#he was supposed to be holding a jar of biscuits

[knownangels]

food

For some reason, the little clink of the jar going atop the fridge sticks in his memory.

“There.” Amma says, turning back to Benji with her hands on her hips.

He’s young, still particularly small — in the memory, she peers down her nose at him, nose wrinkled. He can’t tell if she’s upset with him or just joking. So he sticks his bottom lip out, makes tears start to spill over. 

“Oh, you little manipulative bast—” Her dark eyes cut to the kitchen table, where Saha’s working on a school project. Snitch. She’d gone running when she heard Benji pull a chair to get at the jar of biscuits (now jailed far out of reach).

Amma scoops him up. He clutches at her shawl, tries to use it as leverage to kick a bit higher on her hip and push up to just brush little fingers against the jar —

“Ooh!” 

And suddenly his world goes tipsy, upside down, and the swing of gravity forces a strange lump into his throat that makes him burst into giggles. Saha glares at him from the kitchen table. He sticks out his tongue. 

“Monster.” Amma accuses, leaning over to pinch his cheeks with her free hand. She shakes him with the other, making the laughter louder and louder. Saha puts a hand over her mouth. Hides the smile.

“So much for out of sight, mum.” She says. Benji likes her sing-song. If he’s nice enough, she’ll read to him before bed, after Amma has finished her last story. She does different voices, but not as well as their father.

“I’ll say!” Amma agrees. She scoops Benji upright and dances away, keeping his flapping arms just far enough there’s no hope for more treats.

But, true to theory, Benji only thinks about them for the next few hours. He whinges a bit as he’s tucked in, arms crossed over his chest, and Amma indulges it only as long as it takes her to become stern.

“You’ll make me cry, Benji, with all that.” Her slim fingers tuck under his chin, lift it enough to pull the blanket snug how he likes. Then she tucks him in at the sides, a tiny tight burrow nestling childish frustration. 

“Amma can’t cry.” Benji argues. His bottom lip juts out. “You can reach them.”

“You like the biscuits better than my cooking?” Now her eyes go wide. They sparkle with little star shapes projected from the nightlight in the corner — Benji doesn’t like being denied, but he hates the dark more.

He frowns, mouth softening from its anger. “No…”

“Well you won’t mind those being up for a bit, will you?” Amma’s happiness comes back, beaming the same as the sun as it spills through his window in the mornings. She leans forward, brushing their noses together. “I’ll make you better ones, hey? Forget those store ones. Out of sight out of mind.”

He stares up at her a moment, eyes thinned. Then he squirms an arm out of the blanket cocoon to tap his chin the way he’s seen Saha do over a tough maths problem. 

“Okay.But only for a little. And then I want them again, amma. Please and thank you.”

Amma softens at his switch. She pecks him on the forehead and agrees to his demand, but only because she knows Benji better than himself at that point.

The biscuits go forgotten for weeks. Benji doesn’t think of them again until he bumps into the fridge roughhousing with Maran and the jar comes clattering to the floor. It shatters. They will, when soon confronted, pin the jagged chunk in his mother’s kitchen floor on the other.

*

When Benji’s grown, many lessons and sayings from childhood lose their magic. Their power. He supposes that’s the melancholic nature of growing up, really. The grandeur seeps from everything and it’s never so easy as bringing it back by shattering the cookie jar.

Out of sight, out of mind. It’s one of those things that loses its hold. Or muddies itself, rather, in the complexities of an adult conscious. Benji forgets things if they’re under or behind or within. But only bits and bobs like the remote, or a hair tie, or a document he purposefully tucks somewhere separate from the others, somewhere  so unique he’llnever forget its hiding spot (he does, always).

But some things are never out of mind. When they’re not in front of him, they’re there more, actually. Always, at best, swimming about the back of his skull — at worst, stuck to the interior of his forehead like a nasty post-it.

When Xavier first tells him about wanting to find employment, it slaps into his head before they’ve even ironed out the details. Or, in the case of a former mercenary, sorted the necessary forged documents. 

The note would read: Xavier’s gone. Out of sight. Xavier’s gone. What if — what if — what if. Never, never out of mind.  

And really, it shouldn’t be so hard, should it? After all, they’ve spent so much time apart — more, Benji thinks, than they have together. Although it’s been nearly two months. A fantastic two months; too much carry-out, not enough leaving the house. Tangled up or at the very least close, learning things about one another that have gone unsaid. Not even just sex, though certainly plenty of it — they learn each other, and Benji learns a bit of himself too. 

A job would be good for him. A job would help stifle a bit of the guilt, the burgeoning energy of burden that somehow hangs around his freckled shoulders. That makes him push another chore, do another task, seek Benji’s approval. Benji tries to tell him it’s enough. That his presence and safety is all that matters; he could do nothing but lounge around and it would carry Benji another fifty years of happiness, easily. 

And yet, for all his endearing layaboutness, that nasty history trails just as heavy as the taken care of guilt. Orders and tasks and approval and validation and one after the other, the serotonin of a job well done, of a pat on the shoulder, of  a finish line —

Benji gets it. He does. But it’s hard to swallow the sickness when Xavier out of his sight has always meant Xavier in the sights of someone else. It’s difficult thing to separate aside the safety of this shared idyllic existence, which feels most days like a dream. 

Benji is always sort of waiting to wake up.

*

 The first few weeks of Xavier’s new job, Benji gets more done in the house than he had spread over all his leaves combined. He’s hesitant to admit he overdoes it, although he does; hesitant to admit that he’s lonely, although he is — even though Xavier starts off part time, the absence aches. Benji felt silly for it, but each time Xavier loped down the porch steps (despite how thoroughly kissed) the fear crept up each brick in his place. He was reminded, each time Xavier rounded the bush at the end of the drive in that awful, loud truck, of how often he would disappear around the edge of a building, over the horizon, out of a room. Dressed in a different uniform, with a different glint to his eye, a different destination. Always away from Benji. Further and further out of reach.

It could be the last time hung over his head jus as loud and obtrusive as it always had — Benji had been real fucking disappointed to find that fear lingered. Although it was more mundane now, it didn’t shake him any less. The threat of allied bullets punching into him felt eons away, but the mad compulsive terror was just as close: What if he got in a crash? What if they’ve found him? What if he gets crushed in some freak fucking accident that a mechanic gets in, I dunno, an engine falls on him, a tire pops —

Sometimes it brings him down the path towards the driver’s side door, tossing himself halfway in just for another kiss. Another. Just in case. Another. 

Out of sight, always in mind.

Another. Another. Another, another.

Until, breathlessly: “I can just call in sick.”

Every time, Benji snorts and pushes his face fondly away and shakes his head — although he wants to say yes. Wants to ask if they can return to those filthy, soft, first few weeks; too much take out, never leaving. In sight.

It wouldn’t be good for Xavier. He wants to only ever do what’s good for Xavier, from now on. 

“G’wed, you loon,” he says instead, waiting for the jar to shatter, waiting for the dream to end.

*

Benji does what he always has with that twisting, anxious energy. He shoves it down into something compact and useable. He rents a machine to repave the back patio. He watches two videos on reshingling a roof and then does it — proper expert work, no leaks. He cleans and buffs and stains the pretty wood floor in the sitting room, finds a comfortable chair big enough to fit someone, say, nearly a foot taller. 

It starts to feel more and more like a finished home, instead of a distracting project. He has something to work towards instead of something to keep him busy, something to return to. Something too pragmatic to off himself and leave unfinished. 

Still, he spends nearly every spare moment he’s got to himself fearing the day — convinced it’s inevitable —  he’ll once again be the sole occupant. What else is there in a life that has felt, in so many ways, like its fingers were parted just enough for control to slip through the gaps?

*

Saha comes around for tea, oohing and aahing meanly about how clean the foyer is. 

“Not a single spider or mud track.” She acknowledges, nasty little smirk on her mouth. “You pay him fair, right? I like that one.”

“Fuck off,” Benji mutters. His cheeks flush for a reason he can’t quite place. Although the coat rack has one rung free because Xavier’s up early for his shift, Benji tosses it over the back of the couch.

She doesn’t — fuck off, that is. He’s glad for it. She deserve to. She really should. Saha has been much too patient with him. Much too kind. Five years and minimal communication would be more than enough reason to be a bit cold. They’d grown up with enough years between them even before he’d gone off to play at soldiering that he couldn’t blame any tinge of stranger that infected their relationship. 

Yet Saha is all sister as she sits at his kitchen table and lets him whine about his worries, albeit censored of the (goryconfidentialshameful) specific details. She still hasn’t a clue the nature of his work, aside the normal enlisted activities.  And frankly he’d like to keep it that way. The urge to tell her the truth was strong; the urge to keep at least a shred of his humanity in her eyes, stronger. 

“Well, you’ve really not talked to anybody about it.” 

“Sell yourself short.” Benji deflects, brow pulling inwards as he takes a sip of tea. 

Saha scoffs, eyes rolling up to the ceiling — there’s no longer a hole there, or a mottled bit of moisture damage. He’d gotten to those spots the previous week, although getting up the ladder and tilting at that angle to work had been a bastard to his side.

“M’not talking about me you fucking bellend.” Saha admonishes. He smiles; he loves when her accent returns. The longer she’s back in town, the more she’s around the old haunts, more it twists familiar. “Saying, y’know, proper professional like.”

“I did my discharge interviews?” Benji mutters. He’d really been hoping the conversation wouldn’t turn this way. “Got cleared.”

“That’s not — Sure, yeah. I’m sure they’re real thorough about taking care of you lot once you’re done sellin’ it for whatever — listen, Benj. Circling a bunch of boxes saying no, I don’t want to kill myself or, like, no, I’ve not thought of committing acts of violence isn’t really taking care of yourself.”

“I got cleared —“

“You were sixteen, Benji.”

His head snaps up at the rough, wet tone of her voice. 

Saha leans half over the table, one slender brown arm reaching across the distance — and yet still out of his space, fingers extended but curling as if pressed against a barrier. Her big eyes are shiny with tears that only spill once she blinks. An image of their mother crying the same way snaps across his thoughts like a lightning strike.

“I’m not trying to assume anything. And I’m sorry if this is like, helicopter behavior. You were sixteen. You’re sitting here telling me you worry about — about some fuckin’ mad stuff, Benji, alright? It’s…I don’t want to say it’s abnormal. It’s not, all things considering. I’m sure you’ve been through it. But.” 

That word lingers between them, hanging tinny and thin. When it drops off, only the silence remains. It’s awkward but not unmanageable — or wouldn’t be, if Saha’s tears weren’t dripping audibly onto the table.

Benji stands and rounds to to her, scooping her up in as tight a hug as he dares. She smells familiar, and he has a sudden burst of memories — fuzzy ones, from when he was young young. Hair oil frying under a straightener in the morning, way too much cheap perfume borrowed from one of her school friends, the powder detergent of their shared childhood. He slumps a little and fights not to go to his knees. 

“I’ll look into it,” Benji promises. When she sniffles, he rubs his nose into her shoulder and tries not to cry, too. “Let’s go see something, yeah? Enough sad. There’s this shit fucking romcom out. Bets on if the theater off Kensington still has that nasty gloryhole in the bathroom?“

Saha sniffles again, but this time it’s accompanied by a wet, disgusted laugh. She cups the back of his head and ruffles his hair, then pushes away to glare down at him. 

“You are so fuckin’ nasty. He should break up with you.” Then her grin widens. “Also, definitely. You’re gonna owe me a fiver.” 

*

The next day, Benji pauses his drywall duties in the guest room to meander down to the fridge and scrounge for a snack. He scowls when he realizes that Xavier’s forgotten his packed lunch, then he blushes because of the whole scenario — Benji had cooked it for him, packed it for him, liked to send him off with food because he still was so willowy and some extra would do him good. 

It’s so domestic that he stands there, bludgeoned and silent. The fear starts to creep in: how long have we got this for? How long until something goe belly-up? How long, how long?

And why him, of all people? Of all the stupid fucking twats to be at either end of a rifle has Benji made it out on the other side. Back to normal life, where the air smelled like a candle Saha insisted on leaving with him and wood shavings and crisp fall air from the open windows. Why him, and surely not any of his own merit, and why —

Sixteen.

Benji shuts his eyes and takes a deep, slow breath. Then he snatches the lunchbox from the shelf, his keys from the hooks Xavier had insisted he put up near the front door, and heads for the car.

*

It’s a tiny place. Not in quite as old a building as their house, but the sun-faded brick certainly stands out among some of the newer buildings in the city. Wedged on the unkept end of a winding hilltop street that refuses the deep-pocketed developers, the mechanic and its flank of rusted parts and wrecks behind chainlink is an eyesore. To patrons of the nearby vegan bakery and residents of its neighboring luxury flats, its nothing but ugly. To the working class people of the neighborhood who don’t want to be scammed over premium oil, it’s a necessity and word-of-mouth hero. And despite the vines that crawl up the east wall, the hedge that really ought to be trimmed soon, it’s really not all that ugly. A well-kept place, considering.

Benji pauses beneath its big acrylic sign (not crisp LED faux-neon, but charmingly yellowed and outdated font). Family owned! is plastered in neat black script beneath the name of the business. That bit is true and not just for marketing. He’d gone to secondary with the owner’s daughter, although they hadn’t known each other well at all. The building had been standing there for as long as he could remember.

Some things about the place are new. In particular, the blinking open sign hung in the front window. Beneath it, a notebook paper has been messily torn. Updated hours have been scrawled in very familiar handwriting, and an absolutely shit doodle of a dog leaning out the driver’s side door (left, wrong side, the American side). It makes him huff, quiet and fond).

Noon crawls syrup-thick and orange in a lazy Friday lunchtime, but Benji isn’t expecting the shop to be quite so…absolutely empty. The front garages have been shuttered, but the fluorescent light above the reception counter is on. Benji ignores the little bell that sits near a fake potted plant: he knows from experience that it’s broken, anyway. Someone had nearly started a fight with some dickhead customer that had kept slapping it, and pried the striker from inside. 

That same someone, Benji suspects, is likely the source of the thump thump thump bass-heavy music that floats from behind the half-wall separating the workspace and waiting area. He fights a smile, because he’s imagining the reaction his sudden appearance is about to earn. 

Oh well, no way around it, bastard shouldn’t have his music up so high if he’s not looking to get surprised. 

It makes him pause. A full-body, anxious sort of stiffening. Every muscle locks up and Benji braces himself against the wall.

He imagines a different scenario. Of stomping his feet much louder than necessary, of waving an arm around a corner; of a different time, and place, and sometimes, it feels, like they’re the awful, bitter remnants of a different person altogether.

He swallows hard and lifts his free hand to his side, cupping the wound that still bothers him if he moves too quick, exercises too hard, twists a certain way. He squeezes. Feels his fingers indent to the strange, soft-tough scar tissue. It’s the strangest sensation. The nerves underneath have largely died, but his body still, still, still tries to solve them. Something reconnects in a funny enough way that makes it ache. If he presses hard enough, he gets a twinge down by his hip, like an itch under the skin: that strange reconnection of wiring that didn’t quite fail, just got confused. 

The sensation is enough to bring him out of the not-quite memory. Crumbling concrete and distant cracks fade away, the throb of bass returns and his surroundings refresh. He shakes his head and straightens and hope he doesn’t look half as sweaty and pale as the brief clutch of that fear has made him feel.

The bit of comfort that carries him forward is the knowledge that he doesn’t need to lift his feet higher, bring his boots down harder. It isn’t dangerous to startle Xavier, anymore. 

It’s just fun.

*

He pauses next to the cheap Bluetooth speaker, head tilted as he tries to place the lyrics. 

“That Portuguese?”

There’s a yelp, a loud metallic clank, and then a painful sounding thump of flesh on something hard. All three noises echo, to varying degrees, in the closed garage.

“Jesus—!” Xavier shrieks. Then, “Fuck!”. Then, finally: “Owww.”

Benji sucks his teeth apologetically, hands leaving the pockets of his jacket as he rounds the disemboweled car. It’s shiny red front panel is propped open, obscuring Xavier as he leans over its contents.

He’s pouting adorably. The expression hasn’t yet washed all the lingering startle from his face, and the combination of his jutting lip and upturned brow pull a softer, more sincere noise from Benji as he approaches. As he does, he’s nearly bludgeoned; Xavier’s pout morphs slowly into a smile.

“Oh, you look hot.” He rubs at the crown of his head, smudging something dark into the roots. He doesn’t seem to care. “Okay. Forgiven.”

“Boss in?”

Xavier’s lip quirks attractively naughty. “Maybeeee,” he drawls. “Why?”

Benji chuckles and wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling with enough force that Xavier bends low. He ignores the smell of oil mixing with shampoo; its Xavier’s usual scent. The sore spot on his skull receives a soft, careful kiss. 

“Hope you survive that one.” He teases. “Not a mortal wound, yeah?” 

Xavier straightens back up, aiming that grin down his nose at Benji properly now. “I don’t know. Think I should get a second opinion. From like, —“

Benji groans, shoving back with an eye roll. Xavier stumbles comically just to earn a laugh at the tail end of it, and is successful. 

“Awh, mate, fuckin’ drop it already.”

“Haha, but I need head treatment.” Xavier waggles his eyebrows, sets aside the tool in his hand in favor of creeping closer with raised hands and greedy, flexing fingers. “Get it?”

“I brought you food, and you fuckin’ repay me like this? Steal five years off my life with an awful bit—“

“You brought food?” Xavier perks up. All that lurid, nasty charm filters innocent. Sweet. It’s one of Benji’s favorite looks on him. They’d both been too used to fear. Too accustomed to making the other’s terror and anxiety a third bedfellow. Sweet and excited is how he ought to be. All of the time. 

Benji holds up the canvas tote dangling from his other hand, tucked hidden behind his back. 

“Forgot your bag on the table again,” he explains as well as he can, attacked by thankful kisses all over his face. “Leftovers anyway. And I ended up not goin’ in because they were — well, doesn’t matter. Not having you go a day on an empty stomach and then come back and clear our fuckin’ cupboards out.”

Our.

They both pause at that. Benji’s face is warm from the attention and the admission, the simple domesticity of the task he’d left the house for (bringing lunch felt so normal, so out of reach and now right here, just for them). Except when the pause lingers, companioned to the stare they pin each other with, his cheeks go properly hot.

Our. 

He can’t quite remember when that first slip happened. With each day that passed, each day that they woke up together, existed in the same space without the heavy threat of unpredictable violence — Xavier has started to feel less like a figment of his imagination or an impossibility. His jacket on the coatrack, rain-wet work boots at the door, shirts tucked neatly in a dresser that had been just Benji’s for so long.

“Well?”

Xavier’s eyelids flutter. His gaze snaps down and then back up, before his own shyness ebbs a bit. Enough for him to smile, almost-normal.

“You made me food.” He says. A pale hand touches to Benji’s forearm, drifts up to squeeze his shoulder. “That’s so—”

“Is it Portuguese?” Benji blurts.

“It’s…you —“ Xavier shakes his head. Benji watches the tickle of sweat-slick curls stick to his temple. He becomes even more aware, if he hadn’t been too aware already, of how close they stand. That Xavier’s maddeningly adorable jumpsuit has been unzipped and peeled from his chest and tied around his waist, that the white undershirt beneath is a little translucent with sweat, that his defined arms are bare. 

Benji wets his lips. He feels that cold shiver of excitement race up his shoulders.

“I’m pretty sure it’s Brazilian? Matilda sent me the album to listen to.”

And sure, he’s fond of her, from what little he knows. Did Xavier more than a few solids to get him out. But frankly, he really couldn’t really give less of a shit about the source. Not now. They’ve stood too close for too long, and the four hours apart feel boiling when he considers the sudden drop of heat into his stomach. 

Four whole hours? How’d we ever do more? 

“You off at the normal time?”

Xavier’s smile widens and he tucks his chin to better level their faces towards one another. “Why? You bring me lunch and make date plans?” His hand squeezes again before slipping around the back of Benji’s neck and winding into his hair gently. “People are going to think you like me or something, dude. Careful.”

Benji regards him for a moment before slowly reaching back and taking his wrist. He’s slow about lifting that big palm to his face; holds lidded eye contact while his jaw drops and he laves a wet streak from the thrumming pulse at the base of Xavier’s thumb up to the tip of his middle finger. It’s his clean hand, but there’s something still vaguely metallic to the regular taste of skin. Sort of gross, sort of hot. They’re close; he feels Xavier twitch against his thigh.

“Close up fast.” Benji recommends, enjoying the dizzy look of astonishment plastered across that handsome face. Without Benji’s grip around his wrist, Xavier’s hand falls, leaden, back to his side. Halfway back towards the front door, he tosses another grin over his shoulder. 

“Extra bread in there for you, handsome.”

He’s got the song blaring from that speaker stuck in his head the rest of the afternoon.

*

When six finally rolls around, Benji lingers at the front of the house so he can better hear the under-tire crunch of gravel. There’s faint, congenial shouting; he often gets a ride from his boss, who must have been out for lunch of his own when Benji swung by. 

Loping footsteps approaching the door make him feel shy from their eagerness. He doesn’t want to seem too desperate in comparison, waiting by the door. He retreats into the living room once those steps draw closer, sitting awkwardly on the sofa. 

There’s the sound of a key in the lock. Another thing he orchestrated and will, under interrogation, pretend not to know anything about. If he likes the reminder of that metal in Xavier’s pocket, so what?

“Holy shit.” Xavier exclaims, his loud, excited sing-song echoing all the way down the hall. It makes Benji grin. “You outdid yourself.”

Xavier crosses to him in half as many steps as  it usually takes him; Benji even double that. Big hands close around his wrists and then he’s tugged upright, stumbling with the force of the pull into Xavier’s chest. They bump together and laugh. Benji presses his cheek over his warm sternum, eyes fluttering closed. He must be smiling like a proper fucking idiot, now. It stretches so much his cheeks start to hurt. So does his chest.

“Yeah?” 

He isn’t sure why his voice sounds that small. That quiet. That, I missed you so fucking much, but we just saw each other. 

Xavier launches into a riveting,raving, Hell’s Kitchen-esque review of the meal. Naan, of course, ranking as high as it could possibly go.

When Benji opens his eyes, he’s looking out the patio doors across the dusk-golden pond. Sunlight ripples at its softly lapping edges. And the two of them are there, in the glass reflection of the door, arms around each other. Benji doesn’t like how the cross of molding across the door cuts them in quarters, and feels immediately insane for that thought. 

He swallows the shame of that desire and tilts his head to look up at Xavier instead, intending on interrupting the detailed food review. He doesn’t need to, after all. Their gazes touch softly together; Xavier’s mouth falls silently open. 

“Xavier?” 

“Uh — yeah.” 

Benji grins, and one of the arms wound around his waist travels up a spine that flexes beneath the touch. 

“Gotta clean up a bit. Messy project today, tile n’sealer n’shit.”

“Right.” 

Benji grins, his eyes lidding at the soft, eagerly hypnotized tone. “Go shower for me?”

Xavier blinks down at him slowly, eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbone — which goes immediately, beautifully red. “A-Ah. Okay. Yeah. Sure.”  

*

Benji tucks his nose against a slick jaw, mouth open against the pale column of Xavier’s throat as they both pant. He has got two long legs hitched over his elbows, the muscles tense with how close he is. How close they both are, really. It’d been frantic and messy to begin, but they’ve slowed substantially. Xavier’s needy, gorgeous noises have gone softer and longer; they leave him in low, pulling notes rather than the usual short gasps or punchy hiccups of sound. Yanked out of him by steady thrusts meant to drag everything out — so what if Benji does it purposefully? They feel so good connected like this  that Benji has to squeeze his eyes shut at the beginning, usually. Otherwise. Otherwise. 

“Fuckin’ love you,” Benji groans. 

“I’m gonna —“ Xavier whines in response, breaths thick against his cheek. 

It makes Benji laugh throatily, the noise tucked into sweat-slick skin. He slows even more until the pace is almost paused entirely. Until there’s no more proper thrusting, drives of his hips forward, but little rocking cants of motion. The denial makes Xavier dig nails into his biceps, and that in turn makes Benji moan. 

He muffles the noise against Xavier’s jaw, his tongue brushing along a raised portion of skin. He knows that spot. He sees it every time he pictures Xavier, often of course. It’s a part of him, just as lovely to the whole package as bright eyes or a mischievous smile. It’s apart of him, because it’s a scar, because someone took a knife to Xavier at some point and broke him open and he bled and had to heal and that bit is there forever because all of it is inescapable, is permanent, is —

A dream. Too good to last. The dream can end. It will end. Out of sight. 

Benji freezes. He goes — well. Out of mind.  He isn’t quite sure where he goes, actually. All he has the sensation of is the strange, heavy return. 

*

He settles back into himself slowly. He’s still naked. He’s sat in the chair in the corner of the bedroom, some ugly piece from the charity shop he’s been meaning to fix up. He’s shivering, toes numb but fingers warm —he’s holding a cup of tea. Herbal, from the smell. It’s late. Xavier probably doesn’t want him to drink caffeine. 

Xavier.

Benji lifts his chin towards the bed, that awareness so bone-deep and interlinked in his marrow that he doesn’t even have to guess at where Xavier is in the room. He knows. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, one knee bouncing at the other propping an elbow which in turn props a chin. Xavier is rarely vacant — but this expression is close to it. His brow isn’t worriedly pinched, but slack. Mouth in a neutral line, eyes glossy and unfocused to a spot on the floor.

When Benji makes a soft noise, he jumps. And then he’s across the room, knees knocking in a painful sounding thump as he goes to the ground in front of the chair. Warm palms smooth up Benji’s side and then immediately retreat, snatched into his chest with guilt that makes Benji’s own feel tight and sad and wrong. 

Please, he thinks. Or maybe says, because the touch return. It spreads over his knees and thighs, coasts up his chest to hover above his heart and then press. 

When Xavier tugs him — carries, really — back to the bed and tucks them both into a safe, tight cocoon of blankets, is when the tears come. He tries to apologize but the sentiment is angrily kissed from his mouth, hands buried in his hair to take that oiliness from him. No need, the touches over his face insist, no need, I get it, I get you, I have you, I’m here.

He dreams of wading into the pond and slicing his heel open on a familiar ceramic shard, interlaced with dated pink vines and yellow flowers. He dreams of warm hands touching his face while more wrap gauze around the wet, broken skin. He dreams of being carried into the house, up the stairs of a patio unfinished in the waking world. 

The dream ends.

*

Xavier laughs hesitantly and holds Benji a careful distance away with hands flat to his chest. His fingers twitch a little, gently indenting flesh like they can’t help but make that greedy connection. 

“Hold on— oh, wait, yeah — yeah, keep going.“

Benji presses his face into Xavier’s neck, tongue darting across the beautiful silvery line that drags across a freckled jaw. It doesn’t taste like anything but skin and sweat. It doesn’t taste of blood or gunpowder. 

“If anything happens to you I’ll go mental.”Benji admits, pawing at pale thighs to bring them around his hips. Morning after, his soul touching the interior of his chest again, that post-it ripped from his brain and crumpled and tossed in the corner. Only way to get it out is pull it into the now, read aloud what’s scrawled across the sick neon yellow.

“I’m so fuckin’ terrified of losing this.” Benji continues, pushing frantically at both of their sweats. He traces a thumb over a raised hipbone, drags that up until Xavier squeaks and softly giggles at the touch. 

Benji’s eyes snap up to his face at the same time his hand wraps around Xavier’s half-hard cock. “Not like, just this, but —“  

Xavier gasps his name in a voice morning-rough, with chord of need that anchors Benji in the moment. His fingers toy and wind through curls, tugging with a reverent touch. Its entirely without insistence; patient and petting, waiting, allowing Benji to move in comfort.

They try again and are, judging from the litany of noises filtering into the morning air, largely successful. He’s a bit more frantic than the snail’s pace of the previous night, but no less greedy. He hooks an arm around Xavier’s shoulders and lifts their torsos together, hot and tight and tacky. Each time green eyes flutter shut, Benji stops. Touches fingers to his cheek, a bunched eyebrow, part lips. He forces Xavier to open them, watches the green swim prettily to find his own. 

For the duration (rather quick, frankly, but he refuses to feel shame about it because fuck is it good), Xavier is forced into heated eye contact. Benji graces him a few kisses, particularly when the tears spring up and those noises become properly desperate. Otherwise, their eyes lock together. Benji makes sure of it. He’s scared of what will replace Xavier in his mind if he breaks that.

He watches even after Xavier arches and cries out and writhes, pretty in the sunlight, to fall limp into their messy bed. 

Our. Benji thinks. He watches the path of his hand as it strokes up a slightly fuzzy thigh, over a heaving stomach. 

“We— we should probably talk about that.” Xavier pants, lifting the arm over his eyes to find Benji. 

Benji nods, fingers curling over his chin. He looks at that thin scar, looks at the others trailing over glistening shoulders and a panting chest. He nods again, then fits his palm to Xavier’s cheek and leans down for a slow kiss that lacks all of their usual messiness. He hopes none of the fear seeps in; he thinks Xavier sees it, anyway.

When they part, Benji touches fingers to his mouth. His nose is pink from the kissing, from his own flush — lips from the rough friction of facial hair. Looking at Xavier, laying sated beneath him in a mess of their sheets on their bed in their home, has Benji swallowing a thickness in his throat.

“Breakfast?”

Xavier smiles, and pulls him down for another kiss. Another, another, another.

[sidlarsson]

u can totally ignore this ask but can we get a snippet of next chapter :0

Oh, sure. I'm still editing a bit, but here's a little of Lily and Remus. I love their friendship.

Even from behind, Remus looked better groomed than Lily could recall in recent memory. The boy seemed washed, at least, in his dingy clothes. His brown hair was all cowlicks.

“Merlin, are you hungover?”

In any case, he looked better than she felt.

Lily flicked a gesture, not responding to the inquiry, as she clattered about in the kitchen. It was late for breakfast, but time meant little anymore, at this point, considering the patterns of her sleep. She set a kettle on the stove, flicking on the burner. She rummaged in a cupboard for biscuits.

“To most people...” she said, after a pause, in which her intruder didn't explain himself, “breaking and entering is considerable a punishable offense.”

“You like me.” Remus rolled his eyes. “You’re fond of me, really.”

“Or—” Behind jars of potions supplies, Lily procured cookies, which she brought to the table. “Touching my things without asking. That would be rude.”

Remus grinned. At least, beneath the narrowing of her gaze, he appeared somewhat sheepish. “Right… right, you are.”

“So, what’s this book of mine you found?”

The tome in question, which was cracked in front of him on her workspace and which he must have taken from a shelf, was wide-backed. Inks glimmered metallic on parchment. It had been one of Slughorn's books, she recognized, a first edition that dated from the mid-thirteenth century. Of all the resources that Lily referred to, it remained one of her more priceless possessions.

The parchment was delicate. Remus was careful with it, she appreciated, holding the pages gingerly.

“Soul magic,” Lily commented.

“Curiosity got the best of me, I admit. 'Can’t say I've much luck understanding it, though.” The boy said this, accepting a steaming mug she set down. Lily flicked her wand to summon cream. “This stuff is pretty dense. I'd done well enough in class, you know, but…” he shrugged. “Well, then there was you.”

“There's nothing useful in there. Nothing practical, at least. Only legends and myths.”

“Oh, really?”

Lily made a thoughtful noise. She drummed her fingers on the table, taking a sip from her cup. “Speculative accounts, hearsay... So little material remains from the Old Age, about Ancient Runes, this is as close as we can get. It’s a fictionalized account, at least parts of it. But—supposedly some fiction contains truth.”

She hesitated. Remus, perhaps out of politeness more than anything, was nodding along as she spoke. “It’s helpful, I suppose,” she continued, after a beat, “in developing theory, understanding spells. Ancient people had different ideas about magic, the way they derived their enchantments. So, I suppose, reading as much as I can is a way to understand how they thought.”

It wasn't as if Lily and Remus had much of a rapport about Ancient Runes, she thought, as the hour extended between them. In the cottage workspace, dried herbs swaying in the breeze, he asked her questions, prodding to explain things. From what she remembered, the two of them had shared classes together, even worked together, but her interest always surpassed his. Lily was unusual; she ruminated on the ancient language in a way that was distinctly excessive.

Still, it became clear over minutes that Remus had developed a fresh interest in the topic. Perhaps because of Sirius, Lily's healing him. Or maybe to humor her, too.

“You remember this…”

Once she started talking, it became difficult to stop. Remus allowed Lily to ramble. “From class, we did an exercise, d'you remember? Thinking on etymological roots…”

“Ancient people had different ideas about humanity, thus their magic system is different. The clearest example of this, when I think of it, is to compare this,” she scribbled, “with the Imperius Curse. It's... this ritual accomplishes the same thing, or at least you'd think it does, on the surface. The Imperius Curse overrides consciousness—controlling another person's reasoning. But, the ancients did something different, you see.”

More scratching on parchment.

“You see?”

In rows, Lily etched symbols. Intonations that referenced each other, repetitively, looping around like melodic lines of prose. Ink glittered on the page as she raised it, while Remus' brows furrowed together.

“This ritual has the same effect, the same result as the Imperius Curse. But the way it controls people is different. Runic enchantments don't override your rationality, it doesn't order your thinking. It gets at something deeper... What they did—in the Old Age—is tap into one's subconscious. Ancients believed you control others not by forcing them... but by changing what they want.”

At length, their coffees turning cold in their cups, Lily realized she was babbling. Remus hadn't spoken in a while. She flushed, rubbing her arm, and muttered an apology, looking down.

Among the many subjects she returned to—brooding, whittling at obsessively—this, possibly, ranked highest among which Lily couldn't turn away from.

Possession.

And—control. What did that say about her?

Remus looked uncomfortable, then. He turned a page where, in faded colors, there was an elaborate illustration.

“Salazar.”

“Er—they didn’t believe in free will, is the point.” Lily cleared her throat, swiping the book away. The image he had found, graphic though it was, she wasn't open to discussing. “Anyway... runic spells have a different logic to them, that's why they're so tricky. To change what you do... change what you want. They believed your desire is your fate.”

[writer59january13]

Stricken with anguished nausea

Written three years ago tomorrow, yet superimposed (likened to emotional palimpsest) upon

mental state of yore recent post traumatic stress

triggered courtesy war torn legally tendered greenbacks, where enemy bonded, heisted, and netted

mine life savings, he

(who fabricated conspiracy

implicating Citizens Bank employees,

whereby I fell for

hook, line and sinker)

unfailingly didst surrender

willingly (figuratively suctioned)

hand over fist funds galore at my expense did score leaving me dirt poor subsequently inducing scribe

of Schwenksville to be more assertive and contact attorney general in an effort to restore forfeited cash confidence man wrested, plucked, and extracted banknotes wrenched stashed nest egg

tucked within secret hideaway under floor.

Psyche still particularly riven

upon heels of liquidated change spurring yours truly

to rattle his virtual tin can since series of unfortunate events

doomed harried luckless Perkiomen Valley troubadour reincarnate begging (he gently seeketh

financial succor viz gofundme) for largesse.

Even before scamming imbroglio,

I experienced disillusionment

regarding mein kampf and hard times getting older and just scraping by courtesy skin of my false teeth.

Impossible mission to avoid senescence,

nevertheless, yours truly sought to hold back hands of time, when pubescent metamorphosis occurred (two and a half score years ago)

aging petrified me, and imposed (Uriah) heap of great expectations and unwanted responsibilities.

In short, I did not want to grow up forced to don mantle of adulthood

instead hankered and hungered

for fictionally nostalgic boyhood,

whereby every day

in make believe webbed wide world

exemplified hunky dory nirvana.

Aside from experiencing adolescent depression demeanor of yours truly, said Lilliputian severely withdrawn.

Scapegoat my middle name

bullies identified perfect bullseye

analogous to trumpeting antagonists

me as carnival barker calls out:

step right up draw an arrow from quiver take aim at mine plainly affixed target.

Deplorable basket case loathed adult role

idealized mythical boyhood

refrained eating - courtesy anorexia nervosa deprived growing body necessary sustenance

scores of Earth orbitz

round sun since puberty,

now vehemently decry growth process sabotaged self stigmatized stunt(ed) man I stand on tippy toes, (with nails that grow askew),

a pygmy among giants.

Sadness ofttimes eclipses hijacked and jackknifed joy aware emotional faculty

thru conscious facilitated meditation

can jar infinitesimally

long log jammed damn friggin

invisible obstruction along battle creek.

Linkedin with recovery coach, I experienced then

(that day being July 20th, 2020) around high noon cathartic enlightenment,

which revelation heightened awareness how when just a lil lad yours truly

exhibited socially withdrawn mean mien

mollycoddled by overprotective parents

placed no demands upon their

sole contemplative introspective, and ruminative non prodigal son, yet upon edging into adulthood (and magical age of eighteen) self same idiosyncratic person (i.e. me) faulted for supposed antipathy toward those who conceived yours truly; I honestly confess lack of genuine interest exhibited toward other family members.

Absent marginal positive self image infinitesimal if ever present within grown docile scaredy cat, his informal assignment gently suggested and accepted

with little objection

courtesy Maggie Jaramillo

brainchild social services Creative Health employee.

Daily repeated self affirmations (ideally more than once) rapidly jotted down ennobling exercise prompted by aforementioned magnificent therapist strongly suggested technique

to seed empowerment

fostering joie de vivre.

These waning days of mein kampf and hard times

flicker with cautious optimism to wax poetic versus referencing anecdotal

personal gloom frequently cited sprung from raw bits

since powder milk biscuits

unknown to yours truly; thee focus of disproportionate maternal and paternal affections

unwittingly, unmistakably, and understandably

triggered sibling resentment no matter brother where art thou among self and two sisters not deliberately, but inadvertently

created, fomented, incited, loosed...

genies of envy, jealousy, ornery... out the bottle an immediately recalled realization

during my formative years never known to yours truly then only recounted decades ex post facto courtesy mother some months prior to her death.

[normaltothemax]

“I’m not gonna play with it, I just wanna see it.” The mention of dead stuff has his face lighting up with a gleeful excitement that can only spell danger. He loves dead stuff! All John managed to do there was make him want the jar even more. “Awesome,” he breathes, looking back up at the jar with more interest than ever. “That’s a dead thing? Cool.”

John’s being very rude about him not touching it, though, and Lucy really doesn’t like that. He knows he’s supposed to be on his best behaviour, knows he was already told no, but he also really wants to see whatever pretty thing is in that jar. Keeping his hands to himself isn’t much of a problem, in this case. Holding them out at his sides for John to see, he grins and uses his abilities to float the jar off the shelf, down to hover in front of his face so he can peer into it. “What is it?” he asks again. John hadn’t actually given him a real answer, before.

“Zoe does all the shopping,” he says with a frown, “we don’t really leave the island.” Being somewhere unfamiliar was an entirely new and exciting experience for him. “Are we gonna go to the shops? I’ve never been to the shops.” The biscuits thoroughly distract him from the pretty thing—both good and bad news for John. On the one hand, he’s now more interested in the snacks than it. On the other, he’s completely forgotten that he’s the one keeping the jar floating in the air. As he takes a biscuit, the jar drops.

and the kid's a smartarse. THAT'S GREAT. he really needed more people around who love to correct him, the grey hairs weren't coming in fast enough. ' . . . point. it's somethin' you shouldn't be playin' with, s'what it is. kind of jars that people store dead stuff in. ' hm. maybe he shouldn't have said that; he always thought dead stuff was COOL as a kid. then again, most kids are more normal than he was.

this one being an exception. he scowls back at the little mite, battling the urge to mockingly repeat those words back to him; problem with being childish around an actual child is that they'll do it right back, and they'll probably do it better, too. the last thing he needs right now is to have a shouting match with a kid and LOSE. ' didn't ask, did i? s'not yours, so keep your 'ands to yourself, alright? you want somethin', you tell me, an' if it's safe to touch then i'll be the one t'go gettin' it. ' please, christ, don't let this boy be a climber. gemma had been a climber, and the shelves he'd had to rescue her from would've made his sister cry.

. . . right, yeah. probably could've expected that vague of an answer for that vague of a question. his train of thought derails temporarily as he contemplates what he might have in his kitchen. not a lot. shit, he should've thought of that BEFORE asking about food. ' somewhere. bit skint for supper, but you're old enough to run to the shops with, ennye? ' not that he's got any way to get to ASDA other than walking, but exercise is good for kids, so he's heard. a hasty rummage through the cabinets unearths some biscuits that only expired a few days ago, and he dithers over the questions of SAFETY and ETHICS for hardly a minute before caving to the pressure of a mouth to feed and offering them up. ' 'ere, should tide you over. don't eat 'em if they taste funny. '

[the-breloominati]

your honor

i’ve never drawn a man in my life

[notyetneedcoffee]

Kicking Up Dust - Part 3

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: None in this chapter. Slow burn to NSFW

A/N: Takes place after ‘Falcon and the Winter Soldier’ with one major exception - Steve Rogers is not dead. He stepped down. This is in line with my Crossroads story. There will also be a parallel Steve story coming.

Part 2 or Master List

You paused, pointing the large kitchen knife in Bucky’s direction. “Straight or diagonal?”

He looked up from the box of black and white photos, “Huh?”

Holding the knife over one of the thick BLT sandwiches, you motioned which direction to cut. He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Bull. Everyone has a preference.” You smirked. “It’s a universal truth.”

He looked back down at the stack of pictures. You waited. Finally he mutter, “Diagonal.”

You smiled, cutting his three sandwiches in half and plating them along side the stack of potato chips. He mumbled a thanks as you slid the plate to him. Taking your own, you sat down beside him. The box of pictures had been in the cabinet. Bigger than a shoebox, it was packed full. Unfortunately, few had any writing on the back.

He held one out, staring at it with sorrow in his eyes. The card stock was yellowed and the edges were worn. It was a slightly blurry shot of a couple sitting on a stone stoop. Judging by the clothes it was around World War I or thereabout. Bucky sighed heavily. “That’s my Ma and Pops.”

“Good looking pair.” You commented before biting into your sandwich.

“Ma was an angel.” He stared for a long time before continuing. “Pops was,” he shrugged. “He did his best I suppose.”

You watched him put down the picture with the others that he’d laid out on the table instead of the pile in the lid of the box. He fell on his food like a well-mannered starved man.

“Must have been tough.” You mused. “Taking care of a family during the Depression.”

“Didn’t see him much.” He said through a half mouth of food.

“How old were you then?”

“It was real tough from the time I was eight or ten to when Pops died when I was seventeen.” Bucky chewed thoughtfully for a while. “I remember being pretty angry, not seeing him around. Guess I never thought about what he was doing. Ma was good at canning and making this really good bean soup. She traded with others on the block. A jar of bread and butter pickles for laundry soap. Pot of soup for some eggs and butter.”

It was the most he’d said at one time, so you stayed quiet. He started on his second sandwich before continuing.

“I took whatever work I could, but Ma wouldn’t let us drop out of school. It was all odd jobs.” The corner of his lip tipped up. “Becca would take off with this little old German woman in the afternoons. They were just supposed to be going for walks, but she’d always came back with her little satchel full of greens and nuts or berries. I think they went foraging through the parks. Ma would make dandelion salads. Stevie would stay a lot. He loved helping Ma cook.”

“Rogers? Really?” You cocked your head. “I don’t really know him, but for some reason that surprises me.”

“Ma said the little punk actually made biscuits better than her.” He pointed to another picture, this one of three youngsters. A dark haired boy, maybe fourteen, had one arm around a smaller blond boy. His other hand held that of a little girl with long dark braids. “That’s us.”

“You look happy.”

“Yeah,” he wiped his hands after finishing the last of his food. He picked up the picture, staring at it. “Tough times, but we always managed to have a laugh. At least when Steve wasn’t getting his ass beat.”

You chuckled as you drank down the last of your lemonade.  

By the late afternoon, you’d gone through most of the drawers and cabinets in the sitting room. A recycle bin overflowed by the back door. Multiple boxes were set aside for Bucky to rummage through and one box of vintage magazines were set aside for sale.

Bucky sat in a chair on the front porch, reading his sister’s journal. He hadn’t moved in more than four hours. You took a couple beers from the fridge and wondered outside. Holding out the open bottle to him, Bucky gave a nod of thanks before turning back to the page.

“I think I’m going to order food to be delivered tonight.” You commented. “Pizza okay?”

“Sure.” He didn’t look up.

“What do you want on it?” You asked as you pulled up the order form on your phone.

“Whatever.” He paused. “No pineapple.”

Smiling to yourself, you ordered a large traditional combo and medium veggie. Sitting quietly, you shopped on your phone for some of the stuff you would need for the house. The two of you drank your beers. Bucky continued to read, lost in his sister’s words.

It was easy to sit in silence with this man. You didn’t feel awkward about it. Neither of you said a word until a car pulled up forty minutes later.

A woman climbed out of the dated Honda with a large pizza carrier. She gave a tired smile. “I sure am glad this wasn’t a prank. This place has been empty for years.”

“No prank.” You met her on the porch steps. Her left eye sported the purples and yellows of black eye. “I, ah, I hope you don’t mind that I put your tip on the app. I don’t have any cash on me.”

“That’s great. Thanks.” She opened bag, pulling out the pizzas.

“Looks like that’s painful.” You leaned your head a little. “You okay?”

She nodded, though her body tensed. “Playing with my friends Rottweiler and he accidentally head butted me.” When she looked up, the woman went absolutely rigid. You looked over your shoulder to see Bucky standing at the top of the stairs, his brows drawn together in a hard scowl. The woman swallowed hard. “Here’s your food. Thanks.”

You watched her leave in a hurry.

“She was lying.” Bucky sighed.

Turning, you joined him on the porch. “About the shiner?”

“Yeah. That was made by a fist.” He frowned.

“Maybe she got in a brawl.” You led him back to the kitchen.

“With someone a foot taller than her.” Bucky scoffed as he pulled two more beers from the fridge.

“You could tell that?”

“Most likely a downward hit, judging by the bruise.” He shrugged, tossing the cap into the bin. “What? I know things.”

He dug into the pizza as seriously has he had the sandwiches at lunch. You watched him eat three pieces before you asked. “What do you think of Becca’s journals?”

“I think I would have liked Archie.” Bucky slowed, and picked at the edge of his pizza. “Seems like he really made her happy. She was proud of him, too.”

“Good.” You smiled.

“She missed the city.” He said after her ate more. “Missed going dancing and to the shows.”

“It’d be hard running away from everything you know.” You agreed.

“Becca felt like it was worth it.” He pushed his plate away. “She didn’t want to risk her husband. He was the only family she had left.”

This silence weighed heavy. What could you say? Sorry you were a brain washed assassin for Hydra while your little sister was facing down the mob?

He suddenly stood. “I’m going to read some more. Do you mind leaving that out? I’ll eat more later.”

“Yeah, no problem.” You rinsed off your plate. “I’m going to take a bath and head to bed early. Do you mind locking up?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

You gave him a gentle goodnight and climbed the rear stairs.

He watched you leave. Almost unconsciously, he cleaned up his dinner plate and straightened the kitchen. When the sound of the bathtub filling reached his ear, Bucky leaned heavily on the counter. His face crumpled. His breath turned shallow. It felt like he would explode. Tears burned in his eyes. Sorrow. Relief. Pain. Joy. He had no idea how to process it all. So many conflicting feelings battered his chest from the inside.

A/N:

If you wish to recieve direct notifications of new stories or updates, please go to NotYetNeedCoffee-Posting, follow and choose ‘get notifications’. Thanks!

[lady-divine-writes]

Our Flag Means Death - “Entangled” (Rated PG13)

Summary: The morning after the hoity-toity party, Ed goes straight to Stede's quarters. He's been thinking about him all night. He just wants to be near him.

Stede gets closer than Ed imagined. (1767 words)

Notes: Takes place the morning after episode 1x5 "The Best Revenge Is Dressing Well". Stede plays Ed’s barber for the morning, and Ed has decided he could get used to it.

Read on AO3.

"Good morning, Edward," Stede says, fixing the man a cup of tea before he enters the room. Stede knows Edward by his footsteps: his uneven cadence, his long strides. He heard him coming from yards away and got a small tray of marmalade and bread ready for him. "You're up and about early. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Aside from the fact I've joined you for breakfast every morning since I boarded your ship?" 

"Yes, aside from that." Stede slathers a dollop of marmalade onto a biscuit and offers it to Edward, which he eagerly accepts. "Sunrise is still a ways off."

Edward mutters an incoherent excuse through a mouthful of marmalade while he circles the room, perusing the numerous knick-knacks that fill Stede's quarters. He is determined that he could spend the next ten years looking through Stede's belongings and find something new every day. 

Case in point...

He pauses at the vanity, where a wooden box filled with glass bottles sits open. “What’s this?”

“That is the kit I use for my morning ablution.”

“Jesus Christ. If I had to use all this, I’d never get out of my room before lunch.”

“I don’t use all of it. Mainly these pots over here." Stede gestures to a few open jars of thick ointment. "To tame my tresses.”

"Do you use those every morning?" Edward asks, surveying the pomades and powders. Ed has been dodging Stede’s original question. If he doesn't, he'll have to admit he thought about Stede all night, that he barely slept from thinking about Stede, that talking to him under the moonlight had been magical.

That he wants to see if he can capture that magic again, hence his appearance at this Godforsaken hour.

"Not every morning. Just when things start to get unruly. But these other potions, the ones I use for my face - those I use every morning."

Edward marvels at how well-appointed everything in Stede's kit is. There is a place for everything, each bottle adorned with neatly written labels (that mean little to him as he’s not the best reader, but he can appreciate the thought behind it). 

There is one outlier. 

A clear, unlabeled bottle holding a thick liquid separated into three layers.

"What part of your body do you use this for then?" 

Stede glances over. When he sees the bottle Ed holds up to the light, he chuckles lightly. "My goodness. I forgot I had that in here. It's supposed to be beard oil."

Edward gives Stede a once-over, a bemused expression on his face. "Did it come with the kit? Because you have a distinct lack of beard."

"My children gave it to me one year on my birthday. You know how children are - aces at picking out things for their parents that they’d never use in a million years."

Edward shrugs. "I don't, but I'll take your word for it."

"They mixed it themselves after a lesson about Mesopotamia. I think, in this instance, they meant for me to use it to grow a beard. It's almond oil, castor oil, grapeseed oil..."

Edward pulls out the stopper and gives the concoction a sniff. It smells floral and nutty at the same time - mild and warm, like the first sunny day of spring.

It also smells like the kind of thing he might like to drizzle on chicken. 

"Ironically," Stede adds, "if I had a beard, this would be excellent for taking care of it." 

"Do you think I could use some of this? My beard is getting a bit..." Edward runs his fingers through the dried-out strands, grimacing when he hears a crunch. "Well, it's seen better days."

"Be my guest. I think I may even have a beard comb." Stede sorts through the combs in his kit, pulling out a half-moon-shaped wooden comb with a Mother of Pearl grip. "Ah yes. Here it is."

Edward holds both objects in his hands, examining them closely, confused as to how to proceed. He can't recall ever brushing his beard. He just runs his fingers through and calls it a day. As for the oil, it’s a foreign entity. Does he shake it? Use it one layer at a time? Come on, man! he scolds himself. This can't be hard. It's oil and a comb. Get a grip! 

While Ed silently berates himself, he catches Stede watching him from the corner of his eye. 

Watching him flounder, yet again, like a fool. 

He straightens his spine, regains his composure. "How do you recommend I go about this? Do I pour it in my hand and gunk it on or...?"

Stede gives Edward an appraising look, hand cupped beneath his chin, stroking both sides in thought. Stede has been nothing if not accepting of Edward, the unsophisticated brigand he is, and his eccentricities, but Edward can't help feeling like he's being judged. 

"Here. Let me help you.” Stede relieves him of the bottle and the comb and motions to the nearest seat. “Sit down and lean back. I'm going to be your barber for today."

“Uh…” Nervous energy washes straight through Edward's body at the thought of Stede touching him. They touch often. Neither shies away from shoulder grabs or other spontaneous contact. But it seems to him that helping someone with their ablutions might be on the more intimate side of things. He's not sure he's ready for that. "You don’t have to.”

“I know, I know." Stede walks to the fireplace and grabs a set of tongs. He uses them to stir the contents of a small black pot nestled amongst the logs. "I want to. You said you wanted to learn the ways of an aristocrat. Aristocrats pamper themselves as often as possible. That means having other people do daily tasks for them.”

“But after last night…”

“Tosh." Stede returns with the tongs and in their teeth, a wet towel. He drops the towel into a waiting basin, adds a healthy draught of cold water, and starts wringing it out. "Forget about last night. We're moving forward. Don't look back." 

Ed thinks on that as he watches Stede work. Move forward. Don't look back. Stede makes everything sound so easy. For him, it must be, what with being a wealthy landowner. Edward fights tooth and nail for his riches.

Stede was born into his, then left his wealth behind to try his hand at piracy.

And Izzy calls Edward the insane one.

Stede brings the wrung towel to Edward. Steam rises from it, and yet Stede holds it in his bare hands as if it didn't just come off the fire. Edward looks at it with apprehension.

"What are you going to do with that?"

"I'm going to wrap it around your face," Stede explains, approaching carefully. "It'll open the pores and soften up the hair cuticles. Mind you, it might be a tad warmer than you’re used to. Are you all right with that?"

"Y-yeah,” Ed lies. “Sure. I'm fine with a little...heat." 

"All righty then. Tell me if it gets uncomfortable and this ends, full stop.”

“Appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.” Edward lays it on thick, praying Stede doesn’t notice. He slides down in his seat, resting his head back the way Stede commanded. 

"Close your eyes," Stede says in a soothing voice as he begins to wrap the towel around Ed's face, "and clear your mind. Think of nothing at all."

Edward makes an acknowledging noise but says nothing else. The clearing-his-mind thing isn't as easy as Stede makes it sound. Being wrapped in moist heat is oppressive at first. And not just the towel covering everything but his nose and mouth. The being waited on, which is something he's never been comfortable with. But the more he settles into the idea of Stede taking care of him, the more accustomed he becomes to this whole situation.

He could definitely get used to this.

"I thought you were helping me oil my beard," Ed says.

"I am. But in the same way dining is pageantry, getting one's self ready for the day is a ritual."

"Ritual, huh. Will we be sacrificing virgins after?"

"Sorry. Ship's stores are all out."

When the towel cools, Stede removes it, but it's replaced by Stede's hands and...

God.

Stede's fingers work their way through the thicket of Ed’s beard to massage his chin, and Edward forgets how to breathe. Slowly, Stede undoes knots and unwinds tangles. Time and again, he removes his hands from Edward's beard to oil them and then returns, working from chin to ends over and over until every knot is banished, every tangle eliminated. 

Before he realizes it, his job is done, but Stede is not having that. Not when he finally has this man at his mercy. He wants to keep him there for a little while longer. He starts undoing the knot in Edward's hair and lightly scratching his scalp. Ed opens his eyes, gives Stede a questioning look, but Stede shrugs with a nonchalance he doesn't feel. "We may as well do the rest since I'm already oiled up."

If Edward wasn't so relaxed, he would have swallowed his tongue.

"I have to warn you," he says to keep thoughts of an oiled-up Stede at his beck and call at bay, "if you keep spoiling me, I may never leave your vessel."

Stede smiles. "Good.”

"What?"

"How do you feel?" Stede says, quickly covering.

"'mmm...incredible," Ed admits, in no hurry to get up out of the chair and start the day. "I didn't know that would be so pleasant."

"It's good to pamper yourself every once in a while." Stede grabs the cold towel and wipes what's left of the oil off his hands. "I'd go so far as to say essential."

"Consider that another leaf from your book taken."

"See that you do." Stede claps Ed on the shoulder, holds on a bit longer than he normally would. "Sit tight. I'll go rustle up a proper breakfast."

Edward watches Stede head off to the galley, his hair creams untouched, his own morning ritual put on hold.

For him.

Stede did that for him, put his morning on hold for him.

Edward puts a hand to his beard and runs his fingers through it. Gone is the rat's nest and salt crust, every inch silky and smooth.

His soul feels the same way.

Edward had been moping, mourning not stealing a kiss the night before.

But if this is his reward for being patient, he’ll gladly wait.

[help-im-a-gay-fish]

The Night of the First Mistake

Sequel to

Synopsis: pre X-orcist, almost a year after Nightmare's death, Dream is still not on top of his grief and causes him to resort to desperate measures.

Tw mentions of death/dead loved ones.

X-orcist au belongs to me and @zu-is-here

Dreams, Demons and Desires is by me.

Enjoy

Almost a year had past since he'd last seen Nightmare. The skeleton couldn't say he had mourned him, but the news of his death had been unfortunate to say the least. Who could have seen someone like Nightmare dying in such a preventable way? Not him, that's for sure.

He was a friend... Or at least a friendly acquaintance, clearly he'd not been quite close enough to Night's inner circle to be invited to the funeral. He'd never even met Night's brother. Despite that, the news of his parting had deeply saddened him and every so often, he thought of him with a sigh.

A good customer and a good person.

This evening, Nightmare played at his thoughts again, probably drudged up by the anniversary of the accident approaching, he hadn’t meant to make note of the day, but he had. a few weeks would be the anniversary of the day he heard the news. 

He thought back to a year ago, a few weeks before his death. The words he’d said about his brother and the increasing frustration about his sinful thoughts. Killer didn't judge him for such feelings, he was no stranger to sin.

Other then that, there was nothing at all strange about this night.

Tonight, just like any night, he was in his shop and the counter. It was a cold October and pretty soon he'd be closing up.

It was dark and chilly in his shop and had a strangely pungent smell, which hit the moment you walked in. A mix of crushed herbs and spices, old books and stale coffee.

An old set of scales sat on the counter top in front of him, as did a till, several glass jars and containers and a large collection of dirty coffee mugs.

Behind him there was a large book case full of many strange books. Ones with faded titles, ones with thick leather bindings, some with large strains spreading across the covers or pieces missing. If you asked him, he'd liked to have said that he'd read all of them... But there were a few he hadn't. He wasn't much of a reader outside of this collection.

As he nursed yet another cup of coffee from the café next door, he tapped his slender skeleton fingers on the counter top. He was bored.

With a glance at the clock, he decided today that he could close up early. It was his shop after all, he made the rules. A small collection of trinkets and charms hung around his neck and clinked together against his old coat, as he got to his feet.

Just as he prepared to take today's earnings from the till to count it, he heard the door and a jingle of the shop bell, indicating someone had entered.

He set an empty eye socket in their direction as they froze, looking nervous.

The person was new, but also something about them was strangely familiar. After scanning them for a moment, his face twisted into a sly smile upon realising who the new comer could be. He turned his face to them fully, staring his pitch eyes right through them. They tensed, which amused him slightly.

"well hello Little Light.... How may I help you"

Dream seemed taken back slightly by the pet name. It wasn't something he was used to. His hands fused with the fastening on his coat.

"uhh Hello.....I’m..... Uh.."

The shop keep chuckled again. Such nervous behaviour wasn't something he saw often from his customers. Looks like it was going to be an interesting night and to think, he was going to close up.

"nervous Lil light?"

Dream once again tensed and shuddered slightly.

"Please.... Don't call me that" he stammered slightly before taking a breath "My name is Dream"

The shop keepers grin got even wider and it made a chill run up Dream's spine. There was something extremely unnerving about this skeleton. Maybe it was the emptiness of his eyes or the strange carvings around them, but Dream was sure that it was more then that.

The atmosphere of the shop was very unsettling and kind of cramped in Dream’s opinion. There were many trinkets, stones, crystals and small animal bones stacked neatly on the shelves. It was this, along with bags of salt and bundles of sage and garlic, that reassured him he was in the right place for what he needed. 

"Dream huh?.... Thought so" he said in a low tone "I'm so glad to finally meet you"

The nervous shifting of his hands continued, as Dream once again tensed even further. He was acting friendly, but it still felt ever so slightly...off.

"h-how do you know me?"

"I knew your brother and I'd recognise that pendant I sold him anywhere" he said, with his eyes looking at Dream's chest.

Dreams fingers quickly shot to the star charm hanging from his neck, and gripped it tight. Looks like this was the right place.

"Not to mention there's your golden eyes" he  continued, shifting his gaze straight into Dream's eye sockets. It was strange how Dream knew where he was looking, even without eye lights.

"he often talked about them......He was right when he said they were very beautiful if I do say so myself~"

Dreams face blushed slightly, but he felt a familiar twist in this chest at the mention of Nightmare and a sinking feeling when he was reminded how Night felt about him. His brother had often complimented his eyes.....

He'd just never really understood it was more then brotherly affection. At least until now.

"I.... Uh" Dream said before clearing his throat "You're Killer.... Aren't you?"

Flexing his fingers, Killer nodded. The grin didn't leave his face.

"looks like my reputation proceeds me"

Dream let go of his necklace and a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "I thought it might be you.... Based off something he wrote in his diary".

Before Night's accident, Dream had never even considered reading his diary. That was just a basic code of conduct. However, after his death, it became something Dream had often thought about. The diary, and everything else Nightmare owned, now belonged to him. For that reason he'd taken the book out of Nightmare's room.

However, he'd just kept it on his bedside table for almost a year before he finally had the courage to read it.

It had mostly been a fond look over some old memories, some good and some bad. But there were also passages about his feelings for Dream, sometimes written confessions addressed him. Every word was full of truth, longing and pain. Dream had felt it all.

Those had been hard to read, but he'd not skipped a single page and read them each through several times.

Nearer the end of the book, Nightmare had started talking about his interest in the supernatural. Dream remembered his twin getting fascinated in that and spending long evenings talking with him about it over tea and biscuits.

One thing Dream hadn't known about, where his trips to the next town over, where he wrote about finding this shop and the shop keep. This had been where the interest started. It was this that had lead Dream to come here.

"right..." Killer said, downing what was left in his coffee mug and setting in on the counter top.

"well.... What can I help you with?"

Yeah.. Nightmare had written that Killer was always one to cut to the point. Dream knew that what he was going to ask sounded insane and he wasn't even fully sure if Killer was the right person to ask. But at this point he was desperate, he just needed to know. With his grip returning to his brothers pendent, he remembered who he was doing this for.

He took a deep breath.

"Can you bring people back from the dead?"

Killer didn't react visibly to that. But he drew out a long silence. After a little Dream was sure he saw his jaw clench. The silence was completely deafening, broken only by the sound of Killer's fingers tapping the counter top. Dream figured that he was probably struggling to think what to say. After what felt like a life time, he spoke.

"I specialise in charms and equipment for preventative measures to stop spirits inhabiting homes....I do not....." he paused

"I don't try and bring the dead to the living realms".

Dreams face fell. He really shouldn't have been so disappointed, it was a crazy ask. But with the way Killer spoke and what he sold in the shop, he'd felt so close to what he wanted. But maybe it really was just impossible.

He felt tears threatening to spill, he just couldn't take all this guilt anymore. All he wanted to do was tell his brother he was sorry. That night. That kiss. That dam horribly wonderful kiss...and that car. 

"however...." Killer continued.

Dream felt hope flush through at those words and stood up slightly straighter. Killer turned his back to dream and started looking over the bookshelves behind the counter.

He didn't say a word, as Dream curiously watched him. He ran his thumb across the spines of several of the oldest and most dusty looking of them, eventually plucking out a large leather bound book with silver straps.

He walked back over, blowing dust off it as he did, and set it down on the counter with a light thud. The cover was extremely dusty and the leather was cracked and split in several places, yet the title still read fairly clearly and Dreams felt his heart skipped a beat.

The Practice of a Necromancer. Vol one of three. Summoning, Controlling and Banishing.

"I've not read this one fully, but it's been in my collection for years.... I suppose this would be the right place to look"

With that, he slowly opened the book and very carefully started to turn its pages. The paper was completely yellowed and clearly very fragile. There were no photographs, only hand done drawings of various items and also what looked like people, but with strange and uncanny faces. There were also other frightening images that Dream was trying not to look at.

Killer eventually stopped and ran his finger across a page.

"ah ha" he said "to summon a spirit into the living world"

He read over the text for a moment, as Dream watched impatiently. Killer knitted his non-existent eyebrows and narrowed his eyes.

"this stuff sounds overly complicated to me..... so I guess I'm not sure really"

But Dream didn't really seem to be playing much attention to Killer's words now. He was so desperately trying to read the text upside-down. Reading was something that Dream always struggled with anyway, so reading upside down would be near impossible. He reached forward to try and pull the book to him.

But he jumped back in surprise as Killer slapped his hand across the book, sending some dust into the air.

"now now now not so hasty Lil Light" he said returning back to a sweet tone, as he said the a pet name that made Dream's toes curl.

In his haste Dream had forgotten that this was a shop, not a library, so of course he wouldn't just hand it over.

The smaller skeleton knew that the book was probably pricey so it's not like Killer would just let him have it. It was clearly very old and Dream worried that he wouldn't have enough for it, but if he had to pay all the money he had to buy it. He would.

Reaching inside of his pocket, Dream pulled out a bundle of paper money and placed it on the counter and next to the book. Killer looked at it for a moment, before he took it and counted how much money was in the bundle. He ran his fingers across the notes, looking as if he was very tempted and contemplating his next move.

But then, much to Dream's disappointment, he put it back down on the counter.

"I don't want your money dream... That's not what I meant"

An unhappy wine left Dream's mouth, as Killer proceeded to hand his money back to him. Just as he was about to ask why, Killer cut him off.

"it's not for sale"

"but what if I just borro-

"or for rent or loan"

Dreams soul twisted. This felt so Incredibly unfair. He wasn't ever one to really get angry or feel hatred for people. But why had Killer gotten this book down if he didn't intend to sell it? Was he just trying to mess with him?

It was that moment that he wasn't sure he really liked Killer all that much.

He sighed.

"h-how come? Can I do anything to change your mind?"

Killer sadly shook his head.

"Dream....... I like to read the stuff for research purposes not for a practical use"

Dream opened his mouth to object, but killer silenced him.

"and I don't care what you say... but I don't think you're just interested in the topic"

Dream tried very hard not to show disappointment on his face, but of course Killer picked up on it. It upset him that his intentions were so easy to guess. Then again he'd opened with 'can you bring people back from the dead'.

He really should have asked in a different way. Feeling like an idiot, he tried to say that he wasn't intending to use the book in practice. But Killer once again shook his head.

He stood up slightly and gave Dream a sympathetic look, or a sympathetic as he could make it through his cold eyes.

"look....I know you miss him and that's ok I've lost people myself to" he said in a uncharacteristically gentle tone, which sounded fake. 

Dream looked at his feet.

"but the dead need to be left dead. Trying to bring them back never ends well, Nightmare wouldn't want you to get hurt trying to help him"

Dreams eyes stayed fixed on the floor, not wanting to look at killer any longer. He didn't want him to see him cry. He didn't want to look like a baby. Just as he was going to try arguing again, behind him he heard the shop door open and the bell ring

He looked back at Killer seeing he'd straightened up.

"K-killer...." came a soft but slightly panicked voice.

Curiously, Dream looked over his shoulder at the source of the voice. It was another skeleton stood by the door.

In all his life, Dream had never seen someone look to tired. They seem to be slightly younger then Dreams age but it was hard to tell how much. Their appearance was clearly young, but the huge bags under their eyes aged their face several years. The most notable thing about them was that their eye lights where small, indicating that they were on edge.

They were wearing a oversized cream knitted sweater and had a maroon scarf decorated with a paw print pattern tide around their neck. They fiddled with it as their eyes a looked at Killer and then to Dream.

From where he was, Dream could also see them wearing several of the necklaces and charms that Killer a sold, as well as a few layers of bandages around their arms.

Killer hastily exited from behind the counter and approached them.

"Hey Cappuccino......." he said, trying again to sound soft.

Ccino wasted no time in burying his head to Killers chest and wrapping his arms around him.

In response, Killer stumbled slightly and looked momentarily taken back and very uncomfortable. After a moment he sigh, before gently placing an hand on his back.

"hey.....it's ok ya wimp... I'm guessing they're back right?"

Ccino simply nodded, Killer sighed.

"Dream can you show yourself out? I've got to take care of this, we're closing anyway. I'm sorry I couldn't help you better"

As Killer attempted to comfort the shaking skeleton, Dream turned his attention back to the book in front of him. It was just within his reach, the page was tantalising.

It was so clear, a set instructions of the exact thing he'd need to do to reach his goal. 

Killer's warning played in his mind. 

But he knew what he was doing right? It was his brother, what did Killer really know about what Nightmare would have wanted. He didn't know how.... Close... They were. At least he thought he knew.

It was a split second choice.

As Killer continued to try and comfort his companion, he saw Dream hastily exit the shop without saying another word. He stared at the door.

It didn't feel right. 

He narrowed his eyes and stepped back from Ccino slightly.

"hang on"

He walked back to the counter and was relieved to see that the book was still there, however a moment later he noticed something else that make him freeze and curse under his breath.

"what's wrong?" Ccino asked, walking up next to him.

Killer didn't answer and instead picked up his book and looked at it closely to confirm what he saw. When he saw he was right, he near growled.

"Killer?" Ccino asked not seeing the problem.

"look....."Killer said quietly.

He ran his finger down the spine where the pages joined together. Once you looked closely you could see the remnants of torn paper sticking out.

"he took the page"

references coming soon.

[mskatesharma]

such a heavenly view

Kate and Anthony have an impromptu picnic under the stars (Canon - Set during their honeymoon) (follows on from a previous drabble, link in the comments)

“I couldn’t agree more; it’s an utterly incomparable experience.”

There’s a softness to Anthony’s voice that pulls her attention, and when she turns to look at him, Kate startles at the intensity of his gaze; his eyes looking straight at her and not at the stars above them.

Her instincts tell her to look away, to hide, but she fights it; instead allowing herself to become ensnared by the wonder in his eyes.

To his statement, all she can do is swallow.

She knows it’s dangerous, allowing herself to imagine, to think, that what grows between them is something other than a growing sense of companionship.

✨the rest here✨ or

But on a night like this, where the stars seemingly imprint themselves on one’s soul, Kate allows herself to believe that the look in his eyes goes beyond the realm of friendship; that what she feels is shared between them both rather than something she must carry on her own.

It becomes too much and she has to look away.

She busies her mind thinking of the memory he has just recounted with his father and their impromptu midnight picnic, and her heart aches at the familiarity of it all. The show of love and comfort; at the way Anthony’s hand had found hers as he started speaking.

It strikes her most obviously what she needs to do, and she stands abruptly.

“Kate?” Anthony brow raises as he questions her.

“I...wait here? I want to do something.” She takes a step but Anthony grabs ahold of her hand again before she can move any further. “Please, Anthony? Stay here, I won’t be long?” She smiles softly at him, and he nods in reply; his trust already implicit.

Kate makes her way back into the house, glad when she runs into Emily, one of the house maids. She asks her to gather some blankets and pillows, and to meet her by the doors she has just come through. She waves away Emily’s offer of finding another maid to take care of the errand Kate has left herself, and she continues on further into the house.

Kate is surprised to find the kitchen empty when she enters, but she supposes Cook and the other kitchen maids are enjoying their supper. She’s about to conduct her own search for some of the biscuits left over from the afternoon, when-

“Oh, Lady Bridgerton!” It takes Kate a moment to remember that it is in fact she who is the Lady Bridgerton in question, and that the voice is addressing her. She feels her face warm as she turns to face Cook.

“Mrs Anderton!”

“Is there something I can help you with, my lady?”

“I...yes please! I was hoping there might still be some biscuits left from this afternoon. Or maybe some from yesterday; I think they happen to be some of Lord Bridgerton’s favourites?”

Mrs Anderton’s face falls slightly, and Kate realises she has unintentionally insulted her. “Not that his lordship or I are still hungry, indeed dinner this evening was quite delicious. I just...wanted to surprise Lord Bridgerton with an impromptu picnic, similar to how his father may have done once.” Still Mrs Anderton says nothing, and Kate starts speaking again, filling in the silence so as to not shift under her shrewd gaze. “The sky is particularly clear and lovely this evening...and it would be a shame to waste it?”

Kate feels a little foolish as she falls quiet; wants to look to the floor and avoid what she is sure is Mrs Anderton’s judging eyes, but she’s stopped by the smile that overtakes the woman’s face. “Well, that sounds lovely.” Kate must startle, because Mrs Anderton simply lets out a quiet laugh as she turns and pulls a small basket from a hook in the corner. “There are a few things left over from this afternoon.” She takes out a napkin and wraps up the biscuits and pastries she takes from a jar, before placing them in the basket.

“Thank you Mrs Anderton. This is wonderful.”

“Oh, don’t leave just yet. Take a bottle of lemonade as well, I imagine you might need something to quench a sudden thirst.” Kate feels her face warm once again as Mrs Anderton winks at her as she places the bottle and two glasses into the basket, along with some extra napkins.

“Thank you for gathering this together, I know it was a rather sudden request.”

“Nonsense, my lady.” Something knowing passes over Mrs Anderton’s face, and Kate resists the urge to squirm under her scrutiny, deciding it would be best to leave.

“Well, I certainly appreciate your help. Goodnight Mrs Anderton.” Kate takes a step towards the door, but is stopped from going any further when Mrs Anderton begins speaking again, her voice is gentle, but no less authoritative.

“This is such a lovely idea, my lady. I hope I am not speaking out of turn when I say that I think His Lordship will enjoy this very much.”

Kate feels her face warm immediately. “I...that’s very kind of you to say, but it’s simply a small picnic?”

“Beggin’ your pardon my lady, but that’s not what I was referring to.” Her voice is soft, and Kate suddenly finds herself having to swallow the knot in her throat as she looks to the floor. “Well, I’ll let you go, his lordship will be wondering where you’ve gotten to.”

“I..er yes, thank you again Mrs Anderton.”

“Of course.” The older woman’s eyes are soft, but Kate thinks she sees a small glint in them when she curtsies.

Kate stumbles as she makes her way out of the kitchen, and walks through the house once more, towards the doors that will lead her to where she left Anthony. She tries to push Mrs Anderton’s words from her mind. While Kate can admit to being a little intimidated by the woman who has been with the Bridgertons a long time, and has known Anthony his whole life. She has not known Kate very long, and it could simply be that Kate is misconstruing the meaning behind what the cook has said.

Kate does her best to ignore the small part that whispers having known him his whole life, Mrs Anderton surely knows what she is talking about? Of course, Mrs Anderton is probably not aware that Kate was never supposed to be Anthony’s bride, and it was merely the sting of a bee that landed Kate in a most undeserved position. While the staff will surely be aware that there was some scandal involved, Kate wonders if Mrs Anderton would still think Anthony so joyous if she knew the whole truth of their betrothal.

Kate tries to shake the thoughts from her head; knowing it won’t do to lose herself in the tangle of thoughts that never seem to stray too far from her mind, at least not on a night like this.

She’s doing this for Anthony; she had heard the pain in his voice as he spoke of his father, had felt it when he took her hand in his. He deserves this, and while she may not have been his intended bride, she can show him that their scandalous betrothal and marriage hasn’t all been for nought.

She’s happy to see Emily walking to the doors, blankets and pillows in arm, glad to know she hasn’t kept the girl waiting. She’s about to ask if she had any trouble, when Anthony’s voice stops her.

“There you are Kate!”

“Anthony…”

“What do you have there?” He pries the basket from her hands with a raised brow, and Kate feels overcome with nerves. What if he thinks this is a ridiculous idea?

“I...I thought we could have a small late night picnic together?” She worries her bottom lip slightly at his silence before continuing, forcing herself to not look away from his face. “Emily very kindly found some blankets and pillows for us to use. I thought it would be nice, as we both used to with our fathers, is that okay?”

Anthony’s quiet for a moment too long, and Kate is about to start apologising for suggesting something so silly when Anthony leans down and swallows the words she hasn’t spoken, quite uncaring of Emily watching.

He pulls back a little, but Kate can still feel his breath on her lips. “Kate…” His eyes search her face. “I...it’s more than okay. Thank you.” He presses another kiss to her lips, before they are reminded they are not alone by a throat clearing.

Anthony takes a step back, and has to swallow twice. Kate remembers she too has a voice. “Thank you Emily, for gathering those, it is much appreciated.” She empties the maids hands as she speaks, trying her hardest to ignore the maid’s blush that she can feel her own face matching.

“Is there anything else you need, my lady?”

“No, that's everything, thank you.”

“Very well. Good night Lord Bridgerton, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Good evening Emily.” Emily curtsies, before Kate thinks she rather scurries away, her eyes fixed firmly to the floor as she leaves the room.

“Anthony?” She turns to him, aware he hasn’t spoken.

He takes hold of her hand and leads her out of the doors and towards the lawn, the brilliance of the moon lighting their way.

She feels her stomach clench as her mind wanders back to the last time she had dragged Edwina to sleep under the stars with her; the week before they had left Somerset for London. Kate had made sure to remember the moment, sure that it would be the last time she would be able to do such a thing with her sister. Afterall, a married lady does not have time to partake in such frivolous frivolities with their unmarried older sister.

She had smiled at the stern look Edwina had given her in return; she would always have time for such frivolous frivolities with her beloved sister; her happily married beloved sister. Kate had indulged her for that moment; silently sure that come the end of the season she would be accompanying Mary back to Somerset.

She chuffs as she marvels at how very differently the actual occurrences have diverged from her expectations; how she never could have predicted the events of the last two weeks. Indeed, she would have felt herself mad if she had ever dared to dream such a marriage could ever have happened to her.

Everything has happened so quickly; she has known Anthony less than a month, and here she is, in his home as his bride.

She wonders if this has always been written in her stars, or if that bee had somehow diverted the path set for her a galaxy away.

She remembers when she was younger, before she fully understood the differences in how she and Edwina were treated by their peers and when the idea of her husband did not seem so intangible, how she would look up in astonishment at the sky with her father, pondering if her future husband happened to be looking up at the stars at that very same moment.

When she had whispered it aloud, her father had winked at her as he took a bite of his biscuit, eyes gleaming as he told her that if her husband didn’t, she would simply have to drag him out and show him, much she had done with him that evening.

A happy ache fills her heart at the memory; here she is under a glorious night sky, with her husband leading the way, and before she can stop them, a few tears escape her eyes.

“Kate?” She looks up, and sees the concern lining Anthony’s face. “What...what is it?”

“I...it’s nothing.”

He puts down the basket, before taking the blankets and pillows from her and placing them on the ground. He gently swipes his thumbs on her cheeks. “Are you sure?” He takes hold of both of her hands in his as he steps ever closer to her. “You can tell me...all I wish is for you to be well.”

She wants to tell him, but the words cling to her tongue, not quite ready to be heard. So instead she leans up and presses her mouth to his, hoping to impress them through a kiss instead. She can’t help but feel that Anthony must understand with the way he envelopes her in his arms, breathing her into him, clinging as though they have both been untethered and are floating away together.

Later, when they are both full biscuits and pastries, sweet on kisses and lemonade, Kate’s head rests, pillowed on Anthony’s chest as they are blanketed by the stars. They had taken turns naming constellations, or rather Kate had named and Anthony had struggled, before they had simply devolved into giving the clusters their own names; crumbs falling from their mouths as they had been unable to contain the laughter at the ridiculousness they were espousing.

Kate realises that the giddy contentment currently thrumming in her body is one she has not felt since she was a young girl. She feels...safe...adored, and although the man indulging her is not her father, she has no doubt that Anthony cares for her.

And if this is all he’s willing to give her, then she is sure it will be enough.

It has to be.

Afterall, is this not already more than what she thought she would have?

And as Anthony gathers her tighter against him, taking her hand and laying a searing kiss to the inside of her wrist, Kate is overcome by the stillness of the night; calm and steady, observed by the beauty of the stars above them, clear and bright, and Kate realises she has never felt so free.

[bertrumstrousers]

hello my children it is time for

Bad Blood

Chapter II: Still There

Bertrum completed his evening ritual with a final splash of warm water to rinse the soap from his face and a gentle drying off with a neatly folded washcloth. He shook out his hair and used a damp thumb and forefinger to tidy his mustache as he scrutinized his reflection. If he was going to face Mr. Drew in the coming days, he was going to do it presentably.

“Ya ain’t goin’ on a date, Bertrum, what’re you fussing over your appearance for?” Lacie barked from the adjacent bedroom. “C’mon, it’s late.” Her eyes were rolled behind the book she was reading as she awaited him in bed.

With an audible sigh, Bertrum returned to her side. “Elegance starts with proper hygiene, and you know how highly I value elegance.” As he plucked his nightcap from the dresser and sat upon the edge of the bed to put it on, he couldn’t help but quip, “…and that is why you’re here.” Had Lacie been watching, she would have caught sight of a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Listen to yerself bein’ all sappy.” Lacie set her book upon the bedside table as she chuckled. “Cute.”, she murmured as she sank deeper under the duvet.

“I’m not lying, love.” Bertrum laid down beside her and gestured with one hand as though to silently ask, ‘May I hold you?’, to which Lacie nodded in approval. Bertrum responded by wrapping a husky arm around the small of her back and tenderly pulling her over. A quick tug on the lamp’s pull chain allowed comforting darkness to fall over the room.

With one hand resting on Bertrum’s forearm, the other held snug in his large hand and her head tucked neatly under his chin, Lacie asked, out of pure curiosity, “…so what’s we doin’ tomorrow, exactly?”

A sharp tightening of Bertrum’s chest made her regret the query. “Would you prefer the long answer or the short one?”

“Whichever’s gonna upset ya less.”

“They’re both equally infuriating.”

“…aight. In that case, sleep first, be mad later.”

Bertrum agreed with a quiet grunt before giving Lacie a nuzzle and kiss on the neck in lieu of “good night”.

Lacie’s near-silent breathing was the only thing that kept Bertrum grounded in reality. By the time he resigned himself to a sleepless night nearly an hour later, she had buried her face in his nightgown, draped one arm across his stomach and the hand that previously occupied his now empty palm rested at her side. She was clearly at peace beside him.

It made him jealous.

His envy was only tempered by the sudden desire to keep her uninvolved while he settled his score with Joey. This was, after all, his own axe to grind. Bertrum was not about to admit his insecurity to himself, but a nagging thought repeated in his mind.

‘I’m plenty capable of standing up to the man, but I need someone in my corner. Someone to prove that I own what he stole credit for, to back me up when I show him my paten—‘

Startled by the revelation, Bertrum nearly leapt from his bed.

He had proof, and it would save Lacie the trip.

Waking up in the middle of the night was not common for Lacie, and if she did, it meant something was amiss. Bertrum hogging the blankets was her first thought, but that night, when she rolled over to reclaim the pilfered bedding, she found her partner missing.

“…Bertrum?”

Had it not been for his outburst that evening, she wouldn’t have thought much of his disappearance. An occasional midnight snack or pot of tea was not unusual, but he was rarely gone for long.

No noise came from the kitchen. Bertrum was a plenty polite man but he certainly was not a quiet one. Soft humming to himself as he waited for the kettle to boil, clinking utensils as he stirred his tea and the sharp tap of ceramic against ceramic as he raided one of his many biscuit tins were all sounds that were normally present during his nighttime visits to the kitchen, but every one was absent. When a full twenty minutes passed without his return, Lacie grew increasingly concerned, and the silence only made it worse.

She slid off the bed, draped on her bathrobe and went searching for him.

From the study, Bertrum silently and repeatedly thanked Lacie for leaving the crossword on the side table. By chance, the part of it that listed several of the attractions had been on the reverse of the very article that prompted his fit of rage that evening, and as much as the words still made his blood boil, he needed it.

Every ride and every innovation that was mentioned in that scrap of newspaper had a story. Hours upon hours of research, calculations and drafting. Once the technical parts had been perfected, Bertrum bestowed his favorite part, the creative and elaborate embellishments, upon his creations. A massive locked filing cabinet kept the attractions’ stories safe. The documentation that accompanied inventions that took a firm hold in the amusement park industry included their respective patents.

Those were what Bertrum was after.

For nearly half an hour, Bertrum leafed through his filing cabinet, using the article to guide his selections. His prized rides. The side-friction roller coaster, made in collaboration with a late German ride mechanic with whom he’d shared the patent. His inverted steel hairpin coaster; he had never been one for wooden coasters, their frailty did not allow for the wild drops or gravitational forces that had become increasingly popular among younger patrons. After fetching the ones the article contained, Bertrum started pulling papers associated with rides that had become famous. It hadn’t been mentioned in the article, but the strange contraption he’d invented, lovingly called the Whipper-Will-O, had its patent added to the expanding stack in his briefcase. It had always been one of his personal favorites. After all, the more disorienting, the better.

Bertrum had just entered the final stretch of his search when a knock at the door jarred him from his reminiscing and angry brooding. “Bertrum, what the hell’re you doin’ at this hour?!”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“…so yer… packin’.”

“Yes. Go back to bed, love—I’ll be there once I’m done getting these patents together.” Bertrum hadn’t turned his head to acknowledge her at all.

Bertrum had at some point changed from his nightgown to a collared shirt, neat slacks and, though the light of the desk lamp by which he worked was dim, she was pretty sure she could see his suspenders hanging from his waist. Clearly he didn’t intend to return to bed. “Big guy, just…” She sighed. “Come back t’bed. It’s three AM and I ain’t gonna coddle ya if you’re cranky in the morning.”

“Just give me some time.”

An irritated Lacie tucked her finger into the back of his collar and tugged. “You can do this after we hit the bookin’ office.”

Bertrum answered her with a grunt as he slid out of his chair. “Fine, fine.”

Attempting to sleep was more taxing than Bertrum expected. His mind was full of a sick fog that demanded his attention and blocked his path to rest. Too exhausted from fighting it, he let the haze take over.

‘He used to call you in at random. It began innocently enough, just… simple requests. You could handle those, they were nothing new. Clients made them all the time. But those requests turned into demands. Obnoxious demands. You should have listened to Mr. Connor when he warned you that Mr. Drew was unreasonable. You should have known, Bertrum. You should have bloody known.’

‘You could have left. On your own terms. The contract he’d written was a hastily scrawled mess of a page. All it said was that you’d do it, nothing more, and through that inebriated haze you could barely think twice about whether to put down your name… your untarnished name.’

The insecurity made him sick.

‘…No. Stop it. This was not your fault. That sleaze, he… he tricked you. He took advantage of you. You’re a professional, Piedmont. He was not. It showed that day. That day he called you into his office and threw you out.’

‘That memo you sent Joey was supposed to put out any fire that was smoldering between you. He overreacted. All it said was to stop taking and not returning your blueprints. Nothing else. So what if you raised your voice?! He started this! He was in your office after hours. He was mucking about in your proprietary work, and you called him out. You had every right! His firing you over an accusation? That was his fault.’

‘Tomorrow… will be better.’

Bertrum finally was able to talk himself down.

‘You’ll take back your plans by force, if you must. You cannot let Mr. Drew keep what isn’t his, and you certainly cannot let him implement anything more of yours under his own name.’

[janekfan]

Tim shouldn’t be here.

He couldn’t make himself leave.

Tim should’ve told Sasha.

She wouldn’t be out of work for hours yet.

At the very least, Tim should’ve called ahead.

Jon had no idea who was standing on the other side of the door. It was apparent in the way his eyes widened. In the way his breath hitched in his chest like a skipping cassette, in how his fingers tightened on the scuffed up brass knob. In the tentative way he caught his lower lip between his teeth before his tongue darted out between them in preparation to speak.

“Tim.” Surprised, glancing to either side of him before staring at his eyebrow. Close enough. “No Sasha tonight?” Gentle inquiry as he stepped aside to let him in.

“Jon?” Martin was somewhere else in their little flat. “Who was that at the door, love?”

“Tim stopped by for a visit, habibi.”

Unannounced?

Tim could hear Martin’s unspoken question. This wasn’t what they’d agreed on when they first found out they were all alive, that they’d made it through everything after all and realized that Tim brought his old grudges along with him. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want to feel that way, not when he so clearly still did. It didn’t matter that the lingering worry and doubt and fear in Jon’s eyes made him sick to his stomach because he’d put it there.

“I’ll put the kettle on.” As he settled on the lumpy couch, Tim heard Jon click on the hob and then begin rummaging around in the cupboards.

“Hayati, where’s that jar of orange blossom…?” Tim smiled privately at the domesticity. He doubted any of them expected to have that. He certainly hadn’t. There was no answer in return but Jon’s phone pinged with a notification and a muffled burst of laughter followed. He came out shortly with a tray. “Martin’s putting our Emma down. He threatened bodily harm if I interrupted them now.” While he spoke, Jon busied himself setting out cream and sugar, pouring the tea, nervously rearranging biscuits already arranged on a chipped china plate painted delicately with roses. He recognized it as part of a set belonging to Jon’s late grandmother. When Tim went to reach for the cup offered up by a shaky hand, Jon flinched, spilling the hot liquid over his skin with a sharp hiss.

“Hey--!” Tim’s hands shot out, reacting too quickly, and this time Jon lost the entire cup over the both of them with an aborted yelp. “Damnit, Jon, stop!”

“S’sorry.” Jon mopped up the liquid, posture small and tight and stiff. “Please don’t um, uh reach for me like that.”

“Like what?” Annoyed, scrubbing a hand over the stain spreading across his shirt, Tim tried to stay calm. After all they’d gone through, none of them had escaped unscathed.

“So er, f’fast.”

“Why?”

“I don’t. It makes me--please don’t, Tim.” The tea towel was gripped in both hands, held close, even as he faced him. “It should be. I should be able to just a’ask.”

“I was trying to help.” This was ridiculous.

“And I appreciate it but--” had he ever?

“It really doesn’t seem like you do.” Tim needed Sasha here with her level head and grounding touch.

“I’m trying to ask you to--” He didn’t mean to interrupt. Really. But how were they supposed to move forward in this if Jon was so visibly afraid? He didn’t need to be afraid. He could trust him. He just refused to at every turn!

“I don’t see why you have to make this such a big deal everytime!” Tim shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be doing this. He definitely shouldn’t be yelling at Jon for something he had no control over, for asking him to just be.

Just be gentle with him for once.

The ire and anger in him rose, a clawing riptide, one he recognized from before the Unknowing. Cloying in its familiarity and power over him and he moved through it like he was stuck in honey, desperate for an escape, to not drown in it even as it closed over his head and his mouth flooded with salt and erupted in vitriol.

“I don’t see why you can’t get over it!”

“Tim!!” Martin’s roar broke him out of those rank jaws and snapped him back into reality. “Back. Off. Now.”

Martin stood in the doorway, a sleepy, clingy baby in his arms looking seconds from bursting into tears while her father looked seconds away from throwing him bodily out of the flat. Emma began to wail. Martin refused to look away from Tim.

Tim.

Who was standing over Jon, towering above his trembling body curled small and pressed into the cushions, tear-stained face shielded by arms drawn with a roadmap of scars Tim both knew and didn’t, that matched and told stories he’d yet to hear. His own chest was heaving like a bellows, hot, heavy, and he unclenched fists so tight his fingers ached, stepping back, stepping away. Only then did Martin stride forward, placing himself as a bulwark between the pair of them, taking up the whole of Jon’s vision and whispering sweet things, reassuring things.

"Hayati, I need you to hold Emma for a moment. Can you do that for me?" Mechanically, Jon accepted their daughter into his hold, angling away from Tim--and didn’t that sting? And didn’t he deserve it. Martin waited to be sure he had her, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek even as Jon paid him no mind, lost in bouncing their daughter a little to soothe them both. Firmly, Martin grabbed Tim by the arm and tugged him into a tidy kitchen.

“Martin, I--”

“The hell is wrong with you?” Voice kept to a sharp whisper, Martin kept looking past him into the sitting room; keeping a close eye on Jon no doubt who was beginning to babble at Emma, words pitched high and sweet, if a bit quivery. “Yelling like that, we don’t yell in this home. You know that. You know that and you came here anyway and maligned my husband and you don’t know the half of what he’s been through, so don’t come here with your guilt and anger and take it out on my family.” This was a Martin that Tim had never met, almost unrecognizable from those first few weeks they’d all spent together in the Archives. When everything was new. Before any of this happened. Before everything changed.

“I’m. I, I’m sorry, Martin. I’ll go. I’ll.” Tears, stinging, bright, prickled at the corners of his lids. “You’re right. I’m out of line. I don’t know--why did I come here? I’m sorry. I’m, I’m really sorry.”

“I’m not the one who needs to hear that.”

“I know. I. I should go.” He should never come back.

“This is why we came up with these steps together, all of us.” Martin handed him a handkerchief and Tim realized belatedly that his face was wet. “We heal on our own time, and it’s going to take time. But you have to respect Jon’s boundaries. He deserves to keep himself safe. He deserves friends who want to protect him, even from themselves.”

“Yeah.” His next breath got stuck, caught in the too-small cage of his ribs. Jon must’ve felt this way. When he shouted. Stood over him like that. “I wasn’t. Wasn’t. I’m not ready. I thought I could be.”

“Rushing this is going to hurt Jon and I’m sorry, Tim. I’m not going to let you do that.”

Not again.

It went unsaid and yet somehow hung heavy between them.

“I’ll tell Sash. I’ll. Come clean and she’ll chew me out and I won’t do this again, Martin. I promise.” Having them back was the greatest gift he’d ever been given. Why did he want to sabotage it? Question for therapy next week. Probably a good one.

“No, you won’t.”

I won’t allow it.

“T’Tim?” Tentative, behind him at a measured distance. Jon, cuddling a sleeping Emma close. “Are you alright?”

“No.” Tim laughed, choked on the sob rising in his throat. “But I’m working on it.” Jon offered him an understanding smile.

“We are too.”

“Yeah.” Tim swiped at damp lashes. “I’m sorry, Jon. I’m going to be better. I want to be better.”

“Okay.” Simple as that. Despite all their wretched history. Sash’s ringtone began to play and Tim found it hard to be angry at Martin. He didn’t want to go home on his own.

“Okay.”

[writeblrfantasy]

as promised, here is some snowbaz fanfic (k words) this was a birthday gift for my best friend last year, who has a ferret which i became intimately familiar with over phone calls. this actually holds up, or so I think? anyway, enjoy!

snow's new ferret

This was all Baz’s bloody fault.

“Let’s go walking round London,” Baz had said, because it was Saturday, and neither of them had homework, and he was trying to be romantic and spend some quality time with Snow for once. “We might even find a place with sour cherry scones."

“None as good as Watford's,” Snow had said, but grinned and hurried to pull his shoes on, tripping over his own feet.

Look where romance got him, because now Baz was hovering behind Simon in a pet store of all places while he excitedly chatted on the phone to Bunce. Both of them were squeaking and squealing over the small brown ferret in Snow’s hand. Bunce sounded like she’d have given anything to see it.

“Ooh, Penny, can we keep him?” Snow asked for the millionth time. Baz rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course! I’ll…” Bunce’s voice faded out as Baz stared the ferret down. Its beady little black eyes, eyes of a demon. It was creepy, but also strangely cute.

Baz glared at it, but its gaze never wavered.

Before he knew it, Snow was off the phone and smiling at him. “We’re getting it,” he said stupidly.

“Yes, I have ears, Snow,” Baz retorted, but Snow was already wandering off to the pet shop owner.

***

“Cherry Scone?” Baz demanded. “You named it Cherry Scone?”

“She, not it, Baz,” Snow said instinctually. He was too distracted by the ferret cradled in his hands. It already had a full cage set up in Simon’s room, decorated with stickers and beads. It was gaudy, in Baz’s opinion, and entirely unnecessary.

But Simon grinned and lit up looking at it, so Baz was okay with it, he supposed.

That was until the fateful Wednesday evening.

Baz had just gotten through a tiring day of classes, and all he wanted was a drink, some food, and to kiss his boyfriend.

A blood bag and leftover pizza was guaranteed to be in Simon’s fridge, but he didn’t get his usual hello kiss by the door. Instead, the Simon opening the door was distracted and fretting.

He was moving away before Baz could even lean in. “What’s wrong?” Baz asked, setting his bag down on the couch.

“Cherry Scone’s disappeared,” Snow said, looking under the blanket on the couch, carelessly moving Baz’s bag away to look there. “Can’t find her anywhere.”

“Don’t you and Bunce have schedules for watching it?”

“Her, not it, Baz,” Simon muttered, shaking his curls out of his eyes to search under the couch. “And yes, but Penny’s out tonight.”

“Out? Where?”

“New bloke she met on flinder.” Snow checked under the tv stand, behind the tv itself, then disappeared into Bunce’s room.

“I sincerely hope you mean Tinder.” Baz went into the kitchen to get said blood bag and pizza. After a drink and a bite, Snow still wasn’t out, so Baz followed to check. He found Simon on her bed, head in his hands.

“Snow? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find her anywhere.” Snow’s voice wavered, like he was actually crying. Baz’s heart ached. “She was just running around in my room, and me and Penny let her run round the flat after always checking the doors and windows are closed… I don’t know where she’s gone, Baz, she’s supposed to be in her cage by now, what if she-”

“Hey, hey, don’t go there. We’ll find her. We will. Come here.” Baz went to hold Simon close, and though he felt shame at feeling this way, there was nothing quite like the warmth of holding Simon in his arms.

Simon relaxed for a moment before tensing up again. “Can you help look? I know you’re not the most fond of her, but…” With the way Simon was looking at him, blue eyes wide and sad, how could Baz ever say no?

“Of course, Simon, of course.” Baz reluctantly let go and got up, leading the way into Simon’s room. He made a beeline for the cage, where, just like he’d guessed, Cherry Scone was safely sitting, the door still open. She stared up at him with those beady black eyes. Baz stared back, hesitantly lifting her out, at a distance in case she’d bite. She didn’t, but she did stare at him while he carried her to Simon.

“Was in her cage,” Baz said, handing her to him. Simon’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas.

“Oh, Baz, thank you!” He leaned forward and gave Baz the heated but chaste kiss he’d first wanted. Baz’s lips tingled, and he hoped for another one, he hoped Snow would put the ferret back in her cage and leave her there. Baz allowed himself to dream about a good snogging session on the couch, maybe with the pizza box open on the coffee table and the tv playing something insignificant in the background…

But Snow was already taking the damn thing to the living room, talking sweetly to her, promising some treats.

Over Snow’s shoulder, she watched Baz until Snow disappeared around the corner.

***

Normally, walks to the park were just that. Walks to the park.

They were often romantic. Baz and Snow had had more than one picnic date there, even with all the ants and bees. To see Snow, disaster that he was, get biscuit crumbs all over himself and still grin about it was more than enough.

Besides, there were a fair amount of plump birds in the park for Baz.

But of course, Baz should’ve known better than to think this park date would be like every other.

“I still can’t believe they make bloody leashes for those things.” Baz shook his head. Snow grinned, eyes sparkling as he looked down at the ferret, scuttling along on the ground.

You used to look at me that way, Baz thought, then berated himself for being so pathetic. At least Snow was still holding his hand and brushing shoulders with him, walking slowly and leisurely like they used to, and maybe if Baz turned his head he could steal a-

“Hey!” The warmth of Snow’s hand left his, and Baz opened his eyes from his daydream to watch Snow running after the ferret. She’d escaped his hold on the leash. Of course. It was bound to happen.

“Baz, c’mon, help!”

With a sigh of resignation, Baz jogged after him.

***

Baz should’ve known the words, “Love, could you watch Cherry Scone for the day? Penny’s visiting family and I have class, and you don’t, so…” would never end well.

But Simon had called him love, and he’d been looking at Baz with love in his eyes as he said it, and however could Baz resist that?

Now, he realized he probably should’ve tried much, much harder. He should’ve floundered up an excuse or something, “Oh, I need to go get kidnapped by numpties again, be back tomorrow, don’t forget to tell Fiona,” because this was utterly ridiculous.

How could Snow ever love something so determined to make life miserable? Baz’s mind helpfully placed himself in that spot, but he shoved the thought away, because Simon’s beloved ferret was currently terrorizing the kitchen.

“If you wind up in the actual cherry scones, I don’t think even Snow would forgive you,” Baz told it, reaching out and unsuccessfully grabbing it. It scrambled along the kitchen counter, jumping, looking like it was trying to climb the fridge. Baz cupped his hands and tried again, but it jumped, scratching him in the process. Baz swore.

“You really are a devil, aren’t you?” Baz snapped, running his finger under the tap. Where had the bloody thing gone?

A mighty clatter rang through the kitchen. Baz slowly turned around, dreading what he’d find.

The ferret had gotten into the jam jar. No, more like it had knocked the jam jar off the top of the fridge and landed next to the remains.

Baz swore again and bent to check it. It was fine, just covered in red, and the broken glass was far away. Thank god Simon wasn’t here; Baz shuddered at the thought of all that worrying. Though if it meant pulling Simon into his arms to console him…

“I have half a mind to just leave you here,” Baz said to it, grumbling as he picked it up. He took it to the bathroom, because Simon had told him it needed a bath sometime that day, so he wouldn’t question it. “But I love him too much for that.” He placed it in the bath, turning on the water. “If you make him happy, so be it. I can live with you.”

***

Yeah, that wasn’t going to last.

Baz was simply sick of it. The bloody ferret had all of Simon’s attention, and nearly all of his heart. At least, Baz hoped there was still space there reserved for him.

Either way, she was putting Baz out of a job. Whenever Simon got anxious or sad now, he’d hug the ferret instead of reaching out to Baz. She was always in his lap, always being fed treats while he stroked her fur, always looking up at Baz with those evil eyes.

Baz was tired of it all. He was practically invisible to Simon now, and Simon would just nod and make noises whenever Baz talked, told him about his day. As if he didn’t think Baz would notice.

Bunce found it all hilarious. Simon was oblivious as usual.

As annoying and humorous as it was that Simon had chosen a bloody ferret over Baz, in some ways it did genuinely hurt. He hated to feel that way, but he hated more that the only kisses he got from Simon these days were when he did something for the ferret.

It was all building up to one fateful evening at Snow’s flat. Penny was on another date with that bloke from Tinder--Baz couldn’t even remember his name, but Bunce seemed to like him well enough, and Simon apparently approved. Baz would still need to meet him, give him an effective talk, before he had his approval as well. Bunce deserved only the best.

It was the same old situation. Baz had memorized this dance they did. Knock, Snow opens the door, distractedly says hi, because the ferret is in his arms, wriggling to get away. He puts it over his shoulder with one hand on its back, Baz comes in, Snow shuts the door. Snow walks over to the couch with the ferret, Baz goes to the kitchen--except tonight he doesn’t.

Baz instead followed Snow to the couch, ignoring the surprised eyebrow raise Simon gives him. They were going to have this conversation like mature, civilized adults. Baz would explain what was bothering him, hope Simon would make a change, and that would be that.

“Baz? What’s wrong?” Simon asked, and it hurt that that was more attention than Simon usually paid him these days.

“Nothing, I--”

Damn his default deflections. “Actually, something. I- ever since you got the- the ferret, I can’t but feel like, I, uh…”

After a pause that was definitely too long, Simon gently prodded, “What?”

It didn’t help that he was still absently stroking its back. “That you pay more attention to it than me,” Baz blurted. His cheeks immediately bloomed red. “I--just--you don’t smile at me as much as you used to, you’re always tending to it--her, you only kiss me when I feed it or watch it for you or find it when it gets lost--”

“Baz--”

“You know what, it’s fine, forget I said anything, Snow, I--”

“Baz--”

“Really, I’m good--”

“Baz!”

Baz finally dared to look up. Simon's face was pinched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Penny did warn me, but I didn’t think it would…I don’t want to choose between the two of you,” Simon said softly, his eyes gentle and caring when he looked at Baz and goddammit Baz do not cry--

“Well you have been,” Baz snapped, because if he can’t cry, he’ll be angry. He felt himself go red, angry and defensive and hurt, and he cursed himself for drinking before this.

“I’m sorry,” Simon said again, shifting the ferret on his lap, and even that hurt Baz a little bit. “What would you like me to do?”

Baz floundered. He hadn’t honestly, expected to get this far. “Uh, make some time, like when I’m over, where you put the ferret away? It has to sleep sometime, surely.”

“Yeah, at night.”

“Well…can you put it in its cage when I’m here?”

After a breathless second, Simon smiled- at him this time, not the ferret- and said, “Yes.” He looked down at his lap one more time, smiling, and this time it didn’t hurt at all. Simon loved them both, and Baz knew that now for sure, even if he had always known it.

“Would you like to pet her before I put her away?” Simon asked, and Baz realized that he’d never really felt it. Yes, he’d picked it up to give it a bath and help it out of the jam mess--something he had still not told Simon about--but he hadn’t taken notice of the texture of its fur. He was usually too annoyed at it for that.

“Yeah, fine.” Baz scooted closer to Simon on the couch, feeling heat radiate off him, and as much as he wanted to just forget about the ferret and be close to his boyfriend, this would make Simon happy.

So he pet it. It looked up at him, quite distrusting, but slowly warming to him. At least tolerating him. “It’s--it’s quite soft.”

“She is.” Simon grinned, then finally, bless, got up to put her away.

The minute waiting for Simon to come back was the most agonizing of Baz’s life, like this was their first kiss and not their 1000th. Finally Simon sat back down, smiling, and leaned over, taking Baz’s hot cheeks in his hands to give him a long, sweet kiss. It left Baz’s insides warm, his lips burning, and all he wanted was more, more, more--

And Simon let him have more, he gave as good as he got, pushing closer to Baz, letting Baz lick into his mouth, giving one last long kiss before pulling away.

Baz was breathless. Simon was golden.

“Thank you,” Baz said, surprised to hear his own voice so low, panting the way he was. Simon smiled, his sun, his golden boy, and kissed Baz again.

Forget about bloody ferrets for now.

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

My notes on Lethal White episode 3

As usual, my poorly sorted and not-really-filtered thoughts on “Lethal White”, episode 3. Continued under the cut because ALL THE SPOILERS!

We’re back with Robin and cling-wrapped Chiswell. Holliday plays Robin’s tenuously controlled panic very well. The subtle trembling, the tears she forces back. She’s so good. 👏🏼

A two-week jump. These always jar me. Did that happen in the book?🤨

Another mention of Strike talking with Wardle, and again we don’t get to see him. Dang. I really miss his leather-jacketed wry humour. 😔

Of course they’re meeting at “The White Horse”. Where else? *Rosmersholm vibes*

The reveal about the bones was a bit anti-climactic, wasn’t it? It had a better effect with the skull, in the book. And how do you “accidentally” shoot a horse, even when it’s a small one? How much more are we supposed to hate Freddie? (This episode is just full of terribly behaving men)

Who are the kids playing with the dog? Pringle and Pong? Were those their ridiculous nicknames?

And here comes the “Knives Out” scene. 🔪The Chiswell family is such a loving bunch. *coughs*

Did you see the playful tension between Raff and Robin? And that little disconcerted look Cormoran casts them? Bit jealous, Corm? 😏

Raff’s sarcastic little throw-in remarks are really making this scene more fun. Gotta give him that: he adds a bit of “black sheep” dash to the family!

“KEYS!” 😁 Cormoran is like the adult stepping between a bunch of fist-throwing kids.

Cormoran and Robin are staring at the Chiswell’s bickering as if waiting for one of them to actually start spitting and biting.

Raff: “I’m sure our charming hostess means to offer you tea at some point.” 🤣

Cormoran: “I’m thinking it might be suicide after all. He couldn’t face another family gathering.” 😂

*grunts* We’ve all been there, haven’t we? (And I don’t even want to start thinking about Cormoran’s family gatherings…)

Hah! 🙋🏻‍♀️ I guessed right from the leaked stills: it is the hospital Billy’s in! (Cookie points for me!)

That staff woman gives off very sensible and caring vibes. They picked the actress well.

And, god, Billy carved the horse into his own chest? 😟 Good god…

Vanessa! And she looks good! And - unlike in the first series - she smiles! And is really NICE! (Wow, what a beautiful woman.) 😍

That little lounge corner in Cormoran’s office is new, isn’t it? Very cozy. ☕️🍪

Goth Robin! She looks awesome! 😍 (Excuse me, but have we traveled back into the 80s? She looks like half the people in my school back then.) And look at Holliday playing her: she even moves differently! This season must have been a lot of fun for her as an actress.

I love the Wiccan shop. I had one of those salt lamps (and a lava lamp too), but don’t tell anybody… ☺️

Cormoran’s FACE when he sees goth Robin! 🥰The double take, the pleased surprise, that touch of awe… He is so proud of her! (What a contrast to Matt the Twat’s derogatory reactions to her disguises).

Cormoran: “You liking Raff then?” Are we a teensy bit jealous again, Corm? ☺️

When he asked Robin what she was doing this evening, I held my breath. WAS HE GOING TO ASK HER OUT? 🤗 He wasn’t. 😔 Everybody calm down. It’s not happening yet. Unfortunately. And probably never will. *very long sigh*

It’s so cute how he can’t stop looking at her! 🥰I love her confidence. And his twinkle-eyed, soft grin that doesn’t seem to want to fade. He truly admires her, for her competence AND for her looks. ASK HER OUT YOU FOOL! *headdesk*

Lorelei. With coffee. Apologizing for saying “I love you”. Ack. And then Corm says “I was gonna call you.” (You weren’t, admit it!). I didn’t know what to feel when seeing this scene for the first time: shocked that they were still together? Sympathy for Lorelei? Mad at Cormoran’s lackluster ‘yeah, alright, whatever’ attitude? Very mixed emotions.

Cormoran following Aamir along the South Bank. Watch me pointing excitedly at the screen because I’ve strolled down that same boardwalk way back when traveling was still a thing. *flails* *misses London*

Aamir’s place. Why is Cormoran talking about food again? Robin hasn’t fed him biscuits today yet, has she?

Cormoran’s always a bit unnerving when interrogating someone. He uses friendly words, but there is that tiny bit of menace about him, an intensity and pressure… SIB Corm. Tom does that so well. 😎

“You gonna butter me?” Smooth moves, ex-Sergeant Strike! 🥋 Oh, I love seeing him in action! 🤗

Robin hides the phone, and I am a nervous wreck worrying someone’s going to call and her phone isn’t in silent mode! (enneagram type 6 here, hello…) 😬

I was waiting for Matt to be an absolute prick when he sees goth Robin, but he’s actually not. And he’s had the Green Dress mended. I like how the show gives him a few shades and doesn’t paint him as outrageously hateful as the book does. (jftr, we all still hate you, Matt!)

But then, the way he rushes at her with his “That’s not true” - why does it somehow feel like a physical threat? And wow, Robin is COLD. Dude, your marriage is over. You just haven’t been notified yet.

So we’re ignoring Lorelei’s calls again, Cormoran? *eyebrow lift* Is that what we do as a gentleman? And then he calls off dinner and has no more than a lame “Sounds good, I’ll call you” when she mentions breakfast? If he’s not invested at the mention of food, something is clearly wrong…

Della Winn, and they picked a blind actress for the role. Good for them! ✔️

So, help me out here, native speakers: Della says she can hear the West Country in Cormoran’s vowels, but to me he doesn’t sound Cornish. Am I wrong? To my ears, Tom is speaking in some sort of self-made accent that I can’t place, but it doesn’t sound anything like the Cornish burr Robert Glenister gives him in the audiobooks. Opinions? 🤔

Rhiannon’s story touched me in the book, and it touches me deeply here. A revenge murder would’ve made perfect sense to me.

The party. We’ve apparently time-traveled again.

“What’s ‘Becca’ short for?” 🙄

Ah! The note was hidden in the maxipads box! I seem to recall that, in the book, Robin hid the Houses of Parliament bugging device in a tampon box. Cool parallel.

VANESSA! HURRY UP! 😨

The chase. Good thing this goth girl wears sensible shoes! Nice trick with the crouching and tripping. Take THAT, Jimmy! Robin’s learned from past experience, and I love the addition of the chase that wasn’t in the book. Robin’s no longer a helpless victim. She is a FIGHTER! And - BAM! Perfect timing, patrol car! 🚔

Cormoran: “How did you guess where she hid it?” (Because that’s where girls hide stuff, darling. ONE good thing all the menstruating is good for at least.)

Quick shout-out to Tom Burke’s freckles. They really should be credited as supporting actors. 🥰

Btw, the navy jumper is not a jumper but a cardigan! I bet Tom was pleased. (And my shippy brain can imagine him wrapping a freezing Robin in it 💙)

Enter Lorelei. Here be dragons.

“You know, if you want a hot meal and a shag with no human emotions involved, there are restaurants. And brothels.”

Oooohhhh... 😳

Need ointment for that burn, Corm?

And she’s entitled! Cormoran’s old school gallantry seems to have gone MIA when it comes to treating Lorelei with the respect she deserved. Especially since he had his chance at ending it decently and respectfully at their earlier little talk over coffee. I still don’t think he meant to hurt her. It was thoughtlessness. Which is no redeeming factor at all. He deserved this, even in front of Robin. #TeamLorelei

Well, at least he didn’t get smacked with an ashtray this time.

I LOLed when Robin simply went straight back to business without commenting. A real pro. 😎

Cormoran: “That was a bit awkward.” Was it, Corm? We barely noticed. *snorts*

And although Robin defends him a little bit, her suppressed smirk and her work-life balance remark tell us she’s enjoyed this a bit. And not just because Cormoran is single again.

Matthew calls: “Sorry, it’s a work thing.” (NO IT ISN’T AND YOU’RE A LYING, CHEATING [REDACTED] !!!) 🤬

Robin steps on Sarah Shaglock’s earring, and now starts a scene that makes me want to shower Holliday in BAFTAs. 🏆🏆🏆 Heart wrenching, painful, powerful. And Matthew finally shows his true colours. (And Kerr Logan deserves a nod for his acting too).

On a completely irrelevant side note: Matt stole that coat from Darius Tanz, only that Santi looked hot as hell in it whereas Matt just looks like an accountant who pretends to look hot. (Go and watch “Salvation” if you have no clue what I’m talking about)

Robin is so bravely holding it together, and - wow - her coldness towards Matt is pretty impressive, and at the same time she’s forcing herself not to cry and fights down a panic attack. It’s amazing how she puts every emotion and train of thought from the books onto the table and we can read it in her face and in her voice and body language. 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼Best scene of the season, if you ask me. (Not that anyone ever asks me, but here it is.)

“I’m not gonna let you fail again!” 😡 Aaaand Matt tries to put her down again. To make her feel weak and in need of help. BUT IT’S NO LONGER WORKING. She’s got this. Oh, she’s got this!

They left out Robin saying that he “doesn’t even have a knife”, and I’m actually glad they did. This didn’t need to be about physical assault again. Matt wouldn’t go that far, and it wasn’t necessary to go there. They clearly showed how manipulative he is and how strong Robin has to be to walk away from him, and that is enough.

The minicab driver. I remember the actress as Mrs. Fitz from “Outlander”, and she’s the perfect motherly tough love type to crack that marriage joke. And to get our girl out of there with no further fuss.

Whoa. I had high expectations. And they were met 10/10.

What did you guys think?

[howdywrites]

NaNoWriMo Day 7

Word Count: 7,139 // 35k

[ previous days ]

Thoughts: I haven’t written that much over the past couple of days, but I’m still on track to reaching 35k and finishing Love Is! Today (11/06) has been the easiest writing day this week, despite the entirety of my country still holding its breath over the election. Also, tomorrow is my birthday! So I don’t know if I’ll get much writing done LOL

Excerpt (Love Is, chapter 7 rewrite):

[ Love Is intro ]

NaNo Taglist: @cilantrospirit @ravesthewriter​​ @thechapelscrow​​ @chloeswords​​ @donovyn--nox​​ @aeslin-writes​​ @alicewestwater​​ @writerwaage​​ @lovebenders​​ @aetherwrites​​ @svpphicwrites​​ @dreadwvlfscript​​ @amandahoyle​​ @thenameless15​​ @tea-and-pirates​​ (let me know if you would like to be added to my update taglist!)

Excerpt transcription down below -

Excerpt transcript: [ “Probably.” Emily laid her own flour dusted hand over hers and offered a reassuring smile. “I was working myself seven days a week ever since my mama died. Just trying to keep my mind off everything. I couldn’t bring myself to go home most nights - she caught me sleeping on a bag of potatoes.” She snickered, though Mrs. Acker looked thoroughly horrified at the idea. Chewing her lip, she set her rolling pin aside and carefully took up the sides of the biscuit dough with gentle fingers. “I couldn’t look at my mama’s things. I was supposed to move into the apartment above Mr. Matthew’s drugstore. He’s like an uncle to me, always helping mama and I out.”

Laying the dough into a fresh sprinkling of flour, Emily picked up the old jam jar she chose as her biscuit cutter. “Losing someone can bring out the worst in people. Some people discover they’ve lost part of themselves when a loved one passes. Some find god.” She took a deep breath. To her surprise, this was the first time she was able to speak on her grief without crying. “Some make themselves sick or lash out at others.” ]

[whitherliliesbloom]

reflections in crystal

[ ffxivwrite2020 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #30 - splinter ]

[ wol and her found family ]  ★ [ 1,654 words ]  ★ [ post-5.3 ]

all of the shb scions except urianger (sorry urianger i just can’t deal with the way you speak aaaaaa). mentions of ryne, krile and tataru too. 

we may forget ourselves, but we’re ever riding home. and for now and evermore, we will never lose hope.

“I do hope you have a good explanation for dragging all of us out here.” With crossed arms, Y’shtola frowns at the miqo’te as he beckons towards his fellow scions and ushers them out the stairwell and onto the balcony, tail flicking in anticipation.

“It will be worth your while, I promise!” He lets out a boyish grin, the very picture of innocent glee that Y’shtola saw fit not to argue against and merely shrugs. G’raha closes the door behind the party, before moving to the stone railing and gesturing to his lalafellin companion.

“Here, here! A front row seat for our hero of the hour!”

The champion and hero in question flushes, a hue of pink rising up to dust her cheeks and the tips of her ears as she hides her bespangled violet eyes beneath the shadow of pure white bangs. 

“P-please! N-None of that! This isn’t about me right now!” 

But her piss poor attempt to hide her emotions are fruitless - in front of the ones she has spent what feels to be her entire eventful life with, and the lalafellin’s embarrassed state has evidently given the others some amount of amusement, from Alphinaud’s stifled laughter to Alisaie’s smirk - though the latter was quickly wiped away as the feistier of the twins turns her attention to the vista before them. 

“Well whatever it is he dragged us here for, I don’t really mind.” Alisaie’s amiable mood seems to catch the man in question off guard, who widens his eyes at the awestruck expression upon her face. “At least the view’s pretty.”

Pretty would be a sore understatement, really... and there wasn’t a single scion who would think to disagree.

Together, their eyes raised heavensward, where a tower of crystal stood amongst the stars and the full moon in all its radiant glory. 

For a moment there was silence as the scions lined themselves up to look upon that beacon of light - and from within the intense lapis glow of the crystal’s shine they saw glimmers of the past; a past that felt both so distant away, yet vivid in their minds all the same. 

It almost felt like a dream - their adventures in the First, and though they had all just barely recovered from their taxing soul transfer, the scions felt a burst of renewed energy as they reflected upon those memories while their eyes are so nearly blinded by the everlasting light of the crystal tower.

Illya sits herself upon the railing, and from her sling bag she fishes out a jar of oddly familiar cookies, holding them out to Thancred with a smile upon her face. 

“Coffee biscuits baked by Ryne! She said it may taste a little different from the one you’re used to, though. She wanted us to enjoy some while we gathered tonight.” With a raised eyebrow, the man in white takes the jar, eyeing the unevenly browned biscuits through the glass with suspicion, though it wasn’t exactly the biscuits questionable appearance that caused him reservation. 

“Gathered tonight you say? Is this some kind of special occasion?” Thancred asks, and frowns when the lalafell merely shrugs her shoulders, eyes glistening with a well-rehearsed faked expression of ignorance. “So I take that you know what G’raha’s up to.”

She peers up to glance at the miqo’te man beside her who stares down at her in return, and after a moment of contemplative silence, their lips turn upwards into a cheeky grin that causes Thancred’s eyes to almost roll out of his own skull.

“Aha- speaking of what I’m up to.” Vivid red eyes light up at the sight of a distant gleam, and with a raised finger he confidently points up to the shimmering sky. “I believe it’s just begun!”

Upon the darkened night sky, they begin to witness a spectacular shower of lights, falling from the heavens before splaying apart. Like the descent of cosmos, they paint streaks of gold glitters across the backdrop of the cloudless darkness, forming an array of fleeting constellations.  Luminous sheets of blue and purple auroras rise, and their combined radiance fills the hearts of the scions with a veneration and awe that they could not find words to describe. And amidst the astral plane, the crystal tower is right at home, its light shining ever brighter as if taking in the prayers of the hopes and dreams that had been wished upon the falling stars. 

Reflected in their eyes, they momentarily saw fire and ash, and they could almost hear whispers of the past and voices muffled by water. 

It was a star shower not unlike the one they’d witnessed in the First, one that was understandably a sore point of memory for most of the scions present.

“You took us all here.. to see a star shower? After everything that happened?” Thancred asks, tilting his head inquistively, though his eyes never once leaves the spectacle in the sky. 

“I thought it fitting.” With a serene smile, one of an ease that he has not known for the past hundred years, G’raha murmurs, and he takes in a deep breath to calm his hummingbird heart. “So that we’ll remember what we once were.” 

Termination was no pretty sight, and it filled him with no more trepidation than any of the other scions. The sight before them was one of a memory of pain, a reflection of world’s end, and what could have been crippling failure.

But the illusion of no tomorrow was broken, as did the shackles that had kept him prisoner of his own duty. And his heart soars a hundredfold as he closes his eyes for but a moment, and recalls the way he and the Warrior of Darkness fought and cried out against fate with one voice until the very end - until the arrival of another clear blue sky.

And from within crystal, he can finally look back on his reflection with a fondness in his heart, and watch the shower of stars as a symbol of future’s arrival - a future that will ever keep coming so long as they held on to hope. 

“Emet-Selch had once said that we were incomplete - that our souls, sundered and broken as they are, hold no worth in the world.” Alphinaud reflects, leaning forward and resting his arms against the railing with a smile. He lifts a gloved hand, drawing invisible lines across the sky as if connecting the fading trails left behind by the stars. 

“But he forgot that our worth laid not in the weight of our souls, but of the legacy we leave behind. Our souls may splinter and fray.. but they will never truly disappear as long as we fight to live. And through that, the light of a thousand fractured stars is still enough to birth a sun.” 

Like scattered moon dust, the stars continued to hang in the air proudly, and they will ever continue to do so like jewels of the night sky until morning light comes to greet a new day. Their reflection slowly fades into the dark as the falling stars slow and vanish - but as the light of their souls persists, so too will their memories live on, waiting to be relived another day in their dreams.

And upon a mountain of pained memories, there laid a hope for a brighter tomorrow that has not yet died. If even the end of days was not enough to extinguish their light, then what could?

“Ugh.. there he goes again being all pretentious and poetic.” Alisaie groans, folding her arms across her chest as her brother shrugs. “Besides.. isn’t that not fitting at all.. given the Warrior of Darkness and everything..”

“T’was just a metaphor, dear sister. Though I suppose I should be more careful with my vocabulary seeing how some people are too slow to understand.”

The young man’s collar was promptly grabbed, and Alphinaud nearly suffocates helplessly against Alisaie’s death grip as she shakes him violently. Illya lets out a melodic laugh, one that echoes in the air to accompany the soft whispers of the wind. When Alphinaud’s face has been sufficiently paled, Alisaie finally releases him to cough, puffing her chest out with a huff.

“So are we done here? I got places to be, thieves to chase, you know.” 

“I concur, Krile and Tataru have need for my assistance with something and I think I’ve kept them waiting long enough.” Y’shtola, despite the sternness in her tone of voice, flashes an uncharacteristically gentle smile. 

“Well, if everyone’s dispersing I guess I will too.” With a stretch and a grunt, Thancred raises the jar of coffee biscuits up. “I’ll leave these in the Rising Stones for anyone who wants some.” 

If G’raha had been attempting to hide his disappointment, he truly did a poor job at it, as his ears flatten against the top of his head and his lips forms into a pout for but a moment. 

“I had hoped that we’d get to linger a little while longer but-”

The Warrior of Light swivels around, and grabs onto Alphinaud’s hand before hopping off the railing, and from beneath the bangs of her hair that shone with an ever transcending radiance, he catches glimpses in the vibrant lavender hues of her eyes a promise - a promise of an adventure, a future, and a wish he’d kept locked in his heart for so long until recently. 

“Don’t worry. We may scatter now.. but..” Illya’s smile is one of a tranquil, reassuring gentleness, as her long hair sways gently like waves among the starry night breeze. G’raha shivers as the wind howls and blows away any ponze of lingering doubts away for good, and he finds himself mirroring the renewed expression of joy she wore upon her face. 

“We’ll all come home again, no matter how long it takes.”

[hamiltalian-creates]

Oo!! I wish you would write a fic where... (ask thingy) Logan is totally oblivious to Remus’s attempts to score a boyfriend. He thinks that remus is just being impulsive and saying random sexual stuff at him when really Remus is trying to gain the other’s attention! Also hi!!

Hi, CJ! Thanks for the idea, I’m glad we’re on the same Intrulogical brainwave lol

Words: 3,424

Warnings: Remus being Remus

Remus was weird. All of the sides and Thomas himself knew it and acknowledged it and Remus wore the word like a bad Christmas sweater, but, lately, he’d been acting weirder than Logan would’ve expected from him. For the latest example, Logan was just trying to go about his day and get some reading done in the living room when Remus sat beside him and pulled him into his lap and began speaking. 

“So, Logan, how does this sound: You and me, my side of the imagination, 8 o’clock tonight, anything you want.” 

Logan hummed in thought as he skimmed the page for where he’d lost the his place once Remus had jostled him. “I’m not in the mood for a hookup, but thank you for the offer.” 

Remus pouted, but he wasn’t one to give up that quickly. “Alright, no sex. How about now?” 

“I’m busy at the moment. I’d rather finish this book uninterrupted.”

Remus huffed and moved to get up, stopping as Logan grabbed his shoulder. 

“At least move me more carefully, I am reading.” 

Were it any other side, Remus would’ve just stood up and let him fall to the floor with a satisfying thump and maybe even a nice snap or crack, but this was Logan. Remus wanted to date him and Logan had to like him for that to happen. So, he carefully lifted Logan out of his lap and stood up before placing him back onto the couch, patting his head as he set him down. 

Logan nodded. “Thank you.” 

But that wasn’t the last of Remus’s exceptionally weird moments with Logan. 

Just the next morning, as Logan was making himself a healthy, balanced breakfast of biscuits and jam, hold the biscuits, Remus strolled in and smacked Logan’s behind, an action that Logan was pretty used to by then. 

“How about some hang time in the library after breakfast?” Remus asked. “You might have to wait a while for me though, I’m getting hungry from staring at an absolute snack.” 

Logan looked down at his jar of jam and then back up at Remus before handing it to him. “It is quite a delicious treat. And I’ll have to pass on the library, ‘hanging’ doesn’t sound very fun.” 

Okay, that one was Remus’s fault, bad choice of words. “I mean, like, hanging out,” he clarified, dipping two fingers into the jar of jam and scooping some out before eating it. 

“Hanging anywhere sounds uncomfortable. Keep the jar, I have plenty more.” Logan went over to a locked cabinet and pulled the key out from his pocket, unlocking and opening the door to reveal that the entire cabinet had been filled with jars of various Crofters jams. 

“That’s quite the collection there.” 

Logan shrugged and selected a jar before closing and locking the cabinet again. “I keep the bare minimum, I don’t want to take up too much kitchen space.” 

Remus nodded as he watched Logan leave. That nerd really was obsessed with Crofters jams... Maybe he could use that to his advantage. Remus began grinning as he had a brilliant idea. 

Logan went a surprisingly short time before having another run in with Remus and his stranger than usual activities, though this one almost made him laugh. Of course, laughing would’ve been a sign that Logan actually felt that Remus’s stunt was funny and, as someone who didn’t feel, that couldn’t happen. 

As Logan came out for his afternoon jar of Crofters, Remus was waiting in the kitchen, facing the counters until he heard Logan walk in. 

“Hello, Nerdilocks,” Remus greeted as he turned around, showing Logan the newest addition to his usual outfit. 

Logan wouldn’t have looked down at his crotch to see it were it not for the fact that it was hard to ignore the large, white writing on his black pants that read “Open here for Crofters” and the large white arrow pointing right at his, thankfully hidden, penis. He took a deep breath as he read it, trying not to let himself show even a hint of the entertainment he felt seeing that. 

Remus grinned proudly as he noticed Logan’s lips twitch just the tiniest amount and looked down at his outfit’s new addition before looking back up at Logan. “What do you think?” 

“I think that somebody else might find that hilarious and I appreciate your attempt at making me laugh.” 

Remus bounced on his toes and inwardly cheered. “Are you taking the offer? I know you’re here for your afternoon Crofters.” 

Logan shook his head and went over to his hoarding cabinet. “I’m here for a jar of the brand of jam called Crofters, I’m not currently interested in your penis, which, I assume, you have nicknamed ‘Crofters’.” 

“Okay, but what if I told you that my dick is literally covered in Crofters jam right now and you have the opportunity to taste it and guess the flavor yourself?” 

Logan stared at him for a few seconds, wondering if he was serious before realizing that he absolutely was. “Then I’d say that I really admire your persistence and your dedication to this series of practical jokes you’re playing on me. And... I honestly wonder what that feels like.” Logan had absolutely no intention of doing such a thing, but to say he wasn’t curious would’ve been a lie and he wasn’t Janus. 

Remus swooned, Logan’s sense of curiosity being the main thing that drove his attraction to the nerd. “It’s sticky and gross, just like we could be if you say yes.” 

“As much as I love Crofters, I wouldn’t particularly enjoyed being covered in it. But I appreciate the offer, I suppose that would sound like an appealing activity to you, so I’ll take that as a good thing.” He grabbed two jars from his cabinet, giving one to Remus before grabbing a spoon and leaving with his own jar. 

Remus waited until he left before groaning in frustration and going to take a shower. As much as he loved the warm, wet, sticky feeling that he was getting from the jelly that was covering his dick, it reminded him all too much of how he felt on the nights when he’d wake up after dreaming about Logan. 

While he was in the shower, he decided to take advantage of the thought and daydream about those situations with Logan, hoping the post nut clarity would help lead him in the right path here. 

And it did! 

Remus snapped his eyes open and made quick work of scrubbing himself clean before throwing on a quick outfit and dashing over to Janus’s room. He was a nerd, just like Logan, and he was smart! He’d know what to do! 

Remus stormed through his door and jumped onto the bed, where he had been reading peacefully. “Janus! I need your advice!” 

“And I need a day to go by where I can actually relax,” Janus grumbled as he marked his place in his book and put it down. He was annoyed by Remus’s interruption, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to help him. 

“I need help asking Logan out.” 

Ah, yes, Remus’s very obvious crush on Logan. For such a smart guy, Logan was so stupid when it came to realizing that Remus had a huge crush on him. Then again, most people didn’t express their affection by saying that they’d want to rip your head off and place it on their nightstand. Janus supposed that it was just years of living with Remus that made it feel obvious that that was Remus’s way of saying that he wanted to wake up to Logan’s face everyday. “Maybe try speaking a bit more his language.” 

“I already tried slathering my dick in Crofters and he didn’t even want to taste and guess the flavor!” 

Janus wished he wasn’t surprised by that, but Logan did have a pretty unhealthy obsession with the stuff. “That’s not what I meant. I meant try being straightforward. Tell him in very plain words that you want to go on a date with him or fuck him or whatever it is that you do.” 

Remus paused for a second and sat up, a dumbstruck look on his face. After a few more seconds, he smacked his forehead, looking absolutely enlightened. “Why didn’t I think of that?!” 

Janus shrugged. “You and Logan have a lot in common and one of those things is that you’re both incredibly smart and, at the same time, incredibly stupid.” 

Remus nodded for a second before looking at his friend with a grin. “You think we have things in common?” 

“Get out of my room and go get a boyfriend.” 

“Thanks, Jay!” Remus hopped up and ran out of the room, going to work on his latest plot: properly asking Logan out. 

It took him a few days to come up with a plan and, as he did, Logan grew confused. Remus had been so friendly with him, talking to him everyday and constantly touching him, that seeing Remus just kind of vanish was almost worrying, except he didn’t worry. Remus was a grown man and a figment of the imagination, it wasn’t like he could’ve gotten hurt. The more likely answer was that he’d gotten sick of Logan’s lack of response to his actions and moved on to the next side. 

Now, as the logical side, he may have put up a show of not being able to feel, but, unfortunately, Thomas didn’t allow him such a luxury and he was stuck with the burden that was human emotion, figment of the imagination or otherwise. And, currently, his emotions surrounding the idea of Remus going to find another side to mess with just because he wasn’t particularly responsive were anything but positive. There was sadness, a hint of anger, and a fair amount of jealousy that he especially wouldn’t want anybody to know about. After all, Logan already got picked on for the things he liked when they were philosophy, psychology, and astronomy. Who knew how the rest of the sides would react when one of the things he liked was Remus. 

Fortunately for them and unfortunately for him, it seemed pretty clear that Remus had no interest in him, at least not in that fashion. Remus was just impulsive and there was a very high probability that he was sexual and touchy with everyone, so it wasn’t like he treated Logan any differently from his rest. And this was Remus he was thinking about here, Remus of all sides, would’ve made it the most obvious if he had a crush on him, even more obvious than Roman, as insanely open and honest as Remus was. Not to mention, Remus probably wouldn’t have stopped talking to Logan if he actually liked him. 

So, all that was left to do was for Logan to start on the process of forgetting about his stupid crush. It wouldn’t have worked out, anyways. Remus got bored of him as a friend after a few weeks, there was no doubt in Logan’s mind that he would’ve gotten bored of him as a partner or boyfriend even faster. 

Fortunately, with all of the practice he’d had, it wasn’t hard for Logan to hide how hurt he was by Remus’s absence. He went about his day as if nothing had changed whatsoever and attempted to enjoy a peaceful day, something he wasn't particularly used to anymore. 

Thankfully, it seemed like he wasn’t going to have to put up with that kind of order for very long. 

A few days into getting used to Remus’s absence, Logan was grabbing a jar of Crofters for his afternoon snack, fighting the urge to grab a second for a side who wasn’t even there, when he was interrupted by said side’s voice. 

“Logan!” Remus called out as he stepped into the kitchen, hiding his hands behind his back. “I’m glad to see you here, I have to talk to you.” 

Logan stood up and looked back at him, his jelly collection briefly forgotten. “Remus. I haven’t really heard from you in a few days...” 

Aww, he noticed. Remus beamed and nodded. “Yeah, sorry about that, but I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk to you!” 

Here it was. Remus was going to say he didn’t want to hang out with him anymore. “What is it?” Logan asked warily. 

Remus stepped forward and shoved a bouquet of a variety of flowers in Logan’s face. “Here! I didn’t know what kind you liked, so I brought you some of everything.” 

Logan blinked a few times, surprised, before hesitantly taking the flowers. 

“Don’t be so scared, there’s nothing dangerous there. Except for the thorny roses, but nothing too crazy,” he said with a shrug, smiling as Logan started analyzing the flowers. 

“Thank you... These are really nice. Um... May I ask what they’re for? It’s not a holiday or my birthday or anything.” 

Remus put his hands over Logan’s, glad that he’d arranged the flowers so that the few roses were in the middle, unable to stab Logan’s hands. He was too excited to not grip Logan’s hands as tight as he could. “I had a special question to ask you! Would you like to go out with me?” 

“Go out?...” Logan asked slowly, putting the pieces together as he looked between his and Remus’s hands and the flowers enclosed in them and the bright blush on Remus’s face as he beamed. “You mean... Like on a romantic outing? Forgive me if I’m wrong, that’s just the context that is usually meant by the phrase ‘going out,’ at least to my knowledge. Unless you’re asking me to go out with you as in die in a fiery explosion and these are a sample of the flowers that you’ll leave to be left in my grave?” It was an unconventional use of the phrase in comparison, but it was more likely in this scenario, considering that it was Remus he was talking to. 

Remus cackled and shook his head. “No, Logan, I would like to go on a romantic outing with you. If you are interested, I would like to partake in a romantic relationship with you and I’ve been trying to ask for a while now. It’s kind of my fault for forgetting how crazy literal, but oh my god, you’re really stupid literal.” 

Logan laughed awkwardly and nodded. “Yeah.. That’s kind of your fault, you’re so straightforward that I can’t help but to take everything you say literally... And you’re so straightforward that I almost think you’re serious right now.” 

“Uh, I am always very serious,” Remus responded, feigning offense before grinning again. “I am serious, I want to date you! You’re smart and cool and you’re curious enough to not be afraid of everything I say and I don’t like that you’re helping Thomas not be scared of me, but I love that you’re helping him not be scared of me. I really, really want to be your boyfriend and I can’t believe I didn’t think of just outright asking you like this any sooner.” 

Logan liked to think he was the most composed side, but right now, he was an absolute disaster of a gay. His brain was figuratively short circuiting and he couldn’t find very many words to say, much less figure out how to put them together in coherent sentences. “You think I’m cool?...” 

“Of course I do!” Remus was getting excited again, bouncing on his toes and fighting every urge to grab Logan’s stupid face and kiss him all over. “You’re so cool! You’re not scared of the weird things I say and you’re not afraid to call out the others when they’re in the wrong and I really really like hanging out with you. You’re totally cool and it’s taking every bit of restraint for me not to kiss you silly right now.” 

If Logan were a more impulsive and a less composed side, he would’ve gladly invited Remus to do just that. Instead, he freed one of his hands and loosened his tie ever so slightly - he wasn’t sure when it had gotten so hard to breathe, but he was pretty sure being this flustered didn’t help, not that he’d admit it - and cleared his throat, hoping that his own brain would start working with him again. “That sounds like a very lovely proposition.” 

Just as Logan had spent a while misinterpreting Remus’s romantic advances, Remus misinterpreted Logan’s acceptance as consent for what he wanted to do and grabbed his face, pulling him in for a kiss. Just like everything else that Remus did, it was passionate and chaotic, a mess of mashing lips and clicking teeth - Remus was saving using his tongue for later. 

Logan wasn’t one for displays of romantic affection, especially not ones that were so public, but Remus’s passionate kiss was too hard not to get into and he found himself lost in the kiss before he could control himself, putting his previously freed hand over one of Remus’s and keeping the other wrapped around the bouquet that he was holding. 

Unfortunately, just as they had a tendency to do every single time Logan showed even a sliver of vulnerability, one of the sides decided to show up right at that moment. 

“Hey, Logan, would you mind if I grabbed a- Aaaahhhh!” Roman screamed as he walked in and saw his brother making out with their nerd. 

Logan was too used to ignoring Roman’s every word and too into his current activities to pull away at the sound of the scream, but Remus was pretty sure that, in a more clear state of mind, Logan wouldn’t have wanted Roman to just watch them make out, especially not when it was their first makeout session, so he took every bit of his will power and pulled away from the kiss, turning back to glare at his brother. 

“Fantastic timing, dipshit.” 

Roman made a series of offended noises and gestured vaguely at the two of them, unsure of where exactly he went wrong in this scenario. “You’re making out with Logan in the middle of the kitchen where anyone can see! It’s not my fault that I happened to walk into our shared kitchen!” 

Logan began pulling himself out of his daze, standing up straight and clearing his throat. “Roman, you’re not usually one to just walk into a room without loudly announcing yourself first.”

“You’re not usually one to just make out with anyone in the kitchen, especially not my brother!” Roman leaned against the wall and dramatically gripped his stomach. “Oh my god, I think I’m going to be sick... I have to leave!” 

And just as fast as he’d arrived, Roman ran out of the kitchen, leaving the other two sides behind. 

Remus sighed and turned to Logan, his usual smile making its way back onto his face. “So, we’re boyfriends now?” 

Logan nodded and adjusted his glasses. ”Yes, we’re boyfriends now.” He decided against adding on the fact that their relationship was what he’d been agreeing to before, not the kissing, not wanting to let Remus think for even a second that he didn’t enjoy that amazing kiss. “And perhaps we could do more kissing later, when there aren’t any sides around to bother us?” 

Remus’s eyes lit up. “Wait, will that include sex? I’ve been asking for a date, but I’ve also been asking for a lot of that.” 

Yeah, Logan had noticed that much, he just preferred to be in an established relationship before going to that level. ... Wait, was asking for sex also one of Remus’s ways for asking for a relationship? That didn’t matter now, they were dating and there was no confusion about that. “Maybe after you take me on a few dates, yes.” 

Remus cheered to himself and grabbed Logan’s shoulders, leaning in and kissing his forehead before letting him go. “Meet me in my side of the imagination at 8 o’clock tonight, dress according to whatever kind of activity you want to do, you’re choosing our first date.” 

Logan simply nodded and watched as Remus left him alone in the kitchen, staring down at his flowers once he was out of sight. He and Remus were dating now... Sure, they could’ve been in a relationship sooner, had Logan been better at understanding the meanings behind his words, but that didn’t matter. They were dating now. And, for once, Logan couldn’t think about anything else.