#i cannot stand up for more than two seconds without getting terribly dizzy

[sherlock-is-ace]

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[magicalmadrigals]

Preparations - Julistin One-shot

If you cannot tell, I had no idea what to entitle this and so this is what you get. I hope you all like the contents though, this is inspired by a draft I found on my pc!

Resting a hand against the wall for a second when the room began to spin again and she felt a dizziness come over her, Julieta closed her eyes with a groan and allowed herself a moment to take some slow breaths with the hope it would help. She had been feeling like this since the start of the week, under the weather and as though she could faint at any second given her level of dizziness, but she had succeeded in keeping how she was truly feeling from her familia for the moment.

Now, if only she could keep up the act until the wedding celebrations came to an end and Dolores and Mariano left to go on their honeymoon. It was only another three days and she had pushed through the past four, so how hard could it be?

Once her head felt clearer and she was sure she would be able to stand unaided without keeling over, she headed back to the table to go on working on the cake. Dolores never did anything by half, so it came as no surprise to her when the girl found her and showed her the plans she came up with. She wanted eight layers, all of them chocolate, with a miniature bride and groom on top and intricate gold detailing over the icing. Not being one to turn down a challenge when it was on her doorstep, she agreed to do it then and there but had since come to see she had terribly underestimated just how much work was going to have to go into it.

All eight layers were baked and stored away, ready to be stacked when the time came, but her feeling unwell had slowed her down and there was still so much to get done with so little time to do it in. Antonio, bless him, had given up his whole afternoon to help her bake a few days ago - though he had done more licking of the bowls and utensils than actual baking - and she appreciated it more than she could put into words, but what she seriously needed was another three arms and something to put a spring back in her step. Her husband would suggest that she made something, to use it to feel better, but she decided long ago not to do that.

Her wonderful gift was given to her so she could help others, to be of service to those around her when they were in need, and she felt it would be more than wrong for her to use it for her own gain. No, she would simply have to wait it out.

Continuing to work on the buttercream that she prayed would hold all the layers in place, she added some sugar to the butter and vanilla extract in the bowl and started to mix it all together, but she had barely any time to get stuck in because her esposo soon came walking into the room. “Leave that until the morning and come to bed, mi amor, before you make yourself sick,” He told her while walking over to the table. “I know this is important to you and you have a lot to get done before the wedding, but you need to sleep. I can ask Mira to help you tomorrow.”

“I can manage,” She shook her head. “You go up, I’ll be there in un minuto.”

“Un minuto in your world is an hour in mine,” He smirked, wandering around the table before taking the bowl from her with one hand and running the other over her curls, the two of them sharing a smile when she gazed up into his eyes. “Am I going to have to carry you up to bed? Or are you going to do as I ask, hmm?”

Turning to him, she brought a hand to his chest through his nightshirt. “Honestly, I would love to ask you to carry me because you make it sound so romantic. I unfortunately remember ending up on the ground when you attempted to do that on our wedding night, so it may be safer for the both of us if I just walk there.”

“Good point,” He chuckled, kissing her forehead. “Come on, hermosa. Bedtime.”

Nodding, she let allowed him to take the bowl from the table and followed him to the refrigerator before he put it inside and took her by the hand so he could lead her from la cocina. It took them seconds to creep upstairs to the upper level and make their way to their bedroom and when they entered she headed straight for the wardrobe. “I have no idea why Dolores wanted such a big cake because we are never going to eat it all,” She told him as she chose a nightgown and began changing into it. “It seems like such a waste to me, that’s all, it’s so much work.”

“You know abuela will give whatever is spare to those in town,” Agustin reminded her as he climbed into bed, smiling as he watched her do the same while pulling the pins from her hair and shaking her head to free her curls. He got comfortable and let her cuddle up to him once she laid down, one hand running up and down her back and the other combing through her hair. Neither of them said a word as they laid there a while, but soon he could take it no more and he sighed. “I know you hate it when I fuss, but I wish you would just tell me you’re not feeling good.”

She looked up at him. “Hmm?”

“Juli, I know you,” He whispered, pulling her closer. “I know when you’re unwell.”

“Ay Agustin, you make it sound as though I’m about to drop dead.”

“I...I just worry about you, that’s all.”

Cuddling closer to him beneath the quilt, she tangled a leg with his and stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. “I know you do, but there is seriously no need,” She told him. “If it helps put your mind at ease, I will ask Mira to assist me tomorrow.”

“Gracias,” He smiled. “You aren’t a machine, you need to ask for help at times.”

“I just feel I should be able to manage.” She muttered.

“You do. You are the most capable person I have ever known, I mean that.”

“I love you so much, Gus.” 

“And I love you,” He assured her. “Now, how about we try and get some sleep?”

“You know,” She chuckled. “I think that might be the best idea you ever had...”

[shadowsinger11]

John Wayne

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: Christmas lights and stunning dresses are enough to spark a desire for a winter romance. But could you have possibly gotten the wrong idea?

Word Count: 2.5k

Genre: fluff, angst

A/N: I might've listened too much to Cigarettes After Sex while writing and this is totally not a song inspired fic, born purely as a result of my procrastination with other projects

Tag list: @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hufflexpuff @neovannii @jenniweasley @theweasleysredhair @harrysweasleys @loony-loopy-lupinn @whiz-bangs78 @slytherinsunrise @starlightweasley @ickle-ronniekins @gcdric @vivianweasley @aprilsrant @idont-knowrn @thisismynerdyself @wonderful-writer @feetoffthetablee @minty-malfoy @vogueweasley @elf-punk @oh-for-merlins-sake @heart-of-tempered-steel @spilled-prose @itseatyourdamnapples @aaannabbanana @l0ttadreamz @potter-redheads @pastanest | message me to be added/removed! (if you're in bold, I couldn't tag you)

You were staring at the crowded dance floor.

Beautiful ladies were being spun around by their partners, gorgeous gowns twirling and swooshing with their every elegant move. Everything was perfect about them; from their smile which lit up the Great hall more than the sparkling white Christmas trees, to the way their wrist gracefully twisted around their lover's neck, eyes piercing into theirs. The music was playing, slow and melancholic, exactly as it had been playing for the last few hours, luring lovers and encouraging them to bare their souls in front of each other.

And so they danced, connected by fearful desire, united by hope and bonded by love.

It was a kind of magic no one could truly understand, mysterious and private as though you weren't meant to witness it that night. So when among the sea of couples lips met in a silent oath, your heart began to ache, pleading you to leave.

It should have been you. It should have been you the receiver of those loving glances, of those kisses which made your head dizzy and caused your knees to buckle, but it would've been no problem as you would've had the arms of your lover to keep you secure. Then, as you'd dare to look up through your lashes, gorgeous eyes would be already on you, their obscure flame consoling you and pulling you in. And you'd simply fall, letting the warm, velvety darkness envelope you.

You flinched from the slight chill, rethinking your choice of a sleeveless dress. The enthusiasm with which you had picked it months ago now seemed utterly ridiculous and foolish as you were sitting a good distance away from where you believed you'd have been dancing your heart out. But, as you took one last look at your surroundings, only to spot your lovestruck friends indulging in the presence of their partners, the comfort of your pajamas seemed far more tempting than the unreasonably expensive piece of fabric which didn't even matter to you anymore.

It was pitifully funny how things could change in the blink of an eye, in a single breath; how fast you had gone from blooming with excitement to wondering how you were foolish enough to contribute to your own heartbreak.

"How come I'm just finding out about this?" Fred exclaimed, chasing after you down the stairs of the Astronomy tower. "I bet I wouldn't have known if it wasn't for those Ravenclaws chatting back in class."

"You were gonna know eventually, what's the deal?"

"My point is, why didn't you tell me and I had to hear from someone else?"

A group Hufflepuffs gave you questioning looks as you practically ran past them, nearly tripping over your own feet in the process, "You're making a fuss about nothing, stop acting entitled to every piece of information in my life!"

"McLaggen? That git?" Fred yelled in frustration and disbelief; he didn't at all acknowledge the small crowd which had gathered to observe the scene, nor did he care in the first place. He stopped in his tracks, gripping the wooden railing tight, knuckles turning white and jaw tense. "You cannot be serious."

Shocked faces now turned to you, and you desperately wished you could use reducio on yourself. Instead, opposite to what your consciousness was screaming at you, you dug your feet into the floor and shot Fred a stern look over your shoulder, "We're not discussing this right now. Besides, what's in it for you anyway? You're going with Angelina."

Had you kept walking, you would have missed the way Fred's chest was heaving with shallow, rapid breaths, and his face was more maroon than you had ever seen. And you? You couldn't quite breathe yourself.

A week ago your untamed happiness brightened every room and hallway; classes seemed to fly by, exams were over and the Yule ball was right around the corner. Your heart was ringing with joy as you were so looking forward to forgetting your troubles for just one night. 

In the midst of shining Christmas decorations and beautiful dresses a dreamy, yet pretty bold idea had begun to form in your head, an idea which Ginny and Hermione encouraged with their support and affirmations. Deep down you had started to believe Fred Weasley took an interest in you, harboured feelings for you even, and your ever-present goofy banter which contained far more flirting than what would be acceptable between two best friends, only fed your imagination and raised your hopes up.

You were aware you were the only one on the receiving end of Fred's teasing jokes, cheesy pickup lines and lingering stares which had you staying up an extra hour in your bed at night. Even his siblings shared the same opinion - there was no way on Godric's sword that a person who clearly wanted to be around you as often as possible and got his hands on you every chance he could, wouldn't be at least a little bit interested in you.

That's why you nearly broke down when exactly a week ago in the hallway Ron casually mentioned his older brother had just asked out Angelina.

The ground was pulled beneath your feet, vanishing along with your oblivious hopes. The news stung sharply, leaving a sour taste in your mouth; never had you believed you’d spend the few days before the ball stitching up your heart, and you were willing to do just about anything to forget about your humiliation. So when McLaggen invited you with an obnoxiously flirty note in Charms class, you didn’t hesitate much.

You could feel a wave of tears burning your eyes as you looked up to where Fred was standing. His face and ears were still as red as they could get, and his chest was vibrating with every shaky breath he took. Fury had disappeared from his eyes long ago, replaced with concern, regret and hurt which you couldn't quite place.

He climbed down the few remaining stairs.

"He's obnoxious! And beyond what's good for you!" Fred stated, though his voice now lacked power and slightly trembled, loud enough just for you to hear. "You're setting yourself up for a pretty bad night."

You swallowed down the dry lump in your throat and finally turned around to fully face him, looking him up and down.

"Seems like I have a terrible taste in men then."

A second glass of firewhiskey did nothing to burn down the growing turmoil in your stomach. You tapped the edge of the empty glass with your fingers and smiled at your friends who were visibly exhausted from dancing to upbeat songs for quite awhile now, but enjoying their time far too much to take a break. You admired their spirit - just because you weren't feeling your best, it didn't mean your friends didn't have the right to have fun.

However, the inevitable sense of regret lingered in your bones, and you found it hard to not focus on how the ball had gone wrong for you, in more ways than you had originally thought.

Even without Fred as your date, there was still a chance you'd have a good time. McLaggen could undoubtedly make it awkward to be around, and with the fact that your heart had recently been sliced open, you weren't sure how much of his ridiculous antics you could take. But at least he was trying; if you put aside his overbearing ego, you could see genuine effort into creating something romantic for both of you. It was going to be okay. Not necessarily what you desired, but somehow okay.

And that last bit of hope vanished the second you caught your former date snogging your crush's date in an empty classroom merely an hour ago.

You didn't know whether to cry or laugh at the universe's bitter joke, but the tears on your face as you ran down the hallway in your beautiful dress were eloquent.

A bitter, bitter joke.

You couldn't take it anymore. The charming smiles, sultry glances and stolen kisses you had been observing for the past hour were too much. And when another slow song made an appearance, you rose to your feet and headed towards the tall doors of the exit. Perhaps sleep would be a decent ending to your horrendous night.

You had barely made it out of the Great hall when loud footsteps echoed on your right.

"Bloody hell, I've been looking for you!" Fred said through heavy breaths, having run all the way to you as it seemed. His ginger hair had escaped its slicked look long ago, now too messy to fix despite his numerous attempts to smooth it back. His suit was no better, slightly wrinkled and shirt open to the third button.

"Why have you?" you asked and folded your arms, feeling a bit chilly in the hallway.

"McLaggen. About him," Fred sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry for having to say it, but I just saw him-"

"I know."

Fred frowned in confusion.

"You do?"

It was your turn to let out an exasperated sigh as you looked down at your feet, "Yes. A while ago."

Fred's features softened.

"I'm sorry."

You barely found it in you to respond with a weak smile, "It's alright. I guess I was right. I do have a terrible taste in men." Then you gave Fred a sympathetic look, "I'm sorry for Angelina too, it's horrible she did this to you."

Your friend allowed the ghost of a smirk to appear on his lips and he shoved hands into his pockets, "I'm not really affected by it in all honesty," he shrugged. "I'm rather angry about the fact that the prat thought he could pull off something like this and get away with it."

Fred's heart ached at the sight of your slumped figure and glossy eyes; he hated himself for having contributed to the failure of the event you were expecting with so much hope. He tilted his head to the side, attempting to meet your gaze.

"I'd gladly prank the crap outta the git until he doesn't even dare to show up to classes… But for now is there a way for me to make your night any less terrible, love?"

You couldn't help but giggle at the thought of McLaggen skipping classes out of sheer fear of Fred. But then your thoughts wandered to the way Angelina was practically straddling his lap, and you wondered if Fred had been doing the same all this time unbeknownst to you; if right after a flirty joke sent your way he'd go to an empty classroom and kiss Angelina with the passion you had just witnessed.

The image of Angelina's lips on Fred's caused you to become nauseous and you attempted to swallow down that lump again.

"No," you replied. "But please, tell me one thing. What was that entire tantrum for?"

Fred didn't really seem taken aback by your question, realizing you'd eventually bring it up. He furrowed a brow, carefully thinking of an answer, and wettened his lips.

“Perhaps it would be inappropriate of me to say it- selfish even, but the mere thought of you being in the embrace of someone, especially with that someone being a foul git, caused me to get unreasonably angry.” Guilt was seeping into his every word and he bitterly chuckled to himself. “Ironic, isn’t it? Attempting to spare you heartbreak by being the reason for it.”

He gently took your hand and looked into your eyes, remorse swimming in his own, "I had no right to treat you the way I did. I'm terribly sorry for being controlling and you absolutely do not have to forgive me. Just know that I truly regret my actions; I never intended to hurt you."

His words were a feather-light caress to your wounded heart and you shuddered. You couldn't stay mad at him. Reciprocated feelings or not, he was still your best friend and you wouldn't let that go.

"Apology accepted," you gave his hand a light squeeze and Fred beamed, the entire hallway lighting up with him. Dread released your chest of its merciless grasp and you could finally breathe. However, one question never ceased to haunt you. "But I just need to know…” you began, absentmindedly playing with his fingers, “...why were you so upset to begin with?"

Fred's shoulders immediately stiffened and he averted his gaze from you in an attempt to come up with a reasonable reply. His jaw was clenched, and his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I didn't want you to go with him." He stated simply. "Not when you could've easily gone with me instead."

You froze.

"What do you mean?” you asked timidly, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “What about Angelina?"

Fred only shook his head, fighting back a grin.

"Darling, Angelina was never the catch."

The air was knocked out of your lungs.

You could only stare at Fred wide-eyed, and though his expression was unreadable, maroon had begun to crawl its way up to his ears and cheeks again.

"I'm sorry for putting you through all this," Fred spoke softly as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, a kiss that awakened the butterflies within you. "I was really too much of a wuss to confess to you and settled for this instead."

"I guess that makes us two," you smiled sincerely, perhaps for the first time that night. Fred returned your smile with a grin, and asked.

"How can I make up to you for this oh-so-awful mess?"

"Dance with me," you said without skipping a beat. "That's what you owe me at least. Let's finally do what we both wanted."

Fred's expression became serious as he intertwined his fingers with yours, and led you into the direction of the Great hall, from which music could still faintly be heard.

"With the greatest of pleasure, my love."

Most people had already gone to bed, leaving just a few couples and you to drench in enchanted serenity. Fred's arms around you felt like home as you both swayed to the soft rhythm of the song, one of the many to follow, but his racing heartbeat under your palm caused your own pulse to speed up as well. 

You looked up at your lover through your lashes, gorgeous eyes already on you, their obscure flame consoling you and pulling you in. There was an odd, enigmatic allure that Fred possessed, and even after years of knowing this man, it only caused you to fall further into the velvety hell you didn't wish to escape from. 

And when his lips collided with yours, they tasted sweeter than the forbidden fruit.

Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

[amaya-chwan]

Takeaways from Therapy Game Restart 14 + Illustration Book Release Date

Hello again everyone! ❤️💛💜

It's finally here... chapter 14! In all its glory! 😍🥰✨

Before we get to our takeaways, just some news I missed in the last post!

🎉 SENSEI'S ILLUSTRATION BOOK WILL BE RELEASED AROUND THURSDAY, 23RD SEPTEMBER! 🎉

Image taken from this Twitter post from Dear+!

It is titled "日ノ原巡イラスト集　DARLING" and boasts a collection of illustrations from Sensei's works so far: Secret XXX, Therapy Game, and Kamisama no Uroko.

The current price is ¥2970 with tax (¥2700 without tax). If you'd like to preorder it on your proxy shopping service, I've found it on the Comi Comi Studios website here! The bonus for purchasing it on this website is a B5 clear file~ I haven't seen it on Animate just yet, so fingers crossed it'll appear on their website soon with another (different) bonus! ❤️💛

Alright, with this amazing news done, let's move onto our takeaways, the long awaited takeaways! Thank you for being so patient with me! 💜

My short life update: currently in week 8 of lockdown and I haven't left my house in a long time other than for exercise or groceries. But I do have my vaccination appointment booked so YAY! 🎉

Here are our takeaways for this chapter:

Oh man, we pick right up from the last page of chapter 13. MINATO, BB, YOU LOOK SO PAINED! 😭

Sensei is the BIGGEST tease... that's all we got of that Minato and Shizuma scene...👀😭

The female staff at the veterinary hospital have really mellowed out! They're not bad, after all. ☺️

Oh dear, Nakajou-sensei, please get better ASAP!

Whoa... did Onodera just...?? I'm starting to think back to that Onodera discussion we had a couple of months ago... 🤔

Poor Shizuma, always roped into Onodera's workplace stuff! IT'S BECAUSE YOU HAVE GREAT PEOPLE SKILLS, SHIZUMA! PROUD OF YOU! 😍🙌

Man, Onodera has a really... blunt way of saying things to her human clients. Wow, brave. 😲

But I will say, Onodera really is good with animals. 🙌

Yet again, I think about that Onodera discussion we had... 🤔🤔

And that’s it for this chapter’s takeaways! For a more detailed breakdown/summary of this chapter, please continue after the cut! There may or may not be a surprise scene (or two) there. Please keep reading if you want to see~  😉✨

Our chapter begins where we left off in chapter 13--Minato pinning Shizuma down on the bed. Shizuma looks up at Minato and reflects on his actions that caused the pained look he is seeing.

Image taken from this Dear+ Twitter post!

On the next page (title page), the dialogue reads: Shizuma wants to understand what it is about his director (Onodera) that is making Minato uneasy. // However, that beautiful liar hides it well...

(I believe we are taken back to the morning before Shizuma and Minato meet up for their date.)

The title page features Onodera walking back to the clinic, bread in hand, with a cat cozying up on her leg. We are then brought to the clinic's lunchroom, with the female staff and Shizuma on break. The roster in the room shows that Onodera is extremely busy, Nakajou-sensei has afternoon house call appointments, Tatsumi is Nakajou-sensei's support for these appointments, and Shizuma has a half day and finishes in the afternoon in lieu of working on his scheduled day off.

Shizuma asks his coworkers what presents they like from their partners and takes note of their answers. One of the female nurses asks if it's Minato's birthday. Shizuma confesses that their relationship has been affected by the various things happening lately, so he wants to get Minato a gift before seeing him later that day.

The nurses quickly pick up that the gift is a "tribute" of sorts as this line of work means a lot of missed appointments and dates, and Shizuma confirms their suspicions. While the nurses realise male-male relationships and male-female relationships aren't that different in this aspect, everyone in the lunchroom is alerted to someone shouting Nakajou-sensei's name.

Shizuma and a nurse see Tatsumi with Nakajou-sensei, who has collapsed on the floor. While the staff are concerned about Nakajou's well-being, she brushes it off as a dizzy spell. Before they can help her up, Onodera sweeps her off her feet and carries Nakajou to her (Onodera's) office. While Nakajou asks Onodera to put her down out of sheer embarrassment, Shizuma and Tatsumi are in shock, with Tatsumi commenting on Onodera's manliness in that moment. One of the other nurses gently smacks Shizuma's shoulder and tells the two to grab a blanket and a drink for Nakajou.

In her office, Onodera asks Nakajou why she's been overworking herself to the point of collapsing. The nurse (who gave the gentle smack) very obviously hints to Onodera that it is her fault. As Nakajou calms the nurse by saying that's just how the director is, Tatsumi asks Nakajou about their afternoon appointments. She says she'll be fine to go after a little rest, but the nurse says she mustn't overexert herself.

After a few back and forths about who should go and the clients' needs/personality (picky about the vet, had a pet that doesn't like men, etc), Onodera says she will go. The nurses are shocked and reminisce about all the issues they've had when Onodera interacts with the owners. Tatsumi and Shizuma stand there, and can very clearly imagine those situations happening.

While Onodera rearranges and informs the nurses of the shift changes to accommodate Nakajou-sensei, Shizuma has a terrible premonition that unfortunately comes true: he is appointed as Onodera's support for the afternoon house calls.

Wearing a sulky expression, Shizuma packs the necessary equipment in Onodera's car and reminds her that he has a very important engagement that night that he cannot miss, and as such will leave immediately after the house call appointments are done. Onodera bursts his bubble, and tells him to give up on those plans while he can since this is the line of work he's chosen.

As Shizuma reads the client files, he questions Onodera on why he is her support when he's never attended to these clients before. While Onodera tells him that good coordination is important with a physician's support and that he's the only one she can rely on to give her an honest opinion and calm the clients, Shizuma realises that he's basically the mediator between her and the owners. She confirms that this is his strong point, has great expectations for him, and proceeds to drive. Shizuma then reads the patient files at lightning speed, realising there's a threatening 'something' that Minato has sensed, but that's just how the director is. He then vows to make it to their meeting tonight, no matter what.

The first three house calls, as expected, involve Onodera insulting and angering the owners--Onodera tells the first client that his insistence on seeing Nakajou rather than a 'young' director is having a negative effect on his pet who needs immediate medical care; Onodera offends the second client, inferring from their conversation that her pet's appearance is more important than the need to shave their fur and get an ultrasound done; Onodera accuses the third client of being irresponsible in caring for his exotic animals and asks for more effort on his part. In all three scenarios, Shizuma awkwardly smiles while trying to ease the tension.

The scene skips to Onodera and Shizuma arriving at their fourth and final house call for the day. Just as Onodera explains to Shizuma that she must check a whole host of things at house calls (and indirectly be too blunt about it with the owners), Shizuma asks her to consider the owner's feelings and change when and how she says things. She glares ahead in silence, and Shizuma is just glad that she is now aware of it. He again reminds her to talk with the owner nicely and gently as he probably won't be able to help with the next client as their pet dislikes men. Onodera tells him to just sit in the corner and witness the client become furious while he doesn't help, making him feel slightly guilty for saying that. He is now adament on not helping her.

They reach the owner's home and we meet an elderly woman named Shiratori and her 9-year-old male cat, Tono. Shiratori apologises to Shizuma as her cat doesn't like men. Tono hisses at them as Onodera opens his cage, but is then coaxed into submission by Onodera who covers his vision with a towel and takes him into her lap to calm down. Shiratori and Shizuma are surprised at his sudden docile nature, with Shizuma witnessing how well she deals with animals.

As Shizuma looks on at Onodera while she completes a check on Tono, he sees she is crumbling at the friendliness and talkative nature of Shiratori, who sings nothing but praise for Onodera and how her family must be proud to have such an amazing daughter. Aiming to ease her troubles and remembering the earlier guilt-trip she gave him, he redirects Shiratori's attention to her broken fly screen and offers to fix that plus everything else that needs repair in her home.

Onodera watches as the two leave the room for a bit before apologising to Tono for ignoring him. Tono looks on at Onodera happily while she asks him how he can live with such a lively human and to tell her his secret to this. She brings him into her arms once more to check his limbs, and as Tono looks up smiling at Onodera, Onodera sees her reflection in Tono's eyes, and both seem to realise something.

BG Text: Stare...

Suddenly, Shizuma and Shiratori, who are busy fixing the window, hear a loud crash and rush into the room to find Tono atop the cabinet and Onodera on the floor, with her hair in disarray. In the next panel, Tono is shown to be hiding in the bookshelf, looking on irritatingly at the humans. Shiratori apologises to Onodera, who shakes it off and says it's nothing to worry about and no harm's been done.

Shiratori asks if Onodera will fix/tie her hair up again, but when Onodera says her hair tie was broken when Tono used her as a launchpad to get on the cabinet, Shiratori runs to get her a new one. As Shiratori gushes over the 3 piece dopey looking character hair tie set she received as a present from her grandchild (and lets Onodera pick one), a greatly displeased look is plastered on Onodera's face. Shizuma, in shock, notices her displeasure and hopes she just thanks Shiratori for it. And Onodera does, bringing a great big smile to Shiratori's face.

As Onodera and Shizuma leave, Shiratori says she's glad to have talked with Onodera and invites her to come over again. As she says this, we see Onodera looking back with a blank look in her eyes.

And that’s it for this chapter! THANK YOU FOR READING THIS FAR! 💜 While I was surprised at the lack of Minato in this chapter (Sensei legit is such a tease, LOL 🤣), I'm happy we can learn more about Onodera. Ngl, I'm starting to really question if Onodera is male or female now, given what transpired in this chapter. I guess we shall see in the next one!

I also changed the formatting a bit and removed the bullet points. Please let me know which format is better/easier to read! Ahah!

EDIT: Spelling and grammar checks are done! Didn't change a lot, but hope it reads better! 💜

📢 As always, please support Hinohara-sensei by purchasing her books and CDs! 📢

And please also refrain from resharing these translations and images outside of this post! Thank you for understanding! ❤️💛

There won't be a chapter in next month's (September release) Dear+, so I shall see you in two months for the next chapter (Dear+ November Issue, to be released in October).

As always, stay safe during these turbulent times and look out for each other and for your loved ones! 💜❤️💛

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Wait For Me // D.M.

Request: hi! can you do a request where draco performed the obliviate curse on his gf before the war, then met her again post war when he became a healer? the storyline is up to you! by the way, i really really like your fics 🥺 - anon

A/N: This request let me explore all the things I love: angst, healer!draco, and redemption. Thank you for trusting me with this request, I love it so much. This was not also on my WIP lost but I had an idea and I ran with it. With some hope, my next few fics will be from that list!!

Warnings: angst, mentions of nightmares and injuries, some anxiety, short words and tempers, swearing. A HAPPY ENDING or at least the start of one.

Word count: 5.2k

1996:

“You know why I have to do this, right?” Draco whispers: worried that if he were to speak any louder his voice would give away how close he is to breaking.

You nod once. A solemn nod that juxtaposes the tears falling freely down your face. How could you be agreeing to this when it made you feel like your heart was being ripped out?

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, arms reaching for you, the urge to touch too strong to resist. “If they used you against me or if you got hurt, I would never forgive myself.”

You hush him; not missing the irony of the situation. To be comforting him when you were going to have a large chunk of your memories taken from you, it was almost laughable.

The final few moments together are spent in silence, wrapped in each other’s arms, getting as much of the other as possible before inevitably having to let go. You bury your face in his chest, almost refusing to let go of him as he unhooks your hands from around his waist.

The time has come; it’s come too soon.

You barely register Draco’s tears mixing with yours as he hauls you in for one last desperate kiss. His forehead remains pressed to yours as he whispers three words.

“Wait for me.”

Then everything goes blank. A flash of white and your life begins anew.

No memories of the last year of your life; no thoughts about the blonde haired teenager that had occupied your mind and stolen your heart.

There’s nothing.

Five years later:

The strong antiseptic smell has your nose crinkling in distaste. The overhead lights buzz as the bright light bounces off the overly clean floor; it makes your head hurt more. You place a tentative hand to the side of your head, frowning further when you feel the large bump growing there. Removing your hand, you sigh, remembering the tears of the pupil that had done this.

Not long after the war, a new decree was issued setting up centres of education for young witches and wizards that showed magical promise. They operated extremely similar to a muggle primary school; however these followed the curriculum created by the Ministry of Magic.

It was in one of these schools that you worked, choosing to train as a teacher after finishing your education.

A rogue ball is what had landed you in the emergency room of the only magical hospital in Britain. It had come out of nowhere; the children playing happily as the weather had improved over the course of the day.

Tapping your foot impatiently off the tiled floor, you had to admit to yourself it had been partly your fault for not seeing the ball before it knocked you on the side of the head and subsequently knocked you to the floor. The child, a young Hugo Ward, had felt terrible – sobs wracking his body as he apologised to you over and over again to the point where you had to reassure him you were fine.

An hour after the accident, it became evident that you were not fine. The dizziness and double vision being symptoms of something worse, your boss had sent you off to St. Mungo’s without room for argument, promising you she would cover your class for the rest of the day.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N),” calls the triage nurse. A blonde middle aged lady with bright eyes and a kind smile; she points in the direction of exam room two and you flash her a grateful smile.

The hospital bed is uncomfortable as you take a seat on top of the crinkly paper. The pounding in your head had not stopped since you arrived but the dizziness was calming somewhat, and for that, you were thankful. It happens as a flash; a memory washes over you of a large hospital wing, two rows of beds and an elderly lady with fierce determination written over her face.

A single blink and it disappears. The flashes hadn’t happened for a while; the aftermath of a memory charm inflicted upon in your Sixth Year at Hogwarts. It wasn’t known who had done it; they had found you wandering the halls of Hogwarts alone and confused before realising what had happened. You had recovered fairly quickly; the only aftermath being the flashes of what could be memories.

You sigh, sinking further into the gurney as you think of the pile of marking waiting for you at home. Even a sore head couldn’t put off the inevitable.

The Healer doesn’t look up as he enters, pulling the curtain closed behind him, “I’m Healer Malfoy, how can I help you today?”

You sit straighter as you take in the healer. Blonde hair down to the nape of his neck, tied back with what seems to be a leather cord. He hasn’t looked up at you yet, but from your spot, you could tell he was handsome. A strong jaw being home to a distracting mouth. You look away, admiring the rest of him before you could be caught staring at his lips.

Healer Malfoy’s face slackens for a second as his eyes rake over your face. He collects himself after a second, but still, you noticed. He clears his throat, looking down at the chart in his hand. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N)?”

You nod, “That’s me.”

“You hurt your head at work?”

Again, you nod, “Twice over. A pupil threw a ball at my head by accident, but I knocked my head on the playground as I fell.”

Healer Malfoy places your chart on a nearby table, pulling latex gloves out of his pocket as he does so. He smiles at you, but there’s something guarded about the expression on his face that has question after question springing up in your overworked and pained mind.

“Did you lose consciousness?” Healer Malfoy asks routinely, silently gesturing to your head, asking for permission to feel the injury.

“No,” You answer, turning your head for him to feel the bump on the side of your head.

You hear his sharp inhale as he examines the large bump there. As if seeing you hurt physically hurt him too, yet how was that possible? Thinking through your admittedly fragmented memories, you cannot find a whisper of what the blonde haired man could have looked like younger. Something niggled in the back of your mind, a feeling, a hunch. You didn’t know what, but it got stronger every time you met the grey eyes of the handsome Healer Malfoy.

“This is going to sound odd but go with me on it please?” You say, voice lilting into a question at the end. The idea of not giving this man in front of you a choice simply abhorrent to you.

Healer Malfoy smiles: it’s polite and doesn’t reach his eyes. He takes a step back from you, needing the distance but also done with the examination of your injury. “Okay, I’ll go with it,” He states warily.

Your hands clench into fists; overcome with the urge to try and coax a smile out of him. “I don’t know how else to say it. Do we know each other? You feel familiar to me, as if I know you from somewhere.”

Whatever smile was on Healer Malfoy’s face falls the instant the words leave your mouth. His entire demeanour changes – shoulders stiff, hands gripping your chart so tight it could snap in half. Unclenching his jaw, Healer Malfoy grits out, “No. We haven’t met before.”

“Are you sure?” You press, deciding desperately that you needed to know the man standing in front of you.

“Very sure,” He murmurs, scribbling your discharge notes and handing them to you. “I would remember you if we had met before.”

The blank confession leaves you speechless. Blinking in what could only be described as shock, you take the outstretched papers.

“Your prescription is there too. You show no major signs of a concussion, just rest for tonight at least and watch out for anymore footballs,” Healer Malfoy starts, “Should you have any more problems, you know where to find us.”

Taking the dismissal for what it was, you hurriedly grab your bag from the gurney and leave the exam room, taking extra care to hide the dejected look on your face as you pass the handsome healer.

Draco watches you go. You all but sprint out of the hospital, almost desperate in your escape to get away from him and his short words.

The threat has been gone for years; vanquished not too long after the night Draco had taken your memories, after the night that continues to haunt his nightmares.

Draco Malfoy had faced the Dark Lord and lived – he has stared death in its sallow face and was not the first to look away. Yet, Draco was ever more terrified of what you would do should your memories ever return. Your rage was entirely more terrifying than staring into the soulless eyes of the man his parents so blindly followed.

Draco releases a breath as he spies your figure finally leaving the hospital. The released breath does nothing to loosen the tightness in his chest; the tightness that had been there since that fateful night in the astronomy tower.

He’s had this argument with himself countless times, always the same words and the same fight. His own justification for why he did what he did; why he took your memories of your relationship and sent you away. Deep down, Draco knows that he should have communicated better. He knows that he should have sat you down and explained to you his worries and his fears. However, at barely seventeen years old, Draco was just getting used to the idea of love. He knew what was coming; he knew that there were dark times ahead and he was unfortunately aware of how you could be used against him should the time come.

He had a decision to make, so he did. Thinking back on it now, it had almost killed him. He had never experienced a pain like it. Draco had been hit with the Sectumsempra curse and the pain that followed was nothing compared to the pain he felt when erasing your memories.  

Draco turns away from the door. You’ve disappeared around the corner; your head bowed, and shoulders hunched. He has no reason to watch you now. He turns away from the door, wondering whether it was fate that had brought you back into his life after such an absence.

An absence he caused.

-------

You return to work the day after; feeling fine enough to stand in front of your class and deliver your lessons of literacy and maths but also of spellcasting and magical control for infants. You followed your lesson plans to the letter; resolutely refusing to stray from them should they let your mind wander to the handsome healer and his cold words.

The healer continues to play on your mind for the rest of the week: at work, at home. You would go over the brief conversation you had with him; wondering at which point his demeanour changed, that he became closed off and cold. He hadn’t been welcoming from the beginning, but by the end of it he had downright cold. It should have warned you off; it should have been warning enough to keep your distance and to do your best to ensure you never needed to return to the emergency room, yet there was something about him. There was something hidden within his grey eyes, a dark secret ravaging him from the inside out and you felt desperate to know what it was.

-------

As much as you adore your vocation, as much as you love coming into work and greeting the children with a smile, there was something sweet about sending them home to their parents. A sweet relief that loosens the weight on your chest somewhat.

A shock of blonde hair has you turning back to the school gates. Your breath catches in your throat as you recognise the handsome face of the healer that had treated you only a week ago. His face not one you felt like you could forget.

“Healer Malfoy?” You call out, confused at his presence.

He smiles bashfully, “Draco, please.”

“Draco,” You greet. “Do you often make home visits?” You tease, a smile crossing your face.

“Technically, I’m at your place of work so this would be a work visit,” Draco comments, laughing lightly, seeming to be in a much better mood than the last time you had met him.

Your smile grows larger at the sound of his laughter. “Okay… do you often make work visits?”

He shakes his head, “No. I do not.”

“Why are you here?”

“Two reasons.”

“And they are.”

“One, and one I thought of just now – I wanted to apologise for my behaviour at the hospital the other day, I was rude, and it was out of line so I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for. I doubt that you get asked by many of your patients whether you know them.”

Draco smiles, “You’re right, I don’t, but nevertheless, I shouldn’t have been so rude, and I apologise.”

“Then I accept your apology, only if you accept mine.”

He goes to argue but stops himself at the last possible moment. You meet his gaze head on, watching the emotions pile up there. There’s something lingering in his grey eyes; something deeper as if he has more to apologise for but he isn’t ready to confess to what or why he even needs to say more.

“What was your second reason for being here?” You question, curiosity piqued but also wanting to move the conversation on, unable to look into his grey eyes any long for the fear that your heart may burst out of your chest.

Draco smiles, “I’m picking up my godson.”

“Your godson? Do I know who he is?”

“You might. Tobias Dawsey?”

Recognition flashes across your face as you picture the small brunette in your mind’s eye. “I do know him! I taught him last year,” You all but shout, “He’s your godson?”

Draco nods, “He is. I’ve worked with his mother from my very first day at St. Mungo’s, she asked me to be godfather when she found out she was pregnant with him.”

His words warm your heart; the care he has for his godson obvious in his voice. You go to say more, to try and coax more information out of him. Your need to know him almost choking you with its intensity, but for the life in you, you couldn’t figure out why you needed to know him. You move to speak, but you’re interrupted by the excited crow of a young child.

“Uncle Draco!” Tobias shouts, running up to his uncle on his little legs, his bookbag banging against them with every step.

“Hey kiddo,” Draco greets, picking up the child making grabby arms for him.

“Do you know Miss (Y/L/N)?”

Draco nods. “Miss (Y/L/N) came into work the other week,” He states, thankfully not exaggerating further.

Tobias frowns, turning his attention to you, concerned about his favourite teacher, “Are you okay though?”

You smile at the young brunette, “I’m all better. Your Uncle Draco fixed me up.”

Tobias nods seriously, “He’s the best Healer ever.”

You laugh; the love Tobias has for his godfather so clear within his voice, it only warms your heart further. “I have no doubt in that, Tobias. Off you go anyway, I wouldn’t want to keep you from getting home.”

Tobias and Draco wave at you as they leave the school grounds. The smile on your face doesn’t fade as you watch them walk away, the young boy chattering the ear off his devoted uncle.

Deep down, where you would only admit to yourself and no-one else, you hoped that you would get to see the handsome blonde healer again.

-------

Over the following weeks you spy Draco’s presence more by the school gates. Tobias clearly adores him, sprinting into his uncle’s arms the moment he sees him waiting for him. Crossing your arms across your chest, you comment, “You must be a very devoted godfather to volunteer to pick up Tobias this often.”

Draco shrugs nonchalantly as if the task of reorganising his shifts was nothing of a chore, “I enjoy spending time with him and…”

“And?”

Draco ducks his head, feeling the familiar heat of blush creep up his neck, “I like talking to you.”

He feels like it’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say. If he had an ounce of human decency within him, he would turn away from you the moment Tobias arrives. He would walk away from you, never to come back into your life again. What he did all those years ago was unforgivable despite having your permission. Draco knows he shouldn’t be back in your life, but now that he had seen you once or twice, he had to see you more.

He felt like an addict. He couldn’t leave you alone. Draco didn’t want to if he was honest with himself especially when you grin at him so widely his heart pounds in his chest.

You duck your head, your hair hiding your face. “I like talking to you too even if it is only at the school gate,” You shyly admit.

“Then we should change that,” Draco stutters out before he backs down. He wants to kick himself; he should turn away from you now and leave you alone for good, but that one selfish part of him that powers his heart tells him to stay put.

If possible, your smile grows larger, “Then we should change that.”

------

The friendship feels so natural once it starts; once the both of you get past the initial awkwardness that seemed to loiter from Draco’s cold words earlier in the year. It started with longer conversations at the school gate, but then he would come with Tobias’ mother and wait for you as Tobias would reluctantly leave with his mother. From there, it grew into a timid friendship that slowly grew more surer of itself as you invited Draco out for food or to museums or to spend the weekend with you, walking around the city when he wasn’t working.

However, as the friendship became more solid, you could not ignore the way your heart sped up with every smile and every laugh. You could not ignore the way your face heated each time he winked at you; a private joke shared between you. It didn’t feel like a passing fancy. It felt like something deeper, as if the feelings had been there before and had been dormant until now. You felt as if you were always meant to feel this way about Draco – the feelings tugging on memories you weren’t even sure were yours. Flashes of blonde hair and the powerful scent of jasmine all tied in with late nights in a tower you could barely recognise. Draco made you feel like the only person in the world; he was supportive and kind and funny. He was everything you could want and more – how could you not fall for him?

There was still the remaining secret though. It haunted him; his eyes clouded over whenever it was on his mind as if he was returning to the very memory itself. He would return shier, unsure of himself as if the friendship he had forged with you was about to implode and leave him shattered once more.

You ask him about it once. The two of you sat on your couch; you introducing Draco the wonders of muggle films and showing him your favourites when you catch him zone out. Your finger reaches out, pokes his cheek. “Where did you just go?” You question, a smile in your voice.

Draco reaches out, grabbing your finger, “Nowhere of importance.”

You frown, pulling your finger out of his grip, “You do that a lot.”

“Do what a lot?”

“Disappear on me. It’s like you have something big to tell me, but you just aren’t ready yet.”

Draco feels certain his heart stops in his chest. He tries to laugh but it comes out strangled; choked by the worry creeping up from his gut. Draco opens his mouth to reply but you beat him to it. “I’m not saying you have to tell me what it is now,” You start, “I just want you to know that I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

Draco closes his eyes, rests his head against the back of your couch. You had so graciously opened your home to him, opened your life and offered friendship to him, and he felt awful. As he should, he thinks to himself. He had taken memories of importance from you, and here you sat, unaware of the crime and sitting with the criminal himself.

It felt like there was a countdown ticking over his head. It felt like he only had a certain amount of time until he had to come clean and he had to tell you about that night in the astronomy tower.

Yet for all that was in him, for all that created his moral compass, he couldn’t bring himself to tell you and ruin whatever was blossoming between the two of you. Draco supposes he is a coward. He probably is, he tells himself, but he cannot bring himself to care about his cowardice when you smile at him like he holds the sun and stars for you.

Does he regret that night? With everything within him. Would he do it again knowing the outcome? Of course he would. He would sacrifice himself  and his happiness a thousand times over to ensure your safety.

---------

Draco tells himself he’ll confess the next time he sees you which is both all too soon and not soon enough. His love for you had never faded; he hadn’t been the one to forget the short relationship you had. The intensity that accompanied teenage love and infatuation had never left the forefront of his mind. After all, how could they? Now that you were back in his life, he felt the teenager again – utterly drawn to you and unwilling to let you go.

He confesses late on a Tuesday night. The shift at St. Mungo’s had been long and arduous, but he got through it with the single thought of you. He knew that at the end of it, he would get to knock on your door. He only hoped that you wouldn’t turn him away once you found out the truth. Your hatred of him could never rival the hatred he feels for himself, but he finds himself hoping for your forgiveness.

“I have to tell you something,” Draco states, plain and simple.

You chew on the inside of your cheek before answering, “You can tell me anything.”

“You had a memory charm used on you in Sixth Year, didn’t you?”

“How did you know that?” You demand. Despite the friendship grown between the both of you, you hadn’t told him that. You had given him bits and pieces, alluded to the fact that there were gaps in your memories, but you hadn’t told him the truth. Just like he hadn’t told you what made him disappear inside his mind like he so often does.

“I took your memories. It was me.” Draco confesses, his voice clear in the quiet room.

“What?” You shout, anger shooting through you.

“I took your memories. I used a memory charm on you in the middle of Sixth Year when things started to take a turn for the worst.”

“What gave you the right?” You cry, tears building out of upset and anger.

“You did,” Draco states plainly, “You didn’t want to at first, but you came round to my way of thinking when you saw how bad things were getting at home.”

“Why would I agree to that?”

“Because once upon a time, you were in love with me.”

You shake your head, pacing back and forth in your living room, trying to get to grips with the piles of information only just dumped on you. Draco watches you pace; his grey eyes following each step intently as you work through everything in your head.

Worry shines bright in his eyes when you stop pacing. He goes to take a step towards you, but you step back. The small space between you feels like a great chasm, a gaping void that Draco is desperate to fill, to patch up.

“Tell me everything,” You state before adding on, “Please.”

Draco releases a shuddering breath before starting: “We were friends through school. I don’t remember how the friendship started, but it did and for years we were really good, close friends. Then along the way, the friendship changed. We fell in love, or whatever it is at sixteen/seventeen years old. We had less than a year together when things started to change; when whisperings of the Dark Lord’s return were strengthened by continued attacks on the Ministry.

“You argued with me for hours,” Draco pauses, laughing as he remembers what you clearly couldn’t, “I had never seen you so angry or so stubborn. You were adamant, you didn’t want to but then you went quiet and I knew you saw what I had seen. You agreed after a minutes silence; told me yes even though it broke the both of us to do so.

Draco’s grey eyes are lined with unshed tears as he murmurs, “I couldn’t let them have you. My family was working with the darkest wizard there had ever been in the last century, if he had gotten a whiff of what you meant to me, you would be used in ways that not even I could imagine. My aunt would have taken great pleasure in ensuring that you would be a bargaining chip for me to fulfil whatever mission they handed me. That was something I couldn’t allow.

“It broke me to do it. To watch your eyes go blank as the memories of what we shared disappeared. Selfishly, I asked you to wait for me, not knowing that they would be tied to you afterwards. I just… I couldn’t let you go. As a teenager and an adult. There’s no real excuse for what I did, but know it was out of love for you that I did it.”

Draco falls silent. His heavy words adding to the growing tension in the room. Draco’s mind runs a thousand miles a minute; his eyes don’t leave you as he watches you work through every emotion coursing through your body. He sees the anger, the sadness, the frustration, but he also sees the relief at having an answer for those gaps that you had only recently confessed to him.

You break the loaded silence, “I forgot the relationship, but on some level I don’t think I ever forgot you.”

“What?” Draco asks, the air rushing out of him in one fell swoop.

A smile creeps across your face; relishing somewhat at having caught him off-guard. “I have glimpses of what I always assumed was a past life. The memories were always fuzzy around the edges, but they were clear enough for me to catch glimpses of blonde hair or to spy the pattern of a ring much like the one on your signet ring.”

Draco remains silent; he doesn’t dare talk; he doesn’t dare breathe. Nothing prepares him for your next words.

“I waited for you… like you asked.”

Those words. Those foolish words that he had absolutely no right to whisper to you. Draco had been so overwhelmed in that moment, yet he couldn’t ignore the small kernel of hope that despite the strength of the memory charm, a part of you would remember him and would wait for him.

But you had.

You had waited for him. You barely knew who he was, but you had waited for him, hoping that one day he would cross your path.

“Fuck,” Draco whispers, running a hand through his growing hair, starting to pace the length of your living room.

“When I woke after my memories had been taken, I clearly didn’t remember a single thing, but I had the echoes of three words ringing in my ears. A beg, a plea of someone – a boy asking for me to wait for them. I didn’t know completely who I was waiting for, I didn’t know it was you until I saw you at the hospital that first time and then again so soon after leaving. My memories haven’t returned, and I doubt they will, but I just know that it was you who I was waiting for.”

Draco falls silent, letting your words fall over him and sink into his skin, settling deep within his bones.

Years. It had been years since that night in the astronomy tower where he took your memories. It had been years since he felt the longing and love; there had been no-one lese and there would be no-one else. For Draco, there was only ever you… and you had waited.

You had waited for him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Draco repeats, hands continuing to run through his hair in frustration as he paces the room. He faces you; grey eyes wild with emotion, “How are you not angry with me?”

“I am angry with you! I’m furious with you, Draco! You took my memories, but if you say I agreed to it, I’m just as angry with myself for allowing myself to forget you.”

“What do we do?” He asks, a hand running down his face as he tries to figure out the next step.

“Forgiveness,” You state simply, “We try to move on.”

Draco’s hands drop limply at his side as he gasps, “Forgiveness?”

“What happened after you erased my memories, Draco?”

“There was a war. I was on the wrong side,” is all he says. He isn’t ready to go into too much detail. That’s another story for another day.

“Was that what you were trying to protect me from? The wrong side?”

Draco nods wordlessly. He saw things going south so quickly but his parents hadn’t. They pushed and they pushed; inducting him into the same pureblood fanaticism they relished.  “How can you even think of forgiving me? I took your memories. I stole them from you, and you won’t ever get them back,” He argues, wanting to know whether you truly understood what you were doing by forgiving him.

“Let me ask you something, Draco.”

“What?”

“Do you plan on leaving again?”

He shakes his head immediately. He doesn’t think he could leave you even if he tried.

You shrug your shoulders, “That’s how I can think of forgiving you.”

“I don’t understand,” He whispers; his own self-hatred confused by your words.

“The wizarding war was about to descend into war. We were confused, scared teenagers who didn’t see another option. You asked my permission, Draco, and I granted it clearly.”

“But-”

You cut him off, “No buts. I said yes. I gave permission and we cannot change the past, Draco but we can control our future. It’s going to require work on both sides, but you can tell me about what I’m missing and at the same time we can forge something new.”

“What do you mean?”

You smile shyly, taking that all important step towards him, “Make some new memories with me, Draco.”

*****

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @theweasleysredhair @harrypotter289 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @figlia--della--luna @idont-knowrn @liilyevanss @big-galaxy-chaos @black-lake-confessions @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife @levylovegood @mytreec @haphazardhufflepuff @teheharrypotter @chaoticgirl04 @accio-rogers @starlightweasley @dreaming-about-fanfictions @lestersglitterglue @msmimimerton @obx-beach @izzytheninja @slytherinprincess03 @bbeauttyybbx @breadqueen95 @acciotwinz @kashishwrites @slytherinsunrise @kylosleftbuttcheek @remmyswritings @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon @ria-rests-here @superbturtlemakerathlete @inglourious-imagines @ithilwen-lionheart @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @ilovejjmaybank

Draco Malfoy taglist: @the--queen-of-hell @obxmxybxnk @obx-beach @sycathorn-slush @dracomalfoyswifey​ @kashishwrites​ @justmesadgirl​ @detroitobsessed​ @reaganwonders​ @just-a-belgian-girl​ @aspiringsloth20​ @lahoete​ @minty-malfoy​ @fallinallinmendes​ @ravenclawbitch426​ @ochrythum​ @beiahadid​ @gryffindors-weasley​

[kiapet2]

where the two ends meet

The newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman knows two things:

First, that his brother is dead.

And second, that it is his fault.

But when Roman journeys into the witch’s forest on a quest of penitence, he discovers that there is more to the story than he could have known. What he finds there may be his salvation— or his ruin.

Takes place after @whenisitenoughtrees‘s fic thrice for another day. Can also be read on its own.

Pairings: Platonic Creativitwins, Background Intrulogical

Word Count: 4,029

Warnings: death mention, grief/mourning, blood and injury, abusive parents

AO3 Link

Nearly a month after his family buries an empty coffin, the newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman slips out from his castle room and walks alone into the forest.

Unlike past evenings, Roman does not turn into the stretch of woods closest to the castle. At this point, he could likely name every rock and tree and still not find what he’s looking for. Instead, he walks in a straight line, heading deeper and deeper into the woods.

There is said to be a witch at the center of this forest, one who preys on the surrounding villages and whom no man should approach lest he meet his end. Roman had once thought to adventure into the woods to slay such a foul creature, but his intention tonight is far different. He has need of help only a wielder of magic can provide.

And if the venture is to end in his death, so be it.

...

Roman hasn’t been walking for long when he becomes aware of someone following him. The feeling comes and goes— a tingling on the back of his neck, like he’s being watched— but as Roman scans the woods around him, he cannot detect any signs of unusual activity.

The third time he feels the presence, Roman comes to a sudden halt and places a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Show yourself, whoever you are!” he calls, then scans the trees around him for any sign of a response.

“Why have you entered my woods?” an irritated voice says from somewhere behind him.

Roman whirls around and draws his sword in a single, fluid motion.

The person standing behind him raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Roman takes the man in: dark hair, a sharp-featured tan face, and piercing dark blue eyes that seem to peer straight to Roman’s core through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Despite the man’s simple clothing, Roman knows with a deep certainty that this is the witch.

Ignoring all his instincts, Roman sheaves his sword and holds out his empty hands in a gesture of peace.

“I have been searching for you,” he says. “I have a request to make of you, and am prepared to reward you well.”

“I don’t make a habit of dealing with royalty,” the witch says coldly.

Roman’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Yes, I know who you are, Prince Roman of Thaylar,” the witch says, “and I am surprised you would dare come here, considering your family history. You are either very brave, or very foolish.”

“Both,” Roman says, “but I mean you no harm. If you would hear me out—”

Dark blue energy forms in the witch’s hand. “I have nothing to hear from you, witch-killer. I would advise that you vacate my premises, before I am forced to take action.”

Roman swallows and takes an involuntary step back. Perhaps he should listen to the witch’s warning, abandon this fruitless quest and return to his bed.

It’s not worth it, his father had said after they found Remus’ trail leading to the forest. He couldn’t have gotten far anyways.

Roman straightens his spine and lifts his chin. He owes this to his brother— owes him so much more than this, but it’s the only thing left that Roman can do.

“I only wish to find my brother’s body,” Roman says, “So that I might bury him. Aid me in this and I will ask of you nothing more.”

The witch seems to search Roman’s face for something, his expression unreadable. Then he nods once, sharply.

“That, I can answer easily enough.”

Without another word, the witch turns on his heel and heads off into the forest. Roman hurries to catch up, biting back the urge to question where they are going. The walk lasts far longer than it feels like it should, and Roman suspects the witch is leading him around in circles so he will not be able to tell how to get into his lair. Or how to get out, some part of his mind whispers. He shoves it aside.

Finally, they reach a small clearing with a wooden cottage that looks surprisingly simple and well-kept for a witch’s lair. The witch leads Roman around the back of the house to an herb garden, stopping at a small pile of stones. For a moment Roman wonders what spell the witch intends to cast here; then the shape of the stones registers fully.

A cairn.

“I found him a little ways out from here,” the witch says. “His ribs had broken and pierced his lungs, and he’d been bleeding internally. It was a miracle he managed to make it even that far.”

Roman lowers himself to his knees and hesitantly places a hand on the upturned earth, trying to comprehend that under it is all that remains of his brother. Even now, it feels like all of this is a terrible dream, and one day he’ll wake up and Remus will be alive and driving him crazy again.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the witch says stiffly.

Roman’s chest feels tight, and he swallows past something lodged in his throat.

“He would like being buried here, by the garden,” he chokes out. “He always went on about how everyone becomes food for worms and fungus eventually. If you were to grow your strangest plants over his grave, it would have made him very happy.”

It feels wrong, to speak of his brother in the past tense.

“Might I ask what happened?”

Roman squeezes his eyes shut, holding back the tears that burn at their corners. He doesn’t deserve to cry, not over this.

“I gave him up as a witch,” he whispers. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and the words seem to grate and tear at his throat. “He trusted me with his life, and I betrayed him.”

The silence behind Roman is telling.

“Thank you,” Roman rasps, “For putting him to rest.”

He stays there, kneeling in the dirt, long after the witch has returned inside.

...

Remus cries out as he tumbles into the tower room’s wall, jarring harshly against the rough stone.

“Father,” Remus cries, “Father, wait—”

“You are no son of mine!” Father snarls, lifting Remus by the front of his shirt. “Foul demon!”

Roman’s mind screams at him to do something, to run forward and grab Remus or yell at his father to stop but instead he just stands there, frozen in horror, as in one great motion his father shoves Remus through the tower’s window and dangles him out over open air.

Time seems to slow as Father screams curse after curse in Remus’ face, as Remus clutches at the hands holding him above a dizzying drop. Remus’ gaze slides over to meet Roman’s, and for one terrible moment Roman sees in his eyes pure devastation. The agony of betrayal.

And then Father releases his hold, and Remus is gone.

Roman wakes up screaming.

He rolls over onto his side and curls up in a ball, taking harsh, gasping breaths. It takes a moment for him to register that he’s not standing in the castle tower staring in horror at the empty space where his brother used to be— the space that was right there in front of him as if Roman could have reached out and touched him but he was already gone and it was too late—

Breathe.

Roman closes his eyes and listens. In place of the screams that still ring in his head, he hears only the sound of wind swishing through trees. He reaches a hand out and feels loose dirt beneath him. He’s lying on the ground, outside. Roman opens his eyes and sees a dark sky full of stars.

Perhaps Remus is among those stars now. Would he like that? He’d probably think it was boring, to be honest. The thought brings a slight smile to Roman’s face.

Roman sits up, focusing on his breathing. It takes another moment for him to recognize where he is: the witch’s clearing, right by Remus’s... by the grave. It is dark except for the light of the moon— full, a poor omen. Roman had meant to be home by this time as the forest becomes vastly more dangerous at night, but apparently his many nights of lost sleep have finally caught up to him. There’s no use to it now; he’ll just have to wait for the light of dawn to find his way home.

Father will not be happy when Roman returns after dawn has already broken.

Roman has been much less concerned with keeping his father happy, as of late.

No, what bothers him most is why he’s been allowed to stay here at all. Considering the witch’s initial hostility to him, Roman figured admitting to turning in his own brother for using magic would result in being thrown out at best and murdered in his sleep at worst. And yet here he is, sitting in the witch’s clearing un-murdered.

Roman reaches out and touches Remus’s cairn with reverent fingers. He can’t bring himself to regret falling asleep here, dangerous though it may have been. It feels right to have slept beside his brother one last time.

“Well isn’t this sweet! Roro, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Roman freezes. He knows that voice. But— but that’s impossible—

Roman scrambles to his feet and turns, heart in his throat.

Remus stands before him, illuminated by the light of the moon. He’s clad in the clothes he died in— Roman would know, he sees them in his dreams every night— and there’s a stain of something brown on his shoulder and neckline that Roman doesn’t particularly want to identify.

Roman gapes. “Re, what— how—”

Remus’ smile is bright, but his eyes are cold. “I think you know, Roman.”

Roman feels the blood drain from his face.

They’ve all heard the legends: spirits of magic-users who roam the earth, invested with their magical power and seeking vengeance on those who wronged them. Roman’s father once taught him the proper ways to... dispose of... witches to prevent such a phenomenon from happening. It was Roman’s least favorite lesson by far.

“There it is!” Remus cheers as the comprehension dawns on Roman’s face.

Roman falls to his knees, trembling.

“Remus,” he breathes, “Remus, I—”

He breaks off, lost for words. Roman has thought about what he would say to Remus if he had the chance dozens of times, dreamed up countless scenarios where he prostrated himself and begged for forgiveness or explained himself in a way Remus would understand. Now that he’s actually here, those dreams seem childish and futile in the face of everything that’s happened.

“So funny story,” Remus says, “I’ve thought it over and someone must have told the king about me, right? But I never practiced where anyone could see, and there’s only one person I ever shared my secret with. The person I always shared everything with. Got any idea who that could be, brother?”

Roman’s stomach feels like lead, and he can’t bring himself to look Remus in the eye.

Remus laughs softly. “That’s what I thought.”

His face twists in sudden fury and he shoots forward, getting in Roman’s face and forcing him to flinch back.

“Do you know how it feels, Roman? To have every bone in your body shattered, shards of your own ribs stabbing your insides until you drown in your own blood? Do you know how it feels to lie helpless and dying on the forest floor, knowing your corpse will stay there forgotten, with you replaced without a second thought? How it feels to be betrayed by your own twin, the one person in the world you’d thought you could trust?”

“Stop!” Roman cries, clutching at his head.

“Aw, is baby Roman too sensitive for all that?” Remus croons mockingly, pacing around him. “Do we need to protect his innocent little ears from the icky details of his brother’s brutal murder?”

Tears gather in Roman’s eyes, and he struggles to keep them from falling.

“Remus, I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Then what did you want? Why did you do it, Ro? Did you want my throne that much? Or did you just hate witches more than you loved—”

“No!” Roman protests. “No, Remus, I could never hate you!”

“Then why?” Remus says, and the raw pain that fills his voice is so much worse than the anger. “Why did you tell him?”

Roman’s throat is tight and his eyes burn, but he forces the words out anyways. Remus deserves to know.

“Y-you kept hurting yourself. You’d come in bleeding and half-dead from experimenting with your magic and you wouldn’t see a doctor and, and I thought that one day you were going to kill yourself and it would be my fault for not stopping you. I thought if I— if I told Father, h-he would make you stop—”

Remus laughs bitterly. “You thought old daddy dearest, who has scores of magic users killed every year, would what— let me off with a warning?”

Roman flinches. “You’re his son! I didn’t— he was understanding before when I—”

“He was understanding of you,” Remus says. “You are his son. I’m sure he was thrilled at the chance to get rid of me.”

“I’m sorry.” The words force their way out in a whimper, and Roman’s stomach twists at their inadequacy.

“You’re sorry,” Remus says flatly.

Roman’s response catches in his throat, and instead he just bows his head, refusing to defend himself further. Nothing can make up for what he’s done.

Remus laughs suddenly, loud and manic. He snaps his fingers and mutters under his breath, and Roman is lifted into the air, a gentle pressure holding his arms against his sides with far more control than Remus ever had in life.

Remus gives him a vicious grin. “And what if I said ‘sorry’ wasn’t enough? What if I said I was going to have my vengeance, right here and right now?”

Roman’s tears finally overflow, and with them the pain that has been building ever since Remus went out that window.

“Do it,” he sobs. “Kill me.”

“What?” Remus says, sounding startled.

Roman bawls, not the pretty tears of the heroes in his books, but in wracking sobs that tear at his throat and send streams of tears and snot running down his face.

“Please, just kill me. I killed you. I killed you, and I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I killed you.” He cuts off with another sob. “Do whatever you want with me, please, I deserve it. I deserve it.”

The force holding Roman releases and he drops heavily to the ground. He curls up, chest heaving, and waits for the first blow to fall.

But the touch that falls on his arm isn’t painful; it’s soft and warm. It pulls him up and holds him tightly against a chest that is solid, breathing, beating.

Alive.

“I’m not going to kill you, Roman,” Remus says, his voice strangely choked, and Roman can feel it reverberating through his chest. “You’re my brother.”

Roman’s heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest. Remus, he’s... he... how did he—

The world spins, and Roman sees a brief flash of Remus’ worried face before everything goes dark.

...

“Roman! Roman, please!” Remus screams. He clutches at Roman’s hands where they grip his shirt, his face a mask of terror as his legs dangle over nothingness.

Roman fights desperately, screaming from deep within his mind, but his body doesn’t move.

“Why, Roman? I’m your brother!” Remus whimpers, tears gathering in his eyes.

Roman hammers at the boundaries of his mind but is helpless to stop it as his hands steadily, inexorably loosen.

Remus screams again as he slips through Roman’s fingers and falls into the darkness.

“Roman!”

“Roman! Roman, wake up!”

Roman jolts awake, his heart pounding as he gasps for breath.

“Ro? Hey, can you hear me?”

Roman blinks blearily and a face fades into focus above him. Worried red eyes, that ghastly mustache, a white streak in his hair...

“Re?” he croaks.

Remus grins. “There we are!”

“Remus,” Roman breathes. He reaches out with one shaking hand to cup Remus’s face and feels warm flesh beneath his fingers. “Are you really here? Or— or am I dead?”

Remus gives him a lopsided smile. “Takes more than getting thrown out of a tower and smashing my bones to smithereens to kill me!”

Roman surges upwards, wrapping his arms around his brother and burying his face in his shoulder.

“Hey, come on,” Remus says as Roman begins to shake, his tears wetting Remus’ shirt. “You’re going to dry yourself up if you keep crying this much. Just shrivel up like a human raisin until you end up a dried-out mummy and someone finds you like a thousand years later and wonders what the hell happened.”

The thought is so gross and ridiculous and Remus that Roman finds himself laughing through his tears.

“Gods above, I missed you.”

Composing himself, Roman pulls back and looks Remus over. He’s wearing simple, weathered clothing, his hair is an absolute mess and there are dark bags under his eyes. He’s the most beautiful thing Roman has ever seen.

“How?” Roman says, his voice cracking with emotion. “I thought you were— that I’d— How are you even here right now?”

“I healed a bit and then dragged myself here,” Remus says. “Logan did the rest.”

Remus looks back over his shoulder with a surprisingly soft smile, and for the first time since waking Roman tears his gaze away from his brother’s face to look at where they are. Roman is sitting on a cot in a simple wooden room, bare except for a small table and worn bookshelves lining one wall. The witch’s house, Roman assumes. The witch himself is standing stiffly a little ways behind Remus, his face transitioning from warm concern to dark displeasure as it moves from Remus to Roman.

“You lied to me,” Roman says. “You knew he was alive all along”.

“Technically, I never spoke a falsehood,” the witch— Logan— says coolly. “I did find Remus with the injuries I described. I merely was able to heal them, if barely.”

“We had to be careful,” Remus says. “I didn’t know, if...”

If Roman felt any real remorse for what he’d done. If he would turn Remus in again, once he found him.

Roman rises from the cot, causing Logan to dart forward in alarm. But Roman just lowers himself to one knee, bowing his head and placing a hand over his heart.

“I swear to you on my life, I never meant to harm you in any way,” Roman says. “I have regretted what I've done every day, every moment, since we parted.”

“Yeah, I got that from the whole bursting-into-tears-and-telling-me-to-kill-you thing,” Remus says. “Which was dramatic even for you, by the way.”

“People will often show their true selves during states of heightened emotion,” Logan says, adjusting his glasses. “The ruse was a logical course of action to discern your intentions.”

“And also fun!” Remus says. “You should have seen your face, Ro, it was so white! I make a pretty scary ghost.”

“You were terrifying,” Roman says honestly, which makes Remus beam.

Still on one knee, Roman turns to address Logan. “And thank you, my good witch, for saving his life. I am forever in your debt.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Logan says sharply. That and his icy glare make it quite clear that he is not as forgiving as Remus. Roman winces internally; this whole debacle is not the best first impression to make to a sibling’s lover.

And that’s what Logan is, or at least what Remus wants him to be— it’s written all over his brother’s face. Before... before, Roman would have teased Remus about it, and then Remus would probably have made some sort of lewd comment that would make Roman sputter and shove at him. They’re not quite at that point now, he thinks. Not yet.

Roman inclines his head to the witch. “You have my gratitude all the same.”

“Look at us, all making up and being friends!” Remus cheers, but Roman knows him well enough to see the lingering discomfort in the slant of his shoulders and curve of his smile. Remus isn’t as okay as he’s pretending to be.

Roman rises and clasps Remus’ hand in his own.

“Remus, I have done you a grave disservice. While I cannot take back the pain I have caused you, I can offer you back the crown. If you wish it, I will give you my blade and the clothes off my back so that you may return to the castle in my stead and reclaim your birthright under my name.”

Remus stares at him for a moment, then throws back his head and cackles. Something deep in Roman’s chest loosens at the sound; he hadn’t realized how much he missed Remus’ laugh.

“Like hell am I going back to that burning trash heap!” Remus says. “Look, getting thrown out a window sucked major ass, but finding this—” he gestures to the house around him— “is probably the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Behind Remus, Logan’s face turns bright red. Well that answers that, then.

Remus takes Roman’s other hand, meeting his eyes. “If you really want to make this up to me, go back. Become king. And change things.”

Roman bows his head once more. “I do not deserve this second chance, brother,” he whispers.

His hands tighten on Remus’s and he meets his twin’s gaze again, determined. “But I will do as you ask. I swear it, with every inch of my being: I will make things right.”

Remus shouldn’t trust Roman with something this important, not after Roman made it so clear what his word is worth. And yet, Remus nods as if satisfied and steps back.

“It is past sunrise,” Logan says. “I will not have you drawing search parties into this forest when the castle discovers you are gone.”

“I’d best be off then,” Roman says, knowing a dismissal when he hears one.

“I’ll walk you back!” Remus says.

“Absolutely not,” Logan snaps. “I will not allow you to walk that sort of distance while you are still on the mend.”

“It’s been a month!”

“And you were bedridden for weeks!”

“Logan can show me out,” Roman says firmly. “The last thing I want is you hurting yourself more over me.”

Remus’ eyes go watery. “But we just found each other again.”

Roman pulls him into another hug. “I will return, as long as you will have me.”

Remus nods into Roman’s shoulder, tightening his arms around him. They stay like that for a few moments more before they reluctantly part.

“Right, then,” Roman says. “Goodbye, for now.”

“Goodbye,” Remus says, unusually subdued.

Logan shows Roman to the door, and together they begin to walk across the clearing to the trees.

“You should know,” Logan says, “that if you break his trust again or hurt him in any way, all the guards in the castle will not be enough to stop me from killing you.”

Roman laughs heartily at that.

“I knew I liked you, Specs!” he says, slapping Logan on the back. “I’m glad Remus has someone like you looking out for him.”

Logan blinks. “Right, then. Good.”

“Wait!”

Roman looks back to see Remus standing in the house’s doorway. He looks... concerned?

“I know it’s going to take some time to be okay with what happened,” Remus says, “For both of us. But you weren’t the person who threw me off that tower. The king was. Just... remember that, okay? Remember that and come back.”

Roman nods mutedly, and the door closes.

“Right,” he says, clearing a mysterious obstruction from his throat, “let’s go then.”

With that, Roman turns and walks into the woods, headed back to the castle. Back to the duty he promised Remus he would fulfill.

And this promise, Roman intends to keep.

[cutegirlmayra]

Here's a fun AU idea. I was thinking instead of tarot card reading Amy has vivid visions of the future. However whenever she gets a good vision dizzy spell when she gets a bad vision terrible sometimes debilitating headaches and she doesn't control what she sees. This makes her a person of interest to Eggman, G.U.N., and other world governments so they constantly try to capture her and use her power for their own gain. If she tries to force a vision it hurts her. Sonic is very protective of Amy

*feels tired today, just re-reading prompts to get ideas -sometimes new- or get excited about who’s next in line*

Thinking in my head, ‘I’m just not feeling well today, but I do have some ideas.’ The very next thought to encourage me, ‘You write your best when you’re tired.’

Me, directly after that thought, ‘...Darn it, you’re right.’ *proceeds to write all and every emotion in vivid detail* (lololol)

I know myself too well.

PROMPTS ARE ON SHUTDOWN. No, you cannot beg nicely for me to take your prompt until they are open again, sorry love, them’s the rules. BI

Slightly gonna alter your request for the benefit of something I think may be a stronger storyline, I hope you still enjoy it, Precious Anon! \(:D)/

Prompt:

There was a rift in the chasm of space time, an unfathomable amount of power was being expelled and pulled, creating real and alternative timelines.

In order for Sonic and the gang to face these anomalies, Silver suggested that someone with the potential of mental abilities and the like should try and connect with the magnetizing force that keeps tugging and shoving on time, rewriting it and creating all these alternative realities continuously. Destroying and recreating decisions and parallel worlds would have a chaotic effect on the universe, but no one seemed to be able to connect to the unseen force, and Eggman didn’t seem to be anywhere in sight either.

Everyone was troubled... there was this silent fear that we’d be rewritten in seconds, that we’d cease to be who we really were in this very moment.

I stood by as my friends talked heatedly about their options, they each had tried but none had succeeded in connecting to that ‘force’.

I always felt I had magical properties to myself, if we could just connect to the dimension where this force started from, we may be able to help on our end.

I fidgeted, knowing Silver and Sonic were butting heads since Silver’s main priority was the future, while Sonic’s was the here and now.

Some found hope in this rewritten time, making Shadow and Eggman actually allies once again... Shadow hoping the past could be changed, and Eggman for his obvious reasons of defeating Sonic and taking over the world.

Both were absent and nowhere to be found.

As they continued to grow more and more harsh in how they spoke with one another, I felt the longing to end the conflict, and looked over to the Master Emerald.

It was the only thing that wasn’t being rewritten, some clue to connecting to the other dimensions...

Everyone had called out to it but nothing was working. I felt something swirl in me like an engine, seeing my beloved Sonic turning so angry and Silver ignoring him sent me into a rage myself, but I kept my lips in a fine line and held my fury back.

‘Friends shouldn’t talk to each other like this, or get in each other’s faces with such heavy glares...’ I knew in my heart that if I joined in, I wouldn’t part the two, but only get caught in their crossfire of differing ideals.

Both were stubborn, and both weren’t looking at the bigger picture.

Without a way to communicate with the alternative timelines, our decisions wouldn’t help us get any further to contacting the other dimension, and not just that... but we wouldn’t progress at all. We’d just be going around in circles...

“You can’t seriously think that sitting around waiting for some magical tether from the other dimensions is going to get us out of this time loop!” Sonic’s voice was full of presence and experience, he was a well-traveled hero, and knew the best options to weigh in moments like these... but Silver continued to fight back.

“If we advance unknowingly and without caution into the stream of time, we could easily be just as trapped in it’s nonsensical clutches as we were before! For some reason, the Master Emerald’s location is the only place in time where the effects of the rewritten world aren’t effected! If we give up this position, no one might be able to tell us what’s going on!” Silver swung an arm out, stepping up and going toe to toe with Sonic, refusing to back down from the argument. “I know you think charging into the time-stream might give us answers, but it’s a risk that holds so many unlimited possibilities that it’s fruitless to venture in! You’d just be trapped and the rest of us possibly waiting all eternity for you to choose the right path to even get out to another dimension!”

That part we knew was sound and right, that unless you pick the right choice every time, the time vortex would just pull you somewhere else. Without knowing the other dimension’s choices, we’d never be able to coordinate this... even Tails said something along the lines of a uniformed pathway that could get them all to the center of this strange force...

Otherwise, we’d be trapped... forever.

“You’re leaving us as sitting ducks to whatever’s happening! It’s going to put us all in danger!” Sonic was beyond listening to reason, however. My darling could never just sit by while we all feared for our lives and the world’s future.

The two stood so close, it looked as though their foreheads would touch, and I could tell Sonic was about to make a stand so great that Silver would be forced to let him go...

I couldn’t stand the thought of losing Sonic in a time-loop forever. In being stuck on Angel Island’s alter for the rest of eternity till someone figured out the correct choices...

I felt my whole being flood with tingles and expectations, with exactly what I was going to do and how my very soul wouldn’t allow me to watch as everyone would lose themselves diving into a puzzle that had no way of being solved without aid.

That was the last straw for me. Seeing Sonic pull himself away from Silver and walk over to the Master Emerald, “I’m done talking. Taking action is the only way we can succeed against this catastrophe.” He spoke so manner-of-factly... he was going to touch the Master Emerald and dive into the vortex... wasn’t he?

“No...” I held my hand out, seeing the Chaos Emeralds all glow as he was fusing with them to create the miracle known as Super Sonic... but I couldn’t- I couldn’t banish Sonic to an eternity of never-ending wandering through an unescapable maze!!!

“Soonniiccc!!!” I charged forward, making him flinch and pause a moment as he turned to look back at me, but by then, I had already reached forward and interfered with the Chaos Emeralds giving him power.

Instead of him turning Super, I felt my hand touch the Master Emerald, and all time seemed to freeze. I gripped the Master Emerald with my arms, widening the span of how far my arms could reach, and shook my head against it. “I can’t let everyone panic and waste away our precious friendships over this... this... whatever it is! Please, Master Emerald! Do I have the potential to set things right!?” I dipped my head down as the power overwhelmed me. Time slowly began again, as I was moving at normal speed, everyone around me started to move as though slowed considerably.

“Is this..?” I looked up to see Sonic’s hand slowly reaching for me, and his surprised expression at stopping him. “Chaos’s... power?”

I was shot back as my eye-sockets glowed a bright green, and through some vision or other, saw what looked like my younger self, also getting driven from the Master Emerald.

The original world... the first universe... Somehow, by the two of us acting and making a decision in unison, or maybe she had made it previously... I wasn’t sure, we were able to finally find a bond and connect in some magical way to where I could see that dimensions choices.

I felt my bare back slam against the graveled dirt of Angel Island and skid aggressively to a halt as it scratched my back and left me feeling weak.

Time returned to normal, I guess? As I heard my friends cry out my name and rush me.

I could numbly feel hands on me, shaking me as my eyes struggled to lift up, and were just waving open slightly.

My head hurt, I was dizzy and couldn’t see anything at first clearly. It was all a blur, before Silver’s and Sonic’s voices rang out the most.

“What happened!?” Sonic’s voice was full of authority, as though ready to take action if something need be done.

“She... I’m not sure, but the Master Emerald fused it’s time capabilities with her. You saw it, right? Her whole body was vibrating so quickly... like....” Silver was interrupted by Tails just then.

“Like she was merged into all the different dimensions... she was moving faster than the time strain!” Tails’s excitement meant only one thing...

“So... she had the potential then, out of all of us, to carry the connection.” Silver’s reserved tone must have meant that he felt validated in what he was so adamantly defending earlier. “Now that she can guide us through the time vortex, we might be able to reverse whatever’s happening, and return time and space to normal again.”

Sonic looked over at Silver, then down towards me as I still felt my breathing was low and drained, I couldn’t speak no matter how much my lips parted to try. It was like I was still adjusting to being in one dimension again, instead of flying through to see my other self’s choices.

“It didn’t need to come to this point...” Sonic spoke gravely, but it seemed to trigger and enrage Silver as he shot his head to look back at him, then stood up, defiantly.

“If you hadn’t acted the way you did, we may not have gotten this path. We have a real way to succeed and get through this now, Sonic! Why are you still so against me!?” He tightened his fists and thrust them forward, showing how much he was holding back his mixed emotions...

He was somewhat humble enough to admit that if Sonic didn’t rebel against him, that I wouldn’t have done what I did... but on the other hand, it still seemed like Sonic was opposed.

“I just meant that it didn’t need to be this way.” Sonic shook his head to Silver, remaining somewhat collected from his earlier clenched jaw demeanor. He put what felt like the warmest touch out of everyone’s onto my arm, and looked back to me, “It didn’t need to be so fueled...”

Somehow... I knew he was speaking to me.

He must have meant he wished it wasn’t so emotional to where I was put in a rough spot, choosing between losing the love of my life or sacrificing myself into the time vortex... I would have jumped, if Sonic jumped too... at least then, we could be trapped together. He wouldn’t have had to be alone in that endless maze...

Well, maybe he wouldn’t have thought those exact wordings of it, but... it did help to think he may have seen it as an act of true love.

I gained strength from his hand resting on my arm, and slowly began to wobble and lean myself up.

Everyone saw my arms gain strength again and push from under me, and immediately swarmed me again to help, perhaps unaware if I was conscious enough to have heard their discussion.

They called out to me, and I nodded, showing I was here and alert, but drained somewhat.

The pounding in my head subsided and I gripped it, “I... I saw her.” I stated, “I saw the original dimension this all happened in... I think I can do it again.”

Sadly, I couldn’t just ‘summon’ the answers. Something had to trigger it, which began another frustration as we all held one another’s hands and jumped into the void.

The first rewritten stories were perplexing. A shadowy figure that swarmed with dark matter looked strangely in the silhouette of Eggman, but instead of targeting Sonic like usual, he kept coming after me.

“U-wah!!” I leaped out of one of his dark matter missiles as everyone was getting scattered from me, as though this figure didn’t want me to receive any help.

“Amy!” Sonic called out, darting from the after-effects of the missiles, for when they landed and exploded, a space of black, glittering galaxy expanded out in a small radius and tried to suck us into another story to lose our progression.

He rolled and finally slid under the shadowy Eggman, confusing him as he pulled up on his Eggmobile and Sonic round-house kicked him away from me.

He reached to grab me, and as I went to reach for him as well, my eyes glowed again the color of the Master Emerald and I saw the other dimensional me.

She was young and looked like my younger years of first meeting Sonic. Sonic was younger too, and reached out in the same way Sonic was doing now. Was this... the corresponding choice?

Could I only see these moments when something unified happened? Were we making the same choices our other selves were or are making right this second?

I couldn’t tell, but I could see that after that Sonic and little me took the other’s hands, she summoned her hammer and spun to whack a younger looking Eggman away and send him flying, then everyone gathered and they took the right route... where it looked like the world was splitting apart and floating rapidly in a spinning and drifting away appearance.

When I came back, my head hurt and I looked to see that while unconscious, my friends were defending me from the shadowy figure of the Eggman lookalike.

“W-we have to take the right path!” I shouted out, my head pounding and debilitating me from summoning my hammer.

I had to though, if I didn’t, time would rewrite and we’d have to start with a new scenario and from scratch. Everyone was depending on me to guide them... I had to fight through the pain!

I struggled to lean up, feeling my body tense like cracking through uncooked spaghetti, but my arms finally cricked into position and I summoned my hammer.

“HAAA!!!” I grabbed Sonic’s hand which, when he noticed I was getting up, hurried to reach out to me again as I felt him pull me forward and swung my hammer into the momentum of his helpful pull.

The Shadowy Eggman went flying, and though Silver thought the left looked more safe from the twisting rapidly pieces of land in the galaxy on the right side, I urged him to trust me.

Sonic and I... we were so amped up in the moment... we didn’t realize that we never let go of one another’s hand...

G.U.N was in this memory or story, whichever it was, and they were after a shadowy figure of Shadow The Hedgehog.

However, Shadow seemed to be targeting me, as though wanting to destroy me.

This continued to baffle Tails and Silver, but Sonic was more protective than I’ve ever seen before, unselfishly throwing himself in the rippling blackness of Shadow’s silhouette, but was defenseless against how much more powerful this Shadow appeared to be.

It was reminding us all of when Shadow first awakened, and Knuckles tag-teamed with Sonic to give me enough time to try and trigger my memory.

I tried to do various things and put myself into situations to see if anything would trigger the correct course’s vision, but nothing was working and I was growing frustrated with myself.

Face it, there was a lot of pressure, and I felt that every minute I wasted was another second Sonic and Knuckles had to suffer under the fake G.U.N shadowy forms and the Shadow look-a-like.

Finally, I hit my head with a rock as a last resort but was quickly pulled away by Tails, “Amy!”

“Stop it, that isn’t helping!” Silver quickly intercepted too, yanking the rock out of my hands.

“I... I don’t know what else to do...” I admitted, feeling I was losing grip of my faith in myself... I may have been able to spare Sonic before, but now..?

Was this completely out of my control?

“Anytime now, fellas!” Knuckles called out as we both turned to see Sonic and Knuckles shoving themselves against Shadow’s dark, rippling body that almost looked like wavy flames under a watery scope. He was taking steps forward, which caused their feet to grind against the earth in an attempt to hold him back.

Then G.U.N appeared behind us, and we were surrounded... When the bullets began to fire, my eyes widened and the light of the Master Emerald grew from my eyes.

My other self was rescued once more by Sonic, but he was hit by those odd galaxy alternating bullets. He fell by her side and twitched, making her get up and cry over him as the bullets expanded holes in his form, and as he looked up at her, the holes overtook him and he turned into a rewritten, shadowy figure that reached for her.

She gasped and was pulled away by another, younger Knuckles with a cowboy hat on, who said something I couldn’t hear as my visions didn’t have sound, and threw her to a smaller Tails, who caught her and flew with her into another portal as the two left the other Knuckles behind with the shadowy images of Sonic, G.U.N, and Shadow...

“NOOO!!!” I came out of the vision and turned to where Sonic was coming at me, already having jumped and about to reach me.

I knew if I didn’t let these events happen, we’d be trapped, but every part of me wanted to jump into Sonic’s arms and push him back, let myself be the one that was swallowed up in the rewritten darkness.

But by then, I knew it wasn’t--and shouldn’t--be called a rewritten reality.

It was erasing reality! There seemed to be a hive-mind I picked up on, the force was controlling my friends and Eggman, G.U.N even! 

Not just that, but I didn’t know if we’d be able to save Sonic. I thought nothing could overcome Sonic... I was so torn, but as I focused on his eyes... so determined to get me out of harm’s way... I couldn’t find it in my heart to move.

He was shot and rolled along the ground with me as he I held him, tears spraying from my eyes in an army of resistance. I clung to him, crying out his name as he flinched and tried to fight against the erasing darkness that would soon overwhelm his being and turn him into a mindless drone to whatever force was trying to take over time and our known reality.

“Noo!!!” I screamed out as Sonic told Knuckles to take me from him, and as he turned to fight Shadow, was fully overcome and went limp. “SOOONNICCC!!!”

Knuckles had ripped me from him and threw me to Tails, instructing him that he’d stay behind to look after Sonic while Tails and Silver got through to the next part or stage of this timeline.

Silver had to grip my head and take my line of sight off of Sonic’s shadowy form as it turned almost like a zombie towards me, tilting it’s head as the drones somehow knew I carried the Master Emerald’s power to connect to the other dimension.

“Amy! Listen to me!” Silver began, but I felt I had died inside. My voice escaped my lungs and there was nothing left in me. I... had become motionless... I didn’t stop Sonic... I... I didn’t deserve him...

What kind of woman, who claimed to love her hero so full-heartedly, would have froze up when the time to save him drew near?

“I don’t deserve him...” My headache couldn’t match the absolute obliteration of my soul and heart from within me. Like those rapidly twirling away pieces of the world we had journeyed through moments before. “I... Sonic...!” I didn’t deserve to call myself Sonic’s destined love... if I couldn’t even protect him when I knew what was about to happen.

“He was too fast, Amy, there’s nothing you could have done.” Tails held me closer to him, seeing my shaking eyes and the pain in trying to speak when I felt my entire ribcage had collapsed and took the compartments of my lungs and lifeforce with it.

“Amy, please, remember, this can all be rewritten.” Silver had placed his two hands to the sides of my face, seeing how broken I was and failing to grasp this reality.

My head twitched up, but I was hollow inside.

“You have to tell us what to do. What did you see? Where do we go?!” He urged, trying to be kind, but... “We can’t save him now! He’ll be alright, you have to trust in your vision! Please, Amy! The more time you spend silent the more time Sonic has to suffer!”

What was the point..? Without Sonic... Without him, I-... I had no meaning to my life anymore. Sonic was everything to me... he was my whole world... a reality without Sonic... in a universe where I couldn’t see him smiling... couldn’t hear his laughter and teasing expression... A world without his warm touch...

My mind went back to when Sonic had placed his hand to my arm, his words... “It didn’t need to come to this point... It didn’t need to be so fueled...”

My eyes blazed with a new purpose. I wasn’t just going to save my dimension. I was going to save my Sonic!

I cried out and struggled to get Silver’s hands off my face, then pointed Tails to the portal that was opening behind us. “There! Go! Now!”

I saw and witnessed first hand the torment the other dimensional, more tender, younger and naïve me struggle to gain the strength to continue forward, till her and her friends found sanctuary at the end.

By this time, I had spent all of what I felt was in me, and fell to my knees as I had fought the dark entity known as World Keeper, who was polluted by the filth of negativity in all the worlds... that hive mind was just swallowing the world in despair, and without ever being hit by it, I felt it more than ever too.

Then it slashed it, and I felt the darkness swallowing me as my color turned black with the light glimmer of inky stars within it’s slick obsidian...

I fell back and couldn’t feel myself hit the ground, I couldn’t feel anything anymore but emptiness...

As it overtook me, I wondered with my last, conscious thoughts if the other dimensional me had saved Sonic... was this the end of our universe? Or just the entrapment of one dimension?

Then...

“Don’t give up!”

S...Sonic?

“You have what it takes, use the power of the Chaos Emeralds!”

S...Shadow?

“I didn’t blast this stupid filth out of the sky only to be controlled into an everlasting misery by it!!!”

Eggman..?

“I’m not staying stuck in this feeling forever! Come on, Amy! You can do this-grraaahh!!!”

Knuckles...

Drifting into the blackness of the void, I suddenly felt four strong hands trying to force me upwards towards the light.

It slowed my decent, until Silver and Tails were able to reach out and grab me, and my last vision surfaced with the dizzy spell.

Rosy... she was also drifting into despair before Robotnik and Sonic reached through their own controlled misery by the World Keeper and used the last of their hope to push her out...

I tried to strain as best as I could through the dizzy, blurry vision and move my hand up towards them.

Her vision and mine suddenly conjoined, and I saw younger Tails flash continuously between Silver and my dimension’s Tails too.

I spoke out to her... “We can still save everyone...” I encouraged, “We... can’t give in... to hopelessness!”

I felt our hearts merge into one, felt our power soar as though we were evolving into a new creature that had it’s life sparked into existence again.

Newly hatched into this feeling of easiness, peace, and strength beyond my understanding... I grabbed Tails and Silver’s hands and swung out, the darkness that was once overcoming me suddenly burst with light and the seven Chaos Emeralds floated around us.

“Ah! She didn’t fuse with them!” Silver blurted out, seeing them swarm both him and Tails too.

“She... was storing them!” Tails exclaimed.

I guess I had become somewhat of their server and carrier... there power was just kept safe in me... through the Master Emerald and my unique connection to the other me.

We fought and as we did, I touched the ground and brought my friends and all the dimensions who had succumb to the negativity out from the inky blanket of darkness and restored their light and hope through the power being expelled from me.

No longer was I a guide.

I was a redeeming light now.

Sonic, Shadow, and Silver all burst into Super form, and together--with all the other worlds we loved so dearly too--we put an end to World Keeper and with me and my other self touching his chest as he was about to fall back into the his own making of the void, he immediately returned to a smaller form of another being.

Sonic suddenly cried out, “Chip!” and darted into the void after him.

I waited... weeks and weeks did I wait for him...

I clung to my chest as though clinging to my heart, refusing to let it break, and keeping it all together again.

I didn’t have visions anymore, but I could feel something... Something like the despair of the void was created from that feeling of loss and loneliness when Chip’s essence left the core of the earth and became free roaming in space...

Tails said he had a theory, that Chip’s body was still with Dark Gaia, but his power had escaped in longing to reunite with Sonic, his friend, again.

Traveling through space and time without a body, it became depressed, and expelled it’s world-bending powers to try and find Sonic... ending up losing itself and taking all worlds and dimensions it was searching through down with it.

A comet of bright golden light shot down through the cosmos, and I eagerly dropped everything to race out my door and pursue it, I knew from the green, red, and white lights that covered the world that Chip’s soul and powers returned to their slumber... and brought back Sonic safely to us as well!

“Sonic..!” My heart could barely contain it’s joy as I raced over the hills to follow his light... before having it sink and my hands fling up to the sides of my face when I saw him hit the water off in the distance of the sea. “No, Sonic!!! You can’t swim!!”

The distance was too far, but I swam anyway, feeling my exhaustion from having traveled miles and miles already on land before seeing him fall into the ocean.

He was covered in a light I assumed was Chip’s planet power, and I held my breath and swam down to him, heard a voice in my mind calling to me...

“Sorry for all the trouble I caused, Amy... Take good care of Sonic from now on. I won’t be lonely without him anymore... I know I may never see him again, especially when I wake up many, many years from now... but even still, the moments I had with him in the void of space and time, and with our time facing Dark Gaia, will always be in my heart... Thank you for letting me see him, one last time...”

The floating ball of light around him slowly brought Sonic up to me, and when I entered it, I took a deep breath and fell limply over his body, floating with him up to the surface.

He opened his eyes and smiled at me, winking without a word but it still gave me so much comfort and peace.

It was as though he was saying everything would be alright now... and Chip’s remaining spatial power set us down on the shoreline... as the waves met us as we took a much deserved rest on the cool sands... the sun rose up and the sounds of helicopters and people were surrounding us, but we remained sleeping soundly next to one another...

Sonic’s warm hand... laying gently over my stomach...

Mine upon his heart.

G.U.N’s windy interruption causing us both to sneeze as Silver appeared and held out both his hands to stop them from investigating, explaining as we drifted off into our dreams~

[welshdragonrawr]

Well, Here I Lie Like a Lover Who Isn’t In Love

I don't know what this is. I started writing it after Ratched came out as a random little 'what if' headcanon/drabble. This is what came of it about 9 months longer and later than I ever planned. 3k words of Gwen thinking about stuff during an angsty canon-divergence from the Dance 

Read on Ao3 here; Well, Here I Lie or https://archiveofourown.org/works/30784745 or full text under the cut

Gwendolyn Briggs only closes her eyes for a second. Just one second. It couldn’t have been more than that. But she would forever remember that second as the longest, darkest hour of her life.

She flinches when the gun goes off. Everyone does. Someone even shrieks when the sharp bang ricochets in the room – though Gwendolyn doesn’t know to whom the startled screech belongs. In truth, she can’t help thinking, she didn’t really know anyone at the party save the bare minimum and most only by name. She only came because she had been invited by…

She turns on her heel so fast she could swear she’s close to giving herself what the doctors call whiplash. The bright blue of her skirts swirl around her calves; a cerulean cylindrical wave stuck in place. Because she is stuck in place. Just as Mildred Ratched seems to be. Like a marionette with all her strings pulled taut by her brother, keeping her limbs locked and looking so still. Everyone else in the room flailing and fussing and freaking out except for her. Gwendolyn cannot recall when, or if, she had ever seen the redhead so still. She had already learned the nurse was almost always moving, in thought or deed, big gestures or small. Even now, she sees Mildred’s lips move but Gwendolyn can’t hear what it is those ruby red lips are trying to say. Not when her focus is drawn to the maroon colour blooming through that teal green silk.

And just like a marionette - her brother has snipped the strings - Mildred drops.

Is it possible for time to simultaneously move so fast and so slow? Gwendolyn can’t comprehend it. One moment Mildred was standing a few feet away and nearly offering her a small smile – the next she’s lying in the middle of that dancefloor Gwen had so keenly looked forward to asking her to dance on. There will be no more dancing now.

She doesn’t even feel it when her knees hit the hard floor. All she can see is Mildred. Mildred lying with her hair cushioning her rare hatless head like a gothic halo, and a bright flower blossoming at Mildred’s side as just as rich and red. The colour seeps through that soft silk bodice in a way that Gwen thinks can’t possibly be real. Until that night, until that moment, Gwen had always loved how Mildred’s eyes could widen with surprise, and how it could make her look so much smaller than the imposing nurse that the woman was. It was always incredible how she could make such darkness look so childlike, when her eyes became big and round, like ink in one of Gwen’s morning papers how they’d glisten still fresh off the press. Mildred’s eyes are glistening now. But there is no joy to be found.

Eyes black as night, lips red as blood, her complexion snow white, oh look what prince charming has done... and in the current company Gwen can’t even give her true love’s kiss. No kiss could remedy this. But damn them all for preventing her from trying.

Someone calls Mildred’s name, but it doesn’t sound like herself – too hoarse and fragile and not the assertive governor’s assistant she’s supposed to be.

“Somebody help! For god’s sake-!” it’s a desperate screeching for someone, at everyone, to anyone who might listen on earth or up in heaven. Where’s the firmness in her tone now? Where’s the steel in her spine now? The only metal left inside is the lead in her limbs rendering her listless while the bullet in Mildred’s chest takes her breath away.

Mildred, for her part, looks eerily calm for someone bleeding to death on the dancefloor. For one bizarre bright moment Gwendolyn can’t help but wonder if the woman has ever been shot before. There’s something she can’t explain in how quickly Mildred’s expression melts from shock to a strange serenity; Gwendolyn cannot possibly understand it. At best, she can only hope that if there is life after this night, perhaps she’ll find the courage to ask her. She’s never even seen the woman without being top to toe in neat-pressed clothes outside of dreams Gwen dare not divulge to anyone. Dreams that may be dashed now, may never come true.

Mildred’s hand is moving then, thin fingers twitch while Gwendolyn’s itch to take them and squeeze tight. Regardless of witness, she gives in to the urge, and tries to ignore how sticky her palm becomes. It distantly occurs to her that this is the first time that she can remember Mildred ever reaching for her and not the other way around.

She watches those ruby red lips part, a name or a word on such soft breath Gwen nearly misses it but she can’t distinguish what Mildred might be trying to say beyond the deafening sound in her ears her own desperation. She gives the nurse’s hand another squeeze – and realises only then that Mildred moves her palm to the wound at her side – how some subconscious part of her implores for pressure not just for comfort but to keep her there. Gwen knows this. That this is the closest she has ever come to being able to wrap her hands around the other woman’s petite waist – and the closest she has ever come to losing her.

“You’ll be alright…It’ll be alright…Stay with me…” the murmurs and mumbles slip out of her own mouth unbidden and almost incomprehensible. She can’t believe they’re in a hospital full of nurses and there’s no-one there able to do anything. No-one willing. Or so it will seem to Gwen when she looks back on this moment. When she will question why they had all let the minutes linger and drag on long enough.

Someone’s hands press over hers, over theirs, large and firm and all thick fumbling fingers. And then someone is talking in her ear – low voice, soft yet shaky, and in her peripheral the sight of mottled skin; Huck. He’s telling her to breathe – no, telling Mildred? He’s holding Gwen’s hand to Mildred’s side; "Keep the pressure Mrs Briggs-" the dim thought rises like smoke from the fire that she wants to say ‘its miss now-‘ but she hadn’t even had a chance to tell Mildred. Telling anyone else first seems wrong in a way she can’t describe, and she can’t divulge.

Mildred’s eyelids flicker and start to fall as though the weight of the world she carries on those slim shoulders is too heavy to keep holding up. But Gwen wants her to keep holding it up. Gwen wants her to keep holding on. Gwen wants to pull away from the warm wet sensation spilling and seeping through her cotton gloves and run away, she wants Mildred to get up and run away from this terrible place with her. She wants…

“It should have been me… It should have… I was standing-“ the words stutter and start as though she’s trying to defend herself but she’s not sure what for or who to. She thinks she sees Huck shake his head a little, but she can’t tell if he agrees or if it’s pity or if it’s something else entirely. He has something white in his hands – a cloth maybe or a towel half-folded – and he’s slipping his hands underneath Gwen’s this time. If there’s any protest worth making sitting on the tip of her tongue, she swallows it the moment she hears Mildred’s soft gasp of pain.

“Stay with me, Mildred,” Huck’s voice beckons, and Gwen can’t help the dark thought within her that says he has no right to call her that. That says her name, her beautiful name sounds wrong in his timbre. That selfishly thinks stay with me. Until another says who gives a jolly damn who or what Mildred decides to stay for as long as her heart keeps beating. So Gwen’s can too.

Huck’s hands are suddenly replaced by a softer feminine touch and for one deluded moment Gwendolyn thinks maybe, just maybe, she has awoken from a terrible dream. If she could just turn to the left, Mildred would be there, a soft smile and shining gaze, able to tell her everything would be okay.

But the eyes that stare back at Gwendolyn when she looks are blue, not brown, and the hands tugging the blanket around her shoulders are a little too fussy and firm. Betsy. The voice that asks if she is alright to stand is higher than Mildred’s ever was and there is no subtle lisp she has come to love to listen out for. Betsy Bucket is the only one she has left to lean on when it feels like the axis her world spun around has been ripped away from her and she’s too dizzy to trust her own two feet right now.

“She’s going to be just fine…”

Gwen hears the words finally in her ears, something registering beyond the high-pitched ringing as Betsy pulls her away with more care than she thought her capable of. But it’s wrong. Betsy’s wrong. How can any of this be just fine? It’s not fine now. There’s so much blood and it sticks the smooth cotton of Gwen’s gloves to her palms like a damp second skin. She wants to peel and scratch and claw it all away but – but it’s Mildred. She’s holding what she has left of Mildred in her hands. And if they don’t help her, if they can’t help her, will this be all that remains of the radiance that was Mildred Ratched?

Her hands are shaking so hard, even Betsy’s trained fingers tremble as she tries to hold them together in Gwendolyn’s lap. The nurse is calling her name, telling her to breathe, and again there’s that terribly intolerable lie ‘she’ll be fine’. But Betsy can’t tell her the one thing she really wants to know; when she had been staring straight into the shadows of death, why did Mildred look so calm?

***

She’s finally aware, when someone helps to lift her from the chair to give her statement, that Edmund is long gone. The carnage left in his wake rapidly cooling, as quickly as that red stain soaks and seeps into the carpet. Gwendolyn can already see it now; how Betsy or one of the other nurses will be there in the next hour, maybe two, on their knees with a bucket of bleach, washing the blood of the love of her life clean away from those carpet fibres like just another incident.

Gwen doesn’t remember what she says to the police. How they got anything enough to note down on their little pads, she’ll never know. She should have propped her governor’s hat on. She should have pulled herself together and pulled her shoulders back and pulled at any goddamned thing to keep her composure intact. But what had there been left to pull when the one thing she wanted to hold onto had already been pulled away from her? Mercifully Betsy says they left her to her morbid thoughts fast; with a murmur that should have been reassuring but wasn’t, and a landline number on a flimsy card should she happen to recall anything else. As if her remembering the look of shock so briefly on Mildred’s face yet burned behind her eyelids like an imprint would do the force any favours for finding Edmund.

Huck is not the first to suggest Gwendolyn should go home. His jacket - tucked around her shoulders at some point – is big and bulky, too wide in the waist and the material is an ill-ironed cotton blend with a collar that itches at the back of her neck. Or perhaps it’s the faint amalgam of cologne and manly sweat that prickles her skin. It’s too masculine to be anything like Mildred. Mildred and her expensive tastes, her silk nightrobes and chiffon scarves and coats of cashmere in colours so richly dyed she always looks like she stepped fresh from the pictures in glorious technicolour, grander than any silver screen dame. Where Huck lightly suggests, Betsy firmly insists; a chance to wash her hands, to change her clothes and a night’s rest would all do her some good she says. But Gwen still struggles to find her feet, even with the solid arm support at her waist. Mildred always hated people touching her waist, she can’t help thinking, it had been one of the first things Gwen had noticed about her, strange as it was.

Later she would wonder how Betsy got the keys to her car when she doesn’t recall handing them over, and she would hand Huck’s jacket back to the kindly young man once she paid top-dollar for it to be dry-cleaned for him at her own behest. But for now, she simply goes through the motions the others bid her to, her body moving while her mind remains fixed in the moment she could not have predicted such a wonderful night would end in.

***

They let her in, the morning after. It takes more cajoling and coercing than she wishes for, though she can almost understand why. It is probably only because Mildred has no-one else – and Betsy’s subtle string pulling among the night staff of her own she has no doubt – that they allowed her into the small room at all to keep the young nurse company. The small room they have set her up in, one that looks too good to be unused patient quarters but not done up enough to belong to a doctor, is a quaint yet impersonal space. A bed with basic sheets fetched from the storeroom, curtains drawn to keep the harsh light outside from breaching the blank walls. It’s all so cold, and empty, devoid of personality, of life. So unprepared for this sudden occurrence, there aren’t even any typical paper-thin flowers wilting in a vase on the windowsill.

There is nothing here that says this room belongs to a slumbering Mildred Ratched – because yes she is only sleeping, resting, recuperating, Gwen has to remind herself every half hour. Mildred’s belonging had been taken away in a small bag to be examined, and they had been returned some time in the night. But the bag remains on the other chair in the room, untouched. Gwen can’t bring herself to even open it, let alone look inside or take anything out. That’s for Mildred to do, once she wakes, once she’s ready. And hard to understand as the younger woman can be sometimes, Gwen is sure she would be appalled by the thought of someone else going through her things before herself. And Gwen’s reluctance to open the bag has nothing at all to do with the glimpse of rusty stain she had seen for just a second through the lip in the bag when the night nurse had brought it in, of course. She doesn’t have the same reluctance when it comes to looking to the pale form lying so still in the bed. Once her gaze falls to her, she can barely bring herself to look away.

Mildred always looked pale; Gwen might have even dared say anaemic more than once. So often like something from an old portrait - how porcelain the fragile shade of the redhead’s skin often was. Given her diet of bologna, peaches, and endless days of exhaustive work with the ill, invalid and insane, it was hardly surprising.

But this was surprising. It was terrifying even, to see someone’s skin so grey. To see someone who was always moving, lying so still. As far as Gwen knew, Mildred Ratched never stopped for anyone; a cog in constant rotation of her own schemes. Every time Gwen thought she figured out how the pieces fit together or how the parts worked, Mildred would turn anew and prove her wrong all over again. Now all of that had been brought to a standstill because of one Edmund Tolleson. Only the steady rise and fall of the redhead’s chest beneath the blankets, and the quiet beep of the machine keeping it going in such a measured manner, assures her of any movement, of any life.

At first, Gwen had wondered whether she should even be allowed in the redhead’s room, let alone by her bedside. She isn’t family, she isn’t a loved one. She’s not even sure if Mildred ever truly considered her a friend until now; one of the few the nurse would allow herself to have.

One look through the door into that sterile silent room however had been all it took to convince Gwen to step inside, set herself down in the flimsy plastic chair by the bed and wait.

She waits all afternoon.

She waits all night.

She waits long into the early hours of morning until even the next night nurse bids her a fond farewell, along with a blanket and another cup of lukewarm tea that must make a half-dozen Gwen has swallowed down along with all the words she cannot say.

She’s not sure when she reached for Mildred’s hand during the long vigil. But once she does, she doesn’t let go. She knows the moment Mildred wakes, the nurse will probably pull away from the contact, or perhaps Gwen will make sure she’s pulled herself back before then so Mildred wouldn’t feel so imposed on so soon. But for now, just for now, while the whole world is quiet save for Mildred’s breathing and Gwen’s own heartbeat thumping, she held on to Mildred’s hand, and hoped somewhere in her subconscious, Mildred might find something to hold on to.

[minmotl]

Chapter 60-61: Tang Fan Gets Blisters on the Insides of His Thighs, Sui Zhou Asks Him to Take Off His Pants

Context: Sui Zhou and Tang Fan (and their respective teams) embark on their journey to He Nan Province. Tang Fan ended up having to bring along Yin Yuan Hua, one of the officials in Tang Fan’s department who he bested, and whose supervisor/shifu in the same department Tang Fan offended (for good reason!). Yin Yuan Hua’s mission on this trip is to gather evidence of Tang Fan’s wrongdoings/mistakes so he can go back and report him to higher-ups, and hopefully this will end in Tang Fan’s demotion.

Also a Note: I’m doing the first half of 61 for context (because the case is pretty complex plus all the new characters lolol) and the second half of 61 where the cute fanzhou moments are, but from now onwards Tang Fan and Sui Zhou are hanging out with each other like 24/7

AMAZING TIDBITS:

Pants stripping

Sexual innuendos

Tang Fan and his tongue licks Sui Zhou’s finger

Sui Zhou feeding Tang Fan pastries

Fanzhou shares a bed XD

Introduction Post | Masterpost

—

Highlights under the cut

Tang Fan and the rest of them set off from Jing City, and head in the direction of He Nan Province on land.

Sui Zhou left Xue Ling back in the Northern Administrative Court to hold the fort, and he himself, along with Pang Qi included, brought along 20 close guards. With Tang Fan, they head south, tasked as an imperial convoy.

Although this case is hardly the most urgent, it involves the life and death of others and also the robbery of royal and imperial tombs, so there is no time to waste. Everyone began the journey riding horses, but after rushing on the roads for two days, the disparity between the Embroidered Uniform Guards and civil officials slowly became increasingly visible.

The guards are a bunch of brash old men and have thick and tough skins. Moreover, after going through Sui Zhou’s hellish training, all of them have already been polished into people with bodies and bones of steel. That being said, even without Sui Zhou’s intensified training, for army officials like them, riding horses and rushing along is a simple thing to them.

The same cannot be said of civil officials, however. These officials spend most of their days in the courts and the hardest manual labour they have done is at most serving tea. Suddenly having to ride horses for two days consecutively, it feels as if their bodies and bones are about to fall apart. And what they could not say was that every one of them had blisters on the inside of both their thighs, and some of these have already burst and are bleeding. They hurt like burns.

As the formal lead envoy, Tang Fan of course has to act like the leader he is and grit his teeth in determination regardless of the circumstances. It does not take Sui Zhou long to discover that these civil officials can no longer go on, and orders the guards to slow down their pace. He also quickly takes out some ointment for Tang Fan and the rest to use on their wounds.

Since their leader can withstand this, the two officials under Tang Fan naturally are in no place to complain. Instead, it is Yin Yuan Hua who insists on not riding horses anymore and demands that they switch to a horse carriage.

The Embroidered Uniform Guards do not look upon these civil officials kindly, but they also know that their Sui-laoda has a good personal relationship with Tang Fan, and it is rumoured that this formal lead envoy is staying right in Sui-laoda’s house. 

This Yin Yuan Hua, on the other hand, is obviously not on good terms with Tang Fan, and this is easily seen when he speaks with Tang Fan, and even when he does not speak. Both of them are not on the same side, and the guards do not dare to mock the formal lead envoy, so naturally, they focus their attention and provoking remarks onto Yin Yuan Hua instead.

One of them wriggles his eyebrows, “Aiyo, someone thinks he’s out here to sightsee, and wants to even sit on a horse carriage? Does he also want a beaded curtain? Like those esteemed ladies, or wives, when they hide half their faces, and are embarrassed even before they speak!”

Another laughs snidely, “How do you know if he isn’t a little wife? Don’t tell me you’ve seen what he looks like without clothes on?”

Earlier, their group passed by a official’s relay post, and decided to stop for a rest. Tang Fan and Sui Zhou are formal lead and co-lead envoys, and wanting to interact freely, they are unwilling to share a table with their leaders even at meals, and so Sui Zhou and Tang Fan have a table to themselves. Yin Yuan Hua and the two civil officials share another, and the rest of the guards are scattered around. So once the next table speaks, Yin Yuan Hua can hear them extremely well.

How would he not know that these people are speaking about him? Fury courses through him immediately and slamming his chopsticks on the table, he gets to his feet and says, “Who are you talking about!”

It would have been better if he did not stand up, because once he gets to his feet, his thighs cramp up immediately, sending Yin Yuan Hua into unbearable pain, and this garners the mockery of the group of guards.

Although Tang Fan doesn’t think much of Yin Yuan Hua, but on this trip, he is formal lead envoy and is also Yin Yuan Hua’s supervisor. As a leader, he needs to have the aptitude of one and so he cannot just stand by and let Yin Yuan Hua be mocked like this. He uses the other end of his chopsticks and pokes at Sui Zhou’s arm.

Sui Zhou lightly coughs and his sharp gaze sweeps over his group of men, and they immediately stop laughing, burying their heads into their rice and meal.

After their meal, Yin Yuan Hua insists on not riding horses, wanting to sit on a horse carriage and head to He Nan.

Both of the other civil officials are also suffering silently, and so turn their hopeful eyes onto Tang Fan.

With a strange expression, he asks, “All of you really want to sit on a carriage?”

The officials do not dare reply, and Yin Yuan Hua interjects, “We must have a carriage. We lower-ranked officials cannot compare to daren, we don’t have to deal with the pressure which comes with the formal lead envoy position. Comfort is of importance, and we’re not afraid of being mocked by others!”

In his words is hidden mockery at Tang Fan bringing suffering upon himself, all to salvage his pride.

Tang Fan says, “We may not have enough horses at the next relay post, so once you switch to a carriage, if you regret it, you will still have to sit in it until we reach He Nan.”

The more he says, the more Yin Yuan Hua feels that Tang Fan is deliberately making things difficult for him, and so insists on sitting in a carriage and nothing else.

He has already said this much and given them a friendly reminder, but they will not listen, so there is nothing to do but to let them have their way. He asks the official in charge of the relay post to prepare the horse carriage.

The carriage itself is still considered quite spacious and has enough space for Yin Yuan Hua and two other officials to sit in. The official also found a driver for them, and once the carriage reaches its destination, it is just nice for the driver to return with it.

The three of them happily get on the carriage after seeing that the insides are padded with cushions, and this is definitely more comfortable than riding the horses.

In the end, just after they crossed several kilometres, Yin Yuan Hua and the rest suddenly realise why Tang Fan revealed that indescribable expression earlier after they insisted on sitting in a horse carriage. Because this is even more shaky and turbulent than riding a horse…

Yin Yuan Hua regrets as he finally gets a taste of what it means to strike his own foot with a rock he’s moving.

Not only just him, but both Cheng Wen and Tian Xuan, are regretting their decision immensely.

It is such a turbulent journey, and just before their souls are shaken out of their cores, they finally arrive at Gong County.

Before the group of them arrived at Gong County, the county’s magistrate had already brought his men out to the official relay post right next to the official’s travel channel early on to wait for them.

“Daren, how about you come in and rest your feet?” the county deputy, who has also come out to welcome the group, cannot help but ask the magistrate, who is pacing back and forth so much it’s making him dizzy.

Aside from the deputy and other officials, which include both low and high ranking ones, plenty of other well-known gentlemen also wanted to accompany them originally, but were all rejected by the magistrate. He is facing so many cases right now, how would he have any more energy to bring these people along and let them create trouble in front of him?

Before his trustworthy deputy, the magistrate does not hide his face full of worry, “Hai, laodi ah, it’s not like you don’t know, these envoys are not here to sightsee, they’re here to investigate a case. At the end of the day, trouble happened to the imperial tombs within my jurisdiction, and if we don’t handle this properly, I will not be able to keep this futou of mine!”

The deputy advises, “Daren, it is futile for you to be frustrated about this, you might as well cooperate well with the envoys, and then ask them for a favour so they can go back and help put in a good word for you, who knows, this huge matter may turn into a small one!”

The magistrate sighs, “That’s all I can do at this point. I’m such an unlucky magistrate, the former magistrate and the one before him left a huge mess of things when they passed on their positions, and the imperial tombs were left untouched, but these messes I still had to deal with! No one knew of my efforts, and now that the imperial tomb is involved, the responsibility for this has instead fallen onto my head!”

Which official has not been dragged into one or two terrible events, thinks the deputy. How is it possible for an official to have a smooth career all his life, it is the magistrate who was afraid of trouble in the first place, and now he is complaining about this instead of thinking about how to properly suck up to the incoming imperial envoys. What future can he count on like this?

Unfortunately he is the man’s subordinate and although these are his true thoughts, he still ends up properly reassuring his magistrate.

In the midst of their conversation, a group of men and horses approach from the distance and gradually slows down, the dust picking up around them, and behind, it looks like there is a horse carriage accompanying the group as well.

The magistrate and his deputy head out, and a minor official comes over with news, saying that the people ahead are indeed the imperial envoys.

“Quickly accompany me to fetch them!” the magistrate says, adjusting his uniform and hat.

The speed of the horse carriage is not fast and Sui Zhou’s subordinates in front seem to have deliberately slowed down to wait for the carriage at the back, and only after a minute or so does the whole group, which was already visible from a while ago, arrive.

Right in the middle of the other Embroidered Uniform Guards, a young man wearing a Rank Five uniform and an Embroidered Uniform Guard wearing a feiyu uniform are surrounded.

The magistrate quickly approaches them and offering both his hands in greeting, he says, “Gong County Magistrate He Hao Si greets the imperial envoy!”

Although he is unsure who is actually the formal lead envoy, but this greeting will certainly do no wrong.

The official document sent by the Department of Justice also clearly says that the lead envoy is the department’s overseeing langzhong in Henan’s Qing Li Si, Tang Fan, and the co-lead is the Embroidered Uniform Guards’ acting zhen fu shi, Sui Zhou. However, since both lead and co-lead envoys are here, then who is the one sitting in the horse carriage at the back?

Could it be an even more important person?

Magistrate He cannot help but look towards the back.

Instead, he sees the Embroidered Uniform Guard next to the civil official move backwards a little to put some distance between them, indicating the difference in status between him and the civil official. He opens his mouth and affirms Magistrate He’s guess, “This is Henan’s Qing Li Si langzhong, Tang-daren, and he is the formal lead envoy.”

Tang Fan wearily gets off his horse and returns Magistrate He’s greeting, “Magistrate He does not need to stand on ceremony, we have been on the roads for days, shall we first find a place to sit and talk?”

“Yes yes yes!” Magistrate He returns to himself, and hurriedly says, “This official has already readied the relay post, and also asked them to prepare food and hot water. I’d like to ask everyone to move into the city, it is not far away from here.”

Tang Fan nods, “Then I’ll have to trouble Magistrate He to show us the way.”

***

“Come over here.”

Tang Fan takes a look at the ointment in his hands, and cannot help but laugh, the sound dry, “You see, I’ve used the bandages for so many days, it’s almost healed, so I don’t need to put it on anymore, it’s uncomfortable!”

Sui Zhou’s face is cold, “Come over when I tell you to come over, whether or not it has healed, wouldn’t you know best?”

Of course he has not yet healed.

Tang-daren’s face falls, and he slowly ambles his way over.

“Lie down, take off your pants and pick up your shirt.”

“…”

No matter the circumstances, this conversation sounds only too intimate, and if anyone were to pass by on the outside, it’s likely they will misunderstand, but the reality could not be further from that.

Tang Fan’s physique is not much better than Yin Yuan Hua and the rest, and he has ridden on a horse for so many days consecutively. Naturally, he is unable to withstand this, but sitting in a horse carriage is worse, and he knows that just by seeing the way Yin Yuan Hua threw up. In comparison, it is only his butt and the sides of both his thighs that hurt riding the hose, and not his whole body. Weighing between both to see which is more important, as the biggest lead in this mission, Tang-daren would rather suffer than lose all pride like the way Yin Yuan Hua did.

This is called suffering as one would rather die than lose pride and face.

The posterior is one thing, as it is shaken here and there; the area is a bit thicker, so it doesn’t matter as much. The main thing is the insides of his thighs, which has been subjected to endless friction and movement in contact with the horse. Blisters formed, and then bled when the skin was broken through.

It is a must to put some ointment on if he is hurt, and in the beginning, Tang Fan was worried of losing face, too embarrassed to ask for help, until Sui Zhou forcibly restrained him to put the medicine on.

Now, having to put on a fresh round of ointment every night has become something that Tang-daren is most reluctant to do.

If he could choose, he figures he would rather go to the Luo River and warmly face the River God there, than to lie flat on the bed like this with both legs spread open, his pants taken off and his shirt picked up, letting Sui Zhou change the bandages around his injured parts.

Although they are both men and the parts he should have, he has, and the parts that he should not have, he does not have, but Tang Fan just feels incredibly uncomfortable. Staring at the ceiling above him, he disassociates, only to hide his embarrassment.

Sui Zhou seems to be able to see through his thoughts and finds it really hilarious inside, but on the surface, he retains his stoicism. Circling the bandage around Tang Fan’s legs, he pretends to accidentally brush his eyes past Tang Fan’s groin, peering at it for a moment, before saying, “The form is not bad.”

Even though Tang Fan is pretending to be dead, he is still conscious and attentive, and the moment the other’s words sound in his ears, he cannot help but go red in both his face and ears, and furious, he says, “How dare you, assessing the lead envoy like this, do you not want to live anymore?”

Sui Zhou goes ��oh’, and then, “I am an envoy too.”

“You’re a co-lead, and I am the lead, cut out the nonsense, you should strip and let this official assess yours as well!”

Sui Zhou, “You are certain you want to see?”

“Of course!”

He thought Sui Zhou would come up with an excuse to refuse, but who knew the other simply stands up without another word, and reaches out to loosen his trousers belt.

Tang Fan hurriedly says, “ Forget it, forget it, I know you’re smaller than me, if your ego takes a hit later this is not good, all men want to save face, so I will go easy on you this once.”

“No matter, I do not mind,” Sui Zhou returns.

“…”

Sui Zhou only wants to tease Tang Fan, he is not this despicable. And seeing that Tang Fan is about to explode in anger, Sui Zhou goes with the flow and stops. He brings a plate of pastries over from the table, picks up one, and personally brings it to Tang Fan’s mouth.

Under the dim glow of the candle light, Tang Fan cannot see the shape of the clear jujube cake, but the flavour as it enters his mouth is extremely good. Sour and sweet, and for a moment, it is a familiar taste to him, similar to the one the cooking lady at home made when he was younger.

He cannot help but curl his tongue, reaching for the rest of the pastry piece, only to sweep across Sui Zhou’s finger accidentally. The other freezes slightly, and snatches his hand back quickly.

Tang Fan does not take this to heart, and instead squints as he fully savours the flavours on his tastebuds. He nods, and praises, “The pastry that Deputy Zhao chose is really not bad! It is a pity this place is filled with evil, and such good pastries are wasted here. We may have to start rushing about sometime in the middle of tomorrow night!”

Sui Zhou gets him to wear his trousers properly, and bends down himself to adjust the bedsheets and covers. He asks, “You saw something amiss?”

Tang Fan shoves another piece of jujube cake into this mouth and instead of answering him, responds with a question, “You can see it too?”

“Don’t eat too much, or you won’t be able to sleep later,” Sui Zhou frowns and nags. Then, “That old man seems suspicious.”

Tang Fan nods, and opens his mouth, about to speak, but because the cake slides into his throat, he ends up almost choking to death. He brings his hand up, holding onto his throat and the whites of his eyes can be seen.

Exasperated, Sui Zhou goes over to pat at his back, then gives him a cup of tea, “How did you actually survive the past twenty years?”

Drinking the tea and sending the cake down along with it, Tang Fan finally heaves a sigh of relief before laughing, “A menace like this official will naturally be alive for a thousand years. That old man is indeed suspicious, and although he seems incoherent when speaking, it does look more like his behaviour is deliberate.”

Sui Zhou makes a noise of assent, waiting for him to continue.

“There are a few possibilities. Firstly, those people were killed by the old village chief, but this isn’t very likely. I can’t think of a reason why he would kill all these people. Besides, he is a weak elderly, so unless he had some help, it is impossible for him to harm so many people. So let’s set this possibility aside for now.”

“Second, that old man, or even the whole village, are in cahoots with the tomb raiders, and are doing all they can to mislead us, directing us to focus on the possibility of a malevolent ghost. Maybe after the robbers raided the imperial tomb, they promised to distribute some of their loot to the villagers in exchange for their help in keeping this a secret. The people who were killed discovered this, and wanted to report them.”

Tang Fan slowly analyses that hypothesis, then shakes his head, “But this is not fully explainable. The clues that we have on hand are too little, it is very difficult to guess what the truth is.”

“There’s still one more possibility,” Sui Zhou says.

Tang Fan looks at him, and he continues, “What the old man said is true.”

“You believe in ghosts too?”

Sui Zhou shakes his head, “It might not be a ghost, but it could be something else. Whether the old village chief has truly gone insane or is pretending to be, he is definitely hiding something from us, and has not told us everything.”

Tang Fan laughs, “We tried the civil, courteous route first, and next can bring out the troops. It looks like we have to get the Embroidered Uniform Guards to take over.”

In terms of interrogations and forcibly getting confessions, there is no other group of people more adept at this than the guards. When people hear of interrogations, they often think of cruel torturous methods, but in actual fact, a lot of other methods exist in this world which will make one obediently vomit out the truth without any physical torture. These methods are most commonly used on officials who refuse to speak the truth and yet cannot be subjected to torture; a secret that is passed only within the guards and is unique.

Using it against an old man in a poor and removed village, is considered using a blade that is made for slaughtering cows, to slaughter a chicken.

Sui Zhou says, “We’ll talk tomorrow and rest now.”

Yes, it is almost the hai hour (9-11pm), and they naturally must rest.

It is quiet outside, not even the slightest sounds can be heard from livestock or dogs, and all living creatures have also descended into sleep. Saying it is entirely silent, however, is not correct. At the very least, the Luo River which is a short distance away continues to flow, day or night. The rush of water charging forth fills up their ears, but once one gets used to listening to this, it does not bother them much. Instead, it almost feels as if their troubled thoughts are being scrubbed clean by the river.

The bed space is not cramped or narrow, and is more than sufficient for two people to lie on it. Tang Fan sleeps on the inside, and Sui Zhou sleeps on the outside.

Although the both of them stay under the same roof, they have never slept shoulder to shoulder like they are doing today, previously. The both of them are really too tired, but sometimes, when one is too exhausted, it is instead more difficult to fall asleep.

Sui Zhou hears Tang Fan’s tossing and turning and says, “Turn over.”

Tang Fan does not ask why and turns over so his back is facing the other, and then he feels a warm palm cup over his jaw. Another hand slowly presses at a few acupuncture points at the back of his head.

The tension in his brain dissipates gradually, and Tang Fan moans once, comfortable. The person behind him is applying just the right amount of force, not too light, and not too heavy. He feels the pull of slumber come up as the exhaustion emerges again, and quickly enter the land of dreams.

In the middle of the night, he has a strange dream.

In it, he is walking along the dark river banks and in the vast land in the distance, many tombstones, high and low, have been erected. The wind blows past him, and along with it brings the sound of cries. The cries are devastating, as if filled with endless suffering, pain and resentment. The sound echoes in the space and then digs into Tang Fan’s ears, sending shivers down his spine.

The cries approach, coming closer and closer, closer and even closer, and suddenly, it seems like there is something behind him! The sensation is unclear to him, all he knows is that he has never felt this afraid before.

Slowly, he turns his head, and jolting, he opens his eyes.

“Don’t move,” Sui Zhou says, his voice low next to his ear, his arm stretching across Tang Fan’s waist.

Hearing his voice, the heart that was racing because of his nightmare slowly calms.

Then he quickly realises that the intolerable wails does not seem to exist just in his dreams, but is originating right from outside!

===

Notes:

*乌纱帽 wu sha mao

Also commonly called a 乌帽 (wu mao) or futou, this is the headwear for Ming dynasty officials, with a tall cylindrical top and two flaps on the sides.

*河南清吏司郎中 he nan qing li zi lang zhong

This is a full official rank. It is a little hard to find an English equivalent to this on my end so I’ve left it as that. 河南 (he nan) is a city all on its own in today’s map, and in this case it means Tang Fan is heads this particular court located in he nan. I’m not really familiar on the geography of it as well, it could just be a name for the neighbourhood or sector he’s in as well.

*镇抚使 zhen fu shi

Another official rank, where 镇抚 (zhen fu) is the Administrative Court, and 使 (shi) on its own means ambassador. In this case, it can be interpreted as chief, or some equivalent. He is not a commander yet in this case, which is a position reserved for Yuan Bin, and previously Wan Tong.

*搬起石头砸自己脚 ban qi shi tou za zi ji de jiao

This means literally to pick up a stone and smashing your own foot with it, which means inadvertently and directly causing harm to yourself with a decision you made. I left the metaphor in the translations above because it’s interesting, the imagery!

*祸害���千年 huo hai yi qian nian

This is a common phrase used to say that a menace or evil being will survive for thousands of years, and good people are doomed to die early in a second part to this phrase.

*杀鸡用牛刀 sha ji yong niu nian

Literally means to use a blade for slaughtering a cow to kill a chicken, which also means to apply unnecessary and excessive force to a matter which requires minimal effort. Or going overboard when the matter or thing requires much lesser force.

[besanii]

oh god i just saw the angsty shippy prompts you just reblogged and now i have to brace myself for angst for DAYS ㅠㅠ and because your writing always makes me feel All The Emotions i just know i'm going to feel like i've been punched in the solar plexus each time i see (and read, and re-read) an update and its reblogs... anyway i feel like this would be a fun one "i can't always help when you're in trouble" whichever ship you choose! ^^

He wakes to a dull, rhythmic throbbing in his head. There’s an itch on his nose that is growing more and more irritating by the second, but his body feels like it’s being crushed by a dead weight and his arm won’t move. The most he achieves is a tiny twitch of his right hand; it brushes up against something warm, and then he hears a sharp intake of breath close to his ear.

“Wei-xiansheng,” a familiar voice says. “Wei-xiangsheng, are you awake?”

He groans.

“My nose itches,” he croaks. His lips are dry and his mouth feels like sandpaper. “And my throat hurts.”

“That would be the anaesthetic wearing off,” another voice says. “If you’re not feeling nauseous, we can probably get you something to wet your mouth.”

‘Thanks’ is what he tries to say, but it comes out more like a garbled ‘auuaagh’. Nevertheless, a cool, wet cloth is pressed to his lips and he sighs gratefully at the soothing sensation. He opens his eyes slowly once it’s taken away, wincing at the way his eyes seem to have been caked shut; the first thing he sees is a very handsome, albeit very concerned pair of pretty honey-coloured eyes watching him.

“Hey,” he rasps. “Hey, gorgeous.”

A tiny frown appears in between those perfectly shaped brows.

“Wei-xiansheng,” Gorgeous says. He frowns.

“Don’t call me that,” he complains. “You should call me by my name.”

Gorgeous sighs. Put-Upon is a very nice expression on him.

“Wei-xiansheng,” he says again. “How are you feeling?”

“Mm,” he says coherently. “Better now that you’re here.” A deeper frown, and a pressure around his hand. “Ooh, you’re holding my hand. That’s nice. I like that.” He pouts when the hand is quickly retracted, but is rewarded by the adorable sight of reddened ears instead, so he lets it pass. “Fine. I’m uh—dizzy, kind of. Thirsty. Oh—uh, my shoulder hurts?”

“That would make sense,” the other voice says from somewhere on his other side. “Considering that’s where you were shot.”

A woman with a stethoscope around her neck is poking at the tablet in her hand as she studies his chart. She gives him a Look over the top of her glasses as she details the extent of his injuries.

“You were very lucky this time, Wei Wuxian,” she says sternly. “A couple of millimetres off and it would have nicked a major artery. I’m a world-class surgeon, but I can’t work miracles—not if you insist on putting yourself in unnecessary danger all the time.”

“In my defence, Qing-jie, it was completely necessary this time,” he says cheerfully.

Wen Qing raises the tablet over her head as if to smack him over the head with it. Wei Wuxian pouts and gives her his best puppy dog eyes, but Wen Qing does not buy it. She usually doesn’t, but her features soften anyway and she pats him on his uninjured shoulder before she leaves. 

“Don’t let him get out of bed,” she instructs his companion. “Got it, Lan Wangji?”

Lan Wangji nods. “Thank you, Wen-daifu.”

And then it’s just the two of them, in this too-sterile hospital room, staring at each other. The little crease is still there between Lan Wangji’s brow, and Wei Wuxian’s nose is still itchy, but it feels a little too awkward to be taking care of that particular problem now. He clears his throat and looks away with a wry grin.

“Hey,” he says again. “Thanks for today, Lan Zhan. Really. Don’t know where I’d be without you.”

Lan Wangji says nothing, but the hand resting on the sheets beside his curls into a fist. His face is impassive as always, but there is a twitch in the muscles of his sharp jaw that gives away the extent of his displeasure. Wei Wuxian shifts around, adjusting his position in bed and winces at the discomfort in his shoulder still dulled by the effects of the anaesthetic. Being the subject of Lan Wangji’s disapproval has never been a pleasant experience, but it feels different this time.

He stretches his index finger and taps the knuckles of the fist resting beside him.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Don’t be upset, Lan Zhan. I’m fine. Look!”

Lan Wangji’s frown deepens and the corners of his mouth turn down imperceptibly as he drops his gaze to the bed.

“You should not have done it,” he says stiffly. Unhappily. “You were the target, you should have stayed behind me—”

“Aiya, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says with a click of his tongue. “I couldn’t stand back and do nothing, could I? You could have been shot!”

“And now you’ve been shot!” The force behind his words startle Wei Wuxian into silence. “Wei-xiansheng. I am your bodyguard. My job is to protect you. Not the other way around.”

Wei Wuxian gnaws on the inside of his cheek and looks up at the ceiling. The tiles are plain and white, as sterile as the rest of the room. It makes his skin crawl.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” he says finally. “Not for me.”

“That is my job,” Lan Wangji reminds him. He sighs, frustrated. “Wei-xiansheng, we’ve been over this. Your personal safety should be at the forefront of your concerns.”

“Your brother tells me to leave the worrying to you,” Wei Wuxian says with a wry grin. “That as long as you’re here, I’ll be in safe hands. Or is that not true?”

It is clearly the wrong thing to say, because Lan Wangji’s knuckles turn white and the sheets crumple and twist beneath his fingers. He’s shaking so hard the bed begins to trembling, just slightly, but enough for Wei Wuxian to feel it rattle. He opens his mouth, ready to placate him, but Lan Wangji is faster.

“We cannot protect you if you do not protect yourself first,” he bites out through gritted teeth. “You keep—throwing yourself into dangerous situations without thinking. It was pure luck that you weren’t hurt, or killed any of those times before—”

“Well, not just luck. You’re just really good at your job,” Wei Wuxian interjects. He shrinks under Lan Wangji’s glare, chastened. “Sorry, please continue.”

Lan Wangji exhales and relaxes his grip on the bedsheets.

“I’m doing the best I can to protect you,” he says in a small, defeated tone that weighs heavily on Wei Wuxian’s chest. “But I can’t always be there. I-I can’t always help you when you’re in trouble, Wei Ying.”

Oh. Realisation hits him like a tonne of bricks and he lays there, craning his neck against the terrible pillows, looking at Lan Wangji. His shoulders are slumped, his head bowed; there are dark circles under his eyes and the faint hint of stubble along his jaw, a far cry from his usual crisp, professional demeanour. Wei Wuxian grimaces as a wave of nausea hits him, although he’s not sure if it’s due to the anaesthetic or the guilt churning in his stomach.

Lan Wangji is there immediately, the hurt on his face replaced by concern. 

“Is the wound hurting?” he asks. “I will call Wen-daifu—”

“No, no don’t,” Wei Wuxian says quickly, grabbing onto his hand before he can leave. He feels Lan Wangji’s hand jerk beneath his as if to pull away, and is grateful when he doesn’t. “I’m sorry.”

He chances a look at Lan Wangji and finds his honey-coloured eyes wide and his mouth soft and open with surprise as he stares down at him. It lasts only a second before it disappears behind a mask again, but it’s enough to send his heart tripping over itself and blood rushing to his cheeks. He looks away, chewing on his bottom lip.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he continues, staring determinedly at the railing on the other side of the bed. “I just…I didn’t even realise I was moving until I was, you know? I saw the gun pointed at you and my body just…reacted.”

He laughs, blinking back sudden wetness in his eyes.

“I just didn’t want to see you hurt,” he finishes quietly.

He doesn’t dare look at Lan Wangji to gauge his reaction, but he hears the sharp intake of breath and feels the hand in his shift. It turns over and returns his grip, engulfing his hand in a warm, gentle grip.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji breathes. “Wei Ying, look at me?”

His eyes are warm and gentle, tinged with sadness. He lifts Wei Wuxian’s hand and clasps it in both of his, bringing it to his cheek and brushing his lips over the knuckles. The brief contact sends tingles rushing down Wei Wuxian’s arms and his heart does an involuntary little flip. And then Lan Wangji smiles, no more than a tiny little quirk at the corner of his lips, but it is enough to send his heart rate skyrocketing—which is embarrassingly reflected in the sudden spike on the ECG machine still beeping away merrily by his bed.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says softly, the words ghosting over his fingers. “I don’t want to see you hurt either.”

The matter-of-factness in his tone fills Wei Wuxian with a warm, fuzzy feeling he’s quite sure does not relate to the anaesthetic. He offers him a sheepish little smile and strokes his thumb over the back of Lan Wangji’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a small voice. “I won’t do it again.”

Lan Wangji huffs.

“Yes you will,” he says with a hint of fondness in his voice. “But thank you.”

Notes:

xiansheng (先生) - Mr

daifu (大夫) - Doctor, nowadays used mostly as a title suffixed to a doctor’s name, rather than referring to a doctor in general (which is yisheng 医生)

This is set in my old Bodyguard AU verse from that prompt list that went around a while back. Uhhh...set somewhere between #2 and #3 probably. But you don’t really have to read them to understand it?

// buy me a ko-fi //

[kill-for-cookies]

after a lively night with d! master reader fem, he cannot walk by his legs fail to the bathroom and master comes to his rescue.

Thanks for this request and I'm really sorry for the waiting. I just had a lot of things to do, so I didn't have much time. And I wrote some fluffy, because I just needed some of this lately. Hope you'll enjoy this! Take care of yourself 😘

How to babysit with human

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

The door to the TARDIS opened wide. Outside loud, rhythmic music blared and the lights in that room flickered in different colors. It was obvious this was some kind of party. Anyone would understand. The Master turned to the door, waiting for something. Or someone.

"Whoa!" you gasped and spun forward, closing the door behind you and stopping at the entrance. You leaned on the railing, holding on it with both hands for more balance.

"I see you had fun" the Time Lord said sarcastically. He leaned against the console, his big hands resting on it. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. He was now without his purple coat, which hung in the corner of the room.

At his words, you looked at the Time Lord without humor, your gaze boring into him. Your lips were set in a hard line, cheeks dimpled and jaw clenched. That was your 'Are you fucking serious?' face.

"I'd have more fun if I didn't dance for 8 hours straight without even sitting down once" you retorted, walking a little forward, closer to him.

Your hands didn't open for a second behind the railing, because your legs hurt terribly and hummed like a train. You had a feeling they were going to fall off, so you needed some support.

You had a good reason to believe that. The dances went on one after another, non stop. Anyone from two hours of such dances would get tired and you had as many as eight. In addition, as soon as you thought you had a little time to rest between dances, you were immediately taken to the next one. And that was every time.

So every minute you were looking for the TARDIS, but unfortunately it never showed up. Oh, if the Master only knew how you called him all those damn hours. You cursed him with every possible word.

"You said you wanted to unwind" the Master commented, grinning at your exasperated face. Did he enjoy teasing and bullying you? You just groaned.

"You could have warned me these aliens only dance and nothing else" you explained your displeasure to a Time Lord who never understands such things as emotions.

"Actually, that's how they communicate" the Master lectured you, his grin growing even wider. His huge chocolate eyes glittered - he was clearly enjoying it.

In general, he will eventually finish badly and you will hit or slap him, although then you will probably regret it. But thank God, not today. You let a deep, loud sigh. You need to finish all this.

"Okay, I'm going to take a bath" you muttered wearily, but loud enough for the Time Lord to hear and headed for the deep of the time machine.

You let go of your support and took a couple of small steps... But then, abruptly and unexpectedly, your head began to spin and vision blurred. Your legs betrayed you - they shook and swayed, no longer solid and turned to jelly. Your body became so heavy that there was no chance of standing straight. That was what happened.

But thankfully, your body didn't touch the cold metal floor. Your eyes saw clearly again, focusing on the Master's face. He caught you by the waist - one of his hands was on your back and the other was firmly wrapped around your waist.

Your pupils were huge, overlapping your eye color. Your huge eyes blinked rapidly, trying to understand what had just happened. It didn't take a genius to know you were surprised.

"Thank you, you can let me go now. I'm fine now" you assured the Time Lord, frowning slightly and forcing a smile to convince him of your supposedly improved condition. In fact, you couldn't tell right now if you were feeling better. Maybe the next minute you'd feel the opposite.

You just wanted to get rid of his grip, because you weren't used to being so close to him. Especially with the Master. Sure, you had some feelings for this cocky but damn attractive alien, but you weren't ready to cross that line. Your maximum was when the Time Lord took your hand, but that was only because you two had to run.

"No, you're not fine" he argued in return, tightening his grip on you. His dark, thick brows drew together and his jaw clenched. You were so hoping your little smile would convince him.

And then something unexpected happened to you. Suddenly, you felt something slide under your knees (probably one of the Time Lord's hands) and the ground went out from under your feet. But this time you didn't fall, you were in the air. The Master picked you up and carried you into the corridor of the time machine.

"Hey! Let me down!" you demanded. You put your hands on his chest and tried to push him away, but nothing much came of it, just slightly moved away from him.

"Don't push or I'll drop you" the Master snorted and spoke through his teeth.

At first glance, he seems angry, cold, insensitive, but in reality this is far from the case. And you knew it. It was his mask... Protection, to be precise. He was stupidly and stubbornly convinced, even believed that it would be better, that emotions only hinder.

You've told him the opposite all the time, trying to convince him. Honestly, it was easier to talk to a sheep or a wall. Your 'it's okay to feel emotions, including pain' speech did not help much, because the Master kept moving away from you, pushing you away.

You've been traveling with him long enough to get used to his harsh words and cold demeanor. But something in his voice sounded different than usual. He was more... Affectionate? Gentle? Yeah, you never thought you'd describe him in those words. But it was true. Despite your aching legs or slightly foggy head, you could clearly understand it.

Being on the hands of the Master, you reached the bathroom. He gently began to lower you. Slowly, no sudden movements. The Time Lord was afraid to hurt you, as if you were a porcelain doll. In the end, he put you on the bath. God, it was wonderful not to stand on your own feet anymore. This was the greatest relief!

The Master was in front of you, his hands at on his hips. His brows were furrowed and eyes on the floor, as if he was considering what else he needed to do to make you feel okay, no pain in your legs and dizziness.

"So you're my babysitter now?" you teased him by putting a smirk on your face. Your legs were dangling from the bath, hands were gripping it tightly.

"You humans would rather kill yourself than take care of yourself" the Time Lord grumbled (that's when you remember he's several thousand years old) with the obvious annoyance that always comes when someone doesn't understand a simple topic. But he didn't even deny babysitting with you.

"You know, it's like a declaration of love..." at first, your eyes were boring into the floor and then you looked at the Master from under your brows. You may have been teasing him right now, but you actually said what you thought.

The Time Lord just snorted and rolled his eyes, but after a few seconds, he looked at you carefully. It was obvious to you what that look meant - did you need any help? You wouldn't admit it even if you needed it, but you can take a bath on your own, without any help.

So you shook your head as a no. He looked at you sideways, of course, not believing a word you said, but he left you alone. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, deciding to just sit there for a few minutes. Now your only desire was just rest and tomorrow you will decide what happened between you and the Master.

[discordantwords]

playing dead

This is for @neriesle, who prompted: (because I'm a sap & a sadist), Sherlock thinks John is dead for a few awful minutes/hours & the reunion is guhhhh

*

Moriarty is grinning, even in death. It is a mad grin, made all the more unsettling by the empty black eyes. A dark, wet crown has pooled around his shattered head.

 Sherlock looks at him, looks away. He swallows. The wind whips through his hair.

 He takes a moment to contemplate what he will need to do.

 There is a plan in place, of course. It is not his first choice. It is not his tenth choice. He'd been optimistic, overly confident. He can admit that now, on the roof with only his own thoughts to keep him company.

 There will be no victory without significant personal sacrifice. He sees that now. It should have been apparent from the beginning, but he's been terribly slow.

You're me, Moriarty had said, and he'd yanked Sherlock in close when he pulled the trigger.

 Sherlock is not Moriarty, not in the ways that matter. He knows that, just as he knows there are (were) parts of the man he cannot help but admire.

 None of this matters, now.

 Moriarty has forced his hand, Moriarty has died to ensure that Sherlock must do the same.

 He is breathing hard. He notices it, forces himself to slow down. He is sweating and trembling, dizzy and faintly nauseated. He feels uncomfortably, miserably human. The gunshot had been loud, the immediate aftermath messy. It is about to get messier.

 He resists the urge to scan the nearby buildings. Moriarty favoured snipers, it is only natural to assume that he is being watched.

 Mycroft had promised to take care of it, of course. It is possible that Moriarty's agents are, even now, being neutralised.

 It matters little, in the end. A man like Moriarty will have built contingency plans. Sherlock will have to jump, and Sherlock will have to die. There will be no going home.

 Down below, John is climbing out of a taxi. He has made good time, even accounting for London traffic. He has always been surprising in the best of ways.

 The sight of him is unexpectedly moving. Sherlock swallows again.

 He does not want to leave.

 It does not matter what he wants. It is time to go. He lifts his phone, dials. John answers immediately, and the warmth and concern in his voice makes something cold and heavy settle in Sherlock's chest.

 "Turn around and go back the way you came," Sherlock says.

 John responds with confusion. There is no lingering trace of anger in his voice.

You machine.

 Sherlock had expected anger. He'd primed John for disappointment, and yet—

 "I'm a fake," he says, and it hurts to say it. He has spent many years with little more than his pride to keep him company, and it feels wrong to cast it aside now.

 And John, loyal, stubborn John, insists that cannot possibly be true.

 He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He has been stricken with helpless, inconvenient affection, and he does not want to leave.

 John is a distant figure on the pavement below, his head tilted up. Sherlock cannot see his face clearly, but he knows he has his complete attention.

 "Sherl—" John's voice cuts out. He drops, graceless and heavy, to the ground.

 And then, a split second later, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.

 Sherlock cries out. The phone slips from his hand.

 He lurches forward, sways dizzily on the ledge. John is face down on the pavement, unmoving. There are people rushing towards him.

 John is down. John is. John is—

 Not moving. Not moving. Not moving.

 He does not hesitate. The fall is quick. The airbag rushes up to meet him.

 There are hands on him immediately, pulling, grasping. He flails, suffocating in his coat, drowning in the billowing fabric. His throat is tight with grief.

 Overhead, a tilted, fleeting glimpse of sky.

 John's name tries to force its way past his throat. It is as if he's swallowed razor blades. He cannot breathe.

 "J—" he gasps. "J—"

 "Shh," someone tells him, and he is rolled sideways, pushed free of the airbag. The pavement is cold and damp beneath him.

 He is hauled to his feet, takes two stumbling steps to the place where he is meant to have fallen. Someone dribbles blood in his hair. It dribbles, thick and cold, down his face. His throat closes up again and he struggles against the hands holding him firm.

 "Stop, stop," someone says. "You're supposed to be dead. Stop."

 "John," he slurs, and he is urged back towards the ground. His cheek presses against the pavement and blood pools around his head and he wishes, for a moment, that he'd missed the airbag entirely.

 Dead, he thinks. Dead.

 He keeps his eyes open, holds himself still. Performs a charade that has already failed.

 There are hands on him again. He is turned, and lifted. The hard press of a gurney beneath his back. He lets his limbs flop limply to his sides.

 He is already dead. It is easy to pretend.

 Someone drapes a sheet over his face, blotting out the sky. He is bumped and rattled and steered through corridors. Left turn, right turn, pause by the elevator. Blood seeps through the sheet and the fabric clings, wet and heavy, to his face.

 The elevator dings. He is pushed forward. A swooping sensation in his gut as they descend.

 Dead.

 He is cold. His muscles tremble. His stubborn heart beats on.

 The elevator stops. The doors open. He is maneuvered down the hall, through another set of doors.

 The stretcher halts. Someone touches his shoulder, feather-light, fleeting. It is meant as comfort, he supposes, but it is unnecessary. He is beyond comfort now.

 Footsteps retreat, and he is left in silence. He waits, his breath shallow.

 Then:

 "Sherlock?" Molly's voice, tentative and small.

 He sits up, pulls the sodden sheet from his face. He is in the morgue. He is in the morgue and John is dead.

 He stands. He thinks of John, collapsing with Sherlock's name in his mouth, and his knees buckle.

 "Oh—" Molly rushes forward, catches him under the arms. He waves her off, slumps forward. His bloodied forehead kisses the cold tile floor.

 Something deep in his chest is wrenching, tearing. He fears he may never be able to put himself right again.

 "John," he gasps. He shuts his eyes.

 Molly is radiating concern. She crouches at his side, tries again to help him up.

 He shakes her off again. John had never known what had hit him. He'd been looking up, his eyes locked on Sherlock, and then he'd—

 Sherlock groans, curls inward, lets his head thud against the floor.

 Across the room, a phone begins to ring, the sound intrusively cheerful.

 He listens to it, a jaunty tone punctuated by the harsh rasp of his breaths. Molly retreats from his side, crosses the room. She picks up the phone.

 Sherlock breaths and thinks about John. Thinks about the way that his voice had cut out.

 "Um," Molly says. "Yes, he's right here."

 Sherlock looks up. Molly is holding the phone, but her attention is on him. Her face is tight.

 Mycroft.

 He stands, ice pooling in his veins, and crosses the room in four quick strides. Blood patters to the ground in his wake. He takes the phone from Molly.

 "You said you'd handle it," he says. His voice is low and deadly, deadly calm.

 Mycroft sighs. "One of the involved parties managed to get off a single shot while being—invited to reconsider. A most regrettable error. I assure you that he has been apprehended."

 Sherlock swallows. Thinks about John being reduced to a regrettable error.

 "Fortunately there were agents on the ground ready to intervene. We're able to control the narrative—there won't be too many questions. However, this does change things. John Watson's death—"

 "Where is he?"

 "I'm sorry?"

 "The man who shot him," Sherlock says, speaking slowly and clearly. "Where is he?"

 "Sherlock—"

 "Where?"

 "Nowhere you'll be able to reach," Mycroft says. He sounds troubled.

 "I wouldn't be too certain of that," Sherlock snarls, and hangs up.

 He stands for a moment with his hand clenched around the phone, his knuckles white. His careful plans have dissipated like smoke. He does not care about Moriarty's web, about puzzles or games. What he wants is revenge, bloody and vicious. He will be thorough. He will be merciless. And he will not survive it.

 It does not matter. He is already dead.

 "Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

 At the sound of that voice, Sherlock freezes.

 He turns around slowly. John is standing in the doorway.

 John is standing in the doorway.

 John is standing in the doorway.

 The shirtsleeve on his left arm has been cut away, a thick bandage wrapped around his bicep. There is a scrape on his right temple (struck the pavement when he fell). His shirt is damp, his hair rumpled and unkempt. He has lost his coat.

 "John," Sherlock says. His voice emerges slow, slurred. He feels as if he is underwater, moving slowly and with great resistance.

 "Why are you all—Jesus—" John's voice flips from irritated to concerned. He approaches, and his right hand (cool and steady) presses against Sherlock's face, searching, prodding. "What happened to you? Is this your blood?"

 Sherlock shuts his eyes. His heart thunders against his ribs.

 John's arm is bandaged. John is not dead.

 One of the involved parties managed to get off a single shot.

 The shot had gone wild. It hadn't—John hadn't—

 He replays the scene in his mind. John drops to the pavement. Face down. Still and unmoving. Dead.

 He revises it. John is struck in the upper arm. John throws himself forward to take cover. Holds himself still. Plays dead.

 "You're not dead," Sherlock says. He blinks, blinks again.

 "Erm," John says. He lifts his right hand to the back of his neck, scratches uncomfortably. "No. Not exactly. But I've only been bloody shot Sherlock, and I'm fairly sure the person who treated me wasn't actually a doctor, because they didn't follow any of the proper protocol, and—"

 Sherlock throws himself forward, wraps his arms around John, yanks him close. He has never hugged John. He cannot remember the last time he hugged anyone. In his head, Mycroft chides him for the sentiment. He ignores it. He rues it, sometimes, the damage John has wrought on his carefully refined system, but he cannot bring himself to give it up.

 John makes a startled sound, but does not move away. After a moment he brings a cautious hand up to stroke down Sherlock's back.

 Over John's shoulder, across the room, Molly looks away, clearly attempting to spare him some dignity.

 "What were you doing up there, Sherlock?" John asks. His voice is low, concerned. "For a moment, I thought—"

 "You thought I was going to jump," Sherlock says. He drops his head into the crook of John's neck, breathes in the scent of car exhaust and nervous sweat and the faint remnants of cologne.

 "You—" John starts.

 "I was. I did," Sherlock says. He shuts his eyes, fists his hands into the back of John's shirt.

 "You—you what?"

 He does not want to explain. He is tired, he is cold and trembling and covered in blood that is not his own.

 "I'm dead," he says, and he starts to laugh.

 This does change things, Mycroft had said.

 "Sherlock," John says, and there is real concern seeping into his voice now, real fear. "Sherlock, what—"

 "I'm dead," he says, and at last he realises what Mycroft had been trying to say, he understands. "And you're dead too."

 "Not to sound like too much of a broken record," John says. "But what?"

 Sherlock kisses him. He tastes salt, and blood, and the faint remains of the crisps John had bought from the vending machine hours ago.

 John makes another startled sound, but he does not pull away. He lifts his right hand and gently cups Sherlock's face, his thumb stroking a maddening path across the blood-stiff skin on Sherlock's cheek.

 There are tears on Sherlock's face, fresh ones. He cannot bring himself to be embarrassed.

 He pulls back, just enough to take a breath. John looks at him, his eyes bright and confused. He does not look displeased.

 "Sherlock," John says. He holds his left arm gingerly, keeps his right hand resting against Sherlock's face. "What--?"

 "We're dead," Sherlock says. He smiles, a genuine, unbidden thing. "Well. I'm dead. You could be dead. If you want to be."

 "You're not making any sense."

 "Moriarty has a criminal empire," he says. "A vast, loosely connected network that spans the globe."

 "Erm," John says. He smiles a little bit, a confused smile, lost but engaged nonetheless, and Sherlock loves him. "All right. Yeah. I—well, sort of figured that."

 "Want to help me take it down?"

 John blinks at him, and Sherlock goes cold, he thinks I've asked too much, but then John smiles and there is nothing confused or bewildered in this smile, it is genuine and it is brilliant.

 "God yes," John says.  

[somegirl29]

Sherlock X reader- a romance to killing it (first chapter)

Synopsis: Sherlock falls in love with a girl, but what he didn't know was that she was a murderer sent by moriarty to kill him

Sherlock X reader

Author's notes: this is my first fanfic here

I may have a spelling mistake because I am Brazilian and my English is not very good

feel free to make requests, or constructive criticism, say what you think of this fanfic so I can know if I keep writing or not

When Sherlock first saw the girl at a crime scene as a transferred detective he didn't pay much attention, he was focused on the case and thought she would just be more of an annoying cop who would just hinder him, in a matter of minutes she won her attention interrupting his remarks by saying details that went unnoticed at the crime scene, this made him question himself his observational power had never failed before. When he let his eyes fall on her, all he could see were unknown. She looked like a blank sheet of paper. He couldn't deduce anything about her and that completely puzzled him.

     It was a matter of time before she became one of the closest people he has ever had in his life, perhaps the factor of thinking similarly to not understanding human feelings, or she was able to reach complex case conclusions in seconds being the most experienced person who he already knew even surpassing himself. At one point he fell in love with the girl, then she moved to Baker Street and as she was perfect, he was never frightened by the body parts in the fridge or the house, he did not interrupt him in his mental palace, nor his days in silence where he only played the violin. And he never felt bored or felt the need to use drugs, because she was a great mystery that entertained him when he had no cases to solve, he wanted to understand her and was in fact beginning to believe that love is not a chemical defect, and he accepted that if he really was, he was willing to accept such a defect.

(Y / N) was a really mysterious girl, nobody knew what she was thinking, they never knew how she would react to anything, they also had no information about her personal life or past she emerged as a ghost without anyone knowing an explanation to do so, however, their talents to solve crimes drew the attention of everyone by diverting their suspicions. The cruel truth was that the girl was a murderer, everyone in the world of crime knew her for her cold and bloodthirsty murders. She had fun with what she did, tortured victims until she was bored again, killed when she wanted or when they hired her for such a function, her life came down to that, and this time his mission was more than just ordinary murder.

Moryart told Sherlock that he would burn his heart and that was the criminal adviser's new plan, he knew that girl would be able to win over the detective and knew that he would suffer from the sad reality when he discovered that it was all just a plan, when she got tired playing house with Sherlock she might as well kill him as she wished, and her fame as a torturer gave evidence that she would destroy him physically and psychologically, it was all just a game.

A very fun game

-

Eight months passed, Sherlock and (Y / N) had a six-month relationship. Both were on an ordinary day, the girl was lying on the leather sofa staring at the ceiling, the detective was out chasing some criminal as usual. Her attention was diverted by a call which she answered simultaneously

'' This game is starting to get boring, does he keep meddling where he shouldn't and taking away my patience, when you plans to kill him? '' The girl hesitates to answer '' don't tell me you got attached to him, I expected more from you, 24 hours to kill him or others will go after him and in that case know that the target will also include you '' and so the call was disconnected without her being able to say a word.

It was a blow to the assassin's pride when she realize she had become attached to that boy, the way he thought of her intelligence, the way he looked at her as if she were the most important being on the planet with those beautiful blue eyes despite his terrible temper and difficulty expressing feelings she knew he really loved her. However, this was her job, she always knew that this moment would come.

'' Why is this so difficult? '' She yells at herself in frustration

''What is so difficult? '' She jumps up, sitting on the sofa, turns around and looks at Sherlock in the doorframe, how long had he been there without saying anything?

Without saying a word she walks up to him and hugs him making him be amazed

‘'I’m starting to get scared, you usually hate any show of affection, and you avoid them more than I’ ”he jokes

She walks away and offers him tea walking towards the kitchen where she makes one of the most painful decisions of her life.

When he returns to the other room, he hands the cup to the boy, who soon ingests the liquid and extinguishes it in his chair. She walks to the room where she picks up all her belongings, changes clothes by dressing discreetly, she would need to go unnoticed when she runs away. At the bottom of her bag is a loaded gun which she hesitantly holds. She closes her purse and walks towards Sherlock, unlit sleeping innocently with her calm face. She wished he had found out who she was, ending up in prison would be better than that.

Hours passed she walked uncertainly around the environment, he could wake up at any moment, and then in an attempt to buy time she vacates her hands by placing the gun on a support on her leg, removing handcuffs from her pocket '' doing this with him awake and a little dizzy and helpless can be better isn't it?" I always liked to see the despair in the eyes of the victims' I tried to convince herself, by closing the handcuff on one wrist she is surprised because he quickly attaches it to the other side of the handcuff.

Surprised and without knowing how to react she looks at him, he opens his eyes and looks at her seriously

‘’ I knew something was strange ’'

‘'Did you take time to realize ohh great detective, why did you hand cuff me to you?’'

‘‘Thinking fast, I deduced that it mustn’t be pleasant to be attached to a corpse ..’' he would say something but it was cut off with a gunshot

In the case the noise came from her gun which she pulled quickly and fired at an assassin at the door.

‘'I advise you to get up and follow me now Sherlock’'

‘’ What happened to nicknames like love or Sher? ’’ He asks sarcastically as he stands up and has the question completely ignored.

'' I think you've already noticed what's going on at that point .. '' he can feel the regret in her voice '' Where are we going? '' He asks being ignored as she drags him running along dark, little-moving paths from London, watching the surrounding area fearing new assassins lurking.

—

At some point she shot the handcuffs, breaking them apart, separating the two, but she forced him into a car, he silently obeyed her, but soon he couldn't contain himself.

‘'Was that car your plan for escape? ’’ She nodded saying yes in response ‘‘ have a gun in the glove compartment, I advise you to take it out just in case, there must be more assassins on the way ‘’

After that they spent hours in silence in that car until she finally parked it and was followed by him.

''Where are we ? Would you mind answering me now please ’'Sherlock asked in anguish, the whole situation was destroying him.

She closed the door locks and sat on a large sofa

‘’ This is the safest place I know, my house, the rest you deduced already ‘’ he felt hurt when she talked about that being his home, he really liked to believe that her house was on 221B with him

''You are a murderer, hired to kill me, because of the way you shot that man, you seem to do that often, can I dare to ask why? ’'

‘’ I was bored ’’ the room was flooded with silence until he got up his courage, he handed her the gun he had picked up in the car and placed next to her on the couch, he knelt in front of her.

‘'Go ahead, kill me’'she cannot help being astonished to hear Sherlock utter such words

‘'What do you think you’re saying?’'

'' Feeling is a chemical defect found in losers, I am admitting my defeat, love is in fact a dangerous disadvantage .. ’'

(Y / N) stares at him in amazement as he completes '' I really love you '' ducking his head waiting for a coup de grace from her '' Stop being so heartless and kill me .. '' he is cut by a kiss, her arms soon fall over the girl's waist and hers hug her neck. When they separate, she dries a lonely tear that drips from one of his beautiful blue eyes. ‘'I love you Sher, at first I really planned to kill you but I ended up falling in love, we’re two losers’' she hugs him

‘’ What’s going to happen now?’’ He asks fearfully '‘I’m going to murder everyone who might hurt you and protect the love of my life’ ’

It would be difficult from now on. But nothing they could not face for each other, she would surely save him.

second chapter: here

[notapaladin]

you just gotta let it go (redux)

What makes a sickfic better? More snarky bitching about being sick, of course! Poor, poor Acatl.

Also on AO3.

Original version here

-

The second day of an illness was the worst.

Granted, the first day had been no garden of roses either. Acatl had gone home at the end of his long working day (two vigils, several hours’ worth of investigations into a nasty murder near the markets, endless accounts to square away) to a hastily-put-together dinner and the comfort of his own mat, but he’d barely lain down for an hour before his guts had begun to cramp and the first swelling of nausea had begun to travel up his throat. He’d thought—hoped—that it would pass. He’d always had a reasonably strong constitution, after all. Perhaps it was merely the heat.

And then he’d started vomiting. Poison had been his first thought, and he’d wiped his mouth and tried to stagger to the door only to faint after a single step. Praise the gods for Ichtaca; the man had heard him groaning as he passed and had leapt into action, sending runners for a healing priest before he could even think about protesting. Not that he’d been doing much thinking by then, honestly—whatever he’d eaten had come back for revenge, and he’d been far too busy trying not to completely disgrace himself.

Or at least trying not to faint. Fatigue had dragged at every limb, threatening to pull him under entirely; he’d collapsed on the floor next to the basin Ichtaca had fetched for him, unable to rise even to his knees as bone-breaking chills had shuddered through him. He’d barely even had the strength to continue throwing up, though his stomach had left him little choice. Dull, twisting pain wormed its way through his guts, and each blink had lasted an eternity. He been so exhausted that he hadn’t wanted to open his eyes again. He might not have if fear hadn’t compelled him, if a cold spike of terror hadn’t whispered if you close your eyes you’ll never open them again, and then where will you be? Do you want so badly for Teomitl to weep for you when you leave him behind?

He’d thought of Teomitl’s smile, Teomitl’s warm words and steady hands, and forced himself to remain conscious. Ichtaca stayed by his side and that helped, but when the man had helped him wipe his mouth—and gods, how humiliating had that been—he’d been sick all over again at the question that hissed through his mind like an arrow. Am I going to die?

He served Mictlantecuhtli with all his heart, but he did not want to meet Him yet. Not with so much left unsaid. The thought that it might be entirely beyond his control had been terrifying; in a brief burst of energy he’d thought of asking Ichtaca to summon Teomitl, but fortunately he’d thrown up again before he could voice it, and that had erased such rank stupidity from his thoughts. It would only make things worse if he survived.

He’d still been retching when the priest of Patecatl had arrived.

At least it wasn’t poison, he’d thought bitterly when he’d gotten the diagnosis. But the sort of illness you got from food that had gone off was downright humiliating, and to make matters worse the only cure was rest and plain meals. Plain. No chili. No other spices. Barely even any salt. If he’d been able to contemplate food without feeling nauseous again, he would have been miserable; as it was, he was waking only to drink water and drag himself to the chamber pot.

Because apparently, even when whatever had been in his guts was now quite comprehensively out of them, it had left its mark behind. He was exhausted. Even his experience with the plague hadn’t left him feeling quite this flattened; each limb felt like the Great Temple had come down on top of it, and he could barely rouse himself from his mat. At least he wasn’t afraid of sleeping anymore. When he spoke, he slurred his words like a base drunkard.

And of course he was forced to speak, because he had visitors.

He was awoken shortly after dawn by the arrival of not one but two more priests of Patecatl. Their cloaks marked them as part of the upper echelons of their temple’s hierarchy, and so he managed not to actually snap at them when they entered. It felt like an achievement just to speak coherently. “Thank you, but I’m feeling much better—”

The older one gave him a stare so full of judgement that he shut his mouth with a pang; it reminded him too much of Ceyaxochitl. “We have to monitor your condition, Acatl-tzin. You are our High Priest for the Dead.”

There were times he truly took pride in being High Priest for the Dead at all hours, whether at a feast or standing by the side of a pyre. This was not one of them. I don’t stop being High Priest for the Dead, no matter how sick I am. He made a face, but grudgingly sat up a little straighter. Or how much I’d rather be left alone.

At least submitting himself to a full examination didn’t require him to do much except be manhandled, and the healing priests were coolly professional and not inclined to make small talk. It still tired him out, and when the younger priest—Cuetzpalli, apparently—began casting a spell to strengthen his stomach, he actually found himself dozing off. The cut-grass smell of Patecatl’s magic was remarkably soothing when you were more than semi-conscious for it.

“Acatl-tzin?”

He blinked awake. Cuetzpalli had stopped chanting and was eyeing him with mild concern as he offered a hand to help him sit up again. He ignored it; he was not so far gone that he couldn’t manage that, even if the motion made his muscles ache. “My apologies. What’s the verdict?”

Cuetzpalli didn’t seem fazed by his curtness. No doubt he’d seen much worse, though he was barely a few years older than Teomitl; healing priests saw people at their very lowest, after all, and an irritated High Priest probably wasn’t even worth noting. “No poison nor magic that we can detect. Your dinner seems to have simply...disagreed with you. You’ll feel...ah, reasonably terrible for a week or so, but you are in no danger.” His face twisted in singularly unhelpful sympathy.

Acatl’s fists clenched in his lap. A week? Duality, I cannot afford to be laid low for that long! Horrible visions of his temple in disarray and the boundaries crumbling like old paper flickered through his mind, and he fought a grimace. No. It would be fine. He would return to his duties tomorrow, suffer through bland food until his guts settled, and everything would be fine. “Hrm.”

“You’ll be alright, young man.” The older priest—Necalli—didn’t smile, but his eyes softened slightly as he looked him over. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

He couldn’t make any promises, but he was spared from having to lie; their visit apparently being over, Cuetzpalli was packing up their supplies. Soon they had both left, bowing very politely, and he’d collapsed on his mat again. Some vague twinge in his belly suggested he should attempt food, but even fetching one of the bland flatbreads Ichtaca had left for him seemed like a monumental effort. No, he would just lay here for now until he felt...well, not better, but at least more alert. The angle of the sunlight shifted through his one window, and he watched it blankly.

He slept. He woke, found the ache in his stomach had progressed to actual pangs of hunger, and choked down a few mouthfuls of dry flatbread and a cup of water before his gorge rose in protest and he had to set the rest aside. His stomach had been emptier than this for longer. He’d be alright.

He slept again. Time ceased to have meaning. There was only the sunlight moving across his floor, the humid air laying on his skin like a blanket. He lay like a lizard on his back, gently baking in the heat.

And then the entry curtain jingled. “Acatl?”

Oh, gods. Mihmatini’s voice. Groaning, he heaved himself upright, muscles protesting. “Ngghhh...” At some point he’d closed his eyes, and once again it seemed to take real effort to keep them open. Duality, he hoped the healing priests had been right and it was only an ill-chosen meal, and not something more serious. Last night’s panic had faded, but it was far too easy to bring to mind just how very inevitable—how very immediate—his death had felt. Lord Death, he prayed, do not take me into Your arms yet.

She sounded concerned. He was sick of concern. “We brought soup.”

...We…? The thoughts floating through his head were slow to arrange themselves into a semblance of order, but finally he realized that she wasn’t alone and managed to wedge his eyes open properly. There was Mihmatini, brow furrowed, holding a clay jug in both hands. And beside her, face twisted in worry, was Teomitl. “...Oh.” Oh, no. Not you. He felt vaguely nauseous again, and not just from the effort of sitting up.

She didn’t wait for him to invite her in, or even to rise; he watched, still feeling three steps behind reality, as she set the jug down on his table and went looking for spoons. There was a degree of bustling involved that made him dizzy to think about. “I really can’t believe I had to hear from Ichtaca that you were ill, Acatl, really—do you know how worried I’ve been? Food poisoning is nothing to dismiss!”

“It’s passed.” It had. Mostly. He had decided against making any sudden movements.

“Nobody gets over food poisoning that fast.” That was Teomitl, leaning in the doorway and frowning down at him. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

He frowned back, even as some part of his heart felt unaccountably warmed; Teomitl’s concern might be touching, but by the Duality it wasn’t as though he’d tried to get sick. Besides, he was a grown man. He didn’t need to be fussed over, especially not when it might make him start hoping. “...I take care of myself just fine.”

Teomitl turned his face away, glowering at the wall as though it had insulted his honor. Acatl knew by the face he made that he was probably chewing on the inside of his lip plug again; he wondered, not for the first time, if Teomitl had ever realized he only did that when he was agitated. He hoped he didn’t. It was oddly endearing, and he’d miss the sight. “What did the healing priests say?”

He grimaced at the reminder. “Very plain fare. And sleep.”

Mihmatini uncovered the jug, and the odor of plain, hot, and—suddenly most important for his stomach, which growled loudly enough that he blushed—salty turkey broth met his nostrils. “Do you think you could keep this down?”

For his sister, he’d try. Slowly, he nodded. “...Thank you.”

He hadn’t expected them to linger, but—evidently realizing that he absolutely wouldn’t be able to finish all of the soup by himself—they took their own seats at his table. It was pleasant not to eat alone in his own house for once. Teomitl was uncharacteristically quiet and kept glancing at Acatl out of the corner of his eye; before he thought of commenting on it, Mihmatini spoke up. “How is it?”

He looked down at his bowl and realized with a start that he’d nearly finished it. Each lift of the spoon to his mouth had been like trying to move a boulder, but he’d clearly been hungrier than he thought. He briefly had to struggle to remember how to speak; even the muscles in his tongue felt tired. A blink lasted longer than he liked. “...It’s good. Did you make it?”

Mihmatini snorted, shaking her head. “From the palace kitchens. I’m not this good a cook.”

Teomitl huffed, “You’re a wonderful cook.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “And you are a shameless flatterer.”

“I am being perfectly truthful—tell her, Acatl!”

Acatl blinked again, discreetly pinching himself to stay awake. Passing out in his soup bowl wouldn’t convince his family he was hale. True, Mihmatini was a skilled cook—but it was equally true that no priest of Patecatl would prescribe her food for him. It had entirely too much flavor, and the way she made soup would put meat back on the bones of a corpse. “...He’s right. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m in no state to appreciate it at the moment.”

She looked supremely unimpressed. He could actually see the moment she swallowed a sharp retort and picked up her spoon again. “I can see that. You look awful.”

He had to admit she had a point; he felt awful. Eating had helped briefly, but as soon as it settled in his stomach he had to battle another spike of nausea. If he stopped leaning on the table, he had a feeling he’d fall over. “Thanks.”

Mihmatini sighed, pushing her now-empty bowl away. “I wish I could stay, but I have to get back to the Duality House.”

“Guardian lessons?”

She made a face. Acatl couldn’t blame her; she hadn’t told him much of what her unexpected ascension to Guardianship had entailed, but what little she’d let slip suggested it was unpleasant. If nothing else, she was having to learn in weeks what took most women years. He did not envy her. “Guardian lessons.”

Teomitl reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ll see you later.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and for a moment Acatl was concerned. Had they had a fight at some point? But then she smiled, warm as always. “You’d better. Remember what we were talking about earlier.”

Teomitl swallowed hard and nodded. “Mm.”

And then she rose gracefully, favoring Acatl with that same narrow-eyed assessing look. “And as for you, you’d better take it easy. Ichtaca told us you collapsed a few times last night.”

It wasn’t like he’d made a habit out of it. Besides, the floor had been comfortable even with that nagging, irrational concern that he might fail to wake up. On a full stomach and with something approximating sleep under his belt, that fear felt ridiculous now. He glared back at her. “I’m not that sick. I’ve no intention of fainting on anyone.”

“Don’t worry.” Teomitl smiled, and the brief flash of radiant warmth made Acatl’s face heat. “I won’t let you.”

She sniffed, unswayed. “Hm. I’ll be back later to check on you.”

And then Mihmatini left, and they were alone. Acatl found, suddenly, that he couldn’t quite manage to look Teomitl in the face. The gods knew Teomitl had seen him injured before—had taken care of him, even, and Acatl knew he’d never forget confident hands bandaging his wounds or strong arms helping him to safety—but battle wounds were an acceptable form of weakness, one that struck down even the greatest warriors. It was entirely different to be ill and run-down in front of Teomitl, who valued strength so highly; a man who thought limits were for the weak surely couldn’t still respect him when he could barely muster the energy to stand. In a moment. In a moment I’ll get up and clear the table. I don’t need a—a nursemaid, Tlaloc’s lightning strike me. He just needed to brace himself and move slowly.

Teomitl beat him to it. He was already on his feet and clearing away the remnants of their meal when Acatl set a hand on the table to heave himself up; when he caught sight of the movement, he shot him a savage glare. “Stay still. I’ll handle it.”

He could force himself to his feet; he’d worked in worse conditions and through much greater pain. Nothing would ever be as bad as the plague had been. But somehow, it didn’t really seem worth it to argue. So he stayed where he was and prayed for patience, staring at the knotted pine grain of the table. It needed a wash. “...So you’re to keep me company, then?”

Teomitl turned to look over his shoulder at him, eyes dark and serious. “Someone should.”

He took a slow breath. Even through his exhaustion, the reminder of his state—that Teomitl looked at him and thought he shouldn’t even be left alone—stung bitterly. Even though he could be weak, came the treacherous thought. Even though Teomitl would let him. Would help him lay down, put his arms around him...no. He shook his head firmly, banishing those thoughts before they could make him remember what had come to him in the dead of last night’s pain. It was still hopeless, and he would not plead his way into Teomitl’s heart. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

“I know you aren’t.” And then Teomitl smiled, teasingly innocent, and Acatl’s heart skipped a beat even as he continued, “But isn’t it the job of the student to tend to his master’s needs?”

His eyes narrowed. Irritation was starting to revitalize him; in some small part of his mind, he suspected this was Teomitl’s plan. “...And you aren’t my student anymore.” He hasn’t been since...the courtyard? No, before that. It just took me too long to see it. He is my friend, my brother-in-law, and one day he’ll be my Revered Speaker. But he’s not my student, and he shouldn’t have to take care of me even if he was.

The table clean, Teomitl sat down by him within arm’s reach but not touching. Acatl found himself glad for that; he wasn’t sure if he was alert enough not to give in to the absurd urge to lean against him. His former student’s shoulders looked appealingly solid. “And we’re all glad for that. But that doesn’t change the fact that you could use some company, if only for a distraction. I’m good at that.” A smile still tugged at the corners of his lips, warm eyes looking Acatl over. “Please?”

Oh, no. Not the please. It struck him harder than a physical blow, and he had to look away. Duality preserve him, he’d been right. Teomitl would let him be weak. And he’d thought his feelings would fade? That he’d be able to bury them forever? Gods, he was such a fool. It was a terrible time to be proven wrong. I should be stronger than this. “...I won’t...” He yawned, suddenly almost too tired to make his tongue work. The soup had only been a temporary boost after all. “I’m sorry. I won’t be a very good host.”

“...That’s alright.” Teomitl was gazing at him with fond exasperation, and he couldn’t bear it. “Rest, Acatl. I’ll be here when you wake.”

He couldn’t let that pass without comment, no matter how much that same small, treacherous part of him was warmed by the thought of companionship. “You have a job. Your own duties...”

Now Teomitl did reach over, putting a hand gently on his shoulder. It warmed him to his bones. “Over for the day. Lay down.”

He couldn’t do anything but obey. Even the simple act of sitting up and eating had wrung him out like a damp rag; he could have passed out on a bed of obsidian shards. His thin mat was a miracle in comparison, and he managed to keep his eyes open just long enough to watch as Teomitl settled down on his haunches and swept him with a slow, considering look. The thought that slid through his mind like a snake—gods, you could kiss me if you wanted—still wasn’t a match for the tides of dreamless sleep pulling him under.

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was Teomitl’s back. It was, he thought idly, a very nice back; Teomitl had shed his cloak for the sake of the heat, and so Acatl had an excellent view of the line of his waist and the curve of his spine. There were no scars upon it, for he would never be one to willingly turn his back on a foe. The knowledge lifted his heart with a kind of soft pride. My fearless man. You who will lead Tenochtitlan to glory. I cannot wait to see what kind of Emperor you’ll make.

Then Teomitl stretched, back arching, and the affection curling gently through him sparked into something hotter and darker. Gods, he’d almost forgotten. He could go days now without thinking about the warmth of Teomitl’s voice or the strength of his hands, but here he was being viscerally reminded that they couldn’t be ignored forever. That the feelings which had sustained him through many long nights wouldn’t melt with the dawn. That not even what he’d thought with sharp terror would be his actual death could successfully smother them. Duality curse me.

He must have made a noise, because Teomitl turned to look at him. “Acatl? Ah, you’re awake. Do you need anything?”

His mouth had gone dry at some point. Swallowing didn’t help. “...Water.” If nothing else, it would be cold. He could use the cold.

Teomitl rose to fetch water, and he busied himself with trying to sit up. It took a few attempts as his heavy limbs fought his control, but by the time Teomitl returned he’d managed the disgustingly difficult task of rolling over. Teomitl’s hand between his shoulderblades steadied him as he heaved himself up the rest of the way, and for a long moment he drank in silence. His stomach felt better, but his heart didn’t.

It wasn’t until Teomitl took his hand away and sat down next to him that he found words. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

Teomitl jerked away, glaring at him; for all that he’d only spoken the truth, Acatl still felt himself flush as he snapped, “Did you think I would leave you alone?!”

“It must be late.” It was. The afternoon sun had turned dim and gold, sinking into Teomitl’s skin and hair. Sunset couldn’t be far behind, and he would be well enough to properly offer blood to the gods again. There was no need for Teomitl to watch over him like a mother jaguar with cubs. But he wants to, because he cares about you, whispered his mind, and he took another sip of water to cool the heat of his skin.

“I don’t care.” Duality, and he growled like a jaguar, too. Though he huffily turned his face away, Acatl saw his hand twitch; it was all the warning he got before it came down to rest atop his own free one. “You stayed with me when I was ill, and that was contagious. Do you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?”

He couldn’t think. Teomitl’s hand was on his, callused and warm, and he was fairly sure all sensation in his body had been rerouted to that single point of contact. He was surprised he hadn’t dropped the cup, and managed to set it down before he could. “I...uh.” He was unconscious, deep in his delirium. I didn’t think he’d remember. Gods, I was so afraid he’d never even wake. But he did...and…

It seemed to take an eternity for him to dredge up a full sentence from the mire of his thoughts. “You don’t...have to...”

Teomitl’s voice held nothing but certainty. He might as well have been making a royal proclamation. “Yes. I do.”

“...Oh.” It seemed to be all he could say. There was more locked behind his teeth—you are the best of men, I don’t deserve you, you’re a reckless fool sometimes but that’s alright because you still hold my whole heart safe in your hands—but he didn’t dare open his mouth and let it fly out. If he started down that road, he’d never stop. And Lord Death had not seen fit to take him into His embrace last night, so a sudden and fatal relapse wouldn’t save him either.

For a long while, Teomitl was silent. Though he sat as still as a statue, the fingers covering Acatl’s own twitched as though he wanted to curl them around his hand. Finally, still without looking at him, he spoke. “Do you have any idea how I felt when I learned how sick you were?”

“I was not that sick—” he began.

Teomitl didn’t let him finish. “Yes. You were. Ichtaca was shaking when he told us you were finally keeping down liquids.”

He dropped his gaze to his lap. Mired as he’d been in his own terror, Ichtaca had felt like a rock beside him. He’d had no idea the man had been frightened too. “...Oh.”

“Oh,” Teomitl mimicked, a spark of nastiness in his voice that faded almost instantly to that tight, flat restraint. “You terrified us, Acatl. You terrified me.”

Storm Lord’s lightning blast him. He couldn’t even attempt a reassuring smile, for Teomitl’s words struck him to the core. Still, he mustered up the energy somewhere to make an effort. “I’ve felt worse than this and lived. You needn’t have worried.”

Teomitl swiveled around to glare at him, eyes hot and suspiciously bright. “Don’t say that! Don’t you know how important you are to me?”

“Ngkh.” He knew he was blushing again, but he couldn’t have torn his eyes from Teomitl’s face if his life had depended on it. It was one thing to be pretty sure Teomitl cared about him, but another thing entirely to hear it confirmed. “I...” I am High Priest for the Dead. His teacher. His friend. That’s all he means. “But...”

“No buts.” Teomitl shook his head, squeezing his hand tightly. There was a terrible tremor in his voice. “You have to take care of yourself, Acatl. Understand? I don’t...I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. I can’t lose you.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, and for a dizzying moment he thought he was going to faint again. “I know how you feel.”

“..Do you?” The bite of skepticism couldn’t quite hide that moment of hopeful hesitation.

He inhaled. “...Last night...” He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t. But Teomitl wasn’t saying anything; he was giving him the space to find his words. That made the difference, in the end. “Last night...I thought I was going to die.” He still wondered idly at the possibility, but it no longer filled him with heart-clenching fear. There was only one thing he would have regretted, after all. Now Teomitl was staring at him in horror, but he made himself press on. “And I thought of you.”

Teomitl’s eyes were wide, his fingers trembling. Now Acatl knew the expression on his face, that stunned sort of hope that didn’t quite dare to step into the sunlight yet. “Me?”

He nodded. Yes, you. Always you. “I thought—if I died here, I would never get to tell you that I—” But courage failed him, and he swallowed with a dry click.

Teomitl was still staring at him. Unfortunately, this didn’t let him off the hook. “That you what?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. It was a coward’s move, but then he had always been one, hadn’t he? Or else it wouldn’t have taken the fear of death to force the words out. “I love you,” he blurted out, and when Teomitl didn’t immediately react in rage or disgust he added, “I wanted to be sure you knew.” Even if you don’t love me back in the same way. Even if you’re about to break my heart, I’m giving it to you to break.

He heard a slow, deep breath. A shaky whisper of “Acatl,” more shock than outrage.

And then Teomitl kissed him.

His mind went entirely blank. There was only the soft pressure of warm lips on his, slow and careful and gods, so gentle. He had no idea what he was doing, but Teomitl clearly did; he tilted his head just so, parted his lips just a fraction, and Acatl was lost. Gods, he thought dizzily, I love you so much. Teomitl slid strong arms around his waist, and for a moment he thought that hold was the only thing keeping him upright. He wondered if it was possible to swoon just from a single kiss. Well, he was still ill. It might be.

When Teomitl pulled away, his eyes were shining. “I can hardly believe...Duality, Acatl.” He gave a little shake of his head, as though to express the utter impossibility of their situation. A wry little disbelieving smile tugged at his lips. “I was halfway to convincing myself to give up.”

Acatl blinked at him as the words rearranged themselves into something that made sense. His brain clearly wasn’t up to its full capacity yet, because Teomitl couldn’t have said what he thought he said. “You what?!”

Now it was Teomitl’s turn to blush. “I have wanted you for—gods, for years. I knew it was hopeless, but when I thought I would lose you...”

Things clicked slowly into place in Acatl’s mind. Passing glances, lingering touches, a hitched breath. Years, he said. Years. “...Does Mihmatini know?” He remembered her hard-eyed stare, the way Teomitl had looked almost nervous at whatever she’d said, and ice gripped his heart again. He wouldn’t be the cause of strife between them, no matter how much Teomitl made his heart race. He wouldn’t do that to her.

Teomitl drew himself up, glaring at him. He was still flushed, but Acatl judged it more embarrassment than guilt. “She does. Do you think I’d go behind her back, especially after the last time?” He didn’t have to elaborate. Things between him and Mihmatini had been so frosty for a few weeks that she’d practically spat when mentioning his name. Acatl wasn’t sure how they’d reconciled, but he was starting to get a few, somewhat embarrassing, ideas.

The ice was starting to thaw. He took one deep breath, and then another. If she knows, then... “Then...what she mentioned, about you two having spoken earlier...”

“You know how she is. She...suggested I consider the possibility of mentioning my feelings a while ago.” Knowing Mihmatini, suggested was probably far too polite a word. Teomitl quirked up a smile and added, “But I wasn’t expecting you to beat me to it.”

He found it much easier to breathe when he knew he wasn’t ruining his sister’s marriage. “After last night...I had to let you know. In case fate saw fit to separate us. I didn’t want to die without telling you how I feel.”

Teomitl’s gaze had softened like melted wax, and it was just about as hot. “Maybe you should tell me again.”

His heart kicked within his chest. Feeling suddenly bold—he’d come this far, after all—he shot back, “Why don’t I just show you?” Even raising the possibility of what such a demonstration might entail made him blush all over again, but...well. Teomitl deserved to know the full truth of his feelings, and honesty had already brought him great rewards. I took vows of chastity, of celibacy. I would break them all for you if you asked. Gods, I would break them all if I thought you might ask.

For a moment, Teomitl simply stared at him—face flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes heated—and Acatl knew he was going to be kissed again. Knew it and welcomed it, lingering illness be damned. He would figure out a way to be kissed by Teomitl if he were dead.

And then he grinned teasingly and murmured, “Then you’d best focus your energies on getting well again, hadn’t you?” and Acatl had to stifle an urge to groan.

[notalwaysthevillian]

What the Heart Wants

Inspired by the wonderful art done by @stargazing-squid which you can find here!

Warnings: Implied parent death, anxiety attack

Pairings: Romantic Moxiety, endgame LAMP

Word Count: ~2.1k

Check out Julia and Jordan’s writing here!

Sequel to this one!

Virgil

“What happened to his parents?”

Even though they were quiet, Virgil could hear the whispers of the king and the men who had brought him here. He could not stop himself from sniffling, freezing when everyone turned to him.

“I’m sorry, I -”

The king walked over to him, a look on his face that Virgil did not recognize. “There is no need to be sorry, young one. I have a son about your age, did you want to meet him?”

“Okay.”

The king held out his hand, not letting go once Virgil was on his feet. They moved through the castle with ease, the men falling into step behind the two of them. The king nodded at a few people as they passed, but no one stopped them.

After a few minutes, the king knocked on a door. “Patton?”

The door swung open, revealing a boy a little shorter than Virgil. A huge smile graced his face as he saw another boy, but it fell instantly. “How come you were crying?”

Virgil could not help it as the tears began to flow once more. As soon as they started, a set of small arms wrapped around him.

“I have some stories I can read to you, but only if you want to.”

Knowing he would not be able to speak, Virgil merely nodded, being dragged into the room a second later.

As he grew older, he understood what had happened. He was a ward of the king, someone that Thomas had seen and essentially adopted without a second thought. Thomas refused to tell him what had happened to his parents until he was old enough to process everything.

Unable to find a proper way to thank the king, Virgil asked to be trained to become a knight. The men who had brought him to the castle gave him lessons, and he earned the title of page fairly easily.

In the meantime, Virgil shared educational lessons with Patton. The two of them became close after that first night, separating for lessons only when they absolutely had to. When they were ten and Patton called Virgil his best friend, it had shocked him so much that he had burst into tears.

As he grew up, the knights noticed that Virgil had some of the fastest reflexes they had ever seen. On his 15th birthday, he was promoted to squire, and began some more hardcore training with the knights.

He was currently in the practice area with Sir Toby, who had agreed to a sparring match. Sir Theobold and Patton sat in the stands - one in case of an emergency and one to cheer Virgil on.

“Hold on, fix your stance.”

Looking down, Virgil shifted his feet, before flexing his grip on the wooden sword he’d been given.

“Begin.”

Virgil dashed forward, knowing it was to his advantage to be up close to Sir Toby. He was tall and had reach - something Virgil lacked.

Sir Toby attempted to use this reach to block Virgil, but the squire simply ducked out of the way, popping up in Sir Toby’s face.

“Yay, Virge!”

It was a hard fought battle. Virgil used all of his training and knowledge of Toby’s weaknesses, but in the end, Sir Toby’s experience won out. Virgil found himself on his back, the tip of the wooden sword at his throat.

“I yield.”

“Very good, Virgil.” Sir Toby tossed the sword away, helping him up. “A knight must know when the fight is lost, lest he get himself killed.”

“Caution over recklessness.” Virgil answered, earning a smile from the knight.

The door to the practice area opened, and another boy stepped out. He adjusted his glasses as he hurried up to Sir Toby, a scroll in his hand.

“The king wishes to see both you and Sir Theobold.”

“Thank you, Logan.”

The knights headed off, leaving the three boys alone.

“You certainly do not look like a messenger.” Virgil said as he took in Logan’s appearance. “You wear a similar color, yet you wear robes.”

“I am no messenger, but I offered to bring the scroll out regardless.” He said, bowing to both Virgil and Prince Patton. “The robes signify my ability to use magic.”

“Magic?!” Patton squealed, stumbling out of his seat and running up to them. “Can you show us?”

“Anything for the crown prince.”

Patton giggled, practically vibrating where he stood. Virgil felt a surge of jealousy wash over him, but he could not pinpoint why.

Logan said a quick chant, before waving a hand in front of his face. His eyes changed in an instant, glowing a bright silver. The spell faded a moment later.

“Unfortunately, I am still an apprentice, but my master says that I am a quick learner and can make master rank by the time the snow falls.”

Virgil tensed as Logan turned to him. “I had heard that you were the best squire being trained at the moment. Is that true?”

“I would not say the best -”

“Virgil, stop being down about yourself!” Patton cut him off, brows furrowed and hands on his hips. “You are the best squire being trained right now.”

The corner of Logan’s mouth quirked up. “If that is the case, I have a proposal to run by you.”

Virgil could feel himself sliding into a defensive stance as he looked at the mage. “What is this proposal?”

“From my research, knights are trained to fight against other men. To fight in a war, should one occur.” Logan’s eyes brightened as he spoke. “My master says that more wars have been using mages to their advantage, which is something knights are not trained for. I propose that we have the occasional practice duel between us, so that you may learn how to train against magic, and I may learn to defend myself from physical attacks.”

“I accept your proposal.”

Soon enough, Logan had joined Virgil and Patton’s group. Patton had assured him that they were still best friends, but that was not what Virgil was worried about.

He had come to realize that his jealousy of Logan was because he had a crush on Patton.

Virgil’s black cloak swished around him as he paced in his chambers. Should he tell the king? Surely that was a terrible idea, the king would send him somewhere else so that he would not be distracted by his duties.

The very thought of being sent far away from Patton made Virgil dizzy. He sat on the floor, trying to steady his breaths.

He heard his door creak open, but he had to close his eyes as everything became too much. There was some shouting, but Virgil could not pinpoint the voice.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours before Virgil felt a familiar pressure on his hands and heard a familiar voice.

“Virgil, breathe. I am going to squeeze your hands, and I want you to breathe as I count, alright?”

Once his breathing was steady, Virgil opened his eyes to find Patton in front of him, looking more than a little concerned. “What happened, Vee?”

“I do not know.”

“It must have been a curse.” Sir Toby said from the door. “We were unable to shake you from your stupor.”

“There was no curse here.” Logan knelt at Virgil’s side from where he had been standing, making Virgil jump. He waved a hand, the dark blue magic washing over Virgil. “This was a natural reaction. I have seen it before, but never at this magnitude. Tell me, Virgil, what caused such a reaction? Did something happen?”

Virgil did his best to keep his reddening cheeks hidden. “No, I was - I was thinking about if I was ever sent away from here and - it just happened.”

“You will never be sent away.” Patton’s voice was thick, and there were tears shining in his eyes. “If Father sent you away, I would go with you. I would run away.”

“Perhaps making plans to run away in front of your father’s guards is not the best idea.” There was a small smile on Logan’s face, before he turned to Virgil. “I can make a potion that should calm the effects of your condition, but I cannot guarantee that all the symptoms will disappear.”

“Thank you, Logan.”

After a fortnight, Logan delivered the potion, and continued to do so whenever Virgil was low.

Months later, hours after Patton’s 16th birthday ball, Virgil found himself in the kitchen. Patton was talking to a servant boy, a huge smile on both of their faces. The jealousy washed over Virgil again, and before he could blink he was at Patton’s side.

“Sir Virgil,” he said, holding out a hand. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”

“Oh, my name is Roman.” The servant said, shaking Virgil’s hand before giving a small bow. “It is truly an honor to meet both the prince and the favored squire in one night.”

Blood flowed to Virgil’s cheeks at the unexpected compliment. “Ah - thank you.”

“I had been hoping to come see some of your sparring, but I have been stuck on kitchen duty since we arrived.” Roman used wide gestures as he spoke, nearly hitting Virgil in the shoulder. He pointed to a batch of beignets. “I made those actually.”

“You did?!” Patton practically shrieked. “Those were my favorite!”

“They were, he had around six of them.”

Virgil could not help but laugh as Patton feigned pouting. “It was only five.”

“Well, if you come visit me more often, I promise to have a batch of those ready at all times.”

After that night, three friends became four. It took a little while before Virgil and Logan completely warmed up to Roman, as he was not a fan of his job while they were more than devoted, but eventually the four of them were friendly enough with each other.

Virgil did not see Roman often, given his duties, but when he did he always gave the servant a friendly nod.

It seemed as though time flew by before Virgil was 17, kneeling in front of the king, swearing his oath of knighthood.

He felt the sword tap each shoulder before King Thomas asked him to stand.

“Now, for your assignment.” He said, a glimmer in his eye. “You are to be Prince Patton’s personal guard. Do not leave his side unless he or I command you to do so.”

Virgil struggled to keep his arms at his sides instead of throwing them around the king in a hug. The ceremony continued for only a few minutes more before everyone was excused from the throne room.

As the final servant left, excluding Roman, King Thomas walked up to Virgil and pulled him close.

“I could think of no better knight for the job than you.”

Once the king had let him go, Virgil found himself with an armful of Patton. “Vee, this is perfect! Best friends stick together, forever!”

“Forever.” Virgil agreed, his eyes darting down to Patton’s lips for a moment before he caught himself.

Virgil did his new job diligently, only leaving Patton’s side when necessary.

The first time he left Patton’s side on his own accord was when he saw the poster advertising a contest for Patton’s hand. His vision was very nearly tinted red as he tore the poster off the board.

“Patton, I am afraid we must head back to the castle. I had forgotten that I needed a word with the king.”

“Aw, Vee, we just got here.”

Sir Janus, the extra knight that had been sent with them, raised an eyebrow at Virgil before turning to Patton. “A word with the king is something that cannot wait. However, if it suits the two of you, I would be able to keep the Prince safe in town. Sir Virgil could have his audience, and you, Prince Patton, would be able to continue to shop.”

Patton looked to Virgil. “I am not opposed to this plan, but you are my guard. This decision is yours to make.”

“Sir Janus is more than competent, he will keep you safe.” Virgil said, his tone sending a threat to the knight. “I will return as soon as possible.”

The conversation with the king went swimmingly, as did the contest. Virgil was thankful that Patton had chosen him, as well as Logan and Roman. The four of them shared something that no one else had.

Virgil pulled back from the hug he had been pulled into, clearing his throat.

“Patton has confessed his love for you all. I am not in love with you, Logan, or you, Roman, but I am in love with Patton. If he wants the three of us, I can learn to share.”

[imaginedcreaderinsert]

Dumb girl — Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

ANGST with uncertain ending (bad, probably)

ANGST PROMPTS:

* I asked you if I was ever going to be enough. You hesitated.

* I spilled my heart out, how I felt about you. But then you laughed. And I just laughed along, tears prickling.

SUMMARY: You’re the cool girl, of course you still are. They love how simple things are when it comes to you, how you do not get bothered and laugh it aside, because how simple is that, really? The thing is you justify them even when you know how wrong it sounds; specially with the looks your friends give you. That’s the worst: being the dumb girl.

WORD COUNT: 2688.

A/N: THIS IS NOT a continuation to Cool girl, but rather an alternative prototype opposed to the “hopeful” ending of Cool girl. Seeing how popular the first part, I’m still working on it, as well as being very aware of the two asks resting on my inbox. I will get on them soon, but I had to write this tonight. It is personal, and I hope it can be read as so.

In case someone’s new and wondering about cool girl, I leave it here: COOL GIRL (Reader x Jason Todd x Dick Grayson). This fic does contain some allusions to Cool Girl, but again, it’s not a continuation and its previous reading it’s not necessary (though I will suggest taking a look if this is your type of fic, as that is angstier I believe!)

           You’re the cool girl, of course you still are. They love how simple things are when it comes to you, how you do not get bothered and laugh it aside, because how simple is that, really? The thing is you justify them even when you know how wrong it sounds; specially with the looks your friends give you. That’s the worst: being the dumb girl. But you are not dumb: you are intelligent. It’s just apparently easier to talk to guys when you dumb yourself down, when it shouldn’t because come on, it’s 2020 – but you don’t want to be alone, do you? That’s why you sometimes let them appear as more intelligent, even when you know what they know. Does that make sense? You hope you do, because it really has no equal measure when Grayson is climbing you up from the bed and making his way into your thighs. Those are the moments when you feel everything is worthy, when he worships you. He doesn’t love you, not necessarily, but you think he might.

           You kiss, hug and cuddle like you love each other. You sometimes would like that to happen with Jason, but you don’t talk anymore. He has a girl, a fuckgirl, and you are with Grayson, who undoubtedly seems to adore you as of tonight. That’s everything. His gentle looks, nudges, kisses in the neck and nape when he’s taking you from behind. Jason destroys you and Dick reconstructs you. You think he might be the one, he might really make you a whole and love you entirely, as you are, but then you remember he only chose you trying to drown his own loneliness, losing Babs again to someone else, someone better. Are you really settling down for the second best? She didn’t want it, and thus, you get the broken toy. But the thing is, Dick has never broken to you, he has been too perfect: has he not shown enough character shades, has he not confided in you enough? You know everything about him since he was twelve and you were seven, since you basically were introduced. So what does Barbara see in him that she can’t stand, that he abandons from time to time? Is it so exciting to be on and off? (You would know, you never reject his calls) And what is it in him that she sees that you can’t? He’s perfect. He’s gentle, he’s romantic, attentive enough; he’s funny, he cares (tries to) and asks. He always asks, and you adore him for it.

           Which is a big and enormous problem when you try to pull closer and he notices. The thing is, he always does, he’s too intelligent. But Dick has also thought about it, and the thing is that when a guy likes you, he will do anything to be with you. That is a universal truth. If he really wanted to be with you, he would have said so, he would have made it abundantly clear, maybe asking you out on a formal date to a fancy place (you almost cried of envy when you saw the two-years anniversary dinner date Dick prepared on social media for Barba. Warren hugged you); instead he either calls in some typical lazy takeout if you are hungry, or worst case scenario, he dresses up, insists on you doing the same (as tired as you are), almost in a hurry, and takes you into a fast food place. You hate them, but comfort food is comfort food when your heart bleeds after being held so tenderly, so close to his heart.

           There is a fight, and thus you wonder, is this the time? Dick takes you out a whole day and you feel like you think she feels. He doesn’t take your hand, but does funny things such as kissing your knuckles after bowing in an overexaggerated manner that makes you laugh until you are rolling in the grass, accompanied by him after you imitate him, in a lady-like way, and fake French posh accent. You both can be stupid like that, and you can even be more stupid than that believing it must mean something as he looks at you in your eyes and laughter dies.

           It’s the first time he kisses you in public and you smile. He never does that (save from the casual kiss in the cheek), and you don’t even notice he does that because there’s no one else. The thing is, he does. He just looks at you and then you are in his arms, melting and as vulnerable as you can be. Dick is the only one that looks at you like that, the one that has always been amiable (except when he had a bad day), polite (except those times where he chose Her before you) and caring (except when he had too many things in mind). And yes, maybe it’s not the best time, but you are twenty and in love, so you don’t really think much of it when it’s escapes your lips, as the orange light illuminates your face and makes you terribly beautiful and vulnerable as you confess everything that you’ve been holding

           —Could I ever be enough for you?—. His eyes don’t immediately catch up on what you are saying, maybe too entranced on your shining marbles as they penetrate what he thinks it’s his own soul. You are beautiful inside and out and that he cannot deny. But it slowly dawns onto him what you are really asking, and you become scared. You add: —. Could you get to love me like you love her?

           Only then he realizes how naïve he has been with you; how stupid and hurtful he has been all these years when you were chasing him, and he has been always waiting on Barbara on another station. He feels guilty, but what’s worse, he hesitates. He confidently opens his mouth but then closes it again, and you have hope: you shouldn’t, because only someone who’s sure on things says them without fear, but he is terribly afraid. Your relationship hangs on that simple question, and you still hope he will choose you, he will have your battered heart, your imperfect soul and your insecurities; you don’t love yourself and you hope he will, as he has with Her.

           But he doesn’t. He won’t.

           He says sorry and you cry. You had it coming, but still hoped for something different, is that so delusional, too dumb on your behalf?

…

           Jason drops his fuckgirl as soon as she catches feelings and you are there for him (like it’s a tragedy, like he needs the emotional support). He complains and you laugh all night long with him. It’s just like old times: beer, pizza and black and white movie marathon. This time you get to cuddle with him, and not a week later you are on that same sofa fucking, devouring each other like it’s your last night.

           It’s a bit like pushing the button “play” after a long time paused; the passion is still there and it’s like that night that you left with a bitter “it’s okay” never happened (tears on your eyes in his lift, alone on your way back home when he came in for the very first time with that girl almost naked in his arms. You were nothing serious, and thus okay with it. But you were not). It’s always been like that, and you love (him) how he roughly presses his hand against your neck, how he leaves your head dizzy and makes you tremble like you are malleable putty in his hands. You say dirty things to each other while you do it, love never entering and that might be the red flag; but not this time when you want to forget Grayson’s betrayed and confused face (losing a long-time fuck buddy must hurt, you think). And well, Jason does the job, because two months in and you are his, absolutely his. It’s a bit different from before and that heals you. He asks you to stay and even if you don’t cuddle, he sometimes presses himself against you in the morning, searching for warmth (he’s always hot, just like you are, but still he needs you. And you need him). You press your forehead to his and he smiles, pushing you jokingly to a side and standing up quickly to make breakfast (he now sometimes cooks and that makes you glow).

           They are happy mornings. You eat pancakes with some cream, which you hate, you’ve hated all of your life – but you let him just because he sometimes covers adorably your nose with a bit of it just so that he can eat you off, kiss it better. You love that, love him being silly (love him, full stop). You tell yourself to not fall for it, but it becomes harder as Jason cycle starts: and it’s always been that way. When he picks you up after being apart for some time (aka not fucking), he’s always extra careful; he tries to hang onto you in a slightly clingy way – he asks who are you talking with when he perfectly knows it’s Dick (but this time it doesn’t happen, and he’s slightly happier; maybe he always knew). You try not to, really, but it becomes more and more difficult as the kisses get heavier, and you become closer. You’ve always confided in each other, but you start to actually tell him things about uni, your friends and – and he becomes bothered, yes, but he hears you out. You know it’s because he doesn’t follow, doesn’t understand really the purpose of that, but he tries to be nice at least.

           Until he doesn’t. Because that always happens again.

           You think it might be, as always, him fooling around with some girl and feeling uncomfortable about not knowing how to deal with you, how to tell you nicely how to fuck off (it never is that way, but he tries, you guess) – instead he tries to make you angry, hurt you, so that you can go by your own decision, leave him (even when you never do, probably never will). Or maybe he’s feeling trapped – as it always happens, when a man likes you, he will do anything in his power to be with you. But you haven’t learn that lesson yet, and so whenever Jason feels like you are purring back (in bed, kissing him slightly when you wake up, maybe even leaving small “I love you’s” in his lips) he scratches you back, slashing you deeply and making you bleed – just so that you can remember he’s not in love, without actually saying it. He always hurts you, and whatever hurtful thing he scratches back at your face stays in your head for days, remembering it; but this time it’s different.

           It’s subtle. And it hurts more. When he slashes your heart in you two you know that’s it, it’s direct, it’s clear in its intention, but when he doubts, when he is slowly moving away you notice him drifting apart. Calling him out does not help – he plays dumb and makes you feel stupid, but you are not stupid. Still, you give up and say “sorry” over text, heartbroken and fully aware that in a month from now you probably won’t be talking and he will have probably moved on.

           But the thing is, this random guy at a bar appears, and it hurts more than ever. You talk to him one night when Jason is too busy (you understand, you do not make him worry) and he keeps you company, pays a drink for you. You smile, gratefully, and you talk for a few hours: he’s nice enough, he subtly flirts, and you give in back, bashfully, as if being observed by Jason. You are not betraying him, you are not cheating, but it still feels like so. It’s nice to feel desire, and that’s why you give in for a while, laughing at his jokes and throwing back and forth some witty insults. You think, when you go back home that Jason might feel jealous, might show some affection (because that’ show toxically you think; “he might show me he cares”) – but you do not notice how similar they are until two nights after you cross paths with him in another bar and… They get on well.

           Jason and him really get on well. You feel left out, but don’t care much until they start to throw you sarcastic comments that borderline on hurtful. You feel hurt. And just for once, you decide to fight back, comfortable enough with the two of them: but you hurt him, the random stranger, and he defends himself.

           —Fuck no I didn’t say that. Jesus, you’re so hurt, you don’t have to try and put Jay against me.

           That gets you off guard because maybe the comment came off as too aggressive; you look for Jason for help, and as you are about to open your mouth he says:

           —Oh come on, (Y/N), I really like him, don’t fuck it up.

           And the way he says it it’s so… Tired of you. You are a bit taken back, specially when you notice he doesn’t have your back. Had he pleaded with his eyes you would have backed him whatever the argument might be – and he isn’t taking your side. Why isn’t he? It’s not a joke by the tone of their voices, and neither of them laugh, relieving you: instead it becomes tense and you are awkward, trying to keep the conversation going but never succeeding. They continue joking, like you are not there, with funny names and you feel like you don’t belong, which is probably the worst feeling of the world when Jason is all you can think about when you think on safe spaces or loyalty. He’s always been like that, and maybe it’s the beer, but-

           But that night you leave off early, and two hours later, in your pajamas, safe and sound in your room, you write him a long text.

           You tell him he hurt you. You tell him it hurt you how quickly he changed sides and how he shouldn’t have, how he should be by your side whatever the situation because you are by his all the time. You tell him you feel used by it: it’s not the first time. Whenevr Jason makes a new friend, as asocial as he is, he forgets you, and you feign ignorance, like you don’t get their jokes and you are dumb, laughing along but not really getting it (even when you do and it’s not funny). You tell him how much it hurt you because it probably means you love him – and yes, you do write that explicitly: “I love you, and that’s why I feel so bad right now. I wish you could have just sided with me, because had you asked, I would have done so in a heartbeat.” He’s not there, you know that, but still… “I know we are not on the same page, and we will probably never will, but I want you to take into account my feelings, how much I love you, how, if offered, I would take care of you”.

           You spill your heart out, transcribe even a poem you wrote on him one night, and he-he laughs when he sees the text. He says you’re too drunk, and that he loves you too and that he will see you at the movies on Saturday. You cry yourself to sleep, because after exposing yourself like that the only thing he does is laugh and change the subject, like it can’t be taken seriously, like it’s something so out of character that you can only fathom drunk. You think it over, in your bed, rolling incessantly on your bed and distraining your sheets until it’s a mess and you can’t sleep anymore:

           And then you laugh and nod.

           And you say you will be there.

           Like always.