#i have been so weary of books that are just fine this was a balm to my soul

[midshipmank]

hello

please read this book

[mrsfancyferrari]

Can you do an imagine about the reader going out with an F1 driver (I imagine Charles or Carlos), where the reader speaks their language, but doesn’t tell them. One day they walk in on the reader talking to someone on the phone in French/ Italian or Spanish respectively, and have a talk about it. Reader was hiding their abilities due to an insecurity about their ability. Alternatively they could be at a restaurant, where the reader is forced to use that language to order something.

Speak Baby

Summary: you are going out with Charles, you can speak his language, but don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.

Song: Heaven and Back · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! Also please follow for more! 🫶

Word count: 3.7k

MASTERLIST - F1

The soft glow of the lamp painted the room in hues of amber and gold, the late afternoon sun already having dipped below the horizon.

You were curled up on the plush armchair, a worn copy of “Les Misérables” resting open in your lap, though your attention was entirely focused on the phone pressed to your ear. The French words flowed effortlessly, a melodic stream of conversation with your cousin, Élise, back in Paris.

Laughter bubbled in your chest as Élise recounted a particularly disastrous attempt to bake macarons, the familiar cadence of your mother tongue a soothing balm to your soul.

"…and then, the oven, mon Dieu, it was like a volcanic eruption of powdered sugar!" Élise’s voice, tinged with dramatic exasperation, crackled through the speaker.

You chuckled, a genuine, unrestrained sound, “You know you should just stick to painting, ma chérie. Baking is not for you.”

"Oh, very funny," she retorted good-naturedly, “But you should have seen it! The cat even had a dusting. Anyway, how is le charmant Charles?"

You paused, a smile playing on your lips. "He's…fine," you said, a soft giggle escaping your throat. "He's been working late again, as usual."

“And still no clue about your… little secret?" Élise teased, the question a whisper of anticipation.

"No," you replied, your voice dropping slightly, a hint of nervousness creeping in. "Absolutely not. It's…it's better this way, Élise. I’m not ready."

You knew that you were holding out on Charles, but the thought of him judging you for your French was an insecurity that had been haunting you for years.

You had always felt like you were not good enough, that your accent was too strong and that your grasp on the language was not as good as it should be, even though you grew up with it.

You always felt the need to hide, to not draw attention to yourself, and so this was how it was with Charles.

It was easier to communicate in English with him, to be safe, even if your heart yearned to speak in the language that made you, you.

"You're being silly, ma belle. He'd be enchanted, I'm sure of it," Élise said, her tone gentle, trying to reassure you.

Just as you were about to respond, a distinct sound reached your ears - the click of the front door. Your heart leaped into your throat. Charles was home.

Panic seized you, and you quickly pressed the “end call” button, the dial tone a sharp, jarring contrast to the lilting French you had been immersed in moments before. You closed the “Les Miserables” book with an audible thud, feigning a casual air.

You straightened yourself in the armchair and tried to look as though you were simply relaxing, a wave of frustration beginning to wash over you for not being able to share this part of yourself with Charles, but also relief because you almost got caught.

"Hey," Charles said, his voice laced with that endearing weariness you had come to adore, as he walked into the room, tossing his keys onto the side table.

He hadn't noticed the phone in your hands and he pulled off his suit jacket and hung it up on the hanger behind the door. He looked exhausted. "Long day."

"Hi," you replied, your voice a little too high-pitched, betraying the sudden jolt of adrenaline still coursing through you.

You tried to act as nonchalant as possible, hoping he wouldn't notice the flush creeping up your neck, or the way your fingers were still tensed against the phone.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes, usually so bright, clouded with fatigue. "Everything alright? You seem…tense." He took a seat on the sofa opposite you, his gaze intense as he looked at you.

You had been with Charles for a year now, and he was always able to suss something out.

You forced a smile, "Just had a long chapter to read, that's all.” You showed him the book, hoping it would be enough distraction. “It’s quite intense, actually." You pointed to the book, gesturing with your hand. "This guy Valjean, he's been through it."

He seemed to accept your explanation, dropping back against the sofa cushions with a sigh. "Well, whatever it is, you should relax. Maybe we could order some food? I'm starving."

You nodded, relieved. The moment had passed, but the unspoken secret hung heavy in the air between you. The rest of the evening unfolded in its usual way, a comfortable rhythm you both had established.

You talked about your day, laughed at a silly movie, and shared a meal under the soft lamplight. Yet, beneath the surface of normalcy, the secret you harboured continued to prick at you.

He kept stealing glances at you, making you wonder if he might suspect something, but he never said anything.

“So you’re telling me he still hasn’t found out yet?” She asked with a teasing lilt in her voice.

“No, and I’ll keep it that way,” you replied, your smile fading. “It’s too risky, Élise. What if he thinks I’m a fraud? What if he thinks I’ve been lying?”

“Oh, come on,” Élise scoffed, “He’s clearly smitten with you, mon amie. I can hear it in your voice!”

You sighed, staring out the window at the grey sky. “You don’t know him, Élise. His native language is French, he knows it like the back of his hand. He’d notice if my French isn’t perfect.”

“And what if it is?” Élise countered.

You were about to reply, when you heard his voice from the kitchen. You jerked, your heart leaping into your throat. “I have to go, Élise. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay, bisous,” Élise said, and the line went dead.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The roar of the Ferrari engines was a constant hum, a background score to the chaotic elegance of the Formula One paddock. You watched Charles, a whirlwind of charm and practiced ease, navigate the PR games with Carlos Sainz.

They were a study in contrasts – Charles, all focused energy and effortless smiles, and Carlos, a more grounded, almost playful foil. You knew this dance well, the mandatory media obligations that came with the territory of being a Ferrari driver.

You were happy to be a spectator today. You knew, with a familiar twist of warmth in your chest, that Charles would find you later.

You had a few hours of freedom, a rare commodity in this world of tight schedules and constant movement. You decided to explore. The paddock was a labyrinth of team trucks, hospitality suites, and workshops, a microcosm of the competitive energy that fueled the sport.

You wandered, absorbing the sights and sounds, the clatter of tools, the clipped conversations in a dozen different languages. You’d always been drawn to the undercurrents of these places, the human stories unfolding beneath the glossy veneer of glamour and speed.

That's when you heard it – a voice, high-pitched with panic, cutting through the general noise.

"Est-ce que quelqu'un parle français?" it called out, the words sharp and rushed. " S'il vous plaît, quelqu'un ?" Does anyone speak French? Please, someone?

The man, standing near a catering area, was clearly distressed. He was middle-aged, his face flushed, hands trembling slightly as he gestured erratically. A small crowd of staff had gathered around him, their faces a mixture of concern and helplessness.

They spoke encouragingly in English, but it was clear that they didn’t understand a word he was saying, which was why he was getting more frantic.

You hesitated. You knew French, fluently after all. It really was an insecurity you'd carried since childhood, a fear that your accent wasn't good enough, that you wouldn't be considered “truly” French.

Charles, in his easy, casual fluency, only amplified that feeling. It was easier to let him be the French one, to navigate that world without your input.

But looking at the man, his distress growing with each passing second, your resolve crumbled. You couldn't stand by and watch him suffer.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed past the people, your voice hesitant but clear, "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Je parle français. Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" Excuse me, sir. I speak French. What's going on?

The man's eyes widened, his face flooded with relief. "Ah, merci mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, his hands coming to clasp yours. "C'est terrible! J'ai perdu mon sac, avec tous mes documents et mes clés. Je dois partir cet après-midi, et je suis complètement coincé."

His words tumbled out in a rush, a torrent of worries and anxieties. This is terrible! I lost my bag, with all my documents and my keys. I have to leave this afternoon, and I'm completely stuck

You listened patiently, your own French flowing effortlessly as you reassured him. You asked him for details about the bag, about where he’d last seen it.

You found out that he was here for a family visit, and he had to catch a train in the next couple of hours. With a mixture of calm questioning and reassuring words, you helped him retrace his steps.

You spoke softly, your voice a calming balm to his panic. The staff around you, previously frustrated, looked on with a mixture of curiosity and gratitude.

You felt a small spark of pride, a quiet satisfaction in using the skill that you have always kept hidden.

After what felt like an eternity, you spotted it – a small black bag tucked behind a stack of boxes in a corner. The man let out a cry of delight, his face cracking into a wide, genuine smile. "Merci, merci mille fois!" he cried, taking the bag and beaming at you. "Vous êtes un ange!" Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You are an angel!

You helped him check through the contents, making sure nothing was missing. You even offered him some water and a seat to calm him. He thanked you profusely again and again. He finally started to relax and calm down.

"Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done without you." he said again, this time speaking English clearly, even though he had not, before. He smiled warmly at you.

"It's no problem," you replied, smiling back. A small voice interrupted.

"Hey babe, what's going on here? I saw this crowd?" Charles asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. He placed a hand on the small of your back.

"This gentleman lost his bag, and couldn't communicate with anyone here. I was just helping him," you explained.

"Ah, but you were speaking French? I didn't know that you spoke French. Good job ma chérie," Charles said a little surprised.

"Oh, I... I learned some in school," you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. You felt a flush creep onto your cheeks.

You could feel the lie hanging in the air, heavy and uncomfortable.

Charles tilted his head, his eyes searching your face, "That’s really cool." He turned his attention to the man, addressing him in perfect French.

You watched Charles smoothly reassure the man that everything was fine and offer him any help that he needed. The man seemed mesmerized by Charles, thanking him profusely.

You watched them briefly, the ease with which Charles switched between two languages, how comfortable he was in the role of translator. It was a stark contrast to your feelings of self-consciousness.

“So, should we get going?” Charles said to you, turning to you, his hand finding yours.

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. You’d helped someone out, and it felt good. But the lie, that little secret you still held, bothered you. More so than usual now that he knew.

As Charles led you away, you could feel his gaze on you, a silent question in his eyes. You knew you couldn't keep this hidden much longer.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dancing shadows across the Ferrari base. The air, still warm from the day’s heat, hummed with a quiet energy. You lay nestled in the hammock chair, Charles’s strong back providing a solid anchor as you sat comfortably on his lap.

The gentle rocking motion lulled you both, a peaceful rhythm that seemed to synchronize with the quiet whispers of the wind. You’d been dating Charles for a year now, and these quiet moments were your favorite.

Being alone, intertwined, was bliss.

He nuzzled his face into your shoulder, his breath warm on your skin. You closed your eyes, your own breathing slowing, the world fading away.

You’d almost drifted off, the line between sleep and wakefulness blurring, when a voice sliced through the tranquil silence.

“Monsieur Leclerc, le débriefing commence bientôt!” a young voice called out, the French words sharp and clear. Mr. Leclerc, the debriefing begins soon!

You blinked your eyes open, startled, and looked around for the source of the sound.

A young woman, her face etched with a mixture of frustration and relief, stood a short distance away. She was clearly a member of the Ferrari staff, her uniform a stark contrast to the relaxed atmosphere you and Charles had created.

“Mademoiselle, je vais bientôt réveiller Charles, alors ne vous inquiétez pas,” you said, the words flowing easily, a comfortingly familiar cadence in your mind. Miss, I'll wake Charles up soon, so don't worry.

You watched her face register surprise, then a wave of relief.

“Merci beaucoup mademoiselle Y/N, je vous laisse faire,” she replied, her voice softening. Thank you very much Miss Y/N, I'll leave you to it.

“De rien, je suis désolé de t'avoir fait le chercher,” you said, a slight blush creeping up your neck. You felt a pang of guilt for making her search for Charles. You're welcome, I'm sorry I made you look for it.

She gave you a small, thankful nod before turning and heading back towards the base.

You were about to nudge Charles awake when you felt a movement in your lap. His eyes, a startling shade of blue, were already fixed on you, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"That didn't sound like 'school French' ma chérie," he muttered, a playful yet probing tone to his voice. Your heart lurched, and a cold dread settled in your stomach.

You could feel your cheeks flush, the blood rushing to your head. This was it. Your little secret, the one you'd guarded for so long, was about to unravel.

"What are you talking about?" you asked, your voice coming out a little higher and breathier than you intended. You tried to play it off, hoping your denial would be convincing enough. "I learned some French phrases, that's all."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow, his gaze unwavering. "Some phrases? You just held an entire conversation with Nathalie, in perfect, effortless French. Where did you learn that?"

You fidgeted, your fingers toying with the drawstring of his sweatpants. "Uh...well...you know, it's just...I've always been a good language learner." The explanation sounded weak even to your own ears.

Charles gently tilted your chin up so that your eyes meet. His touch was soft, but his gaze was intense. “Y/N,” he said, his voice lower now. “You’re fluent. Why have you been hiding this from me?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of your unspoken secret. And you knew you couldn’t lie to him any longer. “It’s stupid, really,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I was always just…insecure about it. My native language is English, and I'm fairly average. When I started learning French, which was young, it just came naturally to me. I didn't think I was actually... good. I thought if I spoke it around you, you'd think I sound awful, like those tourists that always try and speak French to you.” You looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

He took your hands in his, his thumbs stroking your knuckles. “Ma chérie, that’s ridiculous. I’m fascinated by languages. I spent so much time learning other languages for the sport, plus how could I ever think you sound awful. You could never sound bad.”

His words were soothing, a balm to your wounded pride. You looked up, your eyes searching his face. “Really?” you whispered, still a little unsure.

He chuckled, a warm, comforting sound. “Bien sûr, Y/N. You’re amazing, in every language. And I am so incredibly curious. When did you learn it? How good are you even?” He had a teasing glint in his eyes now, and the tension that had been plaguing you started to dissipate.

“Since I was a kid. My grandmother was half-French and she taught me, always using French. She wanted me to have another language to use. She wanted me to have something special, so I never told anyone in school or anything.” you admitted.

“And you kept this hidden from me? For all this time?” Charles asked, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

You nodded sheepishly. “I thought you would think I was trying to show off, I guess, and I was honestly just scared I’d be awful.”

He squeezed your hands, his thumb drawing small circles on your skin. “You are far from awful, Y/N, and I promise I never would have thought that, ever. But,” he added, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, “I do have a few questions. And you're going to have to answer them… in French.”

“bébé, il faut que tu fasses le point avec l'équipe!” you said, the words slipping out naturally in French. Baby, you need to check in on the team!

Charles only grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from me, ma chérie,” he said, his tone warm and affectionate and full of love.

“I know I’m so sorry.” you said, putting your head in your hands, feeling a flush of embarrassment wash over you. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I was just so scared.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. “Don’t be sorry, mon amour,” he murmured, his voice husky. “It’s incredibly endearing, and it's one more thing I love about you. You have to tell me everything though from now on okay?”

You nodded, leaning into his touch. “I promise.”

He smiled, then his eyes glinted with a new mischievousness. “So, you’ve been keeping secrets from me, have you?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Only this one, I swear.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, leaning in closer. “I think that deserves a punishment.”

“Oh yeah?” you said, raising an eyebrow, excitement coursing through you.

His lips found yours and he deepened the kiss, pushing you gently back on the hammock. The language barrier was forgotten as his hands moved to the hem of your shirt.

You could feel the passion in him, the soft moaning as he kissed your neck. You could feel yourself falling further and further into him, completely and utterly in love.

It was a long time before you pulled away for air, your cheeks flushed and your heart racing.

“What was I saying about meetings?” you breathlessly said, putting a hand on your chest, hoping your heart would slow down.

Charles chuckled, running his hand through his slightly dishevelled hair. “They can wait,” he murmured, his eyes locking with yours, “There’s something much more urgent that we need to deal with, my petite française.”

You laughed then, and pulled him in for another kiss, knowing that your hidden language was now just another way to connect with the man you loved.

The rain outside continued to fall, a soft and gentle melody to the start of another chapter in your love story.

And you knew, with absolute certainty, that this new language you had shared with each other would only bring you closer, in ways you could never have imagined. . . .

[iliveiloveiwrite]

A Truth Universally Acknowledged // Anthony Bridgerton

Request: Hi angel! I love all of your stories, especially your Bridgerton and work! Is there any way you could write something soft and fluffy for Anthony and a female reader! PLEASE AND THANK YOU - Anon.

A/N: I haven’t written for Anthony in what seems like forever! As much as I love Benedict, I do love writing Anthony fics. This isn't overly long, I just wanted to write something soft and fluffy that’s entirely domestic as well. I hope you all like! Title is a quote from the first line of Pride and Prejudice (further quotes from the book are in italics).

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader.

Warnings: none - fluff, books, marriage, happy relationships, cute.

Word Count: 1.6k

The house is silent as Anthony strides through the waiting, open door. He nods his greeting to the Butler, Wilkins, before letting the weariness that had haunted him all day settle over his bones.

“Wilkins?” Anthony asks; no need to voice the question. Wilkins knows.

“Lady Bridgerton is in the Green-and-Gold, sir.”

Anthony smiles at the Butler. “You really do know everything.”

Wilkins smiles; nods his head. “It is my job, sir. Lady Bridgerton has already told me that you will take your final meal of the day in there, too.”

Anthony takes the stairs two at a time; refusing to accept his laboured breathing by the time he reaches the top. He was not an old man yet; he was still a very active man.

Turning left, he wanders blindly to the Green-and-Gold room named for the colour scheme of the walls and the furniture. His late grandmother had decorated the room; so fondly remembered by her ancestors that each refused to change a thing in the room save for any upholstering that needed to be done occasionally.

He finds you sitting on the left hand side of the room; the comfier side as argued by everyone who visits the room. Your legs are curled underneath you as your eyes pour over the page of an open book in your lap. From here, Anthony cannot possibly hazard a guess as to what you might be reading, but he feels a twinge of jealousy at the attention being paid to the book and not to him.

Well, love makes fools of us all, Anthony thinks to himself. “Darling,” Anthony greets in one single breath, as if the sight of you makes it all the easier for him to breathe.

“Darling,” You smile, standing from your seat, coming to greet the man you love with every fibre of your being. “How was your day?”

Anthony groans as he removes his jacket before tugging at the knot of his cravat. “Long,” He complains, struggling with the neckpiece. You smile at your husband, batting his hands away from his neck so you can take over. You feel the heat of his gaze as your hands work to do undo the knot he had tightened with a single tug; as the fabric unravels under your nimble fingers your husband reaches out to squeeze your waist.

“Thank you,” He whispers, voice full with an emotion you can’t quite decipher. Love? Weariness? A combination of both? Anthony looked ragged as you run your eyes over his face.

“I’m sorry that your day has been taxing, my love.”

“It’s all the better now that I’m here with you.”

“Flatterer,” You tease with no real heat behind your words. Anthony beams at you; eyes crinkling in the corners from the force of it as his hands tighten on your waist and his head dips to capture your lips in the kiss he has been thinking about for the better part of his day.

Breaking away, Anthony plants one, two, three kisses to your lips in quick, chaste succession leaving you breathless and highly amused. “How was your day?” He asks, curious as ever to find out what his wife does when he isn’t at home to distract you.

“Dull,” You answer plainly, enjoying the feel of Anthony’s strong arms around you.

“Dull?”

You purse your lips, thinking over your plans for the day so far. “I suppose dull doesn’t work. It hasn’t been dull at all.”

“Oh?”

“I’m only saying it because I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” He murmurs, kissing you once more. “What are you reading?” Anthony asks when he pulls away, spying the book laid delicately on the couch.

“Eloise let me borrow it. She gave me it when I called to see her this morning,” You answer, leaving the comfort of Anthony’s arms to take your seat on the couch.

“Darling, you know we have an entire library full of books, don’t you?”

Fixing him with an unimpressed look, you counter, “Your sister read this and thought of me. The least I could do is read it.”

“Alright,” Anthony sighs, knowing a losing battle when he sees one. “Budge up.”

“Pardon?”

Anthony gestures to the couch. “Make some room for me.”

A puzzled look settles across your face, but you follow the request, nonetheless, shifting on the couch so Anthony has room to sit down.

Anthony settles with his head on your lap; offering you a self-satisfied smile when you raise an eyebrow at him. “Comfy?” You ask, voice laced with humour.

“Very,” He responds. “Will you start from the beginning? I don’t want to miss anything.”

Chuntering about high maintenance husbands, you mark the page you got to before returning to the beginning. “Anything else before I begin?”

“Nothing… Oh, one thing.”

“That is?”

“I love you.”

Any previous ire you felt towards your husband disappears at those three magical words. The frustrated slant to your brow evens out as you reach out to stroke a hand through his hair and down the side of his face.

“I love you too,” You answer earnestly, feeling the power of the emotion running through you.

A peaceful look crosses Anthony’s face as your words sink into his skin like a balm on an open wound. He had felt neglectful lately; not spending as much time at home as he would have liked. He felt bad for leaving you so alone. Without children, you were your own companion throughout the day, and whilst you had both discussed having children, Anthony was to be left mildly vexed at the thought of you spending your days alone until a child was born.

The opening of parliament combined with Anthony’s seat in the House meant that he was spending more and more time in Westminster and less time with you.

A ratio Anthony was not fond of.

“I’m ready when you are,” He whispers; eyes focused on your face so he can watch every reaction and see every syllable leave your mouth.

Flashing an annoyed look at your husband, you take a deep breath and begin:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

“What?” Anthony asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“Hush,” You admonish half-heartedly before continuing.

“However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.”

“This author is a genius,” Anthony exclaims, his voice awed as he tries to catch a glimpse of the cover to see the author’s name. “Who wrote this?”

“Are you going to comment the whole way through? I’ve barely read two paragraphs.”

“Sorry, darling, but I have to know. Who wrote this?”

“Her name is Jane Austen.”

“Well Jane Austen is a genius. In two paragraphs she’s captured what it is like to be a single man with a fortune in and amongst the sharks with unattached daughters.”

“Sharks?” You ask, highly amused at your husband’s words.

“Mothers,” Anthony shudders, remembering what it was like to go through so many seasons still unmarried. A Viscount with two seats of power combined with a hefty ancestral fortune – many mothers didn’t care whether Anthony would love their daughters; they simply wanted a fortuitus marriage that would leave them set for life.

Anthony thanks any and all gods and deities out there that he found his love match in you. You had taken him by surprise; Anthony had already resigned himself to a season with countless mothers forcing their daughters onto his arm. Until one evening early into the season, he had been listening to Gregory whine about the workload at Eton when his eyes met yours from across the room. In a total state of cliché, Anthony met your gaze, and he knew. He knew that he was going to spend the rest of his life loving you, worshipping you. He knew that whatever his future held, you would be right there weathering it alongside him. In a single glance from across the room, he knew.

You were married before the season finished; a special licence dispensed after a favour from the Archbishop called in. Anthony couldn’t wait; didn’t want to wait – he wanted to start the rest of his life with you as soon as possible.

Your light laughter breaks Anthony out of his reverie. “They aren’t all that bad,” You argue. “I suspect you’ll be worse than me when it comes to our children.”

Anthony snorts; doubting your words but loving the way you speak so openly about your hopeful future family. Clearing your throat, you continue to read on.

Anthony settles further into your lap; letting the calmness of your voice wash over him. After a moment of watching the concentration on your face, Anthony lets his eyes slip closed. He has no intention of falling asleep; he simply wants to enjoy this moment to its fullest.

“Mr Bingley was good looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features…”

A snore interrupts your rendition of Pride and Prejudice. Pausing mid-sentence, you look down to your lap where Anthony has fallen asleep so peacefully. Smiling softly at the man, you close the book, placing it to one side before running a hand through Anthony’s ever-unruly hair. He hums contentedly, pushing his head further into your hand as you begin to scratch at his scalp.

As you watch Anthony doze dreamily, you feel your eyes lose the fight against the growing tiredness. Your hand stills in Anthony’s hair as you fall asleep alongside your husband, utterly content at the path your life has taken considering it led you to him.

*****

Bridgerton Taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore​ @dreaming-about-fanfictions​ @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown​ @janelongxox​ @aspiringsloth20​ @wallwriterstuff​ @magicalxdaydream​ @darkestbeforethedawn16​ @gryffindors-weasley​ @spideysz​

[boxboysandotherwhump]

Things only whispered about

taglist: @finder-of-rings @salamancialilypad @albino-whumpee @comfy-whumpee @haro-whumps @vickytokio@ashintheairlikesnow @orchidscript @yet-another-heathen @finder-of-rings

side note: Chapter 13 is not yet written. It will contain the first day of Sahar’s and Charlottes training for their entry exam. The current chapter (chapter 14) takes place during their last day of training.

Chapter 14

Charlotte had always considered herself disciplined and in good shape from years of intense dancing, but those post training runs would be her undoing if Sahar wasn't going to slow down soon.

The woods thick undergrowth cut up her calves and every heavy breath she heaved with burning lungs hurt all the more since Sahar's fist had smashed into her sternum earlier today.

His huge eyes had been filled with terror as he helped Charlotte to regain her breath, rubbing soothing circles over her back with hands that wouldn't stop trembling. Stuttered apologies spilling from his lips.

“The risk of training, I suppose.” She had grinned and hidden a wince.

Charlotte wasn't grinning now, too focused not to lose Sahar’s back in the midst of giant roots and flower stems.

Just how did he make jumping over those slippery moss covered hurdles look this easy?

She was just about to call out to him when a faint high pitched beeping echoed through the heavy lavender scented air made her stop.

Coming to an abrupt halt a few meters in front of her, Sahar asked: “Did you you you hear that, too?”

“Yeah. It comes from the border, doesn’t it?”

He paused, canting his head to better hear the whisper silent ‘beep… beep… beep’ over the rustle of leaves and the ever present hiss of their defence units, spraying insecticide into the air to form the invisible barrier of thin mist that kept them all safe.

“Yes.” Uncertainty flickered in his eyes, lingered in the quick tap tap tap of fingers over thighs.”Do do do do you think one of- one of the the the units- that one of the units is is is is…”

“No. That sounds way too quiet to come from a unit.” A sunbeam broke through the canopy, danced over Sahar’s arm and dipped golden light into the divods of his scars. Charlotte turned towards the sound. “But let's go and make sure.”

They creeped through the underwood, careful not to snap a twig underfoot or rustle the leaves that brushed their arms and legs and faces in unwelcome ghostly caresses. Every breath was a quietly, carefully measured micromovement of lungs.

One of the defence units hissed high above their heads now, the big chunky device securely fixed on the halfway point of a giant steel pipe tower whose top broke through the thick canopy. Charlotte had never seen the large solar panels mounted up there, or the giant canisters filled with insecticide, safely hidden in the foliage.

None of the village kids had ever dared to climb up the towers to take a peek. No one wanted to be responsible for damaging a unit and dooming them all to hell.

The steady ‘beep… beep… beep’ had gotten louder and was very clearly not coming from the unit overhead. Whatever made that sound was just behind the bushes Charlotte and Sahar were crouching under. Right in front of them.

“Sahar?” Charlotte whispered and turned to him, only to find the space beside her empty.

Sahar had vanished in between the softly swaying goutwort stems.

“Char- Char-Charlotte.” His hoarse trembling whisper barely carried past the large leaves.

Charlotte's palms prickled as she broke through the last barrier of leaves between her and the four meter wide stripe of self-healing concrete the village founders had poured around their border. Four meters of clear view in an endlessly growing forest, before the soft, second border of lavender, lemon balm and peppermint sprouted high into the air right on the other side.

No matter how often Charlotte and the other orphanage kids had sneaked onto the strip on one stupid dare or another, she simply couldnt shake the feeling of unease that creeped up her spine as soon as she left the certain safety of the units radius.

“Look.” Sahar stood with his back pressed against the bushes behind him, ready to vanish back into their cover even though the bright smile that danced over his face betrayed his excitement. Pointing towards a sad looking lavender bush, he whispered: “A a a a a a a- Charlotte, it’s it’s it’s it’s- It's an old, old gardening bot.”

And it had heard them.

The bots head turned towards Sahar with a mechanical whirr, fixing him with a face full of glowing visual sensors. It had an uncanny resemblance to an insect, with its unreadable expression and the two many spindly legs twitching and whirring under its green roundish body.

“Human identified.” The pleasant voice of a human woman coming from a tiny speaker in the center of its round head made the fine hairs on Charlotte's neck rise. “Requesting help.”

“Oh. Oh, oh, oh Charlotte look. It it it it’s arm is stuck, stuck in the roots.”

Charlotte considered the bot as it struggled fruitlessly against the yarn thick, twisted roots it undoubtedly had tried to entangle and reburry in an effort to preserve the plant's health.

“Let’s free it and take it to the mechanic. That thing must have some heavy-duty solar batteries built in, if it's still operating.”

“But-” Frowning, Sahar dug a short sturdy knife from his belt bag and unsheathed it. “Isn’t he go-go go, isn’t he going to,to kill it?”

Charlotte sighed. All surrogate keeper weariness, revealing the big impatient sister of too many siblings related by circumstance instead of blood. “Sahar. You can’t kill something that has never been alive in the first place.”

The whirring of struggling metal limbs picked up anew, accompanied by the plaintive soft beep… beep… beep that had led them here. “Requesting help. Requesting help. Help.”

Sahar sank to his knees beside the bot,shushing it with a little pat to its mud crusted head before he started to carefully cut into the knot of entangled roots. “Don’t, don’t worry. We we we have, we have you out of this in no time.”

That the bots' distressed beeping stopped was solely its programing, Charlotte told herself, as she listened to Sahar’s affectionate hums.

Something rustled the leaves of a lavender bush nearby, and all three of them froze.

Charlotte scanned the sea of gently swaying greens all around them, eyes flitting restlessly over large leaves. Every dancing shadow they cast had her heart stutter stop in her chest.

The knife quivered in Sahar's grip as he frantically resumed cutting.

They could feel it before they heard it. An awful rhythmic tremor that made the ground vibrate under their feet.

“Danger detected. Initiate protocol 34217.” The bot announced and shut down with a high pitched double ding, retracting its still free limbs into itself before the red glow of his eyes expired in all but one.

Charlotte's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes snappet to Sahar, crouched low under lavender leaves on the wrong side of the strip. Three meters too far from safety, if the creature marching towards them really was what Charlotte feared it might be.

The thud, thud, thud of too many legs in lockstep drowned out the quiet sounds of the forest. Stole away the whispering wind.

She had never encountered one of them, but the horror stricken tales, whispered over the steaming brim of mead-filled mugs by two surviving scouts, matched to a tea. It’s name had only ever been a murmur in midnight hours, a cold shiver down her neck.

Centipede.

Sahar gestured for her to leave, to take five steps back into the safety behind their border, hands clutched around the knife in a steady, white knuckled grip.

The bush right next to him moved. Charlotte did not. And the creature broke through.

Its long black body glistened in the sunlight.

A twitching antenna brushed Sahar’s shin and his legs gave out. Crumpling to the ground, a choked off laugh spilled from his lips. “A fuck- fuck- fucking millipede.”

Its hundred pointy feet clicked over the concrete as it scuttled onto the strip and Charlotte wanted to kick its stupid, round, pincerless head. A wave of relief imploded inside her, burst against her ribcage and sent shockwaves down her limbs. Her legs trembled, deadweight heavy and feather light and she wondered if that's what weightlessness felt like. That elusive disorientation inside your own skin, as an astronaut had described it in one of the many books that were recovered from the ruins of a world she’ll never know.

The millipede jerked its head to the side, all of a sudden, thrashing its body in invisible agony.

Charlotte dodged the mighty arthropod by a hair's breadth and stumbled backwards into the unit's radius of protection, nearly tripping on the edge where hard concrete, smooth and bare of any fissures, gave way to soft earth. Tiny droplets of fine mist caught in her curls and dampened her skin, tickled the tip of her nose.

Jerking and thrashing, the millipede fought against it’s formless prison of disorientating discomfort. It’s body segments rattled and chirped, rubbing together as it made a beeline for the bushes and burst past Sahar, who dove underneath the bot. Just so avoiding getting his foot pierced by one of the creature's many clawed legs.

He stared up at Charlotte, eyes comically round and lips twitching into a smile. The barest flash of teeth. The bot’s underside pressed against the crown of his head and pushed a few short curls down over his forehead.

The corners of Charlotte’s mouth twitched. Warmth prickled over her lips and trickled down her throat, like a swallowed sunbeam kiss. Too hot and too sudden not to burn.

“Danger passed.” The bot announced, all eyes flashing red in unison as it reactivated with a cheerful chime. “Requesting help.”

Sahar flinched, startled as a mouse caught by Mr. Mittens the orphanage’s cat, and hit his head on the bot with a dull metallic thud.

Charlotte winced in sympathie. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, uhm, yes I, I am.”

“Good. Then let’s hurry and get out of here. That rustbucket is not worth ending up as insect foder for.”

A few more frantic cuts, almost devoid of Sahar’s previous gentleness, finally freed the bot from its botanical contraption. Sensory scanners already focused on the next plant to tend to, the bot got ready to stalk off when Sahar grabbed him by an arm. Long fingers wrapped around mud stained metal.

“Way- way- wait. We have some fields you can, can can- that you can tend to.”

Twelve glowing eyes seemed to consider him for awfully long, silent three seconds.

A ‘for fucks sake, Sahar, just move’ burned on the tip of Charlotte's tongue and she was just about to cross the concrete and drag him back behind their border, when the bot chimed.

“Friend identified.”

A soft smile blossomed on Sahar's face. All half hidden teeth and tenderness and Charlotte knew; they would not rake in any rewards today.

[emachinescat]

By Night My Mind

A Tales of Arcadia: Wizards Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat ​

@febuwhump​ day 19 - sleep deprivation 

Summary: Sequel to “Dying Is Easy.”  In the aftermath of the final battle against the Arcane Order, Douxie is plagued by guilt and nightmares about his part in Merlin’s death, and decides that he’s better off staying awake, which his battered and weary body does not take well.  Written for Febuwhump on Tumblr. Day 19: sleep deprivation

Characters: Douxie, Archie, Jim, Claire

Words: 4,719

TW: None

Notes: Sequel to “Dying Is Easy, Living (Without You) Is Harder,” and set in the same universe as “That I Could Fear a Door” and “Lest Back that Awful Door Should Spring.”  In this version of events, Douxie doesn’t have to leave with Nari, and is trying to adjust back to life in Arcadia after the events of “Dying Is Easy.”

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

- From “Sonnet 27” by William Shakespeare

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;

But then begins a journey in my head

To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired…

Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,

For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

The night after his battle with the Arcane Order, Douxie slept more soundly than he could ever remember.  His near-death experience had left him with a litany of aches, pains, cuts, bruises, a couple of fractured ribs and a lot of unanswered questions - it should have been impossible for him to survive a fall from that height; every bone in his body should have been broken, and no one knew how he was still alive - but still he slept, his final meeting with Merlin and the restored Morgana fresh on his mind and a soothing balm through the night.

The trouble came the day after, when he nodded off while curled up on his couch with The Sword in the Stone distracting him from some unpleasant thoughts and a nagging guilt that had begun to crop up, slowly but steadily, over the course of his day.  No one knew that the hokey, mostly plotless Disney movie was his favorite, and he preferred to keep it that way.  It had always amused him, Merlin as a bit of a crackpot and Arthur a poor young boy running around after a magical master who only halfway knew what he was doing at any given time - it reminded him of himself, and of home.

But he was exhausted from the muscle relaxer he’d been prescribed when Jim and Claire had practically kidnapped him and forced him to let Jim’s mom, a doctor, examine him, and he fell asleep right when Mad Madam Mim issued her challenge to Merlin and for a few wonderful moments, there was nothing, and he could rest.

He woke with a yell only minutes later (Merlin was now turning into a germ to outwit the atrocious purple dragon), fighting desperately against the effects of the muscle relaxers that were already trying to pull him under again.  He couldn’t even remember what it was that woke him, what he’d seen in his dreams, but it didn’t matter.  Whatever it was - and he had a good idea - it left him trembling, short of breath, on the verge of tears.

“Douxie?”

Archie padded into the room and hopped up on the couch beside his friend, eyes full of concern behind his glasses.

“I’m fine, Archie.  Just a nightmare.”

“I miss him, too,” the cat said solemnly, reflective gaze compassionate and sad as he observed his human friend.  “Perhaps we should talk--”

“Talking won’t bring him back,” Douxie snapped, and Archie flinched back the tiniest amount and fell silent, looking more like a chastised pet than Douxie had ever seen him.  The wizard sighed.  “I’m sorry, Archie.  I just don’t want to talk, that's all.”  He rubbed the furry head with distracted affection, then moved from the couch and pulled up a hard-backed kitchen chair, and sat in that.  

He didn’t feel like sleeping so much anymore, even if the burning of his eyes told him otherwise.  He turned off the movie - it suddenly held no appeal.  The Disney+ main screen took its place, and he clicked on something at random.  He was so caught up in his bleak mood and dark thoughts that he didn’t even realize for a solid ten minutes that he was watching Hannah Montana. 

***

Dr. Lake called him at five and asked how the muscle relaxers were treating him - “Are they keeping the pain and back spasms at bay? Are you taking them with food? Have you been able to rest?” Douxie placated her with lies on all accounts, but the truth was that he was sore even with the medicine, he hadn't taken it with food because he couldn't bring himself to eat, and every time he closed his eyes he felt the unfathomable pain of being run through all over again, or, worse, he saw Merlin kneeling over him, sacrificing his life for Douxie’s stupid mistake, and that wasn’t worth any benefits rest gave him.

***

He did finally fall asleep that night around eleven, not by choice - he’d been forced to take another muscle relaxer when the pain in his ribs and back crescendoed to nearly unbearable levels, and the drug worked quickly despite his best efforts to stay awake.

The dream was, at the beginning, not good, but not nightmare material, either.  He found he was reliving his final conversation with Merlin, in that Nowhere between life and death where his mentor had waited patiently for him to arrive before moving on at last, after 900 long years.  

At first the conversation was much the same as it had been, and Douxie found a thread of comfort in Merlin’s reassurances - I told you, my boy, I chose to die for you.  I want no part of a world without you in it.  And I am happy, reunited with my dear friend and first apprentice, ready to step into the next chapter.  

But this time, right before Merlin stepped through the door into the light, he turned and contemplated his grieving apprentice with a cold look.  “Although,” he said, accusation seeping from every word, “it is true that I wouldn’t have had to give my life for you if you hadn’t bungled things up so much in the first place.”

Douxie felt his heart stutter to a stop and he stammered, “W-what?”

“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Merlin hissed, his eyes flashing dangerously.  “It was my fight.  And if you were going to interfere, why not cast some other spell that kept us both out of harm’s way?”

Floundering for any purchase on solid ground, Douxie finally managed, “I didn’t know how - the magic, it just responded -”

“You were always good at making excuses, Hisirdoux,” the wizard snarled.  “The faith I thought I had in your abilities was obviously misplaced.”  A terrible, eternal beat of silence.  Then - “Perhaps I should have let you die after all.  It’s no more than you deserve.”

“But Master -”

“I’m done with you.”  With a dismissive wave of his arm, Merlin stomped into the waiting light of the unknown, muttering, “Might as well enjoy your life since you ended mine to save it.”

And Douxie was left alone in the between-space, and the tower crumbled around him in time with his soul, and he let it bury him, book after book crashing on his head, and he hoped that this time, he wouldn’t wake up at all….

It’s all my fault.

He woke up crying, not screaming, and shortly after he flushed the muscle relaxers while Archie wasn’t looking (the wise familiar would most certainly have not approved), splashed his face with icy water, and grabbed his well-read copy of The Catcher in the Rye and forced his eyes across the familiar words in a vain attempt to distract him from the loathing and pain and guilt that screamed through his aching head and pounded out a tattoo of shame that persisted through the lonely, sleepless night.

***

Two days later, he returned to work, and his manager stared openly at his disheveled appearance.  Douxie had slept a grand total of four hours since he’d tossed the pills, and those had been intermittent catnaps that his body had forced him to take.  Eventually, though the thought of using his magic made his skin crawl now after what it had done to Merlin, he conjured a simple alarm clock that sensed when he fell asleep and screeched metal core at him every time it happened.

He knew he looked bad - he’d seen a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he left.  His face was thinner than usual, pinched in pain that tylenol just wasn’t cutting through - but anything else would make him fall asleep.  Although all of the bruising was centralized around his back and chest and invisible beneath his rumpled t-shirt, it looked like he’d been punched in both eyes, with the dark, puffy circles accenting each one.  He’d been too out of it to properly bother with styling his hair, or brushing it, if he were honest, and he was pretty sure he was wearing two different combat boots.  They were both black, though, so maybe no one would notice.  He didn’t have the energy to care if they did.

“Damn,” said his manager, Jeff.  “I think you came back from sick leave a little too soon, man.  You look awful.”

Douxie shrugged, not trusting himself to speak.  He’d been screaming from one emotion to the next with no warning ever since he woke up, and even though he felt rather empty at the moment, he knew it was distinctly possible that if he opened his mouth he might start crying against his will.

“I think you should go back home.  Have you seen a doctor?”

Douxie grunted in affirmation.  

“Go home until you’re feeling better, Douxie.  Seriously, man, you have to take care of yourself.”

The hollowness inside of him filled with irritation at the dismissal.  “I’m fine,” he growled sullenly.  

His manager blinked, surprised at the tone.  Douxie had always been a model employee, respectful and fun to be around.  

“You’re going to scare customers away,” Jeff insisted.  “You can’t wait tables like this - people will be afraid you’ll give them whatever plague you’ve come down with.”

With a snarl, Douxie spat, “Why can’t things just go back to normal?”  He stormed out before his bewildered manager could answer.

***

The next afternoon, someone knocked at his door.  He cast a suspicious side-eye at Archie, who sat innocently on the table, tail tucked contritely around his carefully arranged paws as he studied Merlin’s magic book, the one Douxie had refused to touch since returning home.  Archie had disappeared for a short time earlier, flapping out of the window in dragon form and saying that he was just going for a short flight to clear his head.  Now Douxie wondered if the dragon had actually gone out and told someone of his worries about his wizard familiar.  After all, Archie had been on his case constantly over the past few days, practically begging his friend to sleep, to eat, to talk, and Douxie always ignored him and had even yelled at him on a couple of occasions.  

Douxie was picking at a bowl of dragon-popped popcorn listlessly, the small desire for food that he’d felt earlier having been immediately usurped by a fresh waves of undulating guilt and devastating emptiness.  A smattering of empty cans - soda and energy drinks - lay crumpled on the coffee table around Archie, and the dregs of his latest cup of coffee were still warm.  He seriously considered just ignoring the knocking until whoever it was went away - they’d promised to give him some time to recover, after all - but then they started ringing the doorbell and his head already hurt so badly it made his stomach curdle, so he made the tremendous journey to his feet.  He swayed, his limbs like pool noodles, head swimming with dizziness at the effort to stay upright.

Each step toward the door - that incessant, too-loud doorbell was going to drive him mad! - was a hard-fought battle, and by the time his hand reached for the doorknob, he felt like he was going to be sick, and his vision was blurred, and he was having trouble remembering why he had gotten up in the first place.

Then the doorbell rang again, and a muffled voice called his name from the other side of the door, and he remembered.

It was Claire and Jim.  The moment they laid eyes on him, their expressions went from concerned to relieved to something Douxie couldn’t quite identify but that might have been a kind of shock, or even horror.

“Douxie!” Claire half-shouted, and Douxie fought the urge to cover his ears as her voice, normally pleasant and soothing, tried its hardest to split his head in two.  “What happened?”

Douxie squinted at her in confusion.  Shouldn’t she know what happened?  She had been there, for parts of it, at least.  She’d heard about the rest.  He could barely stand up straight anymore, and his eyes started closing of their own accord.  This had happened so many times before, but as soon as sleep started to stake its claim, the memories and nightmares and things that might have been memories followed, mixing up into a blur that he couldn’t navigate, and then his magic alarm clock would blare, and he would wake up, and drink another Mountain Dew or Monster or cup of coffee, and try to do something to take his mind off of sleep and pain and Merlin.  Then the whole process would start over again.

This time, it didn’t look like he would make it back to the couch before he passed out - the arduous trek to the front door had drained him, made him breathless and dizzy - and he was toppling forward, trying to force himself to wake up, battling sleep and the panic of sleep, or worse, hitting his head and being knocked out and forced to sleep.

“Whoa!”  He startled awake to a hazy reality as Jim caught his stumbling form and propped him up the best that he could given how much taller Douxie was than him.  Distantly, Douxie heard, “Claire, help me get him inside.”

And then Claire slung his other arm over her shoulder and they half-supported, half-dragged him back into his house, and though his eyes were on his couch, he realized that they were taking him past it, further into the house, in the direction of his bedroom, and he began to struggle against them.

“No, not there,” he gasped, knowing that if he had a mattress under his body and a soft pillow under his bed, there would be no way he could resist the siren call of sleep.  He’d been avoiding his bed for days now.

But they didn’t listen, and soon they helped ease him onto his bed, perpetually unmade, and he scrambled up clumsily into a facsimile of a sitting position and shook his head to clear it of the gummy cobwebs that infested it.  Archie, having followed the trio closely, literally hovering right over their shoulders, perched on Douxie’s desk and kept his lamp-lit eyes on his human, watchful and protective.  

As soon as their charge was no longer in any immediate danger of hurting himself, Jim pulled out his cell phone.  “I’m calling my mom.”

“No, no,” Douxie said, forcing his burning eyes open as far as he could and making a feeble swipe at the phone in his friend’s hand.  Jim hesitated, his thumb hovering over the send button.  

“You are obviously not feeling well,” he said.  “And you look sick.  You need to see a doctor before --”

“I’m not sick,” Douxie explained, trying to project an air of wellness that he couldn’t even muster within himself.  At their doubtful looks, he clarified, “Just a little tired.”

“You don’t look like you’ve slept in a month!” Claire exclaimed worriedly.  “We promised to give you a few days to yourself to heal and rest, not turn into one of the living dead!”

“It’s only been a few days,” Douxie assured her.  “I just need to sort some things out in my head, that’s all.  Then I’ll sleep.”  It was a lie, but he needed them to believe it, needed them to go home and go on with their lives and not sit here worrying about him - or worse, try to make him sleep.  He appreciated their concern, and was touched that he had friends who cared so much about his well-being, but they had more important things to deal with - Jim’s transition from being half-troll to enslaved hulk troll to fully human and the loss of his amulet, for starters.  And he had made this mess on his own, this was his fault, so if his punishment was to never sleep again, it should be his to bear alone.  He didn’t deserve to be worried about, he suddenly realized - that was the crux of why he wanted to be left alone so badly.

“A few days without sleep will wreck you, man,” Jim said seriously, his blue eyes offering nothing but concern.  He did pocket his phone again, though, for which Douxie heaved a sigh of relief.  “Trust me, I know.”

Douxie didn’t know the details, but he had heard stories from Claire and Toby about how Jim had, over a year ago, willingly gone into the Darklands, a hellish nightmare-scape beneath the skin of this world, and Claire had told, her own eyes haunted, of how he had come back not himself, traumatized, and how he’d barely slept nor ate and had become a shell of his former self.  

So he asked, voice far more unsure than he felt comfortable with, “How did you move on?  How did you get back to normal?”

He hated himself for sounding so weak.  He’d lived 701 years.  He’d lost people he cared about so regularly that he’d eventually tried to avoid personal connections.  Such was the curse of being a wizard, and being functionally immortal.  The world around him would turn, but he would not age - or rather, he would age slowly, at the pace of his own choosing - and people would die, wars would rise up and die down, and still he would live, watching it all, alone.  That wasn’t true.  Even if Merlin had been entombed for much of that time, he hadn’t been dead, not really.  The knowledge that he would see his mentor again had kept Douxie going during the loneliest of times, during the most devastating losses.  

And, of course, he’d had Archie, a constant companion who even now had done everything he could to help his friend, and when that hadn’t worked, when Douxie had been too stubborn to listen, he’d taken it upon himself to gather more of Douxie’s friends and staged an intervention.  If Douxie hadn’t been so exhausted and his mind hadn’t been so muddy, he might have been grateful or touched by the gesture and loyalty, but right now, he just felt irritated, like his privacy had been infringed upon.

Jim blinked.  “Well, uh,” he stammered, glancing at Claire before continuing, “it took time, first of all.  But, honestly, it was my friends.  But it took talking to someone who had gone through the same thing as me, who understood what I was going through, to first start the healing.”

Douxie shook his head.  “Everybody loses people,” he said slowly.  “But this feels different.”

“Just because everyone deals with loss doesn’t make your experiences any less important, Douxie,” Archie said sagely.  He was the only one in the room who had a true scope of all the heartbreaks Douxie had accumulated over his centuries of life in a world of short-lived mortals.

“It’s not that.” Douxie was desperate now for them to understand the truth. Then maybe they would stop being so kind to him.  Dream-Merlin had been right.  He didn’t deserve it.  “Don’t you see?  It’s my fault Merlin’s dead.  I killed him.”

Jim froze at his words, looking like he’d just been struck across the face.  For a moment, Douxie wondered why he reacted the way he did, but then remembered that Jim had been the one to hold Douxie down when Morgana was going to kill him.  He hadn’t been in his right mind, had been enslaved by the Arcane Order, but still, he had, in a small way, been the reason that Douxie had been forced into doing the switching magic that he had.  Still, Douxie could find no ill will in him against the Trollhunter.  He’d not been in control of his own mind.  Douxie had.

“I am so sorry,” Jim started, but Douxie immediately cut him off.

“It’s not your fault.  You weren’t you.  But me…”

“You have to see the truth,” Jim insisted urgently, now moving to take a seat on the bed next to his older friend.  Sure, they hadn’t known each other all that long, but going through the things they had and saving the world together tended to bring people closer together rather more quickly than usual, in his experience.  “It wasn’t your fault.  You did everything you could to save Merlin.  You took a sword in the gut for him.”  Douxie flinched internally at the reminder of the agony, the feeling of dying, the cold and the dark.  

“Yeah, Douxie,” Claire chimed in.  “You’re a hero.  You saved him.”

“If I’d had more control over that magic, if I’d channeled it a different way or done a different spell, then we might both be alive.”  He was so tired, but the conversation held him in its grip, and he couldn’t sleep anyway, he’d go back to the sword and Merlin’s death and the wizard’s tower where Merlin would tell him again that he’d failed.

“Douxie, you’re the one who’s been teaching me more magic!” Claire reminded him.  “One of the things I learned from my Shadow Staff - and that you’ve continued to show me - is that magic is emotion.  You can’t always control what magic is going to do when you are in a moment of fear or anger or desperation.  Magic reacts to your emotions.  And Jim’s right.  What you did was very brave and selfless.”

“That’s why Merlin gave his life to save you in return,” Archie added.  “That, and because he loved you, very much.”

Douxie felt the sting of hot tears carving pathways down his face and didn’t bother to wipe them off.  He felt like having a full-on temper tantrum, flopping onto his stomach and screaming and sobbing and slamming his fists into the ground and letting his magic explode out of him with all the force of the emotions and exhaustion that had built up inside.  He knew if he did that, though, he would just end up hurting someone else.

So he asked a question he was ashamed to ask, because it made it sound like he blamed Merlin instead of himself, “If he loved me, why did he leave?  Why didn’t he let me make my sacrifice?  It was like what I did didn’t matter.  I saved him because I don’t want to live without him, but that’s just what he forced me to do.”

Archie flapped off the desk and landed on the bed on the other side of his friend.  Placing a paw on Douxie’s leg, he spoke gently, as if to a lost child, “Merlin was a great wizard” -- Douxie sobbed -- “but he was also very selfish sometimes.  That comes with great power and an ego left unchecked paired with a very long life.  Merlin saved you because he couldn’t bear to think of a world without you in it.  Nor,” said the dragon, nuzzling Douxie’s elbow affectionately, “can I, for that matter.”

“But if I --”

“No buts,” said Archie.  “This was not your fault.  And I know Merlin told you the same.”

“He did,” Douxie admitted.  “But then he didn’t.  Every time I sleep, I see him, and he tells me… he tells me that I f-failed, that he’s d-dead because of me, and that I don’t deserve to live.”

“Oh, Douxie,” Claire breathed softly, sinking down into his desk chair.

“That’s not Merlin telling you that,” Jim spoke up.  Something raw lingered in his eyes.  “It’s the lies you are telling yourself.  I know because for weeks after the Darklands, I…” He cast his gaze briefly at Claire, and even in his semi-conscious state, Douxie got the feeling that he hadn’t even told his girlfriend this before.  “I had dreams every night of Claire, Toby, Blinky, Aaarrrgghh, everyone telling me I should have stayed in the Darklands.  Should have died there, because I wasn’t strong or brave enough, and I went in alone and betrayed them, and that they were better off and happier without me.  For a while, I believed them.”

Claire was crying quietly now, her hands pressed against her lips.

“But then,” Jim continued, “the more time I spent with my friends, and talked to them, I began to be able to separate their truth from my own lies.  Like I said earlier, you really need to talk to someone who gets it, you know.  And even though we’ve experienced a lot of the same things, it’s not me.”  He looked pointedly at the small black dragon who was currently in the same place he’d always been - at Douxie’s side.  

“I miss him too.”  Archie repeated his words from a few days ago.  “And I am here for you, Douxie.”  He must have seen the doubt festering in Douxie’s eyes and he reassured, “I do not blame you for what happened.  No one does.  The Merlin in your dreams is not real.  He is spitting your own self-doubts and guilt right back into your face, but deep down, you know the truth.  The real Merlin told you.  Jim and Claire told you.  And I am promising you - Merlin died because he chose to in order to save you because after all he had seen and done and all the years he’d lived, the one thing he was terrified of was having to light your funeral pyre.  And Merlin never did anything he didn’t want to do.  No one could have stopped him from making that choice.”

The words struck something deep inside of Douxie, and he felt the tiniest fraction of weight shift in his chest.  “M’be,” he slurred, so tired that his friends were all now blobs of blue, black, and purple.  A giant bruise.  He chuckled, a bit madly.  

“Okay, Douxie,” came Claire’s voice, distant and very close at the same time.  “I think you really need to lie down now.  You’ve been awake for too long.”

She and Jim helped him lie down.  Weakly, he protested, “I cn’t sleep.”

“You can,” said Jim.  “Take Archie’s words with you if you end up facing that dream-Merlin again.  Remember that we’re here for you.  None of us will leave you while you sleep, okay?”

“Yeah, we’ll be right here when you wake up, and if you have nightmares, we’ll remind you of the truth,” Claire promised.

“And I will guard you,” Archie vowed, retaking his cat form and curling up protectively over his closest friend’s heart.  “You are safe here.”

Douxie could resist the call of sleep no longer.  He closed his eyes and let it take him, and he felt the warm weight of Archie on his chest and the presence of his friends around him and the slightest of smiles curved his lips as he drifted off.

***

Thirty seconds after Douxie grew still upon the bed, his three friends let out a collective sigh of relief.  

Thirty seconds after that, Jim and Claire let out a collective yell of shock and Archie leapt to his paws, hissing and arching his back, as a giant, misty alarm clock appeared out of thin air and started screeching a terrible cacophony of wailing guitars and screaming vocals at top volume.

“What the--?” Claire shouted over the racket, slamming her hands over her ears.

“I forgot,” Archie called back, “he cast this spell to wake him up when he fell asleep.”

And yet, this time, Douxie still slept.

“Can you turn it off?” Jim yelled.

“No, only Douxie can undo the spell.”

Jim considered this for a moment and shook his head.  “Let him sleep.  He needs it.”  

And despite the loud, jarring music, he, Claire, and Archie kept their promise and stayed faithfully at their friend’s side until, four hours later, he woke up long enough to blessedly vanish the clock.

Then, like a little boy with a teddy bear, the already fading Douxie pulled a startled Archie into his arms and held him tight, curling up on his side with his furry prize.  Although uncomfortable in his new position and robbed of his draconian dignity, Archie snuggled in and purred, content to listen to the steady breathing of his deeply sleeping familiar.

[tripleaxeldiaz]

i will learn to love the skies i’m under

read on ao3

It’s been a minute since Eddie has been in such a bad mood.

A bad mood is annoying enough as it is, but this one in particular has been lurking for about a week too long, filtering into every part of his life so that he’s pissed from the minute he opens his eyes in the morning until he’s back in bed at night. 

The worst part of it all is that nothing even happened to set him off in the first place. Chris is back from camp, the 118 has been miraculously tragedy-free recently, he and Buck have even been able to work a few date nights into their endlessly busy schedules. Everything is objectively perfect for the first time in a long time.

But still, these past few days, the very act of being a human has taken so much effort.

He smiles listening to Chris talk about the latest addition to his comic book collection, but he can feel that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and he knows he missed a bit in the middle about some big twist when he zoned out to stare at nothing. It takes extra energy to make sure he’s focused during shift, so any socializing in between calls just feels draining. The jokes, the carefree laughs, it all slowly grates on him, his skin itching like it’s trying to slide off his bones. He tries, still, laughs at all the right places, but by the end of the day he’s retreating to the bunks between calls instead of the loft, blaming it on a migraine or sore back when he’s questioned.

He’d had his bi-weekly with Frank shortly after it started, but even he couldn’t offer much help.

“I can prescribe you something if this keeps going on and starts interfering with work or family. Otherwise, try and focus on the positives in your life. It’s easier said than done, but sometimes it makes all the difference.”

So he was trying. He went out for drinks with the team, played with Chris in the backyard, had movie nights, the whole shebang. But everything was just off — he was off. And as much as he tried to act like he was fine, there was still that constant hum just under his skin, a constant reminder that his brain has decided hey man, I know your life is all peaches and cream right now, but that doesn’t mean shit. We’re gonna focus on the bad things instead.

What bad things? Hell if Eddie knows. He can’t focus on one good or bad thing long enough to pinpoint what exactly is making him feel like this. It just seems to be the general cloud of past traumas hanging over his brain, and it’s raining all the residual bad feelings down, and he doesn’t have an umbrella.

He sets his coffee cup down hard (harder than he meant to, really) before sitting down at the table, earning identical eyebrow raises from Hen and Chimney. He sees them look at each other out of the corner of his eye before they turn to him, pushing MCAT practice books out of the way.

“Everything alright, Eddie?” Hen asks, maternal and receptive as ever.

“Fine,” he says tightly, and great, he’s snapping at people now. His energy is so depleted that he can’t even keep his people skills in check.

“We’re here if you need us, man,” Chim says with his reassuring smile. “We won’t even tell Buck about it if you don’t want us to.”

Eddie can’t help smiling at that, though it’s still small. He does want to talk to Buck about it all, of course he does. But Buck has been pulling extra shifts this past week while Ortiz is out with a busted ankle. They’ve barely had a conversation about what groceries to get let alone the fact that Eddie feels completely out of sorts, like he’s screwing up everything he’s normally good at and can’t figure out how to do it right again. And he knows Buck will help him, knows he would want to if he knew, but he keeps convincing himself that he can figure it out on his own, that Buck is so overworked now that he shouldn’t unload any more stress onto him. That, at least, he can still control.

He wishes his brain wasn’t so damn loud.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face as Hen and Chim watch him with matching weariness. “I’m okay guys, I promise. Just been feeling a little off lately.”

Hen smiles sympathetically, reaches across the table to squeeze his wrist. Chim opens his mouth like he’s about to offer his patented sage advice, but he’s quickly cut off by the alarm. They rush to the truck, and Eddie feels just a bit relieved that for at least the next two hours, he’ll be humming with adrenaline rather than baseless uncertainty. He’ll forget the clouds and the rain and focus on saving lives, something he knows he can always do well.

He almost convinces himself that clouds will stay away this time.

~~~~~~~~~~

By the end of shift, Eddie’s whole body feels like lead. The last two calls of the day weren’t even remarkable, but he feels listless and slow, and he’s glad that he can basically drive home by muscle memory now, because the rain is pounding in his brain agan and it’s hard to focus on anything. As he sits in the driveway, willing his body to get up get up get the hell up, he allows himself to slip for a minute. Maybe if he lets some of the rain in, briefly succumbs to the ever brewing storm, it’ll release some of the pressure and it’ll be easier to breathe. Maybe he’ll feel like himself again for the first time in weeks.

10 minutes later, and he’s pretty sure he just feels worse.

He opens the front door and is greeted by darkness and silence. Christopher is at a sleepover, and the first thing he feels when he remembers is relieved, because now he can sit in his dark living room, alone, all night, and see if he’ll feel better if he stews a little longer. Maybe he can work it out of his system in a few hours instead of a few minutes.

He also feels a little guilty that he’s glad his son isn’t around, but he can just add that to all the other bad feelings. Might as well keep fueling the fire, at this point.

As he drops his bag in the entryway, he notices that it’s actually not totally dark in his house. There’s a soft glow coming through the sliding glass doors that lead to the patio, and he’s pretty sure he hears music too now that he’s paying attention. As he makes his way outside, he’s greeted by blankets and every pillow they own set up on the lawn, pad thai containers, and his boyfriend drenched in string lights and moonlight, adjusting the speakers set up around the yard. 

Buck looks up as he hears the door slide closed, smiling brightly, and Eddie swears he can feel the rain lighten up. It’s still there, steady as ever, but the drops aren’t as heavy. Buck meets him at the door, drops a kiss on his cheek, and Eddie’s hands instinctively come up to rest on Buck’s hips.

“What’s all this?” Eddie asks as he continues surveying the yard. “I thought you were working tonight?”

Buck shrugs, his hands grabbing Eddie’s as he steers them to the pillow nest. “Ortiz got cleared for work a few days early, asked for her shifts back. Plus it’s a beautiful night, and I really just wanted to spend it with you.”

He kisses Eddie, warm and sweet, and pulls him down to sit next to him. They start to eat, chatting about everything they’ve missed since they’ve been on opposite shifts, and for a minute, Eddie can almost pretend like everything is normal, like a reset button has been pushed and he can breathe again. He always felt like Buck’s presence and love was a balm for his heart, but it’s moments like these where he’s reminded just how true that actually is.

But as they finish up, lying back and lapsing into comfortable silence, Eddie’s mind starts wandering again. All he wants to do is look at the stars, but the clouds are back, dark as ever, and he doesn’t have the strength to keep fighting them off. He just wants a minute of peace with his boyfriend, that really doesn’t seem like too much to ask.

“You wanna let me know what’s got you all huffy?” Buck asks, his fingers running through Eddie’s hair as his head rests on Buck’s chest. He thought he’d been keeping his irritation in his head. Or maybe he has, and Buck really can read his mind like Eddie’s always suspected he can.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, and he knows it’s not convincing. Buck doesn’t press though, just kisses the crown of his head and keeps his fingers moving.

And that’s it, for whatever reason. Buck allowing him to just be, not expecting him to put up a front or plaster on a smile. Letting him navigate the storm in his head on his own, silently supportive. No one else has really pried or made him talk either, but with Buck it’s different. Everything is different with Buck. Eddie knows that he can fully lean into himself and Buck won’t think any less of him or ask too much of him. And he’ll be there when he can finally articulate what the hell is going on.

Eddie shifts up, lying on his side so he and Buck are face to face. His eyes flit over Buck’s face, searching for...he’s not sure what. Just taking in the fact that he’s here for Eddie, in every way, and judging by the soft but determined look in his eyes, he doesn’t plan on going anywhere. Eddie closes his eyes, lets out a hard breath through his nose. He feels Buck’s hand come up to rest on his jaw, gentle and grounding.

“Everything just feels...bad. I feel bad. And I have no reason to feel like that, because this is the most solid my life has been in years, but that makes me feel even worse.” Buck’s thumb traces a soothing trail along his skin as he collects his thoughts. “It takes so much of me to function normally and it gets harder and harder every day. People keep asking if I’m fine and I am, I should be, but I don’t know how to say, ‘Things are going great but I still feel like garbage and I can’t stop blaming myself for not being able to be happy.’”

Buck’s hand moves down to Eddie’s waist and tugs, their bodies pressing together, his head resting on top of Eddie’s. Finally being able to put words to the noise in his brain helped, but he still feels the static at the surface of his skin, and everything still feels wrong.

“Honey, it is absolutely not your fault that you’re feeling like this,” Buck whispers as his hands start roaming up and down Eddie’s back. “As much as you try and control your emotions, sometimes we don’t get a say in the bullshit our brain makes up, and it can be hard to tell if it’s lying or not.”

Eddie sighs, feels his throat catch as he tries to talk. “I’m just tired of being mad for no reason. It’s one thing when I know specifically what’s pissing me off, but having it be everything and nothing at the same time is exhausting.”

“Then rest, baby. It’s just you and me now, you don’t have to pretend for me. I’m here for the ups and downs, no matter what.”

Eddie doesn’t know who or what blessed him with a man as good as Buck, but he’ll be paying them back until the day he dies. He’s never had someone he could fully let his guard down around, and now that he does, it’s strange and wonderful, something he hopes he never gets used to and never takes for granted.

He can’t find the words to thank Buck, so he kisses him instead. Long and slow, pouring every once of gratitude he has into it, hoping Buck feels it. He thinks he does as he feels him smile against his lips.

He takes Buck’s advice, shifting back to settle into his chest, lets his body get heavy, tries to force the tension away. Buck’s hands on his back and lips on his forehead help.

He’s not miraculously better, but he feels a little less weary. Left of center instead of all the way off course. The rain is still coming down in his mind, but Buck is there with strong arms, a warm heart, and an umbrella big enough for both of them.

He’ll always be there, Eddie knows that for sure. It makes weathering the storm a little easier.

[gealach-in-a-misty-world]

still to hear her tender-taken breath

[cross-posted to AO3]

Pairing: female Daken Akihiro/female Johnny Storm

Rating: Mature

TW: manipulation, mentions of past abuse (Daken’s canon background)

*****

Joan was magnificent.

It was ridiculous, really, how Daken kept flitting towards her, like a moth endlessly fascinated by the stunning brilliance of fire. Joan was radiant, iridescent; always smiling, always welcoming, but with shadows hidden behind her eyes. Jealousy, perhaps, for her much smarter sister, or maybe just the knowledge that she was the weakest link in the “fantastic” family, so young and trusting, liable to be exploited in order to worm one’s way into the family. And yet she persevered in her almost childish positivity, in always believing the best of everyone. She was too kind for this world.

She was infuriating.

She was stunning when she flamed on, majestic when she took flight… crowned with licks of fire, her eyes bright supernovae that burned into Daken’s soul. She was exquisite, a queen in the sky; there was an exhilaration in her breath when she touched down after flying high. She belonged to the heavens – she was a thing of beauty, unburdened by earthly matters.

She belonged in Daken’s arms.

She’d been, oh, so easy to get close to, so easy to manipulate into finding Daken’s company indispensable. Too easy. She should be more careful, take better care of herself. She shouldn’t be so trusting.

She shouldn’t allow wolves to nuzzle her. They still bit, afterwards.

Daken had yet to.

She told herself she was just biding her time, cultivating a relationship that would be more useful in the long run; she told herself that she had all she needed. But already she’d let opportunities go, already she’d let go of her original goal of pocketing a few of Richards’ creations. She’d had plenty opportunities; more than once she’d stayed the night in Joan’s room, more than once she could have slipped out undisturbed. But Joan slept so peacefully, her features so soft in the dark. She illuminated everything, left Daken in a haze.

Daken was a smart woman. She knew what was happening – what she was doing. She was making the most dangerous mistake in the books: she was falling for her prey. Decades of training and hard work should have beaten such foolishness out of her, but just one glance at Joan’s gentle gaze was enough to rein her in, to make her forget everything she’d learnt with blood and tears.

She still asked herself why. It wasn’t purely physical; even though she was a sensualist, first and foremost, and Joan was truly stunning, luscious golden locks and full lips and the bluest eyes Daken had ever seen, deep and wide, pools to swallow Daken whole. Joan was the stereotypical white american beauty, the kind that won country-wide pageants, the kind that was revered and coveted, and Daken shouldn’t have fallen for such a bland picture-perfect mix. Beauty was the currency of this world and Daken could navigate it with ease; a pretty face shouldn’t make her weak in the knees.

No, it wasn’t Joan’s face. It wasn’t even Joan’s body, lean and just the right amount of soft, with lovely breasts and long legs, the small of her back seemingly made for Daken’s palm, her nape an exquisite arch Daken loved to explore with her fingers, drawing shudders and sighs out of Joan’s perfect mouth.

It was Joan’s peculiar expression, that spoke of someone with a keen mind and a capacity for greatness that still chose to stay close to the earth. It was Joan’s kindness, not saccharine but genuine. It was… perhaps it was just Daken’s new weariness, her newfound discovery of her place in the world. Perhaps she was just tired after decades of lies and abuse, and she’d clung to the first arms that had welcomed her. Perhaps it was Joan’s distinct lack of malice, how surprised she’d looked when Daken had first cradled her face. How she always focused on Daken’s pleasure instead of chasing her own, when people had always taken what they wanted from Daken’s body.

Perhaps it was the way Joan’s lashes had trembled when she’d looked up the meaning of Daken’s name – and how delicately she’d let the matter go when Daken had asked.

Perhaps it had been that. The fact that Joan had bothered to try to learn a bit of Daken, but had taken a step back when she’d seen Daken’s expression.

What Daken knew, with a certainty that scared her, was that she was done for. Every instinct screamed to turn on her heels and leave. Every nerve chafed at the vulnerability she was showing, at the knowledge of the many ways to hurt her that she was leaving open to anyone willing to try.

But Joan’s arms were warm and safe and her smile could soothe even Daken’s old, rotten soul. Joan was a balm, a haven, a beacon. A white-hot star, blazing high and bright; a compass.

Daken wondered if she was idealizing the woman. She wondered if this was just a midlife crisis, or if Joan would tire of her eventually. Certainly she would chase her away if she were to discover what a monster Daken really was; but every small revelation, every minuscule piece of herself that Daken had so far revealed, had been met with patience and quiet interest and understanding. It was disquieting.

It was, oh, so welcome.

Joan wasn’t a fool. She was soft and kind and trusting, yes, but she was also fierce; a tigress, wild and primal. She fought with unparalleled ferocity when provoked. She was incredibly perceptive. She just chose to turn the other way, but she struck with incredible precision when needed.

Was this just a fragile flight of fancy, a dream that could only shatter in the end?

The covers rustled and Joan flung her arm around Daken’s stomach.

“Can’t sleep, babe?” she mumbled, her arm a furnace against Daken’s naked flesh. Joan’s body run hot; it made sleeping together an interest experience.

Daken rolled to the side, searching Joan’s eyes in the dark. They were half-closed, fixed on Daken’s silhouette.

The deepest, brightest blue. They truly were startling.

“Babe? You all right?” Joan propped herself up on an elbow, her arm tight around Daken’s waist, searching Daken’s gaze and failing in the darkness. Her eyes were wide now, alert, and Daken’s heart clenched.

I don’t want this to end, she thought with sharp clarity. She reached up, cupped Joan’s cheek. “Yeah,” she murmured, and she felt the tension disappear from Joan’s muscles. “Everything’s fine, dearest.” The endearment came unbidden out of her mouth.

Nonetheless, it was true.

The revelation was so stark it took the wind out of her. She wanted Joan; she wanted this, her smile, her scent, her warmth. She wanted Joan’s sweet, gentle touch.

She could only lose herself in Joan’s bright, bright eyes and regain her breath. Joan however had noticed how still she’d held herself, and she rested her forehead against Daken’s, their noses brushing. “You know, you’re a terrible liar.”

Oh, oh, the irony! Daken felt a surge of tenderness, tinged with shame. She reached up softly, searched Joan’s mouth. Joan sighed and melted, their lips brushing gently, their hands lazily roaming their bodies. Joan’s gaze was sharp, questioning, worried, but she’d relented once more, and Daken’s chest ached so.

She’d tell Joan. Tomorrow, in the light of day, she’d lay herself bare and face Joan’s judgment. She hoped for forgiveness.

Tonight, she’d take what she could, knowing it could be the last.

[realityhelixcreates]

Temple of Tree Bark/The Adulation of Tongues

Chapters: 46/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Someday) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), It’s Just (Ah) A Little Crush (Crush), Longing For A Longhouse, Shiny Shrines Summary:  You come to a conclusion and share some light conversation, as a mysterious illness spreads.

You dozed lightly under the golden sparkles of the healing machines, while Loki sat by your side, going through his daily paperwork. You still couldn't help but wonder if this really would fix your face or not. These machines had not been built with humans in mind, so this was technically experimental medicine.

You'd been given back your snacks, deemed poison-free, and shared them with Loki. He was not particularly taken with your favorite cheese crackers, but he proved fond of chocolate covered peanuts.

He spoke to you about his paperwork, the complaints and requests of the people, his voice a soothing backdrop to your rest.

It wasn't just his voice. You had come to the conclusion that you were developing a hunger for his presence. What you weren't sure about yet was if it was because he made you feel safe-being strong, and magical, and powerful in many ways-or if it was something else.

If it was the former, that did make a kind of sense. Your relation to Loki was complicated. He was the cause of many of  your worries, many of the dangers you now faced, but he also hadn't really done it on purpose, and most of the things he did for you were to ameliorate your troubles. He really seemed to care.

If it was the latter, if you were actually falling for the handsome prince, like in some fairy tale...Well, you didn't know what you were going to do. Was that even allowed? You weren't even the same species.

But the king had famously pursued Dr. Foster. So perhaps it was. Or perhaps that was one of the many changes to the law Thor had made, or at least proposed to make. Saga had had much to say about it.

But Dr. Foster was an astrophysicist with a PhD and everything. You were not. Everything special about you had been given to you, rather than earned. Forced on you, one could say. Loki had swooped in and done so much for you, and he clearly intended to do more. You couldn't expect him to love you on top of all that. No, it surely wasn't possible between you, and you found yourself hoping it was just the former.

You'd already had your heart broken, and worse. The reminder of that dark time in your life was camping outside the city, with a bunch of protesters who hated Loki, and everything they thought he stood for.

This was no time for romance. This was no time to even want romance. This was a time for you to be learning magic, and law, and self defense. Romance had to be secondary, tertiary, even quaternary to all that.

You shouldn't think about it. The more you thought about it, the more likely it was to become what you were telling yourself you couldn't want. After all, wouldn't it justify what that murderer was trying to do? Wouldn't it make you a traitor to the human race, the 'devil's whore' as he had called you?

No! Of course not! That guy was just a murderous racist, nothing he said really mattered. Besides, you couldn't betray humanity by caring about someone. Loki was no devil, and he wouldn't pay you to sleep with him, so you were no whore.

Oh no, shouldn't have thought about sleeping with Loki. Shouldn't have thought about it...

But you already knew the strength of his arms and the gentleness of his hands. The intensity of his gaze and the weight of his body on yours. The smell of his hair, the texture of his skin, the bubbling tingle of his magic inside you. You even knew what most of his body looked like by now, when you had seen him bare and dripping with bathwater.

The golden healing light always made you feel warm, but the heat crawling up your face had nothing to do with it this time.

Okay fine, maybe you had a little crush. You knew how to deal with living around what you couldn't have, and you were an adult. You could handle rejection.

You could also imagine what his voice would sound like, how his face would contort in the throes of passion...

“Are you all right, my dear?” Loki asked, concern lacing his voice. “You are squirming a bit. Is is uncomfortable?”

“No, I'm fine!” You shouldn't be thinking about things like that. He was sitting right there!

“Do tell me if there is anything wrong. If it becomes uncomfortable, I can turn the machine down, or give you another massage, if you'd like.”

Foul tempter. Maybe he was a devil after all.

A commotion approached, multiple voices spouting fast-paced Asgardian. Loki frowned, lines on his brow.

“It sounds like a construction worker has been injured. I'll go check.”

He left for a few moments, returning wearing a perplexed expression.

“It appears that he is not injured, but has come down with some illness from which he will not wake. His brother found him like this, and is going to be kept here as well.”

You sat up under the golden sparkles. “Now that's something I never thought of! Even between groups of humans, first contact always brought terrible diseases! Can Asgardians even get sick?”

“Asgardians fall ill, yes.” Loki confirmed. “Aesir do not.”

“Maybe that's why Thor didn't unleash a plague the first time he came here. But I've been surrounded by Asgardians for months, and I haven't gotten sick, or gotten anybody else sick. I'm sorta connected to an Aesir though, that might be why. Or maybe our diseases are just so different from each others, that they are just now starting to mutate into something that can infect one another. Loki, we've really got to look into germ science! We could be sitting on an epidemic!”

“Darling, I know!” He grasped your hand tightly, stroking the back of it to soothe you. “We have thought of this, and we have already begun. Humankind is very aware of the dangers of pathology that an alien species presents. We have submitted to your doctors, samples of every disease known to affect us...no matter how much some argued they could be used to make weapons against us.”

“Or vaccines!” You pointed out.

“Your optimism is a balm, my dear.” He said. “That was the initial purpose, of course. The Earth will be safe from our pathogens with your crude, but effective vaccines, and we shall be safe from your illnesses with the use of our own medicine.”

The commotion started all over again.

“Another one?” Loki wondered.

“Maybe we should go.” You said. “What if they need this room? My face can wait.”

                                                                    *****

Blueprints and road plans, that was his life now. He'd been a mason before, and fairly idle: Asgard rarely needed new buildings, and rarely needed repairs done; it had been so solidly built in the first place. He's made most of his living in the colonies before...before.

Now he lived, crammed with the rest of the population into tiny apartments that he had helped build; temporary shelters for the severely reduced realm of Asgard, while the survivors of Ragnarok all pitched in to build homes, businesses, and roads. He was lucky. He'd had training in building things, and had been given authority over an entire crew of workers. Unfortunately, nearly none of them had been builders. They'd been butchers, metalworkers, artists, scribes. But they did their best, and the nation was growing up from the ground, sturdily if not quickly.

The door opened, and the figure of his wife hustled in.

“Hildegarde, sweet one, I did not expect you back so soon.” He smiled at her, still so blessed by her presence. They had come through so much together. “Let me get you something to drink.”

“Please, that would be lovely.” She said. “I left a little early today. As much was done as could be, for now.”

He dutifully fetched a pitcher of Midgardian ale-weak, but flavorful-for her. Hildegarde worked hard breaking ground and mixing cement, work only for those with strong backs and arms. He was so lucky.

She took a good, long drink, no doubt weary from a hard days work.

“Oh, I haven't the patience.” She declared, holding her arms open. “Come to me darling. I have a well-deserved reward for you!”

He chuckled, wrapping her up in a hug and bringing his lips to hers. Her kiss was more electrifying than he remembered, bringing a rush of pleasure and contentment. It went on and on, until her strong arms were holding him up, his legs no longer able to support him.

Still, he felt no fear, even as he weakened further, only pleasure, and the deep heartfelt love he had for his wife, even as he struggled to draw breath. She would not let him.

Not until his eyes had glazed over, and the last dregs of his life ebbed, did she drop him on the floor and leave, tail swishing behind her.

                                                                        *****

You were much better able to walk the next day, though it was still easy to become dizzy and overbalanced, so Loki took you to the healing wing early, to absorb some healing light. There was wailing the wing however, as one of the men had died in the night, and the others-five in total-remained asleep. The newest had been brought in just before you had arrived, by his distraught wife, who claimed she'd been working deep into the evening and had simply fallen asleep at her construction site, only to come home in the morning to find him collapsed on the floor.

“This is spreading far too quickly.” Loki murmured to you. “We should come back later.”

Instead he took you back to the tiny library in his rooms, gave you paper to draw on, and began pulling old books from his shelves.

“Some of these are from my father's collection.” He said, flipping one open. “Here is a human temple once dedicated to him.”

He showed you an illustration of a large wooden building, ornate and clearly ancient.

“Alas, not a trace of it exists anymore. Wood is impermanent, and subject to a great many methods of destruction. Still, I hear it was nice while it lasted, for such a primitive construction.”

“Hey, I think it looks really nice.” You said. “So we're behind on our Nornbein technology or whatever. We still build some pretty cool things. Ever see the pyramids?”

“Of course I have. Not when they were new, no. They were old, even as I was young. I'm only a thousand or so, that's all.”

“Oh...that's all.”

“What? Brunnhilde is three, and Heimdall is nearly five. He might have seen them when they were new.”

“Okay, but they are pretty impressive, yeah? And they weren't built by aliens either!”

“Of course not! It would have taken much less time to build them, their decorations would have been more securely fastened in place, and, most importantly, aliens would not have built such things and then simply abandoned them.”

“Did you ever get a temple?”

“Unfortunately, no.” He crossed his arms sourly. “In my youth, a transition was taking place on your Midgard. In the lands where I and my people were known, a new religion and new power structure were taking over, and they replaced us. But Odin was pulling away from Midgard anyway, and so we disappeared from your world. Fewer and fewer of us came for our training modules, and we were gradually forgotten.”

“You sure aren't forgotten anymore! Maybe they'll build a temple for you now.”

“Hmph. More like a gallows.”

“Loki!”

“Yes, yes, alright. Perhaps I will eventually be accepted. But I doubt there will be even the tiniest shrines to me anytime soon.”

You shrugged. “I could make one. A shrine to the great god of...wait, what are you the god of?” He wasn't the god of evil, like that book had claimed, but no one had ever told you what, exactly, his Aesir associations were.

“How cute. What would it look like? Your little shrine to your god?” He asked, skirting the question entirely, leaning his chin on his hands, elbows on the table.

“Er, w-well...” Your god? You didn't worship him! You didn't really worship anybody right now. With everything that had happened over the past few years, you had some things to figure out, regarding spirituality.

“Well, I've never built anything before, so it wouldn't be very big, or very fancy. I think what I would do-” You began sketching. “Is to get a bunch of rocks or bricks, and make a circle. Then put layers and layers on top until it's kinda like a well? Then I'd put a plate inside, and make offerings of cinnamon pastries.”

“How utterly charming. I might just decree that you must do exactly that.”

“Try it and I might just leave plain cinnamon sticks instead.” You threatened.

“It comes in sticks? I could just have a bite of pure cinnamon?”

You laughed. “You don't want that! It's literally just tree bark!”

“Truly? You just peel bark from a tree and put it in your food? Humans really will eat anything.”

“Anything that doesn't instantly kill us, and a few things that will only kill us slowly. Though you'd be surprised how much of what we eat is just beans or grass. The coffee? Beans. The corn? Grass. The chocolate covered peanuts? Beans and beans. Bread? Grass.

But then there are the fun things: The herbs and spices. Well, herbs are just leaves, it's spices that get really fun. Spices are basically anything that isn't leaves. Cinnamon is bark. Ginger is a root. Saffron is the stamen of a flower, and cloves are just dried up flower buds. There's also lots and lots of seeds, and some berries, and even hot peppers, which are just dried fruits.”

“You really aren't helping your case, you voracious little thing.” Loki teased.

“Oh yeah? Well, you're making Asgardian food sound super boring.” You shot back. “Are you seriously telling me that you guys conquered whole worlds, and didn't try the food?”

“Oh no, we absolutely did.” He took a piece of your paper and began sketching. “But it was the Vanir and the Alfar that had the most culinary influence on us. The Vanir prefer delicate, subtle flavors, and the Alfar are very...natural eaters. As you might expect from the ecology of their worlds, they do not employ much fire, therefore, much of their food is uncooked.

We took these influences and added our own flair. We like a good sauce, or a nice, thick gravy, but we simply don't celebrate the riot of flavor that humans so prize. I suppose that will change in time, as humankind exerts their own influence upon us. Or perhaps it will be the other way around, and we will convince humans to cease over-spicing everything.”

“Never gonna happen. Humans have fought actual wars over spices.”

“Well, perhaps we can convince humans not to go to war over every little thing as well.”

You sighed. “That's...also probably never gonna happen.”

“Shame.” He said. “Sounds like you could use a strong, fair, firm ruler. If only you'd had the opportunity to acquire one of those...”

“Oh, cut it out. You've already told me why that wouldn't have been a good idea in the end.”

“I have said no such thing. Just that the Earth would have been in danger either way, and I would have whipped you all into shape, and led you to glorious power. Of course, I could just be talking about you in particular, rather than humanity as a whole. You, who now live with royalty within arm's reach. Would you like a strong, fair ruler?”

His pointed stare, his little smirk, the way he leaned in, chin in hands, had your pulse pumping so hard that it hurt your tender head.

Was he flirting with you? No way.

The instant you turned away and grasped your head, he dropped all of his teasing and scooted close, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring concern. It was really too bad that being in his arms like this just made your head hurt more; it made it impossible for you to enjoy the moment.

“Maybe we should go back to the healing wing? Things should have calmed down by now.”

He brought his paperwork with him, and even saw a few petitioners out in the waiting room, allowing you to doze contentedly under the healing sparkles. Only when he was certain you were deeply asleep, did he leave to find his brother.

                                                                        *****

“So, when's little brother gonna propose?” Brunnhilde teased, as Thor wove a patterned sash from yarn. He'd taken up the habit to help with some of his issues after Ragnarok, the act of creation helping to mitigate the terrible memories of destruction. He occasionally sold his creations on human Etsy, under an alias. Very few people knew about it, and none of them were Avengers. Each of them was receiving a scarf for this winter's holidays.

“You jest,” He said, turning the dainty cards with careful delicacy, another skill he'd had to learn. “But you have not yet seen my brother in the throes of love. When Loki desires something, he begins planning immediately. He becomes consumed by that desire. It's actually a very common Jotun trait.”

“Yeah, they do get like that. You know, if you'd told me a thousand years ago that there would be a frost giant in the royal family, I'd have called you a liar and a blasphemer. And yet, here we are.” Brunnhilde shrugged. “He's a decent kid though, even if he has a few bad habits.”

“It's not as if I'm really that different.” Thor pointed out. “But my point is, I'm surprised that he hasn't been ordering her flowers, or draping her with jewels, or-”

“Thor!” Loki called, stalking into his rooms. “I need some good, Midgardian love poetry. Have you any recommendations?”

“There we go.” Thor said. Brunnhilde snickered. “And what is wrong with our poetry?” He asked.

“Nothing, in theory. It's just that I do not think it will translate well, and it's also full of concepts that _____ won't relate to. She's never been on a battlefield, under the stars. She's never experienced the whirl of combat, nor found any attestation to life therein. She's never had to fix the memory of a loved one in her mind while staring down a faceless horde in the moments before a war began, or heard the song of her lover in the clashing of swords or the whir of arrows. I don't think any of our metaphors will really reach her.”

“Have you asked her if she even likes poetry?” Brunnhilde asked.

“Everyone likes poetry.” Loki said. “Don't they?”

The Valkyrie shrugged. “Maybe. Why don't you ask her what kind she likes? It's not as if humans are strangers to battle; perhaps war poetry is popular here too.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“You know, I think she's had enough surprises over the past few months. She might actually like a little stability now. You might just consider including her in your plans regarding her every now and then, I bet she'd appreciate it.”

“Well...perhaps...Thor, your opinion?”

“I'd like to preface this by reminding you that, while I am the only person you know who has had a relationship with a human, that relationship ultimately failed. Do not hang too much upon my advice alone.”

“Well then, who else might I ask?” Loki asked in frustration.

“Humans!” Thor and Brunnhilde exclaimed as one.

“Hmph!” Loki crossed his arms. “I come to you for advice for once, and you blow me off! Typical.”

“I am not blowing you off, Loki, just saying that our experiences may be very different. There is no one way to court a human. Their wooing requirements can be vastly different from one another, and if you do not meet her individual requirements, she might not even recognize what you are trying to do.

Jane, for instance, has no interest in poetry, and did not want that from me. She found beauty and fulfillment in the vastness of the universe. Discover what she finds beauty in, and work with that.”

“That is...actually good advice.” Loki said. “What happened you you?”

Thor sighed, deep and dramatic. “I fear I may have begun to grow up.”

“Norns forbid!” Loki cried, clutching his chest, and both brothers broke into amicable chuckling.

“Yes, yes. You're both adorable, and I love you.” Brunnhilde interrupted. “But I have some concerns regarding your Buridag plans. Are you seriously going to let a bunch of unsupervised humans in here? Because they will be unsupervised. Because we don't have enough bodies to throw at the security detail. I think I've brought this up before, but, while I do think it is a good idea in theory, I don't know how we're going to swing the logistics.”

“By recruiting humans to police themselves, naturally.” Loki said. “Behold. A plan I have for securing the loyalty of our worshipers. And also benefiting them at the same time. That's the important part, truly.”

He held out the sketches he had made while speaking to you earlier. Thor took and examined them.

“Are these...These are longhouses?” He asked, baffled.

“Ooh, those look cozy.” Brunnhilde commented.

“Trollerkaerhalla is going to become a permanent fixture of Asgardian life; our friendly neighbors, who love and venerate us, as we deserve. They have defended us, they have sheltered _____ without question, and they are possibly the first and only human allies that I, personally, have on this planet. I propose that, as we are constructing a building to house justice for Buridag, that we also build this simple housing for our allies. You have looked upon the camp; you know some of those tents will not protect against the upcoming winter. These houses will protect them, as they did in the days of humans past. Updated for the modern setting, of course.”

“You want to build homes for the humans.” Thor said, his voice full of disbelief.

“_____ spoke about an oddly human concept called 'reconstruction' in which humans of today try to connect with the ways of humans from the past, so I thought this design would be well-suited to the humans in the camp. It shouldn't be hard to build in modern amenities either: electric wiring, and plumbing, and geothermal heating should all be easily-”

The King of Asgard grabbed his brother by the shoulder and pulled him into a crushing hug.

“Oof!” Loki grunted at the sudden squeeze. “I take it this meets your approval then?”

[gimmesumsuga]

"You need help with something, Jeongguk?" you ask, turning your gaze from your physiology textbook to the brunette male by your side, his pose identical to yours.

You must've been studying for a good hour now, but over the last few minutes or so you've become increasingly aware of the weight of Jeongguk's eyes; his attention solely on you rather than his study materials, where it should be.

He doesn't rush to answer. He considers your face with his steady doe-eyes, a light smile tugging at his shapely lips. They look slightly dry, and you make a mental note you remind him to put on some lip balm whenever he's said whatever it is that's on his mind.

"No," he finally replies, his tone light and almost playful as he rolls onto his side to face you, propping up his head with one hand as he tilts it into the side. "Just wondering about something, that's all."

You raise an eyebrow inquistively.

"Not about the anatomy of the digestive tract, I presume," you smile, glancing down at the dog-eared book that's lay abandoned at his side, half hidden under the covers.

"Not really, no," he admits, perhaps a little sheepish, now, his two front teeth pressing into his bottom lip for just a fleeting moment.

"Then what's up?" You turn your attention back to your book for a moment, turning the page, but when Jeongguk next speaks your head abruptly snaps up once more, weary eyes pinging wide.

"Am I your favourite, noona?" You half expect Jeongguk to be grinning when you twist your neck to look at him - merely joking at your expense - but Jeongguk looks nothing but sincere as he starts to absent-mindedly pick at the fine baby hairs that line the slant of his jaw.

He continues when you're too taken aback to reply, clarifying his question.

"I mean, out of all of us; Namjoonie-hyung, Yoongi-hyung, Jiminie... Do you like me the best?"

You gawp, mouth flapping uselessly as you feel your cheeks begin to fill with heat.

How on earth do you answer that? Sure... you and Jeongguk do tend to spend a little more one on one time with each other than the rest of the group. You share the same sense of humour, the same sweet tooth and the same competitive spirit but... Do you like him the best?

The way your heart flutters at the sweet way he nervously glances down at the covers tells you everything you need to know, but you're not sure you're ready to go admitting it out loud just yet.

No, telling Jeongguk just how long you've been wishing you were more than just friends requires a fair bit more preparation than just a belly full of Chinese food.

Three shots of tequila might just about do it.

"I love you all, Jeonggukie... you know that," you say dismissively, taking the cowards way out and hoping he'll let it drop as you return your textbook once again.

You must read the same line about ten times before Jeongguk speaks again, a slightly whiny undercurrent audible with each word.

"But the others..." he begins, "They said you talk about me all the time, noona."

Oh god, do you really? Have you really let your tongue run away with you so often that it's become so obvious to everyone else around you?

You look up again; pulse rate sharply rising when you realise that he's shifted just a little bit closer.

"I... I mean..."

"I think I wouldn't mind being your favourite, noona," he tells you softly, and when he blinks you can't help but notice how prettily his long eyelashes press to his cheeks. "I think maybe I'd like it a lot."

"W-w-well." You're stammering like an idiot - an affliction that's made ten times worse when Jeongguk decides to lay his head directly on your shoulder, his mouth so close to your neck that you can feel every exhale of his breath. "I guess w-we could call you that, I suppose." Laughing nervously, you hastily add, "Just don't tell Jimin! You know he'll only moan."

Jeongguk doesn't laugh along like you'd hoped he would, and when he lifts his head to look straight into your eyes - unblinking - you know he can see right through you. Whether you admit it outloud, somehow Jeongguk already seems to know that he's number one on your list. Maybe he's always known, deep down.

"Don't worry, noona," he smiles sweetly, "I won't tell."

[lalainajanes]

I hope you’re still doing these: ❤️ 24. Soulmate AU + 95. Sleep intimacy

Technically a sequel (to Everywhere With You) which might be cheating but shhh. It just worked too well!

When he hears the crunch of tires on gravel, Klaus makes a sharp turn, heading for the stairs. He briefly considers taking a detour to his room for a shirt but decides against it

It’s possible he’d just be ruining it so why bother?

Klaus hopes his visitor is trouble, someone he can hurt. Perhaps Caroline had finally informed The Salvatores he’d returned and they’ve come to huff and puff. That could be amusing. Caroline’s more fond of Stefan so Klaus will leave him be. Damon, however, he can probably get away with maiming.

It’s been twenty days since he’d left Caroline at Whitmore and he’s only had himself for company. Elijah had gone back to New Orleans as soon as they’d been sure Klaus could maintain his human form, with strict instructions to visit the witch who’d advised them and check that she’d not breathed a word of Klaus’ predicament.

To guarantee that she never could.

It’s not the longest stretch of solitude he’s ever endured, far from it, but circumstances have made it challenging. The first day he’d felt better that he had since he’d first left Mystic Falls, clear headed and able to concentrate. He’d plowed through a number of emails and reports - business and property matters Elijah had been nagging him about, only fair since his brother was keeping things tidy for him - and then shut himself up in his studio.

Produced work he didn’t hate for the first time in ages.

His ease had only lasted a few days, had begun to leach away until he was once more restless and easily aggravated.

He’d have to order another dining room set, the last one was now little more than kindling. All because Klaus had gotten a splinter.

He’s been told Caroline’s not faring better. He’s got guards stationed near her, tasked with ensuring she stays safe and that no one else was watching her. He won’t have her hurt to get at him. They report that she’s going to class, then back to her dorm, that she looks tired and unhappy.

Klaus doesn’t receive the news gladly, but there’s a grim sort of satisfaction to the knowledge that he’s not suffering alone.

The impulse to go to her has become a steady pulse, a knot of pressure that rests heavy at the base of his skull and leaves his skin prickling. It’s nearly impossible to ignore. He thinks it might start to hurt soon.

If so he’ll grit his teeth and bear it. Caroline will have to come to him. It’s why Klaus hasn’t turned. His wolf is harder to control, less reason more instinct, and he’d be loping off to Whitmore as soon as his paws touched the earth.

He doesn’t bother with lights as he stalks towards the foyer. He’s been pacing the house for days, could navigate around the furniture even without his enchanted senses.

He’d heard the vehicle roll to a stop. It’s engine had been cut but there had been no telltale creaking of metal to indicate a door opening, no footsteps either. Klaus is poised by the door, listening carefully for movement, ready to spring.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket and Klaus deflates, his fangs retracting.

If his guest is calling ahead it would be bad form to kill them. He only hopes he’s not being roped into some disaster because he really doesn’t have the patience to wade into whatever peril Mystic Falls is facing this week. He knows Caroline is perfectly safe, her mother too. Her useless friends aren’t his concern.

Caroline (1:46 AM): It occurs to me that you might deal with late night visitors creeping up to your house violently.

Caroline (1:46 AM): So don’t this time, okay?

Caroline (1:46 AM): Midterms start Monday.

He hears her car door open and Klaus’ control frays and he’s flinging his front door open and bounding down the steps before he can marshal it. He forces himself to still at the bottom, rocking back on his heels and grinding his bare feet into the stones of the driveway to center himself.

Caroline leans back against her car, shutting the driver’s side door. Her arms are crossed, banded tightly against her stomach and she’s looking at the ground. Klaus takes the opportunity to study her and what he sees makes him ache a little more.

He wants to touch her, and not just to soothe his own discomfort. Caroline’s too pale, her eyes visibly shadowed even in the dim moonlight. Her hair’s pulled haphazardly back from her face and she wears an oversized sweatshirt, ragged at the cuffs and hem, and not a speck of makeup.

She glances up at him, takes a faltering step forward. “I… I don’t know…” she trails off helplessly, her hand extended towards him.

That she’d come here, of her own volition, is enough of a balm to his pride. Klaus closes the distance between them, until her hand presses to his chest. Caroline’s fingers twitch at the skin to skin contact but she doesn’t push him away. He moves slowly, lifting his hand and resting it on the back of her neck, his thumb brushing her jaw.

Caroline’s spine loosens, her lashes fluttering as a sigh gusts from her parted lips. She drifts another step closer, pressing her other hand to him. “Huh. I was kinda hoping last time was a fluke.”

He tamps down the flare of anger ruthlessly. It won’t do to chase her away, not when she’s finally talked herself into coming to him. Klaus knows it’s only temporary, assumes she’s treating him like a fix, the midterms she’d mentioned looming.

Klaus can work with that.

“Sadly, this is not a brilliant plan to get closer to,you, sweetheart. We’re mates, there are side effects. I trust you’ve had a rough few weeks?”

Her eyes narrow, the fingers of her right hand curling until he feels the edge of her nails. The left remains a steady pressure over his heart, negating the threat somewhat. “Try to sound less pleased about my misery, okay?”

“It was entirely of your own choosing,” Klaus reminds her.

Her face falls, settling into tired lines, “Can we just… not?” she asks, sounding weary. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“Why did you come, Caroline?”

She closes her eyes, shoulders slumping. “I haven’t slept, like at all, in four days. I haven’t slept properly in… god, I don’t even remember.”

“Fifteen or sixteen days, I’d wager.” He says it gently, brings his free hand up to cover hers. He doesn’t sleep much as it is, a habit ingrained over centuries on the run, so the lack of rest isn’t as much of a hardship to him. Caroline likely still keeps to human rhythms.

She nods, swaying on her feet. “I still don’t get whatever… this is. Bonnie’s trying to track down her mom for me, to see if she can find anyone who knows something, but she’s not having much luck. I’ve been trying so hard to stick to my routine and I just can’t anymore. Every muscle in my body aches and my textbooks don’t makes sense and my notes from all my classes are crap and…”

Her breathing is coming quickly, her heart racing, and Klaus  applies just the smallest hint of pressure using his hand on her nape. It’s all the urging Caroline needs, moulding herself to him, arms wrapping around him so her hands can dig greedily into the muscles of his back. Her flushed cheek comes to rest on his shoulder and Klaus winds his hand into her hair, the other slipping under her shirt to rest on her curve of her waist.

She hums softly, the tension in her easing until her rests heavily against him. “I’ve had every book that even mentions mates sent to me here,” Klaus murmurs. “You can take some back to school with you.”

Caroline agrees with a small sound, but makes no move to leave his embrace. She speaks so softly he might not have heard her if he wasn’t a hybrid, “Can I sleep here tonight? I don’t think I can drive home.”

“With me?” Klaus asks, needing the clarification.

He can feel her face heat, hear the slight hitch of her inhale. “Yes,” she finally manages, the word muffled in his skin.

His grip on her tightens but she misses his reaction, caught up in her own turmoil and drowsing as she is. Just as well. His elation is likely inappropriate. “Of course, sweetheart.”

She makes a small noise of protest when he pulls away but Klaus maintains contact, bringing the hand he has on her side rest on the small of her back and guiding her to the steps. “Wait, I brought my books,” Caroline mutters, stopping once they’ve crossed the threshold.

Well, that’s certainly an interesting revelation. Klaus makes a note to bring it up when Caroline’s more coherent. She wouldn’t find him pressing her when she’s like this, so unguarded, endearing.

He sees no need to handicap himself, not when it seems like he’s managed to make progress.

“They’ll be fine in your car for the night,” Klaus assures her.

Caroline relents, stepping out of her shoes. “Yeah, I guess breaking into the sheriff’s daughter’s car outside of the local serial killer’s house would be pretty dumb.”

“Technically,” he points out mildly, “there are many local serial killers.”

Caroline laughs softly but she doesn’t argue and he steers them towards the stairs. She leans more heavily on him as they make their way upstairs, seems half asleep by the time they reach his bed. He tugs at the bottom of her sweatshirt, “Are you wearing anything under this?”

“Tank…” a yawn has her mouth opening wide and she shudders with the force of it. “Top,” she finishes. She reaches down and begins to pull it off. Klaus helps when it gets stuck halfway, pushing her arms up so he can get it the rest of the way off. She climbs in when he turns down the blankets, her hand grabbing his forearm and towing him after her.

Klaus can’t resist teasing her, “My, my, what a turn of events.”

“Shut up,” Caroline grouses. “I’m committed now.”

“To a good night’s sleep?” Klaus asks. He receives no reply and he’s not sure if Caroline’s ignoring him or if she hadn’t heard him, too busy getting comfortable. She rolls to her side, dragging Klaus with her (he goes willingly, of course) until he’s curled around her, his forehead resting on the back of her shoulder. Caroline gropes for his hand and leads it under the flimsy shirt she wears, presses it to her bare stomach with a sigh he thinks is content.

She’s soon soft against him, sleeping deeply. Klaus feels his eyes growing heavy with some surprise. He fights it for as long as he can, wanting to store this experience in his memory. He wants to be able to recall the texture of her skin, the scent of her hair. To learn the little movements and sounds she makes as she sleeps.

He’ll need them, he’s sure. Caroline’s committed to this night, to quieting her brain so she can conquer her coursework. He’s not sure what tomorrow will bring though Klaus suspects he can coax her into spending the day.

There’s a plush sofa in his studio, under a window. If she studies there while he paints, her powers of concentration will be at their peak.

At least that’s the hypothesis he’ll present tomorrow.

[scriptflorist]

Name: Braynan Garcia

Nickname: Bray

Birthday: Jan 12 2013 (he’s a teenager in my story)

Birthplace: Miami

Dwelling place: Miami

How do they live: Braynan was very much an anti-social loner and used to stay at his “homes” because he has rich parents who own a chain of luxury hotels and a beachfront mansion home. He causes a lot of fuss making every hotel his “home” by demanding unbooked rooms for himself. He gets his room, services, meals “free” when in reality everything goes through his parents to handle so they always know exactly where he’s been and what he does. His lifestyle literally blows up when a bomb goes off in his room, intended for the next customer, Alissa Keets, a famous writer, who is very grateful but horrified for her life being saved that way. She gets in touch with Braynan, pays for all his medical bills, even though his parents are richer. Braynan no longer stays at his parents’ hotels because he is now in a wheelchair and stays in his parents’ home. Jazan has his brother Galan help with work so he can often stay home to take care of and repair his relationship with his son. Cala starts visiting often as well, shocked at almost losing her only biological son and realizes she actually cares. Lustor comes over when possible as well. Basically the entire story is balance between work and family and biological family vs adopted family and they realize all family is important, so in the end, they all live as one big happy family. Oh, and Alissa and Cala start dating in the end as well (they’re about the same age).

Appearance: Braynan always wears expensive name brand clothes. His hair is neat and gelled up and wears a couple expensive bracelets.

What’s in their bag/pockets: Cash, credit card, phone. He actually brings a huge suitcase with his clothes and belongings every time he used to stay at his parents’ hotels.

Species: Human

Name of parents: Jazan and Lustor (Biological parents are Jazan and Cala, Cala is the surrogate mother and friends with Jazan.)

Others next of kin: Galan (Uncle)

Not-in-blood-but-in-bond-family: Alissa Keets

Family history: Braynan’s family is multicultural, immigrants (including illegal before becoming a citizen) to America from various countries around the world.

Favourite colour: Black, Grey.

Favourite book: Silenced (a story about a country devastated after war, and the nameless victims) ([My character, Alissa’s book]

Favourite genre: Action, fantasy, drama

Favourite food: Exotic foods and fine dining

Personality: Originally a messed up teenager whose parents rarely see him and he thinks everything his parents’ own is his. He was loud-mouthed, demanding, cold-hearted, rude, spontaneous and very anti-social. He becomes more friendly, warm, kind, loving, as well as feels ashamed and sorry for his previous bad behavior. He’s neat though, so he’s never trashed the hotel rooms he’s been nor damages stuff. He doesn’t smoke or take drugs but sometimes drinks but is sensible enough to never get drunk. Oh, but he does swear, but not too much.

Misc: Note that my story takes place in the future. First of all, my character is a teenager yet I mentioned him drinking. The drinking age becomes 16 in the future, so he’s legal. Secondly, I never mentioned my character going to school. School is online so he can physically be anywhere he wants and has no classmates to talk to. I’m barely writing about his school life, but he is a good student. Thirdly, the parents are actually two men, thus the need for a surrogate. I probably used male pronouns for them but in case it slipped through because if you search ‘Jazan’ it will show up as a female name. 

___

Hey Tak,

No problem, I've added it to the rest of your submission! Just in case it hasn't been apparent with the previous character submissions, I base the flowers I pick on the information given in each section that you filled out. In your case, this means it may have gone a little off topic occasionally with the overall headline of the section.

Birthplace: Miami

Miami is located in Florida, which has two state flowers! Orange blossom and tickseed. Tickseed, better known as Coreopsis perhaps, is stated to be a wildflower, so I guess the orange trees are domesticated.

orange blossom – your purity equals your loveliness, chastity, innocence, eternal love, marriage, fruitfulness

coreopsis – always cheerful

coreopsis (arkansa) – love at first sight

Based on how they live

acacia – friendship, platonic love, secret love

agave – security

agrimony – thankfulness, gratitude

ash mountain – prudence, with me you are safe

aspen – lamentation, fear, groan, excessive sensibility

balm of gilead – healing, cure, relief, I am cured, time

basil (sweet) – good wishes

bee ophrys – error

bee orchis – error, industry

bell flower – gratitude, indiscretion, acknowledgement

bell flower (white, small) – gratitude

broom-rape – union

calycanthus – benevolence

cardamine – paternal error

chestnut – justice, do me justice

cinquefoil – maternal affection, beloved daughter/child

citronella – homosexual love

coltsfoot (sweet-scented) – maternal care, justice, justice shall be done, we will do you justice

cowslip – healing, youth, pensiveness, winning grace, rusticity, early joys, native grace

daffodil – sunshine, respect, regard, unrequited love, new beginnings, self-love, chivalry, deceitful hopes

flax – I feel your kindness, benefactor, domestic industry, domestic symbol, fate, I am sensible of your kindness

fly orchis – error

freesia – lasting friendship, innocence, trust

geranium – true friend, stupidity, folly, envy, gentility

geranium (oak-leaved) – true friendship, friendship, lady deign to smile

glycine – your friendship is pleasing and agreeable to me

goat's rue – reason

heath – solitude

heather (lavender) – solitude, admiration

ivy – friendship, matrimony, I have found one true heart, constancy, fidelity, marriage, wedded love, affection

lichen – solitude, confidence, dejection

moss – maternal love, recluse, charity

narcissus – selfishness, self-love, egotism, formality, stay as sweet as you are

palm – victory

pussy willow – motherhood

sundew (round-leaved) – surprise

sunflower (dwarf) – your devout adorer, adoration

sunflower (tall) – pride, haughtiness, false riches, lofty and pure thoughts, smile on me still

verbena (pink) – family union

virginia creeper – I cling to you both in sunshine and in shade

wood sorrel – maternal tenderness, joy

For info about violets and lesbians go here.

Based on appearance (also fits the contents of his bag & pockets)

chrysanthemum – wealth, abundance, cheerfulness, you're a wonderful friend, loveliness

corn – riches

grape vine – abundance, intoxication

lily (tiger) – wealth, pride, prosperity

poppy (yellow) – wealth, success

Favourite colour: Black

black bryony – support, be my support

blackberry – envy

ebony – blackness

laburnum – blackness, pensive beauty, forsaken

mulberry (black) – I shall not survive you, devotedness

poplar (black) – courage

Favourite book: Silenced (a story about a country devastated after war, and the nameless victims) ([My character, Alissa’s book]

achillea millefolia – war

aloe – grief, bitterness, religious superstition

aloes (parrot bill) – grief

cypress – despair, mourning, death, disappointed hopes

dragonwort – horror

greek valerian – rupture

handflower tree – warning

harebell – grief, submission, humility

hop – injustice

indian cress – warlike trophy, resignation

marigold – grief, cruelty, inquietude, contempt, chagrin, pain, pretty love, sacred affection, caress, sorrow, trouble

milfoil – war

monkshood – beware, danger is near, chivalry, knight-errantry, a deadly foe I near

nasturtium – a warlike trophy, patriotism, resignation, conquest, victory in battle

oleander – beware(!), caution

rhododendron – danger, beware, I am dangerous

rudbeckia – justice

tussilage (sweet-scented) – justice shall be done you, you shall have justice

yarrow – war, to cure, a cure for the heartache, cure for a broken heart, cure for heartache

Based on personality

agnus castus – coldness, indifference

bladder nut tree – frivolous amusement, frivolity, amusement

blue bell – kindness, constancy, sorrowful regret, humility, gratitude

borage – rudeness, bluntness

broom – neatness, humility, ardour,

bur – rudeness, you weary me

cactus – warmth, maternal love, ardent love, endurance, my heart burns with love

chaste tree – coldness

clotness – rudeness, pertinacity

copihue – there is no unalloyed good

crocus (spring) – youthful gladness

darnel – vice

dodder – meanness, baseness

feverfew – warmth

fig marigold – coldness, idleness

geranium (night smelling) – melancholy spirit

geranium (scarlet) – thou art changed, folly, stupidity, comforting, consolation, melancholy

hortensia – you are cold, carelessness

hydrangea – you are cold, (a) boaster, heartlessness, dispassion, thank you for understanding, frigidity

hyssop – cleanliness

ladies' bedstraw – rudeness

lettuce – cold-hearted, cold-heartedness, coldness

marsh mallow – kindness, beneficence

peppermint – warmth of feeling, cordiality

pimpernel – change, assignation, the weather-glass

pink (indian double) – always lovely

saffron – beware of excess, abuse, do not deceive yourself

rose (striped) – warmth of heart

rye grass – changeable disposition

spearmint – warmth of sentiment, warm sentiment

spotted arum – warmth

xanthium – rudeness, pertinacity

- Mod Jana

Disclaimer

This blog is intended as writing advice only. This blog and its mods are not responsible for accidents, injuries or other consequences of using this advice for real world situations or in any way that said advice was not intended.

[dailyaudiobible]

07/10/21 DAB Transcript

1 Chronicles 9:1-10:14, Acts 27:21-44, Psalm 8:1-9, Proverbs 18:23-24

Today is the 10th day of July, welcome to the Daily Audio Bible, I am Brian it is wonderful to be here with you today as we round the corner on another one of our weeks. And yeah, we’ll read today and then we’ll release, will be done with this week and continue moving forward. We’ve been reading from the English Standard Version this week, which is what will do today. We've been working our way through the Book of 1 Chronicles, as well as the Book of Acts which is what we’ll continue to do today. And so, 1 Chronicles chapters 9 and 10.

Prayer:

Father, we thank You for Your word. Here we are we've successfully reached the conclusion of another full week together. It's a day-by-day occurrence in the weeks go by and Your faithfulness is ever apparent. We look back to yesterday and You were there. We look back to last week and You were there. We look back to last month and You've been there all the way we look through our lives and see how the guidance of the Scriptures that You have always been at work and will always continue to Father us and to love us and we love You, we adore You, we worship You. There is none like You and even saying that is ridiculous. There is none even close. The only thing that is close is that Your Spirit is within us and You are empowering us to bring good news and light into this world and so often we squelch that. So, Holy Spirit come, thank You for Your patience and kindness toward us. We pray this in the name of Jesus. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is home base, it is where we find out what's going on around here and you can get there by using the well, the web dailyaudiobible.com or using the Daily Audio Bible app which also gives access to all of the pertinent things that are that are there like the Daily Audio Bible Shop that has resources that we have crafted and created over the years specifically for this Community and specifically for the journey that we are on together as we take the journey of a lifetime through the Scriptures. So, check out the Daily Audio Bible Shop whether you’re looking for written resources, books to take the journey deeper and further or just fun stuff for our Daily Audio Bible Journal and all of the different things to write with and enjoy as we, as we tell the story of God's faithfulness in our own hand as we journal our way through the year, a year in the Bible. And what a journey it is when we look back over our notes, over those fieldnotes that we've jotted down over the course of the year. Things that happened that we forgot about but we have hindsight now we see God's faithfulness in all of it, such a worthwhile thing to do and such a beautiful thing to do in your own penmanship, even if it's atrocious it's your own hand with your own hand you wrote the story and that's beautiful. So, check out those resources that are the Daily Audio Bible Shop.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible, you can do that at dailyaudiobible.com as well. There is a link on the homepage. If you're using the app, you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or the mailing address is P.O. Box 1996 Springhill, Tennessee 37174.

And as always if you have a prayer request or encouragement you can hit the Hotline button in the app or you can dial 877-942-4253.

And that's it for today I'm Brian, I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Prayers and Encouragements:

This is Trusting God in Texas and I just wanted to thank His Little Sharie for praying for those of us including yourself, who have trouble walking. I have been praying for you since I heard you first speak a couple years ago. I heard you recently talk about having to walk into church with a walker. I know what it’s like to have people look at you because you don't walk well and that you need help walk. I’ve had trouble walking my whole life and even though my Long Walk will consist of the Long Walk for me in the parking lot to the door of my clinic I still pray when I do my Long Walk. I have my husband help me walk and I have a cane. But I wanted to read one of my favorite verses, passages in the Bible and it comes from Isaiah chapter 40 and it says He gives power to the weak, this is 40 verses 29 through 31 He gives power to the weak and to those who have no might he increases strength even you shall faint and be weary and young men shall utterly fall but those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint. God bless all of you who are doing the Long Walk today and we will be praying with you and for you. In Jesus name.

Good morning Daily Audio Bible community this is Diane Olive Brown calling from Newberg, Indiana. And it is July 7th but I’m reading July 6th 2021 and it is 7:04 a.m. central time. And we’re gonna take our Long Walk but I just wanted to say thank you Brian, thank you so much. I started with you and now I’m with Daily Audio Bible Chronological and Daily Audio Bible Kids and I love you so much because you understand me, always spoke healing into my heart, always spoke love. And I began with you and now my husband and my granddaughter are joining me and I just want to say thank you for loving me just the way I am. And I remember the times that were most crucial to me. You would speak something just for me. I don't think you knew it but I want to say thank you and today, I'm going on my Long Walk however it turns out, I’ll report, I’ll send a picture or a short video because this is my Community and I’m all caught up. It took me a long time but I’m all caught up. And I love you guys, I love you.

Good morning DABers. I just want to pray this morning for every request and praise report that we’ve received thus far. Thank You Jesus for hearing the heart of Your people. Lord, we are crying out to You because You are the heart fixer and the mind regulator. And we just want to bless Your name. There are families that are broken Father God, but You bless the broken and save us to be in Your kingdom. We hear the cries of men, literally crying for their position for their heart and their pain. Father God, You are the Balm in Gilead to make the sin sick whole. I would pray for those who are in their bed of affliction who cannot move who are having such a traumatic time with cancer, COVID 19, with all the ailments the devil seems to through at us but Father God You still continue to bless us in our weakness because Your strength is made perfect in our weakness. Lord, it’s just refreshing to hear Your people around the world around the globe, cry out to you in this time that we’re living in. But help us to seek Your face earnestly. Forgive us oh Lord and cleanse our heart, make it pure. Lord, thank You for who You are and who You’ve been to every single one of these DABers throughout their life. Just help us to get a closer walk with You. So that when …

Daily Audio Bible thank you for your ministry it has taught me how to believe in God and I’m so proud and happy for you. I hope that China’s new baby is doing well. And Tyler and Christian, I pray their fine too. And Max, who is probably in college now is doing well, I can tell. And Ezekiel, wow, I’m so amazed at how well he reads, like, I just, it gives me a dynamic understanding of how God works. Thank you for your ministries once again and I hope to see you next time. Bye. Okay we did the community walk, we’re gonna walk again this afternoon. Do you want to say something about that? So, yeah, my grandma just told me we’re going for the community walk and we will have a lot of fun going on this community walk and I feel like talking about how our community has helped us. But my favorite of all the communities is Daily Audio Bible. And my favorite part in that is Daily Audio Bible for Kids. Thank you once again and I look forward to seeing you in person. Bye.

Hi Daily Audio Bible family this is Renzo in Florida and I just want to pray for somebody that I heard on the July 7 recording. I just want to pray for one woman that’s saying that like her family is just going through a lot of like, problems, especially like, to point where there is guns involved. I just want to please pray. Father God I just know that all things are possible through You God. Let the Holy Spirit indwell in all of them. God just let, that you could just take away this escalation. Let there to be restoration in this home God. Completely heal them, guide and protect her as she tries to make peace. God let them to realize that as Christians we can’t be like that, that we can’t start drama, we can’t start stuff and that escalates to that situation God. And help them to realize, let them to have a fatherly loving rebuke from God and let them to be able to understand that they need to stop and fill them up with Your Holy Spirit and fill them up with Your presence and let them to repent of what they’re doing. In Jesus name we pray. Amen. And I just wanted to pray for, I heard somebody that was just struggling with I think mental illness or something like that and just depression and stuff like that. Father God, I just please pray for that person that was struggling with mental illness and depression God and just completely heal them, protect them and guide them and let them to be guided by the Holy Spirit fill them up with your presence, overwhelm them so much that they just have peace, peace that surpasses all understanding. And let them to take refuge in you. In Jesus name I pray. Amen. God Bless you guys, I’m praying for you. Jesus loves you. Bye.

[daneeelleee]

Kismet on Aisle Three

Rated T for a few swear words

Prompt 68. Robin cuts in line at the supermarket. Regina is not having it.

@oqpromptparty

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12625375/1/OutlawQueen-Prompt-Party-2017

Milk, eggs, lip balm, the damn poster board her wonderful son needs tomorrow that he forgot to mention until this morning at breakfast. Yes. That’s it. Right? Still, it feels like something is missing. Where is that list? Ah, yes. Milk, eggs, lip balm, poster board… shit. Glue. Henry needs glue for his science project. Regina’s heels click as she turns around and marches hurriedly to the back of the supermarket. She’s cursing the layout of this store for keeping the school supplies on the back two aisles almost as much as she’s cursing the long day that kept her at the office later than usual. She really should have changed before this. These are heels made for sitting in an office, not walking on concrete floors and standing in long lines. But, her son has homework to do and a bedtime to meet, so she’ll bear the pain and before bed, she’ll have a nice, long, calm talk with her 8-year old about procrastination. Then, she’ll pour a glass of wine from this lovely cabernet sitting in the cart and throw these murderous heels in the trash. She’s already dreading waiting in line as she walks back to the front. There are never enough cashiers.

She’s almost made it to the front and is walking straight to the lit up number 3 and the cashier with the shortest line when a man comes bumbling in front of her, cutting her off. He’s not paying attention, is speaking rapidly into the phone pressed to his shoulder and dropping items on the ground from the pile haphazardly thrown in his arms. She’s so stunned by the nerve of this man, that she’s speechless for a moment, staring wide-eyed at his back as her jaw drops in indignation. She regains her voice with an irritated “excuse me” as he piles his items onto the belt and continues his phone conversation without noticing her.

She catches bit and pieces of his call, knows he’s talking to a woman named Belle. Hears the English lilt of his voice as he asks “did you try the airplane thing?” and the obvious frustration at whatever her answer must be. And really, this is ridiculous. She tries to get his attention again – Regina Mills has never been one to back down – with a louder “Excuse me!” and this time he turns around, flustered, confused, and gorgeous. Her stance falters before she takes a moment to find her composure and stare him down. She is not going to be distracted by blue eyes and a pretty face.

It’s clear she’s caught him off guard. He frowns at her a moment before quickly asking the woman on the other end of his call – probably his wife, get it together, Regina – to hold on a moment before he addresses her with a polite but perplexed “May I help you?” She takes a deep breath and sends up a prayer to whatever higher being may be listening that she doesn’t look as flushed as she feels. She’ll blame the pink that colors her cheeks on her ire rather than admit to the unexpected and sudden wave of attraction she feels for this rude stranger. With her exhale, she finds the sass she’s known for and tosses it at him with a “Yes. You can help me by getting off the damn phone and paying attention to what’s going on around you. You cut me off.” He flushes red and blinks at her in stunned silence before turning away and muttering into the phone “Belle, I’ll call you back. Tell him to hold on, daddy will be home soon.” As he speaks, she looks at the belt in front of her. Children’s ibuprofen, tissues, pedialyte, a little stuffed monkey… oh. Oh. Suddenly she knows why he was so distracted, and she feels like an ass.

As he turns around to face her again, she gets a better look at him. He looks wrecked. He has all the sure signs of an exhausted parent, from the worry lines that shadow his face to the bags under kind blue eyes. In a moment, she goes from simmering irritation to sympathy. She’s been there. The sleepless nights with a warm, fevered little body curled up next to you. The worry that comes with every temperature spike and hacking, chest-rattling cough. The absolute helpless desperation of watching your child suffer and knowing all you can do is wait. Wait and watch and do everything you can to make him comfortable. So you hover and you provide warm blankets and whispered words of love and butterfly kisses, and still your heart aches at every sniffle.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

“How old is he?”

He’s barely begun to utter an apology when she cuts him off, and it’s clear she’s caught him off guard again.

When he only squints at her in confusion, she repeats herself, “Your son. How old is he?”

           He stammers for a moment, trying to figure out why the beautiful stranger before him is no longer scowling.

           “Um… four. Roland is four.”

Her eyes warm at that as a small smile grows on her face and Robin feels his heart stutter at the sight. Really, how did he not notice her before? He’s cursing his distraction as he gazes into deep brown eyes. What an excellent first impression to make. Way to go Robin, you look like an absolute git.

He worries for a moment that he said that last bit out loud as she lets out a barely audible chuckle. But as he focuses on her now instead of internally chastising himself, she speaks again and he’s lost to her velvety voice.

“Ah, I remember that age well.” She says with fondness.

And, oh. She’s a mother. Well, of course she is. It’s not likely that someone so stunning would be single. He’s sure she must have a doting husband at home currently running around after her own children.

The thought gives him pause. Why should he care so much about the relationship status of a perfect stranger? But perfect is the operative word isn’t it? He’s not sure he’s had this kind of reaction to another woman since his wife passed two years ago. But he’s enchanted. Everything about her is lovely, from the little spark of fire in her eyes that he caught a glimpse of a moment ago to her dark flowing hair that looks as soft as silk and has his hands twitching with the thought of running his fingers through it. Full lips hide straight white teeth that he catches a glimpse of as she reveals a nervous smile and shit. He’s staring at her. Snap out of it, Robin, before she thinks you’re also crazy.

The moment is broken when they both turn their heads at the sound of the cashier calling for a price check. It appears that the little old lady in front of him is going to be holding up the line for a bit. He hears the woman beside him groan and mutter something about wanting to light the lady’s coupon book on fire, and yes. He likes this woman, sass and all.

He chuckles and her eyes go wide. Caught. “I have a feeling neither of us are rushing off to our sons anytime soon.”

He deflates at that and looks dejectedly to the collection of items he’s piled onto the still unmoving belt. With one comment, their little bubble of levity has burst and she’s regretting her words instantly.

“He’ll be fine. I know it hurts to watch them hurt, but kids are resilient. You’ll be chasing after him again in no time.”

She’s not sure why she feels the need to comfort this stranger. Perhaps it’s the kindred feeling of another parent lovingly nurturing their child. Perhaps, it’s just the way his dimples melt her a little as they peek out with his weak smile. Either way, she’s glad to see his smile, even if it’s small.

“Rationally I know that. I know that the flu is only temporary” He sighs out a weary breath and looks heavenward. “I guess this is all a bit new. So much has changed lately. And this was so much easier before. My wife and I had a system. We figured it out together and now she’s gone and I’m in a new city with a child that adjusted to the move and the new daycare by getting sick for the first time in years. And of course the bloody facility didn’t call me to let me know he was poorly. So I arrived yesterday after work to a feverish and grumpy toddler that won’t eat and won’t sleep without his favorite toy that I’m fairly certain was lost in transit. I’m still living out of boxes and I’m sure my son is infecting my sister with his virus as we speak….”

He’s rambling. He knows he is. But he just can’t seem to stop. That is until she cuts him off with a soft “Hey” as she gently grasps his arm. If she’s bothered by his little outburst, she doesn’t show it, just holds on to his arm for a moment longer and looks at him with so much sympathy that he has to tell his tired brain not to cry in front of this kind stranger.

She takes a deep breath, and it reminds him to do the same. God, he’s exhausted. He’s suddenly acutely aware of what a mess he must appear to be. She’s probably counting down the minutes until she can be free of him.

She doesn’t let him stew in his embarrassment for long. She smiles gently at him and removes her hand from his arm. He misses the warmth instantly.

“Parenting alone is hard. No parent is perfect. All you can do is love them and do your best, something you’re clearly doing. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

There’s something in the way she says it. A sort of genuine understanding. But the moment is gone before he can question it as the belt holding his items suddenly moves, startling him. It appears the woman in front of him has finally finished.

He looks to her and remembers what started their conversation with a burst of embarrassment.

“Would you like to go first? I did cut in front of you, after all.”

She scoffs at the very idea, “nonsense. Your son’s medicine is more important than this.”

He begins to argue with her but she cuts him off with a glare that turns into a satisfied smirk when he rolls his eyes in amusement and gives up. She thinks she catches him mumble something along the lines of stubborn woman as he turns to greet the cashier politely. And if she happens to glance appreciatively at his form as he does, well, she’s only human.

This time, he’s the one with a smirk as she glances up to see him looking at her. And ok, that wasn’t very subtle, was it? But as her cheeks heat, he simply returns the favor as he gives her a slow once over that makes her want to squirm followed by a wink that makes her scoff and roll her eyes to hide her embarrassment.

“Don’t be so smug.”

He chuckles at that and bites that tempting bottom lip to hide his smile.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’s playing at innocent, and good god almighty, this man is adorable.

Before she can answer him, the cashier is calling out his total and it appears their moment is over. He pays her and takes his few bags as he glances back at Regina. There’s a hesitation in his eyes that she feels echoed in herself. But he has a sick little boy at home and she needs to get home to Henry to cook him dinner and help him with whatever this silly poster board is set to become.

He smiles warmly at her one more time and tells her, “It was nice to meet you.” He takes a deep breath and adds a sincere “And thank you. You were really very kind to the jerk that stole your spot. I’m sorry I talked your ear off.”

She shakes her head and tells him with a smile, “Just don’t let it happen again, thief.”

His chuckle is rich and full and warms her to her toes as he tells her “Yes, ma’am.”

But still, “Don’t call me ma’am.”

“Ah yes of course, your majesty.”

He completes his ridiculous statement with a dramatic flourish of a bow, and she can’t help but to laugh.

“Better.”

He smiles at her one last time and tells her goodbye before reluctantly turning to leave.

He’s made it a whole three steps from her when she shouts “Wait!” making him turn back to her as the people behind her grumble about her holding up the line. She gathers her nerve and walks to him with all the air of confidence she can muster.

He looks at her questioningly as she pulls a card and a pen from the purse that rests over her shoulder. She jots a few things down on the back and hands it to him.

“Here. If you’re looking for a better nursery, one that will actually call you when your child is sick, Granny’s is the best in town. It’s where I took my son when he was younger. That’s her number on the back as well as my cell number. It’s a hard place to get into, but if you use my name, it’ll help. I have a bit of pull around here. And if she still won’t let Roland in, call me.”

He turns the card over to read the front. Regina Mills. Storybrooke Mayor. And well, he supposes he wasn’t all that far off when he jokingly called her your majesty. Small town royalty, it would appear.

“Regina”

He utters her name with such reverence that she can’t look away from him.

“I like it. It suits you. I’m Robin, by the way. Robin Locksley.”

Regina tamps down her blush at his compliment as she reaches for his outstretched hand and shakes it in greeting.

He holds on for a moment as warmth floods them both before he hesitantly releases her to look at the card again.

“Thank you. This means a lot.”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“It’s so much more than nothing.”

“Go. Your son is waiting.”

He sighs before he nods and thanks her again then bids his final goodbye. That night she goes to bed thinking of blue eyes and his warm voice. He falls asleep to the snores of his little man and the memory of her smile.

 Author’s Note: Hey, lovelies. Thanks for reading! This is my first fic so I hope it’s not too terrible. I haven’t written much in years. Special thanks to Clare @its-a-story-of-love for looking over this for me and convincing me to publish. I’m going to hide now. Please be gentle! :)

[honeycomber-blog]

The room is full of you!- As I came in/ And closed the door behind me, all at once/ A something in the air, intangible,/ Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!-/ Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed/ Each other room's dear personality./ The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers,-/ The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death-/ Has strangled that habitual breath of home/ Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;/ And wheresoever I look is hideous change./ Save here. Here 'twas as if a weed-choked gate/ Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped/ Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,/ Sweet garden of a thousand years ago/ And sudden thought, 'I have been here before!'/ You are not here. I know that you are gone,/ And will not ever enter here again./ And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,/ Your silent step must wake across the hall;/ If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes/ Would kiss me from the door.- So short a time/ To teach my life its transposition to/ This difficult and unaccustomed key!-/ The room is as you left it; your last touch-/ A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself/ As saintly- hallows now each simple thing;/ Hallows and glorifies, and glows between/ The dust's get fingers like a shielded light./ There is your book, just as you laid it down,/ Face to the table,- I cannot believe/ That you are gone!- Just then it seemed to me/ You must be here. I almost laughed to think/ How like reality the dream had been;/ Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still./ That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!/ Perhaps you thought, 'I wonder what comes next,/ And whether this or this will be the end';/ So rose, and left it, thinking to return./ Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed/ Out of the room, rocked silently a while/ Ere it again was still. When you were gone/ Forever from the room, perhaps that hair,/ Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,/ Silently, to and fro.../ And here are the last words your fingers wrote,/ Scrawled in broad characters across a page/ In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand,/ Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down./ Here with a looping knot you crossed a 't,'/ And here another like it, just beyond/ These two eccentric 'e's.' You were so small,/ And wrote so brave a hand!/ How strange it seems/ That of all words these are the words you chose!/ And yet a simple choice; you did not know/ You would not write again. If you had known-/ But then, it does not matter,- and indeed/ If you had known there was so little time/ You would have dropped your pen and come to me/ And this page would be empty, and some phrase/ Other than this would hold my wonder now. Yet, since you could not know, and it befell/ That these are the last words your fingers wrote,/ There is a dignity some might not see/ In this, 'I picked the first sweet-pea to-day.'/ To-day! Was there an opening bud beside it/ You left until to-morrow?- O my love,/ The things that withered,- and you came not back!/ That day you filled this circle of my arms/ That now is empty. (O my empty life!)/ That day- that day you picked the first sweet-/ pea,-/ And brought it in to show me! I recall/ With terrible distinctness how the smell/ Of your cool gardens drifted in with you./ I know, you held it up for me to see/ And flushed because I looked not at the flower,/ But at your face; and when behind my look/ You saw such unmistakable intent/ You laughed and brushed your flower against my/ lips./ (You were the fairest thing God ever made,/ I think.) And then your hands above my heart/ Drew down its stem into a fastening,/ And while your head was bent I kissed your hair./ I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands!/ Somehow I cannot seem to see them still./ Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust/ In your bright hair.) What is the need of Heaven/ When earth can be so sweet?- If only God/ Had let us love,- and show the world the way!/ Strange canceling must ink th' eternal books/ When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!/ That first sweet-pea! I wonder where it is./ It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,/ And yet,- I am not sure. I am not sure,/ Even, if it was white or pink; for then/ 'Twas much like any other flower to me,/ Save that it was the first. I did not know,/ Then, that it was the last. If I had known-/ But then, it does not matter. Strange how few,/ After all's said and done, the things that are/ Of moment./ Few indeed! When I can make/ Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!/ 'I had you and I have you now no more.'/ There, there it dangles,- where's the little truth/ That can for long keep footing under that/ When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?/ Here, let me write it down! I wish to see/ Just how a thing like that will look on paper!/ 'I had you and I have you now no more.'/ O little words, how can you run so straight/ Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?/ How can you fall apart, whom such a theme/ Has bound together, and hereafter aid/ In trivial expression, that have been/ So hideously dignified? Would God/ That tearing you apart would tear the thread/ I strung you on! Would God- O God, my mind/ Stretches asunder on this merciless rack/ Of imagery! O, let me sleep a while!/ Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back/ In that sweet summer afternoon with you./ Summer? 'Tis summer still by the calendar!/ How easily could God, if He so willed,/ Set back the world a little turn or two!/ Correct its griefs, and brings its joys again!/ We were so wholly one I had not thought/ That we could die apart. I had not thought/ That I could move,- and you be stiff and still!/ That I could speak,- and you perforce be dumb!/ I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof/ In some firm fabric, woven in and out;/ Your golden filaments in fair design/ Across my duller fibre. And to-day/ The shining strip is rent; the exquisite/ Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart/ Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled/ In the damp earth with you. I have been torn/ In two, and suffer the rest of me. What is my life to me? And what am I/ To life,- a ship whose star has guttered out?/ A Fear that in the deep night starts awake/ Perpetually, to find its senses strained/ Against the taut strings of the quivering air,/ Awaiting the return of some dread chord?/ Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;/ All else were contrast,- save that contrast's wall/ Is down, and all opposed things flow together/ Into a vast monotony, where night/ And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,/ Are synonyms. What now- what now to me/ Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers/ That clutter up the world? You were my song!/ Now, let discord scream! You were my flower!/ Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not/ Plant things above your grave- (the common balm/ Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)/ Amid sensations rendered negative/ By your elimination stands to-day,/ Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;/ I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth/ With travesties of suffering, nor seek/ To effigy its incorporeal bulk/ In little wry-faced images of woe./ I cannot call you back; and I desire/ No utterance of my immaterial voice./ I cannot even turn my face this way/ Or that, and say 'My face is turned to you';/ I know not where you are, I do not know/ If heaven hold you or if earth transmute,/ Body and should, you into earth again;/ But this I know:- not for one second's space/ Shall I insult my sight with visionings/ Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed/ Beholds, self-conjured in the empty air./ Let the world wail! Let drip its easy tears!/ My sorrow shall be dumb!/ -What do I say?/ God! God!- God pity me! Am I gone mad/ That I should spit upon a rosary?/ Am I become so shrunken? Would to God/ I too might feel the frenzied faith whose touch/ Makes temporal the most enduring grief;/ Though it must walk awhile, as is its wont,/ With wild lamenting! Would I too might weep/ Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous/ wreaths/ For its new dead! Not Truth, but Faith, it is/ That keeps the world alive. If all at once/ Faith were to slacken,- that unconscious faith/ Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone/ Of all believing,-birds now flying fearless/ Across would drop in terror to the earth;/ Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins/ Would tangle in the frantic hands of God/ And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!/ O God, I see it now, and my sick brain/ Staggers and swoons! How often over me/ Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight/ In which I see the universe unrolled/ Before me like a scroll and read thereon/ Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl/ Dizzily round and round and round and round,/ Like tops across a table, gathering speed/ With every spin, to waver on the edge/ One instant-looking over- and the next/ To suffer and lurch forward out of sight-/ Ah, I am worn out- I am wearied out-/ It is too much- I am but flesh and blood,/ And I must sleep. Thought you were dead again,/ I am but flesh and blood, and I must sleep.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Interim

[italiasoloitalia]

Days 15, 16,17: Padova

A tearful farewell was always going to be 😰 and before long I’m looking back at the domes and towers of beautiful Firenze as we whizz over a bridge in our black Peugeot (I know, we had ordered a Fiat😏). An easy few hours drive north east through the plains of wheat, corn and rice. We’d chosen an easy-to-get to place just inside the city walls that had looked like it would be a restful balm after a week in the bustle of Florence. Had not expected to find an oasis that looked like I’d found my own botanical garden complete with a tower (built in 1300) in which the princess and her prince may rest their weary heads! Massimago Wine Tower (Torre del Soccorso) is in the grounds of a Venetian villa (the only one inside the walls) on a canal that, if you found gondolier, would indeed take you to Venice, set in glorious gardens. Stairs had nearly seen me changing my mind when I booked but forza Leda! and into a two-story apartment, tastefully decorated to retain its authenticity, fireplace in upstairs bedroom and huge copper-pot hung hearth in kitchen/dining downstairs. A fab bathroom completes and it will be a special place to which to return each day. Signora offers a wine welcome which we take on our own al fresco area gazing onto this splendour.

We refresh and out to explore where we are and in 20 mins are in a huge piazza, buzzing with market tents, the stunning Santa Giustina domes in the background. On to the tram to get the lay of the land, back and siesta/settle in.

There is a recommended good restaurant just over the canal (La Vigna) which we spy through our bedroom window and as we arrive, people are gathering, greeting out the front and we wonder if we should have booked (even though Signora had said no need). Indeed, need! as the terrazza is booked and already busy but a table just looking on to it is soon readied and the menu looks enticingly seafood oriented. Mind you, the pizza being whizzed by looks amazing but I have to say spaghettini alle scoglie (seafood) is one of the best I’ve ever had and happy chappy’s fritto of prawns, squid, cuttlefish and zucchini flowers is ✅. The dolci are made to order and sfogliate con fragole e crema pat is seriously light and delizioso. Once again, we stroll back with a sky dipinto di blu 🎶, a crescent moon and single bright 🌟🙆‍♀️🙆‍♂️

A very solid nights sleep after I know la famiglia have arrived where they should be (Issy having done the first leg of her return with three seats to herself). Breakfast is served on the villa patio and as G is finishing a cornetto con crema, il padrone comes along on his walk, greets me with a chivalrous bow to my taken hand 💁‍♀️ and when he hears I speak Italian, sits. A fascinating conversation ensues - his daughter had studied (something) at Mt Gambier and he and wife and been to Australia to bring her back after a visit to Queensland. The family had bought the property 30 years ago and he wanted to condividere (share) the history and magic of the tower with others. They also own a vineyard in Puglia and his son, having studied viticulture in Italy and France is now making Amarone...G lights up, his favourite!

Then he spiels a riff of the history of Padova and also the botanic garden, University, astronomical observatory nearby, Scrovegni Chapel .... entrancing! As we’re leaving, he sees us and takes us down to two original cave rooms under the battlements that the defending soldiers used, so cool in all respects and now used for candlelit musical dinners and wine tastings, modern furniture making it cooler. Signore has an excellent eye for antiquities and style. Roman artefacts at doorway plus the mention of Amarone has Glenn grinning.

An easy walk into the Orto Botanico (the oldest academic botanical garden in the world 1545) and I spy Maria Rita Stirpe straight away. A warm greeting and welcome and she escorts us through the garden, past the modern Biodiversity Garden and into the gallery in the foreground with St Antonio Basilica sitting proudly behind. A beautifully presented exhibition and Maria Rita guides us and it’s amazing how many of the exhibiting artists have been her students. The worldwide slideshow is on rotation on its own wall and we wait briefly for Australia’s Flora to come up and before long, there is mine and it’s a thrill and wonder to see it even if the colours are somewhat muted in transmission. So proud of Australia’s contribution. MR and I have a wonderful discussion and I am so impressed by her professionalism and marketing skills though she tells me of her buona fortuna in having a son who is a marketing designer by profession. I promise to send her a copy of Flora catalogue and she kindly presents me with some of her prints and exhibition booklets. I will

definitely try to get to one of her workshops in the future - she holds them in amazing locations in Italy and beyond. We farewell and both feel the moment when botanical art and nature brings people together - we will maintain our friendship via our fb group and also via Messenger. 🇮🇹🌿🇦🇺

We spend time in the amazing Horto Medicinale and the bio garden and are both awestruck by the history and beauty and leave with a catalogue of Floraviva tucked under my arm and an unforgettable experience tucked neatly in our hearts, for G has been so sweetly supportive and as thrilled as I.

Just steps away is The Basilica Di Sant’Antonio and we plan to return (on what would have been Dad’s 95th birthday on Tues) as an homage to him, for he was particularly devoted to his onomastico saint. We take a peek and then sit in a cafe with a view to its domes for a spritz and ponder. Feeling full of emotion after that morning and now this 😍🙆‍♀️

Exploring the historic centre on a quiet Sunday (there were 40,000 people here just a few days ago for the Feast of Sant’Antonio!) is lovely and we stop several times for a drink or coffee to gaze upon the stunning architecture at every turn. It’s hot and we return to rest in our tower 🤴👸 before dinner.

Prato Della Valle is the elliptical ‘square’, the largest square in italy and it had been covered in market tents when we first arrived but is now visible as a large green island in the centre of a small canal bordered by statues and ringed by porticoed walkway around one side. We eat at Terrazza Carducci (could this be Turners Tour Terrazzo’s?) and another seafood oriented meal amidst the tinkle of glasses, chinking if cutlery on china and softly murmuring voices (Italians are not loud and boisterous I declare, contrary to popular opinion or maybe we just save it for ‘la famiglia in casa’🤣 (scampi saor, seppie ripiene, squid ink tagliolini 😋😋😋). We finish with a stroll through the Prato, (there is a particularly stunning building lit to show its beautiful porticoes) canoodling couples, groups of young people socialising quietly and that moon and star leading us home.

We booked tickets to the Giotto’s Scrovegni Chapel and it is spectacular. As we wait the climate controlled ante-chamber (to protect the frescoes) the video presentation is moving and a perfect summation of not only the frescoes but Christianity. A highlight. We stroll more of the centre and Caffe Pedrone looks inviting and is as good as it promises - modern Italian done so well - three little crostini to share, a vino then coffee is all we need then tram home (just as we’re about to board not having worked out the ticket vending machine, a group of six ‘tram police’ do a raid and nab two poor young girls who are obviously not impressed - we ask one policeman how to work the machine and then we chat about life in Padova and ... how much the fine out of interest? 52€! )

A Negroni aperitivo in Piazza di Signori followed by dinner at Trattoria dal Capo is perfect. Venetian cooking, excellent service and would you believe it...the couple sitting next to us at dinner last night walk in ... this trattoria is nowhere near last night’s and we are here on the off chance whereas their hotel recommended this to them, a lovely English/Scottish couple (whom we had thought were German!). A friendly chat to another table nearby who thought I was Italian (and she was!), a very special Grappa and this was a great finish to Padova, a place to which we’d like to return! Tomorrow will see us visit the Basilica on Dad’s birthday and also in honour of his namesake, Anthony before we head to Ravenna.