um we were just wondering if you were alright. You left kind of suddenly. Please answer the door." He had said, his voice wavering a little with uncertainty.

--Patton immediately decided to answer. Feeling slightly recharged made him feel even worse about the interaction from earlier.

--As Patton opened the door he saw Virgil in the middle chewing on his hoodie sleeve, Logan crossing his arms and looking vaguely concerned, and Roman tilting his head, adjusting his sash.

--"Hey, kiddos." Patton greeted, noticeably less enthusiastic.

--Logan responded. "Hello Patton. It has occurred to us that something may be wrong. Would you please tell us why you left so suddenly?"

--Patton sighed and felt the tears sting his eyes again. His hands tightened around Kookie, knuckles going white with the force.

--"I'm so sorry! I..." Patton paused to sigh. "I need time to be alone and recharge sometimes. I didn't want to tell you, i didn't want to let you down..."

--Roman looked appalled. "You could never let us down! You haven't done anything wrong!"

--Virgil nodded, staring at Patton intensely. "He's right."

--Logan jumped in again. "I recall you asking about ambiversion. It seems that is the case of your behavior."

--Patton nodded, his smile small and grateful. A few tears had fallen, leaving dried tracks on his cheeks.

--"Do you guys forgive me?" Patton asked, looking up at everyone with a hopeful expression.

--Instead of answering, they all collectively stepped in and gave Patton a hug. Patton smiled widely and squeezed as hard as he could.

-=+=-

--Patton was finishing up his latest batch of cookies when he felt two hands cover his eyes. Patton jumped in surprise and he heard Roman laugh behind him.

--"Sorry, padre. I have a surprise for you!" Roman said, bursting with excitement. Patton squealed and clapped his hands.

--"I love surprises! Show me, kiddo!" Patton exclaimed.

--Roman guided Patton into the next room, still covering his eyes.

--“You ready?" Roman asked, smiling widely. Patton nodded eagerly in response.

--Roman removed his hands and Patton gaped. His chest became warm and Patton felt a surge of love and appreciation soar through him.

--In front of the two was an open corner of the Commons. Or rather, it was an open corner. Now it had a sea foam curtain on a half-circle rod close to the top. Sitting in the corner was a comfortable looking blue cloth chair. It had a small pillow in the shape of a cat's head. Patton sat on it and pulled the curtain around. It made the corner a bit darker and it felt cozy. As Patton opened the curtain again, he saw Roman's beaming face.

--"It's your new seclusion corner! Logan, Virgil, and I made it so you can sit in here instead of in your room. We wont bother you when you're in here, so we thought it might work for quick recharges." Roman explained.

--Patton jumped up and hugged Roman, squeezing hard to try and articulate all of his love.

--"It's perfect! Thank you!" Patton said, his face mushed up against Roman's shoulder.

--"Anything for you, Pat." Roman responded fondly.

[gukyi]

rich kid | pjm

⇒ summary: park jimin is a rich kid.

⇒ {rich kid au}

⇒ pairing: jimin x reader

⇒ word count: 5k

⇒ genre: fluff

⇒ a/n: this was supposed to be a warm up!! i don’t know what happened!!

You’d be a goddamn liar if you said you didn’t know Park Jimin. Everybody knows Park Jimin, and if they don’t, everybody knows of Park Jimin.

Park Jimin walks around campus like he owns the entire university, hands casually thrown into the pockets of his expensive black pants, sunglasses balancing on top of his intentionally disheveled black hair, silver earrings and studs and rods decorating his earlobes, leather jacket not worn, but strewn over his shoulders, complementing that delicate silver chain around his neck perfectly. Or perhaps, he isn’t wearing a fully black ensemble that likely costs more than your tuition. Maybe he’s a bit more laid back, with an outrageously vibrant sweater, the Gucci logo stamped all over it, blue jeans, ripped at the knee like he had worn right through them. He’s got circular frames surrounding his eyes even though he doesn’t need glasses, a beanie or beret sitting happily on his head if he didn’t have time to put his usual amount of product in his hair, Rolex watch peeking out from the oversized sleeves of his sweater. Park Jimin knows how to wear everything and anything with confidence, flair, so he is hardly difficult to miss.

Rumor has it that as a freshman, Park Jimin bribed his way out of staying in the dormitories so he could lounge in the mansion his parents bought him by campus instead. Rumor has it that Park Jimin has a vault in his basement, piled high with gold and jewels and priceless artifacts, paintings. Rumor has it that Park Jimin has a small island named after him off the coast of South Korea. Rumor has it that Park Jimin has it all.

If there’s one thing that can unite the student body, it’s that all students would die to hear their name roll off Park Jimin’s tongue, would die to have Park Jimin press them up against the wall, whispering dirty nothings into their ear, would die to be a person worth a memory in Park Jimin’s brain.

Park Jimin is a rich kid, and he’s glad everyone knows it.

Park Jimin has said your name before, when he catches a glimpse of you at one of his infamous parties, or when he cozies up next to you in the class you happen to share. Park Jimin knows who you are, but you do not know him, whoever hides behind those ivy black sunglasses.

Today is another one of those days that Park Jimin decides is a fine one to strike up a conversation with you.

You know it’s him before he even sits down, the whispers that follow his entrance into any room and the musk on his body you think he could do a few pumps less with giving him away as he slides into the empty seat next to yours in the class. Today, he’s smug, confident with himself.

“Is this seat taken, darling?” He asks innocently, even though he’s already sitting down.

“Not anymore,” you reply without even turning your head, focusing on the doodle you’re working on on the empty notebook page in front of you.

Jimin hardly cares that you don’t feel like engaging in conversation with him this particular day. “Y/N, is it?”

“Don’t act like you don’t already know me,” you say, not allowing your attention to be drawn away from the notebook.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Y/N. I think we get along quite well,” he states like it’s something you have to agree with.

“And when exactly did we last have a conversation that was worth my time?” You ask politely, knowing fully well he has no answer to your question. Jimin has never spoken more than five words to you at a single time, always a “Hello, darling” or a “Care to join me?”, and never anything substantial, something real.

“We’re having one right now,” he offers.

You scoff. “I hardly believe that this conversation is worth my time.”

And this is when Jimin leans in close, his breath tickling your ear and making you shiver, nose scrunching up. “Oh, believe me, Y/N,” he whispers, the smirk widening on his face, “I can make it worth your time.”

Scoffing just happens to be your only defense mechanism against the heartthrob that is Park Jimin, and so that is exactly what you do, shaking your head as you avoid whatever look he may have etched onto his face. How many people does he speak like that to? How many people have fallen over the way his words linger in the air?

Jimin isn’t deterred in the slightest, not even as the professor commences the lesson and takes your attention away from him once more, as if it were even on him to begin with. He does actually listen to what your professor has to say, but not without making dramatic faces towards you at some of her words, especially when the phrase “partner project” leaves her lips. Well, at least you and Jimin can bond over the fact that you hate partner projects.

You sort of zone out for the rest of the lesson, since all your professor is talking about are the requirements for whatever godforsaken project you’ve been forced to complete, the same requirements that happen to be written on the rubric in front of you and don’t need to be said aloud. You love your professor, you really do, but sometimes she can be a bit unnecessary.

It’s not until you feel a heavy hand slamming onto your shoulder, making you jump in shock, that causes you to shake yourself out of your trance. When you look to the owner of said heavy hand, it’s none other than Jimin, who has the most devious yet angelic smile printed on his face as he looks down at you from where he’s standing. You trace your eyes from his hand on your shoulder, up his arm and finally to his face, and his mouth opens.

“Looks like it’s you and me, darling,” he says, the pet name flowing off of his tongue.

“What do you mean?” You frown, standing up. You can’t bear to be looked down on, especially by him.

“Weren’t you listening?” He asks curiously, eyes wide. “You and I, we’re partners.”

You’ve decided that the universe, or maybe it’s just a certain inhabitant of the universe that goes by the name of Park Jimin, has it out for you.

No wonder there’s rumors flying about Jimin’s house, no wonder one of them involves him bribing the administration into staying off campus for freshman year. If you were him, you’d never want to leave.

It’s hard to believe Jimin, a senior in university, has already amassed such a fortune that he can afford a house like this, a palace, if you will, in this day and age. Having reasonable housing and not having to work four menial jobs a day to get it is practically unheard of, so to see Jimin’s place of residence is a mansion sparks a bit of, well, envy. Not only does the building look mesmerizingly modern, it also looks clean, which you find surprising considering the parties Jimin is notorious for throwing.

Jimin’s invited you over this Friday so you can bang out the majority of the ‘group’ aspect of the project, which you’ve happily accepted, since you want to spend as little time working with him as you can.

Despite having been to a fair few of the parties arranged by none other than the man himself, they’ve always been away from his place, at a frat house, an old, abandoned warehouse, another poor soul’s living quarters. Never his place, because the parties he has the pleasure of hosting at his own residence are like no other in their sheer scale, and you’d rather not.

You tentatively ring the doorbell, looking up in awe at the size of his mansion up close. Park Jimin is wealthy, you’ll hand him that.

Jimin answers almost immediately, opening the sleek wooden door and revealing himself in all of his glory. Even when lounging around on the weekend, his clothes scream luxury.

“Y/N!” He exclaims, smiling his signature grin that melts every person’s heart within a mile radius. “Glad you could make it.”

You push yourself by him and his grin, trying not to let your awe get the best of you. “It’s not like I wasn’t gonna show,” you mutter, letting your backpack slide off of your shoulder, hitting his pristine marble floor with a thud.

“You like my place, right?”

Goddamn, he can read you well. It seems to be a talent of his, these days.

“It’s…large,” you comment, looking around. There doesn’t seem to be a speck of dust in sight, not on his mile high walls or his glass ceiling.

“Eh,” Jimin says, like he doesn’t really think much of the place you would kill to live in. “Father said I could have gotten a bigger place, but big houses are so lonely when you’re the only one in them.”

“Is that why you host parties so much?” You quip, raising an eyebrow at him.

Jimin grins, a toothy smile that you’ve never seen him give you before. “You catch on fast.”

For once, being near him doesn’t feel like impending doom.

You’re not dumb, and neither is Jimin, and that is why you are sat in his living room on faux leather couches (“I just feel so bad for the cows, you know. They don’t deserve that.”) doing your group project as you try to disregard the not-so-subtle attempts he’s making to silently flirt with you. He’ll move closer, let his fingers brush yours as you hand him that pen, send you winks when he sees you glance his way, and it’s better to ignore than to react, so you let him. You have to admit, it’s a little endearing to see him make such elementary moves, such foolish first-love-esque actions that belong to a nerd in a romantic comedy rather than a rich, unattainable boy like himself.

“You’re cute when you’re working,” Jimin says, out of the blue as you highlight a line right across the article you’re reading.

You refuse to admit that the compliment makes your cheeks heat up. You look up at him “Am I, now?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, meeting your eyes. “I’d let you teach me a couple things.” He follows with a wink, one of the classic bad boy one’s he’s much more well known for, and you roll your eyes. You should have known.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Jimin. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.”

Jimin leans closer, and you can see your reflection in those dark chocolate irises of his. “Do you mind reminding me what that reason is?”

You’re about to respond, a witty remark on the tip of your tongue, about to tumble out from between your lips, when a crack of thunder sends the both of you flying back. The sound is resonating, and it makes you feel like the ground is shaking, along with your heart, for a reason you cannot pinpoint.

“Think it’s gonna storm,” Jimin says, as if it’s not plenty obvious that it’s going to storm.

As if on cue, another boom of thunder erupts from the sky, followed quickly by the aggressive pitter patter of rain falling, the sound echoing throughout the room from his obnoxious glass ceiling.

“God damnit,” you comment. Now that it’s raining, you won’t be leaving Jimin’s house until it subsides, since you took public transport to get to him in the first place.

“Why? I like the rain,” Jimin says, leaning back into the comfort of his couch cushions and closing his eyes, letting the drops hitting his ceiling sooth him. When you look at him, eyes closed and lips turned up ever so slightly, he doesn’t look like the glaring rich kid the students know him as. He just looks like a boy.

You take one look out the window and see the trees that surround his house swaying in the wind and inwardly sigh, knowing you’re trapped.

“Well, get up, Mr. I Like Rain, we have shit to do,” you say, nudging the side of his torso with your elbow, making his eyes open. He looks at you from between his long, wispy eyelashes, and you wonder where the showy boy from campus went, even though you’re staring right at him.

“The rain’s casting a shadow on you, you know that?” He asks, smiling. “It’s pretty.”

You’re pretty, you hear, and in any other circumstance you’d roll your eyes and turn away, but this time, you let the words sink in.

Jimin seems to think the rain is a good moodmaker, because before you know it, he’s leaning in, closer, closer, eyes shut softly as he puckers up his lips…

Darkness.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath as you sit, waiting in the black of the room. The rain’s preventing a majority of the light from shining through the windows, so there you are, in Park Jimin’s house, during a power outage.

You suppose it could be worse. If he’s wealthy, then it means he most definitely has a generator on hand, and the lights will come on and everything will be normal again. You decide to wait. The mood’s definitely been made, now.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

A minute whizzes by and no lights come on, no low rumble of the refrigerator or crackle of television static.

“Do you have a generator?” You question.

You can’t see Jimin’s facial expression in this darkness, and you’re glad.

“Shit,” he swears, and that answers your question perfectly.

“What kind of a rich kid doesn’t have a generator?”

“I have one,” Jimin tries to explain, “but it broke down last week. Father said he wouldn’t be able to get a guy to repair it until Tuesday, but I didn’t think I’d need it…”

“Well, the rain says, ‘Surprise, bitch’, so guess we’re stuck without power,” you breathe out. This is not how you imagined this day would go.

“I’ve never been in a power outage before,” Jimin admits, and oh, the words of a rich boy, how the spur you.

“Get used to it,” you say, a seasoned veteran of the event known as a loss of power.

Jimin doesn’t move from his spot, frozen in place as the experience of mere mortals sets in.

“What are you doing?” You ask incredulously, jerking his arm to get him mobile. “Got any flashlights?”

“Can’t we just use our phones?” He asks.

“I’m not wasting my phone battery, I don’t know about you,” you comment.

“But you can just charge it… oh. You can’t,” Jimin trails off as the realization hits him. You can’t believe you actually almost found him cute when he doesn’t know about what you can and cannot do during a power outage.

You snap. “You got that right. Now, where the fuck do you keep your flashlights?”

“I’ve seen the maid get them from a closet by the kitchen,” Jimin says, as if that’s any help.

“You don’t know where you have flashlights in this house?” You ask, clearly unimpressed.

“It’s a big house!” Jimin exclaims, getting up and storming off to the kitchen to rummage through the closets, drawers, and cupboards. You follow him, and sure, some of the impact of his huge house is lost because you can’t see shit, but merely walking through his hallways is enough to take your breath away.

Jimin locates said closet and stretches up to get the flashlights, located on the highest shelf. His fingers barely brush the handles, but he manages to wrangle them down from the top of that closet and hand one to you.

Even with such little light, you are instantly more relieved. You were never a fan of the dark, despite having gone through many a power outage.

“Now what?” Jimin asks as he switches on his flashlight, shining it right in your eyes.

You sputter, immediately making to cover your eyes as you whack his arm until he gets the message, gasping slightly before rapidly tilting the flashlight down. “God, have you never used a goddamn flashlight before?” You ask. “Um, normally I’d call the electricity company, see when they predict the power to come back on. What’s your company?”

“What?”

You roll your eyes, and even though Jimin can’t see you do it, he knows you have.

“What’s your power company?” You repeat through gritted teeth.

“My power company? Oh, um, I’m not sure.”

You throw your hands up in despair, sighing tiredly as you march back to where your phone sits on his faux leather couch. If he doesn’t know, you’ll just have to guess. On your way back, you glance out the window, and while the other houses on this road seem to be making good use of their own personal generators, looking into the distance, it seems that the storm has wiped out the power from the run-of-the-mill folks across town. It’s likely the power company that’s most prominent in this area. You have their number memorized (this has happened quite often, after all) and wait for the standard message that will inform you of the length of the waiting period.

“So?” Jimin says, coming into view, the flashlight lighting up the tips of his toes as he walks towards you.

You groan. “They’re not expecting the power to be back on until ten.”

“Ten?” Jimin asks in disbelief. You are just as shocked. “It’s like, five, right now. How am I supposed to eat dinner?”

“Got a gas stove?”

“I don’t know what that is,” Jimin admits.

Rich kids are outrageously spoiled.

“Do you or do you not see a flame when you turn on your stove?”

“I don’t. My stove is flat.”

Welp, there goes your hope for a nice boiling cup of tea. You are, essentially, fucked without a gas stove, but you’ll manage. You have to say, this is a first for you, surviving a power outage without a gas stove, so you’re excited to see what you’ll come up with.

“Fuck my life,” you groan, collapsing on the couch.

“So, now what?” Jimin asks, joining you. He’s almost just as tired.

“No wifi, so we can’t keep doing the project, no cable, so we can’t watch television, no stove, so we can’t cook,” you say, listing off the things in Jimin’s house that are so tragically rendered useless with the loss of electricity. “So, I guess we just have to find ways to pass the time.”

“I could think of a few ways,” Jimin says suggestively, and god, are you glad that you can’t see his face.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you instruct.

“Does that mean you foresee us doing it in the near future?” Jimin asks cheekily. “Because right now, that’s what you’re implying.”

“I regret everything,” you deadpan, more to yourself than to Jimin.

“Oh, come on, darling,” Jimin coaxes, a hand on your upper arm as the pet name slips from his mouth, “this will be a great bonding experience.”

You scoff. “A bonding experience?”

“Yeah, why not? We’re trapped in my house, in the dark, with no power, our cell phones running low on battery. We should get to know each other.”

Well, it’s not like you had anything better to suggest.

“Alright.”

“Really?” Jimin asks, his voice going up an octave, like a child who’s just been offered some sugary treat. “Ask me anything you want to know.”

You could ask him to confirm or deny the rumors, see if he does have gold in his basement, or if he made out with a teacher in high school, or if there really is an island named after him. You could ask him how his family managed to collect so much wealth and influence. You could ask him how many girlfriends he’s had, how many boyfriends. But instead, you ask him this: “Why me?”

“Why you?”

“Yeah, why me? Why did you choose me?”

“I didn’t choose you,” Jimin states simply, and you nearly laugh, because it most certainly feels like he did. He could have any boy, any girl, any student he wanted, and here he is, focusing on you. “I didn’t decide to pick you. You just happened.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“As cheesy as it sounds, there’s always been something drawing me to you. I have flings and I have sex, but I wanted something different with you,” Jimin tells you. “If anything, you’re the one who chose me.”

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Hearing Jimin’s words is like getting socked in the head with a football. You’re disoriented, hazy as you fall to the grass, head pounding as you gain back your direction. They leave you the same amount of speechless, breathless, senseless.

“Enlighten me, Y/N, but how are we supposed to eat when we can’t cook anything?” Jimin says, changing the topic, much to your relief.

You’re happy to get up, allowing yourself to go through some recollection as you make your way to his kitchen, his footsteps and flashlight following yours. Going off of the assumption that Jimin has mostly every food a kitchen needs in his kitchen, you start to think about what the two of you can end up eating with no ability to heat anything up.

“Do you have lettuce?” You ask, not wanting to let the fridge stay open for longer than you absolutely have to keep it.

“Beats me,” Jimin says, shrugging in the darkness. “I’m almost never in here.”

“Do you cook?”

“Not as much as I should, apparently,” Jimin responds defensively.

“You’re a nightmare, Jimin, you know that?”

“I can fucking cook, alright? I just don’t do it much.”

“Can you even make pasta?”

Your question renders him speechless, struggling to get out some defensive remark and prove you wrong, and it’s all the answer you need.

“My god, you’re ridiculous,” you sigh, shaking your head as you open his fridge. Whoever makes the meals in this lonely household knows how to organize a refrigerator, so you beeline straight for the vegetables, only to find you are without lettuce and most other things necessary to make a salad. What kind of goddamn rich kid’s place doesn’t have carrots? You grab the milk from inside the fridge and push it into Jimin’s arms as he stumbles back, watching you with awe as you figure out how the fuck you’re gonna eat. You shine your flashlight along his wall of cupboards, opening each until you finally locate his cereal storage, pleasantly surprised he has quite the selection. Of course, his kitchen has fifteen types of cereal but no lettuce.

“We’re having cereal?” Jimin asks.

“There’s nothing else, Jimin,” you reply. “Which one do you want?”

And this is how you end up sitting in the dark on Jimin’s spinny breakfast stools that he never uses for some reason, eating cereal for dinner. The rain still pours outside, and the wind does not wish to cease.

“This isn’t really how I pictured spending the night with you,” Jimin says, breaking the silence. His mouth his half-full, and it muffles his words ever so slightly, making his voice cuter.

“Me neither,” you respond.

“And how did you picture spending the night with me?” Jimin says, his signature tone back in place.

“I didn’t picture spending the night with you at all.”

For once, Jimin laughs, warm and giggly at your remark, and even you can’t help but smile at the sound of it.

“Guess you’re stuck here, though,” Jimin says, nudging you.

You look up at him, and the flashlight laying on its side on the counter with you to provide some light illuminates the brown in his eyes, the radiance in his grin. He is beautiful, you’ll give him that.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Fuck my life.”

“You know, I meant what I said, earlier. About you.”

“I know you did.”

Perhaps it is the mood-making rain after all that sets the tone, because suddenly, in the faint glow of the flashlight as the world thunders outside, Jimin seems more like a friend than an inconvenience, and you suppose that there would always be a worse way to spend the night than with him.

Unsurprisingly, the two of you end up back on his faux leather couches, making shadow puppets with the flashlight along the mountains he likes to call walls. You, to be honest, don’t really know how you got here, but you haven’t laughed this hard in ages, especially since you now have the valuable information that Jimin knows how to shape both of his hands into a penis. You’re on the floor, bubbling over with giggles as Jimin contorts his hand into all sorts of arbitrary objects along the wall, the smile on his face stretching from ear to ear and making his nose scrunch up as he looks at you.

He’s never seen you like this, so open and happy and giggly, smiling because for once, there’s nothing to be particularly sad about at the moment. Sure, you’re stuck in a storm with no power, but you’re together, and this is more fun than either of you have had at any of his extravagant parties.

You and Jimin have both made swans out of your arms and hands, beaming as you move them along the wall like children playing make-believe, when you watch his swan approach yours, slowly, smoothly. You see his outstretched arms near yours, and you are speechless as you watch his swan give yours a kiss, a quick peck on its lips.

Turning your head to him, he smiles, much smaller than his beautifully toothy grin, and before you allow your mind to even register it, he’s stretching over your body, pressing his lips to yours. It feels like everything else halts, the pitter patter on the ceiling pausing mid-drop, the blowing wind coming to a stop. He kisses you and you watch it happen on the wall, see yourselves printed in silhouette along it like a drive-in movie.

He pulls away first, cheeks turning into apples, and you much look like the cover of a romantic novel, a shadow of two young kids, separated but having obviously already kissed, gazing right at each other.

“Sorry,” Jimin says, a hand on the nape of his neck. “I-I don’t know why—”

You don’t let him finish, and this time you’re the one pressing your lips onto his, kissing him back because you want to. When your lips are on his and you feel the warmth of his breath, it feels like you’ve always wanted to. Jimin is happily taken by surprise, letting himself get used to the sensation for a couple seconds before pressing back, a hand worming its way up to cup your cheek, another resting on the dip between your neck and your shoulder. You stay like that for who knows how long, because it’s as if time has stopped when you are with him, like you are the only two people on the planet.

With quick breaths you part, foreheads resting against each other’s as you collect yourselves.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Jimin admits sheepishly.

“I know.”

“What, no, ‘I’ve always wanted to do that too’?”

“You’re cute, Jimin, but I’m not going to lie to you,” you say, rubbing the soft expanse of his cheek with your thumb as you smile, real and whole.

“I can’t say I imagined our first kiss would be in the dark when my house has no power,” Jimin tells you.

“‘Our first kiss’, huh?”

“What? Do you not want me to do it again?”

You can’t help the grin that grows on your face when you see his expression, leaning forward and pecking him on the cheek, just for good measure. “No,” you say. “I do.”

The power comes back on an hour earlier than expected, and you have never seen one person so relieved to open a microwave before. Jimin is practically beside himself with joy, and you are, dare you say, the only thing that can top that happiness.

“Looks like it’s cleared up, too,” you say, peering out the window to see a faint parting in the clouds.

“You’re leaving already?” Jimin asks, a pout on his face as he sits on the couch, legs crisscross applesauce.

“I have to, Jimin,” you reply, chuckling. “I can’t stay here forever.”

“I’d let you,” Jimin comments, shrugging. He gets up, walking you to the door.

“We didn’t even finish the project,” you sigh to yourself.

A smile dances on Jimin’s lips as he grabs your hand, interlocking your fingers for a brief second as you stand in his doorway, him inside, you outside. “So does that mean you’ll come back?”

And honestly, how can you say no to that?

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[shadestoryofficial]

Chapter 4 - Blacksmith, Black Cat, Blackout

My train arrived well into the afternoon, the dying light of the golden sky making its last stand against the night as the shadows of the trees rose up to fight it off. I set myself to finding the local inn, strolling down the cobblestone road that winded through the center of the small town.

I passed by houses (each cozier looking than the last) and shops. Locals came outside to light lanterns in the front of their houses, many stopping to wave at me kindly or to talk with their neighbors. I smiled and waved back.

The Vesper Inn was in what seemed to be the town plaza: several large buildings constructed in a circle, a small well, and a large stage in front of what looked to be the town hall. The Inn was situated between the two largest buildings. The town hall was on its left, and another building (which seemed to be in the middle of renovations) was on its right. A sign labeled it as the local haberdashery, coats and hats of varying luxuriousness sat in the display windows.

I checked into my room at the front desk of the inn. The innkeeper, like everyone else in this town, seemed kind. I requested a room on the third floor, the highest one, in the hopes that I could see any suspicious persons from my window. 

Although, the longer I was in this town, the less likely it was to me that a terrorist could be hiding here. Sure, it was secluded. No one would look for you here, but it didn’t seem like the locals would harbor a criminal.

“Worry about that tomorrow,” I said aloud to myself. “Just relax for tonight.” I got ready for bed, taking one last glance out of the window. 

The street was pitch black, the lanterns not illuminating an inch of space besides the buildings they were extended from. Then, I saw a small flash of light come from the road. A red dot. I stared at it for a while before it disappeared for a moment. Then it came back as if it had blinked.

Shaking my head, I lay down to rest for the night. “Worry about that tomorrow…”

*     *     *     *     *

I was in a grassy meadow, flowers filling every open space on the ground. The sky was dark, covered in clouds, but I could see the world as if it were fully lit. 

A purple cat jumped into the field from the forest that encircled it, chasing a golden bird. The bird circled the cat, chirping jovially. Ha, ha, ha. Hee, hee, hee. It was laughing at the cat. The cat grew angry and got ready to pounce.

Suddenly, I was in the air, hovering. I stared down at the cat’s single eye just before it lunged at me. I flew away, flapping my tiny wings as fast as possible. They soon grew tired, and I felt my arms return to me as I began to plummet.

I fell for what seemed like hours. At some point, the dark sky became red, flames surrounding my descent. I landed on a slab of metal, face to the ground. I would have laid there forever, but the metal began heating up until it was unbearable. I turned over just in time to see a large hammer coming down onto my face.

*     *     *     *     *

I shot up from my bed, drenched in sweat. Where was I? Sunlight streamed through the window into my room, it was about noon. The inn, that’s right. Why was I here again?

To find Zack.

I got dressed, throwing on jeans and my favorite hoodie, a white sweatshirt covered in golden loops and swirls. I picked my HALO off the nightstand where I’d left it. It began hovering above my head as soon as I brought it close. Finally, I opened my door, walked downstairs, grabbed a cinnamon-raisin muffin from the complimentary breakfast buffet, and headed out into the town.

Let’s start by asking around, I thought. Surely someone here would know about a Shadow. I looked around, examining the town from the entrance to The Vesper. Looking right, I saw the Town Hall. As good a place as any, I guess.

I walked over and quietly opened the door. The inside of the building was large and rustic. A staircase at the back split the room in two before splitting itself to lead to two separate balconies. Hardwood floors were covered in carpets that lead to various doors. The front desk was in between me and the staircase, but no one was there.

I looked around for a bit, not knowing what to do with myself. After a few minutes, I heard cackling from above, interrupting me while deciding whether or not to find somewhere to sit. “Well, hello there, sonny boy? What can I do ya for?”

Upon the balcony was an old man, hobbling towards the stairs. As he grew closer, I got a better look at him. He was built like a warped telephone pole, skinny, tall, and hunched over. He had a cane topped with an eye, his greyed skin struggling to hold it. The man was dressed in a three-piece suit, each a different material and a different shade of brown. His beard was tucked behind his vest, and his head was topped by a patchwork top hat.

He reached the ground floor (after several minutes) and fumbled with his pockets for a moment before pulling a copper monocle speckled with green verdigris. “I’m looking for the mayor, sir. I’m a… journalist. I had some questions about this town.”

The old man’s eyes widened, tripling the wrinkles upon his forehead. “A journalist, you say?” his old voice creaked. “No one’s cared about our small town for decades! Well, I’m the mayor! Mayor Tiddlywink at your service!”

I held back a snort. “Tiddlywink…? Is that a… family name?”

“Nope! It’s just what everyone ‘round these parts calls me!”

“Oh. What is your real name, then?”

“No clue! No one thought to tell me!” I stared at him, examining his face to figure out if he was serious. His expression was inscrutable.

“Ah. Anyway, I’m writing an article about local legends, and I’ve heard quite a bit about a… Shadow… lurking around this area. Any information you’ve got for me?”

The man seemed to think for a moment, his forehead gaining yet more wrinkles from his pensive expression. “A Shadow, eh? Well, there is the Ganymede Gang. They stick together like they’re each others’ shadows,” He paused. “Wait, no. Stuck together. They all died in a stargazing accident ‘bout 20 years back. Terrible. Horrible.”

“Anything else?” I pleaded.

He thought once more, before shrugging. “Sorry! Got nothing! This vault o’ mine is as cracked as can be!” He cackled. “Try asking some of the shop keepers! Maybe one of them‘ll have watcha lookin’ for!” And before I could say anything else, he was already hobbling back up the steps.

*     *     *     *     *

The rest of my afternoon went similarly. Locals would go off on tangents- “My niece makes the most wonderful eye-shadow! You’d like her!” “That’s what everyone calls the local stray.” “I have one of those!”-before saying they didn’t have much in the way of legends. That is, until:

“A Shadow? I’ve never heard of that! What’s a shadow?!” the blacksmith stammered. 

He looked to be about my age, maybe a few years younger. He was the youngest person I’d seen in this town since I’d arrived. He was rather buff, muscles clearly defined in his tan skin, probably acquired from working all day. His hair, two tones of brown, was shaved on one side of his cutely round head.

He wore a simple black tank-top and pants, and he had a red jacket lined with fur tied around his waist. Leather combat boots and thick gloves adorned his feet and hands, and he wore black shades over his eyes. His ears were pierced in at least 3 places each, metal sticking out everywhere. His skin was slick with sweat, although I couldn’t tell if it was from his work or his nervousness about my question.

“You… don’t know what a shadow is?”

“Nope! Never heard of it! What is that? Some kind of dog?” He was grinning, but his jaw was clenched tighter than a bear trap. “I’m more of a cat person anyway, see?” He jerked a thumb behind and above him. A black cat rested on the windowsill inside his home, watching me with its one red eye.

“Uh-huh... You sure?” I asked. Surely he knew this wasn’t working, right?

“Yep!” Guess not. “So if that’s all you needed of me, I’ve gotta get back to work! Off you go! Bye-bye!” He went back to working on what looked like a battleaxe.  I turned around, ready to leave him alone.

“Mrow.” The black cat was suddenly behind me, still staring. I stepped over it gingerly, then walked off. I didn’t plan to give up, of course. This smith was clearly hiding something.

 After I was sure I was out of his vision, I began walking into the forest, looking for a tree to climb. I found one that seemed sturdy enough and dropped my bag at its base. 

“Mrow.” The cat was sitting right by my bag, it had followed me.

“Shh!” I shushed it. “Leave me alone.” I grabbed onto the tree bark and started to scale the tree. I didn’t stop until I was well within the canopy, obscured from view by the warmly colored leaves. I sat on a branch to catch my breath before moving on.

“Mrow?” The black cat was sitting next to me. Its head was tilted as if it were curious.

I stared back at it for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. You can come with me, but be quiet!” I almost laughed at myself.  Talking to a cat? Hysterical.

I got back up, stretching. “Okay, let’s do this.” I began jumping and swinging from tree to tree, staying as silent as I could. The cat followed along just behind me. Soon, I had found a good spot. I could see the blacksmith from here.

I watched him work until sunset. As the sky grew dark, he collected his things into a bag and threw on his jacket. “Here, kitty kitty!” He shouted. I looked at the cat. Did it seem… annoyed? Maybe that’s just how cats look, I thought.

The smith soon gave up and began to walk into the woods. Naturally, I followed him. After roughly a half-hour, he arrived at a cabin, hidden deep in a clearing surrounded by hills and rocky cliffs. It was large, yet still maintained the cozy aura every home in this town emanated.

“What are you doing so far into the woods…?” I thought aloud to myself.

“Probably preparing dinner,” A familiar voice behind me responded.

I turned around to find a young man perched on the same branch as me in a feline pose. Then, I felt myself fall into the darkness of unconsciousness.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @nerdyfangirl57!

Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year to you sweetheart, from your Secret Santa!  So excited to see what you think of your gift and I really hope that, at the very least, it makes you smile over the holidays!  Love & Hugs! XXXXXX

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*****

Santa's Little Helper    

Turning the collars up on his purple military coat, Magnus was glad of the full-length barrier it would provide against the crisp night air outside, only wishing he’d brought his gloves too as he prepared to leave the warmth of the cinema foyer with his two small companions. Squatting down to tie Madzie’s scarf and adjust Max’s bobble hat, Magnus couldn’t resist dropping a kiss on their dimpled cheeks as he asked if they’d enjoyed the film.

Madzie nodded vigorously. ‘I want to eat marmalade sandwiches like just Paddington. Can we, Magnus? Please?’’

Max tugged on his arm in agreement, his eagerness pitching his young voice even higher than usual. ‘Yes! Yes! Me too, Papa!’

With a token huff, he nodded, ‘OK!’ Four surprisingly strong arms wrapped themselves around his legs in gratitude and Magnus hugged them back before grabbing their hands with a cheery, ‘Let’s go!’

Stepping out with a collective gasp into the early evening chill, the happy trio entertained themselves with festive songs as they made their way to the nearby Christmas fair, arms swinging in time to each tune. They were going to visit Madzie’s adopted mum, Catarina, who was manning the fundraising stall for the hospital where she worked, before heading home to the loft for an evening of cartoons and chaos.

Deciding to soothe their vocal chords with some hot chocolate as they went, Magnus stopped at the coffee shop on the corner, grabbing an extra one for his hard working friend before steering the children towards the busy plaza where throngs of busy shoppers were congregating in the hope of finding the perfect gifts. Magnus couldn’t help but feel the stirrings of excitement at the festive scene before him as they paused for a moment to appreciate it.

The lamp-lit square had been transformed into something akin to a Christmas card picture with only the snow missing from it. At the far end, a bandstand housed members of the local music college whose brass instruments were playing hymns and carols, as well as some crowd-pleasers for the hardy souls huddled together on the temporary seats that were dotted around, with vocal harmonies provided by schoolchildren who were being led by an enthusiastic teacher. On the remaining three sides of the large cobbled space stood rows of wooden cabins, each assigned to a local charitable cause, their gabled roofs adorned with holly and poinsettia, multicoloured lights framing the stable-door shutters thrown open in welcome so that potential buyers could see the wide variety of wares on offer. The scent of pine permeated the joyful atmosphere and mixed with the delicious smells of sweet and savoury treats, beckoning them to follow their noses to where all things cinnamon and spice were waiting. Taking pride of place at the centre of all this was a popular Santa’s Grotto that made the children squeal with delight as they bounced on their toes, begging to join the queue.

‘Papa, pleeeeeeeease!’ Max implored, big blue eyes the size of saucers melting Magnus’ heart like they always did, while Madzie’s impossibly wide smile had the same effect on his knees. How could any Papa or godfather resist?

‘Fine,’ he caved, as their combined shrieks split the air, ‘but first we have to deliver this fortifying brew to your poor mother before her joints seize up from being exposed to this wintry weather for the last few hours.’ Their disappointment was quickly replaced by grudging nods as they continued in haste.

With an excitable yelp, Madzie pointed to the middle stall directly opposite the band, and conveniently facing the grotto would you believe, sporting the hospital’s banner and began tugging him closer by his coat.

‘Patience, Sweetpea,’ he cautioned affectionately, knowing it would fall on deaf ears, instead concentrating on ensuring the hot beverage reached its intended recipient in one piece. Approaching the cozy looking shelter, well stocked with all manner of knitted goods, from Christmas stockings and scarves to tree decorations and cushion covers, Magnus chuckled to himself at how Cat’s hobby had certainly been put to good use. ‘For you, my dearest Catarina,’ he greeted her gallantly, receiving a blissful look of thanks before stepping back, allowing the youngsters to say hello and give her a detailed recount of the film they’d just seen.

Drinking his own chocolate as he swept a cursory gaze over the stalls on either side, Magnus paused mid-sip as his eyes landed on the incredibly hot vendor to the right of Cat, who was sitting down, engrossed in a heavy-duty cookery book, giving him the opportunity to take him all in. His grin was feral as he swallowed.

Wrapped up against the cool breeze in a black high-collared peacoat and fingerless gloves, his head was covered by a green and red striped hat any elf would be proud, the bell at its end actually jingling when he turned the pages and the words ‘Santa’s Little Helper’ emblazoned in red flashing lights across it. Oh, I do hope that’s not literal, Magnus thought, as he bit down on a giggle. Glancing briefly at his companions to check they were still oblivious to his diverted attention, he proceeded with his appraisal. The stranger’s eye colour couldn’t be determined beneath the long thick lashes that fanned his adorably rosy cheeks but he couldn’t wait to find out. They would be amazing, Magnus just knew it. The short, no-doubt-silky strands of black hair that could be seen poking out from under the funny headgear framed his features perfectly and his hands…. oh, those hands with the long, lean, capable fingers could probably consign him to a pleasurable death or deliver him unto heaven, he wouldn’t mind which. Could he get any better? Magnus wondered.

Then Santa’s Little Helper looked up.

And WOW! He’d been so right.

Luminous hazel eyes were unblinking as they slowly subjected Magnus to an equally intense eye-balling. Unconsciously squaring his shoulders, he returned the stare, confident he was worth looking at. A lopsided smile that fairly robbed him of breath was his reward.

Then Santa’s Little Helper spoke.

‘Can I tempt you with anything?’ came the deep sultry voice, leaving Magnus with an overwhelming urge to vault over the display of cookies and doughnuts and let his body answer in the affirmative.

But he didn’t, of course. Instead, he blurted, ‘That rather depends on what ‘anything’ is…’

Shit. Smooth, Bane. Real smooth.

With a rueful roll of his eyes, Magnus held up his hand in apology as he stepped nearer to make sure the children didn’t overhear. And maybe to get a closer look.

Trying, and failing, to ignore the blush that further coloured ‘Pretty Boy’s’ kissable cheeks, Magnus grinned, ‘Please excuse me, that was rude.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said the beautiful lips that had somehow pulled his focus, ‘You didn’t say no, right?’ And he winked!

Magnus couldn’t conceal his surprise. Well, well. This was clearly no angel he was talking to. Glossy lips puckered of their own accord. ‘I wouldn’t dream of saying no to you….?’

‘Alec,’ The Mouth replied, his toothy grin no less devastating than his lips.

‘I’m Magnus,’ he declared, extending a bejewelled hand which Alec took readily, and for much longer than was strictly necessary but he wasn’t complaining. Quite the contrary. He never wanted to let go. How odd.

Lost in a bubble (or should that be bauble?) of mutual admiration, they didn’t notice the impatient five year old who was desperate for their attention at first, only ‘coming to’ when Max stamped on Magnus’ foot, hard.

‘Ow!’ Reluctantly breaking contact, the only real pain Magnus felt was out of concern for the damage done to his Italian leather boots. ‘What was that for, blueberry?’ he demanded without a trace of heat, as he leant down to lift his unrepentant son onto his hip.

‘We want to know when we’re going home, Papa,’ Max asked, small palms playfully squishing his father’s cheeks, which only added to the embarrassment of having been caught in a ‘moment’ with a complete stranger. He gently lowered the hands.

‘Soon, Max. I was just wondering what we could be tempted to buy from Santa’s....’ Both Bane men turned in unison as Alec stood up off the stool, his hat nearly touching the roof. ‘...Not-So-Little Helper,’ Magnus finished breathily.

He did NOT gulp when Alec chuckled.

‘Maybe you could help Papa decide, Max?’ The Mouth wondered, eyes darting quickly to Magnus, as if aware how hearing him saying those names had triggered an almost primal reaction in his gut, which was ludicrous, but nonetheless true.

Max nodded solemnly, his restless hands, now fiddling with the epaulettes on Magnus’ coat, the only indication that he was a little nervous.

Alec folded his arms and leaned down on the counter to make himself appear less intimidating. ‘I made all these goodies to sell for my son’s school,’ there was that eye dart again, ‘and I kinda need your advice on what looks good enough to eat.’

Hell, Magnus thought as he wet his suddenly dry lips, this man wasn’t just less-than-angelic, he was the devil incarnate, teasing him like this. He let his heavy lidded eyes communicate his thoughts to Satan.

‘OK!’ his son agreed, eyes roving over the mouth-watering display of cakes and confectionaries that were decorated in sprinkles and icing of every description. It was lucky for him that he couldn’t see the way Papa’s eyes were devouring the man in front of him.

Or how Magnus was being mentally undressed by said man.

‘What goes with marmalade sandwiches?’ his innocent boy asked, chewing on his chubby lip in much the same way his father was, though for very different reasons.

Understanding dawned in those glorious hazel eyes. ‘Ah, someone’s seen Paddington, right?’ Max beamed his beautiful smile. ‘My boy, Rafe, isn’t much older than you and he loved that film too. We both did.’

‘It was funny!’ Max giggled, at ease now he’d found a fellow friend of his favourite bear.

‘It sure was,’ Alec agreed, as he tapped a finger to his chin in contemplation while pretending to think what choice would be the best to compliment the unusual sandwich. ‘How about the Gingerbread Man?’

‘Too crunchy.’

‘The Christmas Tree cupcakes?’

‘Too sweet.’

Alec glanced up through his lashes at Magnus, mirroring his amused grin. ‘Is your Papa as fussy as you, Max?’

Papa forgot to breathe, dreading what his son would say.

‘No, he just loves pretty things.’ Magnus exhaled. ‘Like you.’ Too soon.

Frozen in mortification, Magnus wished for the cobbles beneath his feet to swallow him whole…...but not before a last quick look at the handsome man who was….wait, was he laughing?

The colour of cranberry he may be, but the guy was definitely laughing, gaze averted as he bagged the silver stars made out of marzipan that Max had apparently finally settled on. Quickly depositing his mischievous kid on terra firma, Magnus handed over the money, struggling, and ultimately failing, to keep a straight face..

‘Is that true?’ Alec queried, amusement still evident in the smile he flashed his way.

Magnus composed himself long enough to return his gaze. ‘Yes, on both counts,’  he confirmed, for some reason unwilling to waste time with being coy.

Alec paused in the act of handing over Magnus’ change, his wide bashful smile crinkling those magnificent eyes, as Magnus gestured for him to keep the money.

Three separate coughs as subtle as sledgehammers broke the spell. A guilty glance toward the far too observant audience on his left, prompted Magnus to begin taking his leave. Well that, and the shit-eating grin on Cat’s face that told him he was in for a roasting later!

‘It was lovely to meet you, Alexander,’ he began, voice unusually raspy for some reason. ‘I wish you all the best with your fundraising efforts for Rafe’ school.’ He took a step back. ‘I’m sure he’s very proud of you.’

Although Alec gave a dubious shake of his head, his gratitude for the compliment shone through his smile, which Magnus couldn’t help but return.

Resolutely turning to take the hands of Max and Madzie, he gave Cat a pointed look that warned her not to say a word and with a saccharine sweet, ‘See you later, my dear,’ Magnus exited the festive square, not at all grappling with the idea of flinging himself at Alec’s feet, demanding he ask him out.

Walking briskly in the direction of the taxi rank, Magnus was busy trying to commit Alec’s gorgeous face to memory when Madzie reminded him that they’d forgotten to visit Santa’s Grotto. A quick look at his non-existent watch disguised an impish grin as he spun around, pulse skipping.

‘You know what, my darlings?’ he fairly sang, barely resisting the urge to break into a run as they began retracing their steps back to the Fair, ‘Christmas is but once a year and we ALL deserve the chance to get what we wish for! Am I right?’

The delighted squeals, he took for agreement.

[lostinfic]

The one with all the pies

Summary: An irresistible apple pie delivered to the wrong address leads to an equally irresistible first kiss. 

For @fadewithfury​ who asked  “ Hardy x Hannah and Pie from the bingo card please :)” A/N: Also for @timepetalsprompts autumn bingo. Inspired by a Friends episode “the one with all the cheesecakes”   Words: 2500 → Autumn prompts 

 → Ao3

Hardy was halfway through slipping on a sweater, when someone knocked at his door. He glared at it, in confusion and annoyance. He slipped his other arm in the sweater, and, with his head still under wool, he opened the door. His head popped out of the collar, and he froze at the sight of his beautiful neighbour.

Hannah lived across the hall, and they seemed to share similar irregular schedules. He was acutely aware of being way out of her league, so most interactions with her had happened entirely within his mind. However, last week, her date had turned ugly, and he’d helped her get rid of a drunk, aggressive man. She was quite shaken afterwards and had asked him to stay for a while. They’d watched television as she blabbered nervously. She’d fallen asleep during Iron Man, and he’d covered her with a blanket before quietly leaving.

“Hey Alec! I think this is for you.” She placed a white box in his hands. “Sorry, I opened it, I thought it was for me.”

It was addressed to A. Harris.

“Right. But I’m not Harris, I’m Hardy.”

“Oh. Who’s Harris?”

He shrugged. “Bloke on the first floor maybe. Albert, is it?”

“Could be… It’s a pie.”

Out of curiosity, he opened the top. It wasn’t just any store-bought pie. This was a work of culinary art. Golden strips of dough sprinkled with powdered sugar, arranged in a lattice over thick filling full of real apple chunks. His mouth watered as a whiff of sugar and cinnamon reached his nose.

“It smells really good,” he said.

“Heavenly,” she leaned over the box, licking her lips.

“That crust must be made with real butter.”

“Mmmm yeah. And I think there’s salted caramel sauce in there with the apples.”

He peered closer, and he could almost taste it, the rich caramel and flaky crust melting on his tongue.

“I suppose we should take it to Albert,” he said, reluctantly.

“I suppose, yeah.” She didn’t take her eyes off the pie.

“That’d be the right thing to do…” His stomach growled. “Is that a fork in your hand?”

Hannah tucked her chin in her shoulder with a mischievous smile. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t be home.”

“You’d have eaten it?”

“Yeah.”

“But what about the person who ordered it?”

“I figured they’d just call the bakery and get a new one sent for free. And they’d verify his address so they’d get it right this time.”

“You’ve thought this through.”

“It smells really, really good.”

“Maybe…”

“Yeah?” Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“It’s the delivery man’s fault.”

“Yes! Exactly!”

“And as you said, Albert will get another one for free.”

“So, your place or mine?”

“Sorry?” he sputtered.

She walked past him into his flat and sat down at his table, fork in her fist and a grin on her face.

He’d barely placed the pie down that she dove in. Well, too late to bring this back to Albert now. He hesitated half a second before getting his own fork.

He hadn’t indulged in pastries in a long time because of his heart issues, but he firmly believed this pie was by far the best thing he had ever put in his mouth. Smooth, creamy caramel and tart pieces of apple, not overbake so they still crunched under his teeth.

They scarfed down the pie, with barely enough time for a breath in between bites, let alone for words. Crumbs fell into the cowl neck of Hannah’s sweater. Hardy scraped his fork along the bottom of the box to catch every drop of filling.

Hannah laughed.

“What?”

“You’re moaning,” she said.

“Oi! I’m not moaning.”

“Yes, you are.”

She nudged his leg under the table and the corners of his mouth twitched.

“It’s really good,” he protested.

“I know. God, I’m so full but I can’t stop eating it.”

She took another bite and rolled her eyes heavenward with a sigh. He distantly wondered what else could make her do that face again.

He brought the last bite to his lip and slouched down in his chair with a satisfied sigh. She rubbed her distended stomach.

“You’ll have to roll me out of here,” she said.

Or you could stay. “Cuppa? It’s good for, erm, digestion.”

“Sure.”

He stood up with a groan and turned the kettle on. As he placed two mugs down on the counter, he realized, he’d never had a visitor here, beside Daisy.

He suddenly felt self-conscious about his worn sweater, scruffy cheeks and the pile of unopened mail.

Hannah brought her feet up on the chair, holding the steaming cup over her knees. She scanned the flat as if only now realizing where she was.

“Just moved in?” she asked.

“Erm, no. Haven’t had time to…” He gestured vaguely at the blank walls.

“I’ll take it you’re single then.”

“Aye.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Have you lived in this building long?”

“About three years. I had a house before but I just wasn’t any good at maintaining it, you know, the lawn and the shindles and plumbing.” She grimaced.

“I had a house too. Hated that stuff too. Not very good with my hands.”

Her gaze dropped to his hands wrapped around the warm mug. She shifted on her chair, leaning towards him on the table. She ran her finger around the bottom of the pie box, picking up crumbs and bringing them to her mouth.

“You know, I never said thank you for the other night,” she said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, I’m sure most people would just shut themselves up in their flats if they heard shouts in the hall. I don’t know what I’d done if you hadn’t come to my rescue.” And there was something in the way she lingered on that word, fluttering her eyelashes, that could be mistaken for flirting. But Hardy knew better.

“You don’t strike me as a woman who needs rescuing,” he said, remembering all the times he’d seen her come and go in sharp suits, killer heels and a confident gait.

She picked up a few more crumbs with her index. Hardy leaned forward on the table too.

“Still,” she began with a sad smile, “it’s nice not having to deal with wankers all on my own every once in a while.” She shook her head and plastered on a cheery expression. “So, do you make a habit of eating your neighbour’s pie?”

Ok, now, definitely flirting. Heat grew in his cheeks as he grappled for an appropriate reply. Her mobile rang before he could think of anything witty.

“Sorry, gotta get this. Thanks for the cuppa. Catch you later.”

And just like that, Hannah was out of his flat, and he was certain they would never speak again.

*

Back from a long day at work, Hardy walked up the stairs to his flat. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of a white bakery box in front of Hannah’s door. She came out at that moment, in a pea coat and knee-high boots, as if she’d been waiting to go out with him.

“There’s another one,” he said by way of greetings.

She gasped at the sight of the box. “They delivered it to the wrong address again?”

“Well, we just have to bring it to Albert this time,” Hardy said, mustering all his willpower.

“But…”

“What’s the problem?”

“I dreamt I was eating pie aaaaall night long,” she said as if it had been a dirty dream.

“Well, we can’t eat another one.”

“Can’t we?”

“For god’s sake, we ate an entire pie yesterday and you want more?”

“I always want more.”

Their eyes met, and he hesitated, remembering the buttery crust melting on his tongue and subtle mix of cinnamon and nutmeg. His mouth filled with saliva. Even from his place on the steps, he could smell its divine fragrance or was it just his imagination? But it wasn’t just about the pie, it was about Hannah in his flat, her sighs of delight and teasing tone. How was he supposed to say no to her?

“We’re just hungry. We haven’t had supper,” she reasoned, straightening her back.

“Yes, you’re right. It’s hunger.”

“D’you want to grab a bite with me?”

“Sure,” he replied. “Best take the pie downstairs, so we’re not tempted.”

“Good call.”

Hannah held the box at arm’s length, keeping the delicious scent at bay. They reluctantly placed it on Albert Harris’s doorstep. They didn’t knock for fear they’d have to explain what happened to the previous pie.

Outside their building, the street was busy with Londoners enjoying a rare warm autumn night. Not a cloud on the horizon, only golden rays of light streaming between trees and buildings. The scent of earth and of the first wood fires of the season lingered in the air. He thought of Daisy’s first day of school and of raking leaves with his grandfather who would recount embellished stories of his youth.

The weather was so inviting, they walked for a while without looking for a place to eat. They wandered around the streets of their neighbourhood. Hannah pointed out the finest coffee place, the best dry cleaner, her favourite music shop.

“And that shop on the corner there, if you have a sister— or girlfriend— and you never know what to get her as a present, this place will save your arse.”

“Noted… For my sister. Not girlfriend, I don’t…”

“Noted,” she replied with a smirk.

Her enthusiastic speech made him want to get out more. Since moving to London, he hadn’t really taken time to enjoy the city.

“And you’ve got to try The Other Henry.”

She pointed at a restaurant across the street. Hardy had spotted the place before, but wasn’t comfortable eating alone there.

“Let’s try it now,” he suggested.

Hardy opened the door for her, and she grazed him on the way in. It could have been an accident, but he didn’t miss that cheeky glance through her eyelashes.

It was a cozy bistro, high vaulted ceiling and low lights, red brick walls covered with vintage French advertising posters. Chat noir, Absinthe, Moët, Ricard and Chocolat. Around the bar, a group of young professionals flirted with girls while keeping an eye on the football game.

They slid into a booth, away from the crowd. Hannah removed her coat, revealing a low scoop neckline that slid off one shoulder. She tossed her curls over the other shoulder and smiled. In the candlelight, her eyes glowed golden, and nervousness gripped his stomach.

“What do you do?” Hardy asked lamely after they’d ordered.

“Erm, I’m in between stuff at the moment.”

“Between what kinds of stuff?”

She fiddled with the cutlery, running the butter knife along the checkered pattern of the table cloth. “Freelancing stuff.”

“That’s vague.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” She tucked her hands under her legs. “I’m a writer… slash client liaison.”

“What do you write?”

“Books. And I collaborate with some magazines and websites.”

“Like a journalist?”

“Sort of. And you, what do you do?”

“Detective inspector.”

“That explains the interrogation... and the rescuing.”

“Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. How about an original question? Hmm, let’s see: if you could travel back in time to relive any day of your life, which day would it be?”

They reminisced and talked and argued and laughed between bites of duck confit and tartare steak.

Hannah was really easy to talk to, always a witty quip on the tip of her tongue, she dodged awkwardness like a pro. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so comfortable with someone. She was this whole new person to discover. Not a colleague or a suspect. And, unlike on a date, there was no pressure to expose past relationships or reveal what he was looking for in a partner.

They ordered dessert, but unlike the rest of the meal, it was unsavory.

“Nothing will ever compare to the pie,” Hannah said, pushing away a barely-touched brownie. “Let’s get mulled wine instead.”

The sun set replaced by a moon, huge and bright orange. And they sipped hot, spiced wine in companionable silence, cocooned in the velvet upholstered booth, their legs brushing together under the table.

 “I had a good time,” Hannah said as they walked back home.

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean, I did too.”

“Good.” She beamed. “It’d been a while since I just hung out with someone. Since I’ve… reoriented my career, there’s lots of people I don’t see anymore. Writing is kind of a lonely job. Just me and my laptop, you know.”

“Well, if— if your laptop ever feels lonely too I’ve got this computer.”

“Yeah, I think he’d like that.”

“But it’s kind of old, and rusty.”

“That’s okay, I-- my laptop knows better than to judge a computer by its appearance. As long as it has a good… hard drive?”

They laughed, and, amazingly, she looped her arm through his. They walked the rest of the way in silence. Too soon, they reached their building. He didn’t want to part from her already.

A few steps in, Hannah froze.

“Do you see what I see?”

The bakery box was still on Albert’s doorstep.

“It’s still there,” he said.

“Albert must be out.”

“He could be out of town. Away for days. Weeks.”

“Well, we can’t leave it out there,” Hannah said.

“It could go bad.”

“We don’t want him eating a bad pie.”

“No. That could make him sick.”

“And we don’t want him to be sick.”

“So, we’d be protecting him.”

Hannah dashed for the box, then grabbed his hand and they ran up the stairs. They reached their floor, laughing and gasping for air, still holding hands.

“We’re thieves,” he declared.

“I prefer the term ‘partners in crime’.”

She gave him a dazzling, toothy grin, and warmth flooded his veins. Partners. And there was a moment of wordless smiling, looking into each other’s eyes like a couple of dorks. He ran his thumb over her knuckles, and her gaze dipped to his lips. He swallowed thickly.

“There’s something else I’d like to steal,” Hardy said.

She tilted her head coyly. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“… A kiss?”

She chuckled.

“That bad?”

“No! It’s sweet. Smoooooth.”

“Urgh, forget—”

She cut him off, pushing up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his mouth. Craving quickly replaced his surprise. He chased her lips of honey and wine. Eager. Cradling her jaw in his palms. She responded in kind, opening her mouth. A small moan encouraged him. He pressed her against the door. It squashed the pie between their stomachs. Apple filling oozed out of the box.

“Shit.”

“Well, that’s one way to get rid of evidence.”

“I am so sorry. Your dress.”

“And your suit… I suppose we don’t have a choice but to take off our clothes now.”

He couldn’t resist kissing her again, smiling lips moving together as the pie fell to the floor.