#i offer you minuscule crumbs

[papriaki]

recently played mafia 2 here’s a dooble of Vito :3c

[hedgy-hog]

Fish Eyes

Phillip Altman x Jewish! GN reader (AFAB if you squint) 

Words: 5.9k

A/N: Shana Tova to everyone who celebrates! I hope this new year brings you light and love. For those who don’t celebrate, I still hope you enjoy this! 

CW/Tags : Mentions of food and alcohol, implications of sex, oral sex (GN receiving), penetrative sex, reader doesn’t practice but is Jewish, mentions of children/babies, Annie and Paul finally have a baby 

Read on AO3!

“A joke is what it is,” you begin, the corners of your mouth turning upwards at the sentiment. “Rosh Hashanah translates to ‘Head of the Year’, so, for a laugh, people place fish heads on the table. Sometimes the brave eat it, eyeballs and all.” Judd shutters at the thought of an eyeball exploding between his teeth, quietly declining the offer before pulling out a chair for Penny and then himself. Phillip’s arm snakes around your waist as he pulls out a chair for you, pulling you close to his side first. You fit almost perfectly; it would be perfect if he wasn’t so damn tall. 

“If you were a fish, I’d eat your eyeballs,” he claims, “eat both of ‘em. Chew them real nice.” The reflex of your hand coming to whack him is abruptly intercepted by his hand encasing your wrist. You’ve smacked him enough already today, he determines, bringing your hand up to his lips to lay a lingering kiss upon your pulse. “Don’t pretend that you wouldn’t eat my eyeballs too.” 

“So, why are we doing this exactly?” 

Some stray breadcrumbs that linger in your hand are already slotted between your fingers, irritating your skin like the most delicious sand. The urge to drop the bread and dip your hand in the water pushes you closer to the pond. Leeds Pond was the closest and the easiest drive, so here you stand, the cool September wind brushing against your skin with a handful of crumbs. 

“To cast away our sins for the new year,” you explain, feeling the friction of the crumbs almost becoming unbearable. “With the beginning of the year, it’s best to start off with a clean slate. With Tashlich, they wash away and you can start anew untainted,” you explain. You keep holding onto the piece of too-stale bread, as much as you wish for it to be taken by the water. You want him here beside you, joining you in the annual ritual you perform. The earth crunches below his feet, the first thing to come into view is his own cupped hand filled with the same bread you brought along. The same amount deposited into yours looks so minuscule in his hand, yet with his size, everything looks tiny. 

“What if I want to remain tainted? What if I don’t give a shit about what God thinks?” he pesters as he always does. A huff expels through your nostrils as you try to control your laughter, shaking your head at his petulance. 

“You really want God to remember Paul catching us in your car? It’s enough that Paul has to remember that,” you sigh, your brows pinching forward. It is a miracle, truly, how you two were able to squeeze into the back seat like that. Judd never returned the Porsche, remembering him cautiously driving it down the street in case Phillip had a fit. Better Judd than some asshole, he chuckled at the scene, simple as that. For now, the Prius is enough. Maybe not a babe magnet, but who would he need to attract when he had you? 

“He enjoyed it, trust me, he’s not getting any action since that kid came along, and it’s not like he hasn’t seen much worse shit from me before.” He’s the one who laughs now, the smack of your unoccupied hand against his sturdy bicep sending him further into hysterics. Catching a glimpse of his pointy teeth, you give in, your shoulders shaking in time in your shared laughter. 

“You’re such an ass. Come on,” you lead him further towards the water, Phillip following at your side. You halt about five feet away from the water, peering over at him from beneath your lashes. With the morning sun casting a golden glow upon his skin and the sight of his windswept hair, he looks almost ethereal. Perhaps he doesn’t need his sins washed away after all. Perhaps this is God’s way of saying he is forgiven for every whacky thing he has ever done. It’s not like it matters. This is simply a tradition in your eyes. “You ready?” 

“Yup,” he nods, accentuating the p with the pop of his tongue. You shoot him a simple countdown from three. At the sound of one, you swing your arm back, letting the bread fly into the pond. The crumbs remain, continuing to irritate the skin between your fingers. The old bread soaks up the muddy water, breathing some kind of life into it once more before it disintegrates for the fish to consume. Even if it’s just tradition, you can’t explain the weight that seems to melt off of your being. A new beginning, a chance to restart. You don’t say the prayer that goes with the ritual; you don’t know it if you’re being honest with yourself. Still, being in the moment, sharing it with him, the prayer isn’t needed. 

Phillip’s piece looks smaller than you remember placing in his palm previously. Your brows furrow, gaze following him once more to see him pressing the remaining piece past his lips and gnawing on the too-hard dough. 

“You’re not supposed to eat it!” you shriek, your hands reaching out for him again in hopes he somehow stops his ministrations. Instead, he keeps chewing, arms reaching out to grab you by the waist and pulling you into his front. He swallows obviously, lips smacking together before releasing an exuberant sigh of satisfaction, noting how yummy it was. You roll your eyes, fingertips skirting against his arms as your hands come to join his own. “Ugh, you’re the worst.” With a hunch to his spine, he bends over just enough to brush his lips against your cheek, his facial hair prickling at your skin. 

“Mmm, but you love me anyway,” he grumbles before his lips meet your skin again. You wish to act fast, to lie and rip yourself away from his grasp spewing how you don’t love him. He’s a menace, and childish, and will do anything to get a rise out of you. Yet it would kill you at this moment to leave his embrace, his arms encasing you so perfectly. The breeze subsides against your frame with your human shield wrapped around you. Your body relaxes the more he holds you, knees going lax as your head comes to rest against his chest. 

“I shouldn’t, but I do,” you sigh, eyes slinking shut as his lips continue their gentle attack upon your skin. Goosebumps push their way up, the warmth from his embrace easing the urge to shiver. With the proper angle of your head, you respond with a kiss upon his jaw in return. Your nose nuzzles into the edge of his goatee. “I really do.” You have no idea how this happened, how you ended up in his arms like this, giving him your whole heart. You couldn’t stand him growing up, the too-tall and lanky immature boy he was, always pestering you and your every move whenever he had the chance. He’d push every button you had and then find more you didn’t know existed, just to push those as well. As you both grew, so did your intolerance of him. It didn’t matter how handsome he became, how he filled out all of his shirts and grew facial hair that would look creepy on any other man that you would come across. 

Well, maybe that wasn’t the case. You know how this happened, as does he. The lock of eyes across the room at a party your friend took you to, the existential dread settling in your belly as he made his way across the room, drink in hand, to talk you up. Your brain screamed at you to run, to do anything to get out of his way. Instead, you stayed firmly planted in place. For once in your life, you didn’t want to knock him straight in the jaw. The first few days, you blamed the alcohol, but when you woke in the same bed night after night for a week straight, you only had yourself to blame. Awestruck by Phillip, you quickly became enamored, as much as you tried to avoid him afterward. Still, he found a way, always showing up where you least expected him.  Something about him, as much as you wished to smack him upside the head, captivated you unlike anything else. His winning smile, contagious laugh, the feel of his hands. The jokes started to become less intolerable. You liked them even. Two years later, here you stay, locked in his arms, his familiar scent the only one to calm you. 

“It’s a good thing I love you too, then,” he presses a final kiss into your skin before pulling away. “Come on, let’s go fuck in the car.” Now you tear away, exasperated with your jaw on the floor. His laughter booms through the sounds of nature and although you go to smack him again, calling him disgusting, you walk back to the car arm-in-arm with your heart about to burst. 

Even though you speed down the road, you’re late. Thank Phillip for that, you grumble at the door as you return Hillary’s welcoming embrace, the Shana Tova still fresh upon her tongue despite not being Jewish at all. He wasn’t kidding with his offer, practically begging you with pursed lips and puppy dog eyes and his hands right where you needed them, that you couldn’t refuse. There were times you had to stop, as close as you were to your precipice because your leg was screaming at you, the muscles cramping up from being stuffed in the backseat of a car that could barely fit two. His hands massaged the muscles each time, trying to alleviate the pain as you rushed to bring each other to ecstasy on top of him. Still attentive, even in your thoroughs of passion. You don’t remember hearing that from others back in high school. Your hair is still mused, clothes still hanging off awkwardly as you feel Hillary’s shoulders shake against you in laughter. 

“Feel free to tell me later,” Hillary pats your hair down, removing herself from you to be engulfed by her youngest and largest child. She yelps when he lifts her feet off the ground, flopping her around like a rag doll. His laughter can fill any space, exuberant and boisterous. It doesn’t end once he puts her down, the older woman having to pat herself down to get her clothes back into place as well. “Hope he didn’t do that with you before.” 

“Mooooom,” Phillip whines, pushing past to go see who would be the schmuck to arrive later than him. The main room is booming with life, and it seems Phillip and you were the schmucks after all. The children chase each other around the room, shouting as they decide who is ‘it’ in their game of tag. The rumble of the china cabinets gives way beneath their little feet, so many of them now. The only one not in the feat of play is the youngest addition bouncing on Annie’s lap. They grow bigger every time you see them, their cheeks more cherubic with each bottle they suckle from and each spoonful of mashed whatever they eat. Today it seems to be peas and carrots, the empty glass jar discarded on the table in front of them. Cole runs into your leg, muttering an apology as you try to weave your way through the madness. Only at the Altman’s, it seems. 

“Ugh, you smell like sex,” Wendy groans as you hug one another. He’s told you all about her, what she did for him growing up. To say you’re thankful is an understatement. If she hadn’t cared for him, time would only tell how much more of a mess he would have been. How much more would he have gotten under your skin? But would that have made you fall for him even harder? You pull her in further, practically squeezing the air out of her lungs with how tightly you hold her. 

“What? Don’t like the smell of knowing your brother gets laid?” you jest, getting a laugh in return. 

“Glad it’s just you,” she speaks through her chuckles. Unraveling yourself from her arms, your hands remain placed on each other, another moment of many that you two have shared in silence. It’s hard to explain these moments, but they ground you both. You share a smile, a silent thank you for giving Phillip the chance to grow, whether it be now or then. 

“Are you doing okay?” you ask. Wendy’s lips purse, surveying the room before giving you a nod. 

“As good as I can be,” she responds, her thumbs making soft circles upon your arms. You study the room as well, trying to take in all of the commotions. Paul is in the corner, glass in hand, having discussions with Judd. With the feeling of your eyes on them, both men pause and look over, shooting you closed-mouth smiles that you return. Annie is no longer in her spot, off to the bathroom probably as Phillip has taken her place bouncing the baby on his knee, cooing at them. Penny is weaving through the room with a covered tray in her hands, the aroma of whitefish permeating the path she walks. She calls your name, shooting you a smile with a hello before disappearing into the dining room. 

“Barry?” 

“Italy,” Wendy is quick to answer, although her tone is anything but okay. From the few times you’ve met him, Barry has never been the most pleasant person. He’s always been distant, a phone attached to his face. You wonder if he’s lost the feeling in his arm from how often he keeps his phone propped up to press against his cheek. You breathe a sigh through your nose, not wishing to push further where you may not be wanted. Your grip on her tightens, giving her arms a gentle squeeze. 

Phillip watches from the couch, eyes tearing away for a few moments to blow raspberries into the baby’s chubby cheeks. The little one giggles, pressing Phillip on further to have his lips vibrate against their super soft skin. He’s never been the one to think of kids. Hell, in many people’s eyes, he still was a kid in some way. But with one in his arms, how he soars for you, and how you look upon his sister with such love in your eyes, he knows he can see a future with you. He swore off his playboy ways, it had been the first thing he promised when he asked you to be his exclusively. For the first time, the urge wasn’t there. There was no itch for new exploration with another, no pull for falling back into old habits. He wanted to be better, truly. At first, he told himself it was solely for you, but he knew it was for himself too. It took time for him to notice how he wished to better himself, but with you helping him along the way, it was quite easy to fall into new and improved ways of living. Your touch was all he needed to sate him, your voice the only one he needed to hear when he woke in the morning and fell asleep at night. It was you, only you. None of this mumbo-jumbo rush for love and marriage like last time. This was real, and he would wait as long as he needed to until you were ready, but he knew. It’s you. You’re it for him. 

“I’m here if you need me, okay? If you just wanna get away and steal a bottle of booze and talk, you know where to find me,” you affirm Wendy gently, not bringing attention to the glint that appears in Wendy’s irises. She nods again, muttering a ‘thanks’ before exiting to help her mother and Linda in the kitchen. You bounce back over to Phillip, bending over to plant a fat one upon the top of his head. Looking up, his gaze meets yours, pointy canines peaking out beneath pink lips. 

“Had a good talk?” he asks, continuing to bounce the baby on his knee. The tiny human grumbles and squeals, enjoying the gentle rocking of their uncle Phillip. You nod, hand reaching out to brush through his hair. You untangle a few knots you put there in the first place an hour earlier, his lips pressing against your palm during a brief pause. 

“Yeah. Are you stealing babies now? Thought it was just my underwear.” You follow in his footsteps with him being unable to keep his hands off of you, taking the opportunity to continue the soft attack on his hair. He leans into your touch as you preen him, eyes threatening to shut at the feeling of your fingers on him. 

“Ha ha. Very funny, babe,” he drawls, sarcasm laced with his tongue. “I’ll have you know I only borrowed this baby. I may have stolen two thousand dollars from Paul and Judd, but babies are where I cross the line.” You scoff, feigning offense as you sink into the couch next to him. With a cock of his brow, a quiet invitation, he places the baby upon your lap. You wonder how long Annie has been away as you place your hands on the baby’s hips to keep them steady. You don’t mind, though. Taking care of babies may be the most tiring thing in the world, as much as people enjoy parenthood. Annie deserves a break. With that thought, you bring them closer to your chest, letting their back rest against your front. 

“Hey there, Bubba,” you coo, the baby cooing back, “Uncle Philly isn’t giving you too much of a hard time, is he? I know how annoying he could be.” Beside you, Phillip huffs, a tuft of hair blowing from his eyes with the power of the air expelled. You giggle, leaning forward to land the softest of kisses upon the baby’s temple. 

You can’t lie to yourself when you say you haven’t thought of this. Of course, you have. You swore to yourself you didn’t need the hassle nor the expenses. The Altmans had enough kids for a million lifetimes and none of them had to go home with you. But these are the things you dream of when you’re not in control, the images of waking groggy at the sound of crying, only for Phillip to wake up beside you, mumbling that he’s got it. You both pad out of bed to calm the wailing child, together, like you do everything. With a sleepy smile, you watch him rock them until their fussiness subsides, hand coming to rest upon his back and rub in soothing circles. 

You’re a great dad, your dream self muses. He smiles, dazed as he remains half asleep. 

You’re pretty great too, dream Phillip responds, slowly placing the baby back in their crib to keep them from stirring. You blink away the memory with the baby still in your lap, sighing once your laughter ceases. No one has ever made you laugh so much. You never wish to stop laughing. The baby laughs as well and with that, you know. He’s it for you. 

“What the fuck is that?” Phillip blurts out at the fish head placed on the perfectly set table. There’s enough food to feed a village five times the size of those starting to gather at the table. In the middle of the table lay the head from the whitefish being served, mouth agape and eyeballs still intact. 

“Watch your mouth, there are kids here!” Judd hisses, glancing back and forth at all of the food, “but seriously, what is that?” 

“A joke is what it is,” you begin, the corners of your mouth turning upwards at the sentiment. “Rosh Hashanah translates to ‘Head of the Year’, so, for a laugh, people place fish heads on the table. Sometimes the brave eat it, eyeballs and all.” Judd shutters at the thought of an eyeball exploding between his teeth, quietly declining the offer before pulling out a chair for Penny and then himself. Phillip’s arm snakes around your waist as he pulls out a chair for you, pulling you close to his side first. You fit almost perfectly; it would be perfect if he wasn’t so damn tall. 

“If you were a fish, I’d eat your eyeballs,” he claims, “eat both of ‘em. Chew them real nice.” The reflex of your hand coming to whack him is abruptly intercepted by his hand encasing your wrist. You’ve smacked him enough already today, he determines, bringing your hand up to his lips to lay a lingering kiss upon your pulse. “Don’t pretend that you wouldn’t eat my eyeballs too.” 

“I wouldn’t,” you hiss, shivering at his lips remaining on your skin. The family pays no attention, thankfully, all taking their seats and settling in. Even if they were watching, it wouldn’t deter him. He lays his cheek in your hand, nuzzling into your palm like a kitten. 

“You’ve had other balls of mine in your mouth. Why would this be any different?” That seems to catch the attention of Paul, the sound of him choking on his wine. 

“Jesus, Phillip. Not in front of the kids!” he chastises once he catches his breath. The youngest brother chuckles, vibrations from his mouth sending shivers up your spine. Ugh! Not now, anytime or anywhere but getting ready to sit down for Rosh Hashanah dinner. Your eyes drill into his, giving a silent warning of what he’s doing to you despite the bullshit coming from his mouth. He offers you a wink and another kiss. He waits for you to sit before taking his seat beside you, instantly joining your hands together underneath the table. You intertwine your fingers with him, the warmth from his skin soothing the slight irritation in between your fingers from Tashlich. His thumb maps out invisible shapes on the back of your hand, you giving him a gentle squeeze in response. 

Hillary taps at her glass with a fork to hush the commotion, clearing her throat before continuing: 

“Does anyone know the prayer?” The room is silent, eyes casting glances towards one another in hopes someone else would know. How would they know if they rarely practiced? Hillary wasn’t Jewish and Mort was an atheist, you were told. Still, tradition runs strong as it does with you. Even then, tradition and all, you’re stumped. You know the stories, the general gist, but the last time you went to synagogue you fell asleep as the songs droned on in a language you will never understand. From the corner of your eye, Wendy shakes her head. Linda purses her lips, just happy to be here besides Hillary. Paul continues to sip on his wine, Annie eyeing the food that cools more by the second. Judd quietly asks Penny, her wild hair shaking along with her head. You shrug when eyes land upon you. You know about fish heads but not about the prayer. Typical. “Alright. Let’s eat then!” 

The meal is lively, the plethora of deliciousness overwhelming you quite early on. Still, you take on the hard feat of trying everything you can. Stories you have never heard before having the family's cheeks burning and looking away, begging whoever shares not to say anymore fills the space as you indulge in all of the food sprawled out on the table. Your insides hurt from laughing so hard, honey still lingering on your lips from the dipped apples you all shared. Your tongue craves the citrus that the whitefish holds in its tender flesh where your brain screams for more tzemmies, the sweetness the sweet potato brings being like the warmest of hugs upon your palette. Phillip’s hand never leaves yours, fingers toying with each other under the table as you chow down. 

You manage to reach over with your opposite hand and pinch him when he mentions how the round challah “looks familiar”. 

“Ow! What? It’s true!” he tries to reason, knowing he would try to ease the pain if his other hand wasn’t locked in yours. 

“It’s supposed to symbolize the circle of life, not an ass, you idiot,” you grumble, attempting to hide your laughter. You swear he does this on purpose to spur you on. It used to work all those years ago. But that was when you weren’t holding hands under the table and dreaming of families. Still, he tries. He enjoys it when you snap. You ride him that much harder when you snap, your hands rougher on him than usual, the word “brat” on your tongue making his entire body quiver. He pushes down those thoughts the moment they arise, his composure collected as he shrugs and reaches for his piece

“I’m just saying it’s familiar! You were the one that said it looked like an ass,” his words are muffled halfway through as he shoves the too-large piece in his mouth, the extra bits puffing his cheek out like a hamster storing food in their pouches as he chews. Later on, you shoot him a glance when he asks whether or not he should spit or swallow the pomegranate seeds that are passed around the table, winking at you and mouthing an I know what you’d do. Your face burns at that and you squeeze his hand a bit too tight. Oh, he’s asking for it now. 

Although you’re stuffed, dessert makes your mouth water. Your wide eyes wander the span of the table, taking in everything you wish to devour. The apple honey cake calls to you, the apple glaze dripping down the sponge-like the sweetest of raindrops. Although your stomach pains you, you wish to lick the plate clean. The roasted and caramelized dates are to die for and they are the first thing you reach for, the soft flesh giving way beneath your teeth and practically melting on your tongue. You fight back a groan at the flavor, feeling his eyes surveying you at such a reaction. You turn to take in his raised brows, his teeth worrying into his bottom lip to hide the hint of a grin. 

“Good, huh?” he nudges, leaning forward to steal the flavor from your lips in a chaste kiss. Involuntarily, you quietly groan against him, the taste of the honey cake upon his lips mingling with the dates. You nod as he pulls away, eyes drooping as the food finally catches up to you. You can never help yourself with food like this. Too much of it puts you right to sleep, but time and time again you make the same mistakes of stuffing your face with it. “You wanna go lay down?” After a moment of contemplation, you nod again, slowly pushing your seat back to rise from it. Phillip rises beside you, your hands still joined after all this time as he dismisses the both of you and leads you to his childhood bedroom. 

It’s still odd after all of the times you’ve seen his room. Each time it strikes you for someone like Phillip, how normal his room looked. Nothing changed from before he moved out, light blue walls were scattered with posters of baseball players you could only name because their names are printed on the glossy paper. His little league trophies span his windows, something you would have certainly laughed at if you had a relationship like this back in high school. He leads you to his double bed, somehow too small for the both of you. Still, you make it work. Finally, your hands unravel, palm somewhat sweaty. You don’t mind, really. A simple brush of your hand against your clothes and it’s wiped away. You kick off your shoes, letting them land wherever they do naturally, and climb into bed. Although it is his room, the sheets no longer smell like him like you expect them to, the lingering of laundry detergent given months to air out meeting your nose. Phillip slides in beside you once his shoes are kicked off, scooping you into his embrace underneath the covers. 

“You don’t have to stay with me,” you murmur, although your face nuzzling into his gives way to something entirely different. His hand comes to rest along your back, thumb running along your spine. 

“Well, that’s just too bad that I want to,” he responds, his chin coming to rest upon the top of your head. “Why would I wanna go back down there when I could lay here with you?” With anyone else, it would already be too hot. Phillip is a furnace and you feel the beginning of perspiration prickling upon the soles of your feet. But with him, it is the perfect shared heat, your own private sauna to soothe your body. 

“I won’t be much fun if I’m asleep,” you begin to slur, eyes fluttering shut as his hand travels downwards to rub your lower back. Phillip hums, the vibration of his ribcage against your cheek. 

“Then it’ll be fun waking you up with my face between your legs,” he purrs, your limp hand coming to flop against his chest in a mock smack. “Ow, that hurt real bad. Think you left a bruise.” You huff through your nose, settling further into him as the food coma begins to consume you fully. “Sleep, baby,” he whispers. You do. 

He stays there for a long time holding you, his ministrations continuing even as your breathing steadies. He’s going to have to wake you up soon for the candle lighting, but as long as the sun remains crested over the horizon, you can rest. He focuses on his breathing, watching your top half rise and fall with the movement of his chest. With a bloated belly and a light amount of drool leaking into the fabric of his shirt, you still are the most stunning thing he has ever laid his eyes on. He lived to pester you in high school, striving every day to watch you storm off so he could study the way your feet stomped across the floor. He lived to see your face scrunch up as you cursed him to the high heavens. No one got a rile out of you more than he did. It was his mission in life to bug you if that was the only way he could be around you. Now you lay in his arms, trusting him as you sleep. He smiles at the realization. 

“Hopefully by next Rosh Hashanah, you have something on your finger. But we’ll take it as slow as we need to. I only said ‘hopefully’ because if you reject me, I may as well die,” he speaks softly as if not to wake you. “None of this shit made sense before you. I don’t know how to explain it. I just -- I love you. I’ll tell you that every day until you get sick of me. Hopefully, that never happens.” Your lips smack in your sleep, wiggling a little to get more comfortable. “But you’re stuck with me. I’m yours.” 

As the sun begins to set, he keeps to his word. You jolt awake with the feeling of his mouth on you. How he was able to remove your clothing while you slept is a wonder all in itself, but such a thought doesn’t matter when your fingers are gripped tight in his hair, pulling him further onto you as you work your hips against his mouth. You whimper for him not to stop, to keep going. Just like that, Phillip. He chuckles against you, the vibration of his mouth blinding you with ecstasy as you explode against his tongue. When he steers home, his hips pressing deliciously into yours as he stretches you, you do all you can to stay quiet. The family is still downstairs and in a few moments, you will need to join them. Your teeth sink into your lip hard enough to draw blood, the indentation of a bruise starting on the underside. You encase him in you, your arms and legs wrapping around him for dear life as he groans and pants in your ear. The bed creaks louder than you would like, your skin burning at the thought of the comments you will get once you return downstairs. The thought is torn from you when you hear him whine about how fucking good you feel, both of you climbing towards your orgasms. It hits you first, your teeth sinking into his shoulder to muffle your screams as you squeeze around him, your body begging him to stay inside you forever as his orgasm blinds him with white-hot light. He, too, cries into your skin, peppering kisses along his path as his hands soothe you. Your forehead rests against his once his lips leave your skin, panting into each other’s open mouths as you gain some sense of semblance back. Your lips meet his in swift pecks, your legs dropping from his hips and splaying out beneath him. 

“We should go down. The sun’s about to set,” you utter against his lips. Phillip groans, throwing his weight onto you and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His lips latch onto your skin, sucking a mark into the flesh that is certain to leave a bruise. 

“Can’t we just stay here with me inside of you?” he grumbles against your neck. Your hand moves upwards to brush the knots out of his hair, running them against his scalp. 

“At home, Philly,” you reason with a kiss to the top of his head. “Once we get home, you can stay inside me for as long as you’d like.” Groaning again, Phillip lays kiss upon kiss upon you. “Come on. We gotta get dressed.” 

Your back rests alongside Phillip’s rumpled front as the family gathers in the main room. They have given Cole the responsibility of lighting the candles, his mother guiding his hand to prevent any injuries. The flame flickers as it transfers from candle to candle, the starter candle being blown out by a gargantuan puff of air from the little boy’s cheeks. Your hands rest along his arms as you take in the sight, the only light in the room being from the illuminated candles. 

“Do you remember the prayer for this?” Hillary’s voice breaks the stream of focus from across the room. Again, you’re at a loss. If only you went to Hebrew school when it was offered to you. You shake your head although not many can see it, Phillip’s arms encasing you further into him. 

“No. I know you’re supposed to cover your eyes while you say the prayer, though. Maybe we should make one up; just talk or something,” you suggest. His lips find their way to the top of your head, his kisses feather-light against your scalp. 

“I got this, Mom,” Wendy volunteers, taking a few moments before beginning. Your hands leave his frame to rest over your eyes, encasing the world around you in total darkness. You focus on your breathing, feeling how your body moves against his. Wendy speaks of what comes with a new year, second chances, thirds, fourths, millions of chances. She speaks of how newness is refreshing and much needed. She speaks of how with newness, it is still important to hold onto the good of the old, the thankfulness and loved shared that has been surrounded by everyone in the last year. She thanks whatever power above for the happy moments of the last year, begs for forgiveness for the bad, and for the chance to start anew. Phillip’s eyes close on his own, his hands not leaving your frame. His fingertips trace shapes into your hips as he takes in his sister’s words, the kisses upon your head, although slowing, never ceasing. Explaining his gratitude is difficult, showcasing his love is not. 

“I’m thankful for you,” he whispers for only you to ear, lips ghosting against your temple now. “I love you.” You exhale slowly through your nose, the apples of your cheeks beginning to ache from the smile you wear as you slink further into his form. One hand leaves your eye, making sure to keep it squeezed shut as you reach for him. Unraveling one hand from your body, you bring his hand up to your lips. His palm is attacked with the gentlest of kisses, over and over and over with a silent response to his daily confessions. 

I’m thankful for you too, your lips spell out, I love you too. 

“Oh, and I’m stealing some of the dates to bring home.” 

And if you couldn’t love him more, there it is. 

You’d eat his eyeballs if he was a fish, too. 

[ahatintimepieces]

In Want of Stitching

I am delighted to present another little fic for the build-a-bear au by @smieska-draws​‘ and me! Smieska generously offered to let me post her incredible art above^ with this fic where Hattie is reunited with her favorite doll from her childhood! The doll is worse for wear, but Hattie knows just how to help! Be sure to give Smieska your love, and if you missed it, the previous fic is here. Without further ado, enjoy!

Words: 4,180

Hattie kicked her legs as she perched on the table in the breakroom. One hand was propped back, nestled between Dimitri’s bag and her backpack, and the other held her dwindling milkshake left over from dinner. While she waited for her dad to finish up with the last customer before closing, she watched Dimitri fuss with the supplies on the shelves.

He struggled to pull out one of the drawers and the sharp jostle of the handle caused the whole structure to shift. He froze and Hattie’s eyes widened as they waited to see if the cleaning items up top would tumble. While the bottles wobbled like a spinning toy wavering to a stop, they stilled without any avalanche and Dimitri and Hattie relaxed.

“I’m just going to deal with that in the morning,” Dimitri huffed, turning around. “Don’t tell your dad.”

Hattie gave him a thumbs up as she reached the dredges of her milkshake and the straw gurgled as it sucked air between the last of the frosty cream. While he crossed over to the rack of aprons, her gaze drifted down to the floor. The off-kilter shelf had shifted away from the wall, revealing a large dust bunny.

Narrowing her eyes, she tried to get a better look at the mound of grey that seemed to cover something else.

“See ya tomorrow, kid?” Dimitri prompted, snapping his name tag against the magnet on the wall.

“Probably!” She lifted her chin.

“Boss says a daycare center has scheduled a trip to the mall, so we might be busy,” he sighed, reaching for his bag. She scooted out of his way and nodded.

“That could be fun. But also noisy,” she offered, glancing up as she mentally noted to warn Belle, Mu, and Timmy that they needed to avoid the food court for lunch. Maybe hide in the café connected to the bookstore.

“Noisy is right.” Dimitri swung his bag over his shoulder.

“Will Dad have to work on the floor?” She lowered her empty milkshake.

“I imagine so,” he paused on his way to the door. When she placed the cup down and blew a raspberry as she slouched, he prompted, “why?”

“It just means I have to keep Mu and Timmy away. They’re trying to prove he’s magic and can blow things up with his mind.” Scowling, she swung her legs a little too hard and the table creaked underneath her.

“Is that why they asked him to heat up their—”

“Lunch?” She crinkled her nose. “Yeah.”

Dimitri sucked in air before bursting into laughter.

“They looked so mad when he used the microwave!” he wheezed, gesturing to the other table with the offending appliance. “Mu’s stink eye nearly killed me!”

“It’s dumb,” Hattie grumbled.

Catching her frustration, Dimitri reeled in his laughter and cleared his throat.

“There’s no harm in it,” he tried. “The boss can be a bit eccentric, and it can be fun to pretend, but I’m sure even Mu and Timmy know he’s not actually able to light things on fire or…” he paused, giving her a curious look, “steal souls.”

“They sure act like he does.” She turned away, cupping her chin in her hands.

“Have you told them it bothers you when they fixate on it?” Dimitri asked sympathetically.

“Yeah, and they ignore it because they think he actually does all of those things.” Her glare hardened.

“You could talk to the boss?”

“I don’t want him to know about the rumors.” After a beat, she looked up to meet Dimitri’s blank expression. “What?”

“He knows,” he said dryly. Her jaw dropped and he softened. “Listen, you might want to just talk with him about the whole Snatcher myth if it’s getting under your skin, but it’s not harming anyone. I think it also gets the store more foot traffic from teens, which isn’t usually our intended demographic. So, in a way, it even helps!”

Hattie groaned, flopping onto her backpack and staring at the ceiling.

“Hang in there, kid.” His shoes tapped against the tile as he walked towards the door. “But just talk to him. See you!”

“Night, Dimitri.” She gave a halfhearted wave as he left. Once the door shut, she fixated on the faint buzz of the lights in the breakroom.

Seconds ticked by.

She heaved herself up, bored with staring blankly and too tired to stew in her frustration any longer. After scooting to the edge of the table, she dropped down with her flipflops slapping against the ground. She intended to toss the milkshake cup and pester her dad while he closed the workshop, but her gaze shifted back towards the shelves. The oddly large dust bunny piqued her curiosity once more and she crossed over.

Crouching down, she prodded the clump of hairs and silver dust. A dead fly was caught in the webbing and bits of dirt or crumbs were suspended on the hairs. But when she pressed down, a firm something lay between her and the tile.

Shifting, she pressed her cheek against the wall and peered into the crack between it and the shelf. Behind the dust bunny lay a small doll, crushed and crumpled.

After a precursory check for spiders, she reached back and pinched one of the doll’s puffy sleeves. The dust bunny tickled her finger, and she crinkled her nose in disgust. As soon as the doll was pulled out into the open, she batted the wad of grey from its mitten hand, and the cloud of minuscule debris floated harmlessly to the ground. She gasped when she held the doll out in the light.

Beneath the grey streaks of grime, a missing button eye, the torn right arm, and a left hand hanging by a single thread, was the prince doll that she had loved so dearly when she was younger. Her heart soared, but the doll’s state soon had guilt souring her joy.

It had been ages. The last time she saw the doll, he had been a bit worn, but still intact. She had been near inconsolable when she lost him. Her dad promised to get her a new, better doll, but she loved the prince doll because of all the memories they shared. Despite all her searching and tears back then, her dad urged her to move on as the doll had continued to elude her. And no wonder! All this time, the doll had been in the breakroom rather than home. He must have somehow fallen behind the shelf at the workshop when she had been playing, only to be shoved deeper and deeper into the dark over the years.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, frowning at the frayed threads where a button used to be. When she poked the remaining button, it wobbled, threatening to soon snap away as well. She brushed back the yarn hair, covered in dust that caused the chestnut hue to appear murky. The felt crown looked more brown than yellow, and ashen stuffing dripped from the doll’s arm and broken wrist.

But… it was still her favorite doll. Though it had been years, relief surged through her chest.

“I’ll clean you up!” she promised to herself, gently giving the dusty, dilapidated doll a soft hug.

She knew how to sew, at least! And she had the materials at home. She could even surprise her dad! He always reacted positively when she showed him the hats or masks she made.

Scrambling to her feet, she carried the doll over to the table. She grabbed a couple of tissues to wrap him up, both hoping to keep him protected and intact and to prevent the dust from spreading in her backpack. She was just tucking him safely into her bag, nestled between new fabric she got from her millinery lessons earlier and a graphic novel that Timmy recommended, when the door thrust open.

She turned, noting her dad’s slouched posture as he removed his apron, which was common on days he had to both open and close the workshop. Holding his hand over his mouth, he tried to cover a wide yawn, but his sharp fangs still glinted in the light.

“Time to go?” Hattie prompted while zipping up her backpack.

“Finally, yes.” He paused, glancing towards the shelves. “Did Dimitri refill the sewing kits?”

She shrugged in Dimitri-solidarity when her dad turned back around. He accepted it without further prodding and tossed his apron onto a hook.

Hattie slipped on her backpack gently to keep from jostling the doll as her dad pulled out his hair tie and scratched at his scalp. He grabbed his keys and waited for Hattie to shuffle over.

Once he finished locking up and took her hand to lead her through the dark parking lot, she mentally went through the list of supplies she needed to fix up the prince doll. Neither she nor her dad said a word as their footsteps tapped against the still warm gravel. But that was normal for them. Her dad didn’t usually have much to say unless otherwise prompted by people or work, especially when he was tired. So, she continued her quiet pondering all the way home, staring blankly at the streetlights as the radio played family-friendly tunes at a hushed volume.

As soon as they got home, Hattie dashed into her room. She swept her arm across her workbench to clear away the new beret she was making and placed her top hat on the hat display stand her teacher had given her. Since she only had one, it was her favorite top hat that got the place of honor. Then, she dropped her backpack onto the ground and retrieved the prince doll.

He lay on the tissues that were now smeared with grey. Even just folding back the material caused Hattie to swiftly turn away and sneeze, jostling him as he perched on her palm. She’d need to clean the doll, but the open cuts in his arms worried her. After prodding around, she decided it might be better to pluck out the dusty stuffing, since his arms were closed off from his main body anyway. The loose button, too, she thought to remove to ensure easier cleaning.

She got to work, walking back and forth between her room and the bathroom as she ferried supplies. If her dad wondered what she was up to, he didn’t comment as he settled down in the living room to quietly read.

Setting up a doll bath in the sink by lowering the plug, she submerged the doll into the water with iridescent bubbles lining the porcelain. His one arm threatened to come off and his other hand floated at an odd angle. Undaunted, Hattie stuck out her tongue as she scrubbed the dust and cobwebs from his hair. The felt crown popped off at one point, and while she rescued it, the original gilded color seemed beyond saving so she decided to replace it. But she kept the crown nearby so that she could copy the size and shape.

Once the years of neglect were scrubbed away, Hattie drained the sink and rinsed the soap suds from the doll. The chest felt heavy with the water, even more than the lolling head. But hopefully the doll would dry just fine.

While wringing out the water, she tried to squeeze the doll gently, intent on preserving the fragile threads. Finally, she laid him out on a towel and used another to dab up as much water as she could. Wondering if she could borrow her dad’s hairdryer to speed up the process, she hurried into the living room.

“Da-ad,” she called as she padded onto the carpet. “Where’s your hairdryer?”

“Under the sink in my bathroom. Why?” He turned the page of his novel without looking up.

“It’s a surprise.” Arcing around the table, she peeked at the title. She recognized it as Ember’s latest recommendation from her book club. Curious, she slipped over to the armrest where he reclined. She leaned over his shoulder and identified Ember’s annotations that lined the margins in pencil, confirming that she had loved it enough to lend him the book.

“Should I be worried about this surprise?” he asked, unbothered by her hovering.

“Nope!” she chirped cheerfully as she jumped back to face him.

“Carry on, then,” he muttered, his golden eyes flittering back and forth as he read.

The amber light from the lamp behind him skipped across the strands of his hair, painting the coal-colored locks with flickers of iridescent violets. With his cheek pressed into his palm and his elbow on the armrest, his gaze momentarily flickered away from the book as he used his pinky finger to turn to the next page.

“Need something else, kiddo?”

Instead of answering right away, she hopped onto the couch and crawled onto his chest. He held still as she flopped onto her back, staring up at the book.

“Is the story good?” she prompted.

“It’s crafted well.”

“But are you enjoying it?” She tilted her head back into his shoulder. He kept his eyes ahead.

“Not really.” He sounded calm as he said it.

“But you don’t hate it?” she clarified.

“No.” He turned the page.

She sighed, not expecting anything different.

Usually, it didn’t matter. But she didn’t want the same reaction if she asked how he felt about the rumors of the Snatcher. She knew Dimitri thought she needed to talk to him about it but…

“What would you do if you had magic powers?” she asked instead.

“What?” That got him to look down. He quirked a brow and she shrugged.

“If I had magic powers, I would make my top hat like a bag of holding. I could carry all my stuff everywhere and be prepared for anything.”

“Oh.” He relaxed and lifted his gaze back to his novel.

“So, what would you do?” she repeated.

“Hm?”

“What would you do with magic?”

He hummed, lifting his head and reaching over to help steady the book as he turned the page. Once he settled back, he shrugged.

“I’d use it to heat up my coffee.”

For a split second, she wondered if he was also privy to Timmy’s and Mu’s speculations.

“That’s boring.” She narrowed her eyes.

“I’m a boring person,” he provided.

She grumbled and he continued to read. Scooting closer to his arm holding the book, she wedged herself into the crook formed by him and the back of the couch. He shifted slightly, but otherwise let her get comfortable. She curled up so that the side of her head pressed against his chest.

There was a muffled crackling sound, like crinkled paper.

“Hey Dad, do you know about the Snatcher?” She tensed.

“You mean what everyone calls me at work?” He managed a snort. “Or do you mean all that talk of soul-stealing?”

She snapped her head up, baffled.

“Y-you’re okay with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He met her gaze, though from the way his palm squished his cheek and he leaned back, he seemed far from interested.

“Because it’s not true!” She gestured wildly. “Isn’t that something your dumb books talk about? Unfair deformation of character.”

“I think you mean defamation,” he corrected with a sly grin.

“That too!” she insisted.

“It gets us more customers and makes my job more interesting. So, no. It doesn’t bother me.” He started to tear his gaze away, “But speaking of my dumb books—”

“But you don’t snatch souls or eat them!” She sat up, knocking his book back. He huffed as he lowered his arm. She perched on his stomach. “People are scared of you!”

“There are worst things,” he said in a lackadaisical tone. Since he couldn’t read, he swiveled his head in his chin to look out at the living room. He tapped his sharp nails against his cheek pensively.

“But Dad—”

“Hattie, it doesn’t bother me,” he interrupted, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Didn’t you have something you were in the middle of? The whole Snatcher thing doesn’t matter. It’s not worth getting worked up over.”

She pressed her lips into a tight line to keep from pouting.

“But why doesn’t it bother you?” she tried once more after a moment.

“Kid, that’s enough.” He wiggled his arm trapped behind her back to coax her off. “Go run along.” He suddenly sucked in a breath and covered a noisy yawn. The creases under his eyes deepened as the shadows stretched away from the light.

Hattie deflated.

“Fine,” she grumbled, scooting forward.

He grunted when she leapt off his stomach, but his focus returned to reading without another comment.

Hattie retrieved his hairdryer and returned to her bathroom, where the prince doll remained drenched. She turned the setting to no heat and plugged it in. While the drone of the hairdryer filled the bathroom, she zoned out.

All this time, she had been trying to shelter her dad from the rumors but apparently, she was the only one who cared that people thought he could suck souls out with his fangs like some sort of vampire who loved to sunbathe and didn’t mind garlic.

“It’s not fair,” she muttered under the whirling hairdryer. She glared down at the faceless prince doll. His mitten hand fluttered precariously while the gash in his bicep caught air and caused his arm to fluff up like it had stuffing again.

Her features softened as she carefully tilted the dryer back and forth.

She would rather her dad wasn’t upset by the rumors, which is why she waited so long to say anything, but somehow it felt lonelier than ever when she was the only one who cared.

With a slight slouch, she turned the dryer away and then carefully rolled the doll onto his stomach. She finished drying him out and placed him on a fresh towel while she cleaned up. And though she passed her dad as he returned from the kitchen with a steaming mug while she was on her way to the laundry room, he didn’t question her bundle of towels under his hairdryer.

Her step gained an enthusiastic bounce when she was finally ready to fix the doll. She carried him back to her workbench and gingerly set him down. For reference, she carefully pried the old storybook from her shelf and opened to the most crinkled set of pages, worn from love and constant rereads under her covers at night.

“Here it is, Prince!” She presented the first illustration of the kindly character with puffy sleeves greeting bluebirds, bunnies, and deer. She winced at the doll’s blank face. “Whoops. You can’t see. But don’t worry! I’ll fix that!”

She propped the book back against the worktable and used the beret and open sewing kit to pin it open. After she grabbed a handful of stuffing from her reserves in one of the drawers, found a button to match his eye, and sorted through the spools she’d need, she finally sat down.

Now that the doll was clean, his vibrant crimson coat and purple boots looked just like the illustration. But the blush on his cheeks had faded and one of the stitches meant to look like laces on his boots had frayed. With steady hands familiar with detail work from all her hat making, she looped thread through a sharp needle and got to work.

Fixing the boot and resewing the buttons was a bit tricky, but once the prince had his eyes again, his blank features regained the warmth she remembered. She stuck her tongue out as she restuffed his arms. At first, she wondered if she could add a little muscle definition but no matter how she finagled the lumps, she couldn’t get them to look right.

“Sorry, you’re stuck with noodles for arms,” she lamented dramatically, tugging out the extra fluff.

His large button eyes stared at the ceiling.

The final challenge was stitching his hand back on, and only because the mitten hand was so tiny. She struggled to keep it in place as she threaded the needle through his wrist. After having to backtrack and redo the area a couple times, she eventually got the hand snuggly back into place. The stitches lined his wrist, mostly concealed by the edges of his sleeve.

Then, she only needed to close the tear in his bicep and was able to hide the work under the gold band of his puffy shoulder. Once she placed the scissors down after snipping the final thread, she leaned back with an exhale. As she stretched out her back, she appraised her work.

“How do you feel?” she asked, cupping the prince doll and giving his arm and wrist a few squeezes. When she tapped his button eyes to ensure they remained firmly in place, she glanced up at the illustration to compare. She jolted.

“Your crown!” She whirled around, looking for the dull accessory that had popped off during the cleaning. Her head snapped down and she heaved a sigh of relief when she noticed it had fallen onto her carpet.

She grabbed the felt crown and procured a piece of scrap cloth leftover from the bright yellow beret she intended to give to her dad when it was finished. Snipping the dull crown to flatten it out, she traced its pattern on the scrap fabric. After she cut it out, she glued the edges together, careful to keep it seamless as she held the ends with tweezers.

“Perfect!” She held the new crown next to the prince’s head. She found a lump near the base of the yarn hair where the other crown had been glued previously and glued on the new crown its place. Once the glue had dried and the crown remained fastened to his head, Hattie beamed at her work.

“You look perfect!” She leapt to her feet, hugging the doll to her chest. “Let’s show you to Dad!” She darted over to the living room, shouts of excitement welling from her pride, but she skidded to a stop when she found him fast asleep on the couch.

She heaved out a sigh that dissolved into a blown raspberry.

Oh well.

Since even the book flopped open on his chest visibly quivered from his shivering, she crossed over to the wicker basket filled with throws and blankets and grabbed his favorite from the top. She dragged it over him with one hand, but when she reached the book with pages folding at odd angles, she looked from the blanket pinched in one hand and the prince doll cradled in the other.

“Watch him for me for a second,” she whispered to the prince, dropping the blanket and trading him for the book.

Her dad flinched in his sleep at the sudden shift, but she was too busy locating his bookmark on the coffee table to notice. After guessing where he left off, she placed the closed book next to his mug, which still had a puddle of coffee. She turned back around to find her dad twitching.

“Dad?” She reached out but recoiled at how much heat he radiated.

While his eyes remained squeezed shut, his chest jerked under the limp doll. Panicked panting gripped his restless slumber but before Hattie could try to wake him, he turned to his side, flinging the doll away as he twisted. Hattie bent to catch the prince as her dad’s breathing slowly returned to a calmer pace.

She placed the doll back on the table, fretting as she watched her dad’s tight brows relax. His long, spiky black hair tumbled over his sweaty features, but once his exhales fluttered out like a flickering ember, he began shivering again. Hattie crinkled her nose, holding the back of her hand to his forehead covered by hair and then to his clawed fingers.

Almost like ice.

Unsure whether she wanted to wake him after that, she tugged the blanket the rest of the way and watched him for a few seconds longer. He usually felt colder at night, often kindling the image of a campfire dwindling as those around it slept, but his sudden spike in temperature concerned her.

Was he getting sick?

A few more moments passed, and he remained steady. Hattie gnawed on her lip but decided not to worry. If she woke him up when nothing was wrong, he’d just get grumpy. She’d make sure to check on him later, though.

When grabbing the prince doll, she found it trembled in her palm. She tried to meter her own breathing to soothe herself, thinking her dad’s temperature spike had left her more shaken than she realized. She calmed enough to stop shivering after nestling the doll into the plush pile next to her pillow. But as she walked away to get ready for bed, she did not realize that the prince doll continued to tremble on his own.

Slowly, and like a heartbeat that just remembered its pulse.

[fusrodie]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him.

chapter 1 - grisly reunions

SFW, canon-typical violence, blood, mention of death. 2K words.

link to ao3 (or read down below)

Nothing ever happened in this boring old village. Every day he would wake up to the same dull sky, the biting cold on his skin, the smell of blood in the air. And the chanting, for fuck’s sake, the goddamn chanting. In the silence of night, you could hear them if you listened close enough. Even cooped up in his factory, trying to focus on bringing his latest creation to life, through the humming of engines and rattling of pistons, he could hear their voices pleading forgiveness and salvation.

It paints a perfect picture in his mind: a bunch of old farts holding hands in a circle, standing over a creepy-ass painted crest of an unborn baby, pouring their heart and soul into their prayer, accepting death and giving glory to their murderer. The prayer itself never made sense to him, not really, but he had to admit it was a damn good way of justifying their atrocities. Nobody batted an eyelash when someone was taken away, went poof overnight to never return. Something about the sacrifice having been made, fate had led them to the light at the end or some shit. It used to fascinate him back in the day, when he was just a child watching everything unfold hidden behind his mother’s skirt. But he was no longer a child, and after almost a century of bullshit, it was hard not to impale every single fucker who talked about devotion and destiny.

Not that anyone would care about it, of course - sister dearest routinely kidnapped girls from the village and no one seemed to notice the Castle was a death trap. Boxes and boxes of wine would make their way into the village and out into the world, the truth right there in the label, and no one seemed to put two and two together. Dimitrescu had offered him more than a few bottles as a courtesy, an attempt to bridge the gap between them - even he had limits, however, lines that he would not cross. The very thought of bringing a goblet of blood-infused wine to his lips made his stomach turn; he had never been one to experiment much with food. He drew the line on frozen pizza and energy drinks.

It’s a wonder the village still had people in it, really; between Alcina’s obsession with maidens, the poor sods taken to Moreau for Cadou experiments and the failed vessels Miranda would discard like common garbage, he figured at this point there were more lycans than people around. More for him to experiment on, he figured, though digging up corpses in the dead of night had done a number on his back. Haulers could only do so much, and more often than not he would have to get his hands dirty. Not having a proper bed, sleeping on a bare metal cot and decades of living on borrowed time had nothing to do with it, of course.

The Castle drawbridge lowered as he approached, hammer thrown over his shoulder, one last peaceful drag of his cigar before he was thrown into yet another boring council meeting. The vineyard greeted him with the bleak vibrancy of a cemetery, scarecrows drained of color, barely recognizable but eerily preserved in chunks of ice. A waste of perfectly good specimens, really.

The halls were quiet for a change, no tormented screams and blood-curling wails, no giggling sisters running around in the hallways. It all smelled of death and old people, expensive perfume and a good dose of arrogance.

He flashed a charming smile at one of the Castle’s servants, laughing when the girl turned a bright shade of red and scrambled away from him. Heisenberg could hear the bickering as he pushed the doors open, Angie’s joints clicking incessantly as the doll moved about. Moreau’s breathing sounded as loud and disgusting as ever, yellow teeth and the smell of a polluted riverbed with a hint of fish. There they were, his beloved little family, waiting patiently for him, staring at him like he had fucked every single one of their mothers.

“You are late, Heisenberg.” Alcina began, as she always did, eyebrow raised in contempt. “As always. Mother,” she turned to Miranda, gesturing towards him with her hoity-toity, stupid cigarette.

“You are obnoxious, Dimitrescu.” He replied without sparing her a glance. “As always.”

He could practically hear her seething as she finally placed her humongous backside on her chair, having given up on chastising him when Miranda paid both of them no mind. Mother sat at the end of the golden-trimmed table, looking awkward in her great black gown and modly crow wings. Dimitrescu’s finest china was laid perfectly for their little afternoon tea party, cup handles that were too big to fit his fingers, minuscule spoons that were fit for Angie’s creepy hands. The servant that had scurried away at the sight of him had come back with a tray of hot tea, biscuits and blood - the house’s specialty. Miranda began speaking as the girl poured her drink, some small chitchat about the state of the village, the influx of foreigners and progress on her grand resuscitation project.

“Thank you darling, but I brought my own.” He started as the girl circled around the table to serve him, pointing down towards his belt buckle to the whiskey flask he always carried around. She couldn’t help but look down, and then up at his sly smile, the blush returning to her cheeks in full force. Dimitrescu’s reaction was swift, a well placed slap with the back of her hand square on the girl’s cheek. He felt sorry for her for a moment, but it was good training - if she wanted to survive the Castle, she would have to learn that it was better to be blind and deaf, and that she had much more provocation coming her way than his harmless flirting.

Heisenberg tuned out of the conversation as he poured his whiskey, pinching the teaspoon between his index and middle fingers, swirling it slowly, scraping the sides of the porcelain. Alcina’s displeasure at his use of her china for such vile beverages made it all the better. He slurped it loudly to add insult to injury, savoring the drink for a second, sloshing it around his mouth before swallowing, a satisfied “ah” escaping him when the liquor burned down his throat. If Alcina didn’t already look like a corpse, he felt like she would have turned purple. When he unceremoniously shoved an entire biscuit in his mouth, crumbs falling all over the tablecloth, he thought she would vomit.

“The latest vessel, unfortunately, has been a failure.” Miranda announced with sadness in her voice, which prompted all of his other siblings to sigh collectively in sympathy. What a bunch of morons. “However, we have made some progress. It seems my theories were correct - younger subjects are far more receptive to the Cadou.” Kidnap babies, got it. There was no limit to how low Miranda would get to fuel her quest for a daughter that had been dead for longer than she was alive. “I regret to say there are no suitable infants at the moment,” she stopped to sip at her tea. “We can only hope the harvest fares better in the coming months.” Had she seen them as nothing but guinea pigs back then, too? No doubt in his mind she did. The only reason she kept them around is because she might not be able to kill all of the monsters she created - better to keep them close than risking losing it all.

“There is but one more matter I would like to discuss, Mother Miranda,” Dimitrescu began, a lilt in her voice, the telltale sign that whatever would come out of her mouth next would be positively foul. “My girls have brought me troubling news.” Troubling, he repeated to himself, but she had a smile on her face as she said it. Miranda gestured at her to continue, which she gladly did, excitement rising with every new word. “It would seem a monster prowls near our blessed haven. There is talk among the villagers of bodies being found drained of blood, organs harvested, but without a single cut left behind.” She stood up to pace the room, one of her favorite displays of grandiose that made her look like the world’s biggest buffoon. It suited her. “At first I believed this to be a mere rumor, a lycan attacking the livestock, a corpse refusing to rest. But then,” she clapped her hands, the doors to the room promptly opening to give way to Crazy, Dumb and Ugly, giggling in their flowing black dresses, dragging a corpse along like it was a treasure they had found in the forest. Angie tagged along with their excitement, pushing Moreau away to get a better look at the stinking body thrown onto the hardwood.

There was no mistaking the lycan, all teeth, claws and complexion of the finest of silver poisonings. It smelled just as bad dead than it did alive; bruises and injuries and gums that stuck out of its mouth. How, pray tell, was this thing still in one piece? Heisenberg rose to take a closer look, pushed its stringy hair away from its face to reveal glassy eyes poking weirdly out of their sockets. He tested its consistency with a slight kick, stabbed it with the butter spreader, shoved a gloved hand in the cut to pull it apart and open. It looked fresh enough, but nothing but a foul vapor oozed out of the body. Crystal dust lined its insides, shards poking out of muscles. He pushes his arm deeper, feels around the chest cavity to find nothing.

“No cuts, no holes,” he begins as he pokes and prods. “No bites, either. Heart’s missing. This your handiwork, Alcina?” Heisenberg quips, suspicion seeping through his stoic facade. For a moment, he swears he can see the lycan’s flesh pulse, the smallest contraction of a muscle. This whole situation got weirder by the second.

“The technique is truly admirable, is it not?” She offers with a gleeful smile, picks up her cigarette and places a hand on her hip. Here we go again. “I simply must have it. Besides, we must know if it poses any threat to us.” She was right, this time. After decades of experimentation, none of them had ever managed to keep an infected subject whole after death.

His shoulders slumped as she spoke, head bowing to hide his discontentment behind the brim of his hat. He knew what this meant: being sent on a stupid adventure in the ass-end of the woods, because he was the only one out of this freak show with the brain and brawn to venture out into the world in broad daylight, without dying to the cold or stopping every five seconds to infect and pet wild animals. Some of these missions he did enjoy, like being sent to nearby towns for special supplies - or special victims. He was never gone long, nor would he stray far, but those escapades never failed to serve as a reminder that he had a reason to keep going, that maybe one day he would be free and the world would be his to explore.

The four of them eyed Miranda quietly, waiting for the verdict that was certain to come. Moreau cut the silence by volunteering to investigate, the pathetic pitter-pat of his feet filling the room when Mother smiled at him.

“I would not risk you in such a way, my son,” she patted his head without a hint of affection. “Not when we are so close to answers. You must continue your research - Heisenberg will look into this… Whatever it is. You are dismissed.” Her tone was nonchalant, her confidence rock solid. This was merely an obstacle, not real danger. At least, that is what she wanted them all to see; if one looked close enough, they would notice the slight furrow in her brow through the slits of the golden mask.

“As you wish, mother.” He tipped his hat before taking his leave, chewing on his unlit cigar, feet pressing hard against the gravel underneath.

Heisenberg never thought he would come to regret having a proper spine and a functional pair of legs.

[ginkgomoon]

Gavin- King of my Heart

Happy blog birthday @cheri-translates! Here’s your present!! Hope you enjoy. 💙 🎉

You honestly don’t know why you were so terrified of chess.

Was it because it was the fear of losing? Or the fear of being humiliated? You would question yourself every time a chessboard appeared in your foresight.

Still, you took out the chessboard that had been casted away in the sad corner of your storage closet and wipe the box clean, sneezing from the minuscule dust particles escaping in the process.

“There are two opposing sides- black and white. White always makes the first move. How you win the game is by checkmating the opponent’s King.”

You lay the board flat on the coffee table in the living room then pour the pieces out, catching them before they roll off the edge. You make sure that everything was in the right order according to the guidebook as you check back and forth for each piece, hazily reciting the rules to yourself as you go. You adjust them carefully so that the pieces were all were staying perfectly aligned in their corresponding squares- white emulating black.

You knew Gavin had spare time during the weekends and so you used this opportunity to offer a game of chess. Surprisingly, he had never touched a chessboard in his life, but you guess it didn’t really matter since Gavin was used to thinking critically and strategically similar to his interactive simulation missions at STF. And of course, Gavin being the amazing man you love, is a quick learner and you have no doubt that he will perform well for a beginner.

“It’s not all about winning or losing, so don’t be so conflicted with the end result. You’re always a winner to me.”

Cookies that you baked beforehand- check. You had made sure not to make it overly sweet with the chocolate and sugar. Your pu’er tea accompanied by a matching Jupiter teapot and Moon teacups- check. You had bought them last week with Gavin and this would be the first time he’ll see it being used. Chessboard, good natural lighting from outside, comfy cushions to contribute to the cosiness and grounding sensation from sitting on the floor- all check. Yourself- check. Gavin... not check- yet.

You glance at the clock, noticing that it had just turned 1:59pm. Gavin should be here in exactly a minute.

You do a final sweep of the room, sighing from the satisfaction of the view being easy on the eyes for once. You know Gavin wouldn't mind the mess, but since you had the time to prepare and clean up beforehand, of course you took up the opportunity to do so and save you from the embarrassment afterwards.

The sound of the doorbell finally rings from outside, echoing through the walls of your home and heart. You feel your adrenaline pick up and dash towards the door to open for the person waiting behind, ready to let him in. Without having to say anything beforehand, you pulled him straight into a tight hug, with your head buried between his neck and shoulder.

Gavin- check, you remind yourself and smile. Nothing is missing.

“Hey,” he murmurs, hugging you right back. He then laughs, his voice sounding through the halls of the apartment complex. “I’m not even halfway through the door.”

You hug him tighter. You feel Gavin secretly smiling as he follows suit.

Being the first to let go, you finally lead him to the assortments of your hard work after he shuts the door behind him.

Gavin obediently sits down across from you on the carpet at white’s side of the board as you hand him the biggest cookie from the cookie platter. You watch him consume everything without hesitation, smiling at the remaining crumbs.

“Chocolate chip cookie made especially for you. Not too sweet this time, I promise. Should I have added chilli to this? Apparently the combination exists.”

“If that’s something you want to try making, sure.” He simultaneously chews while he smiles, his eyes fixating on you after you sit directly across from him.

You then pour the tea equally into the Moon cups and place one in front of him, making sure he could clearly recognise the cups- though not like he could ever forget.

“What do you think?” you exclaim.

He replies immediately with a cough. “It’s cute.”

You help yourself to your own cookie, letting the chocolate bits melt on your tongue. You smile too at tasting something edible that is of your own making, finally something that you and Gavin could eat safely without risking to add it to the long list of one of the “dark cuisine” foods.

“So about today, you said you wanted to teach me Chess?” he asks. You nod vigorously, a spark of happiness coming from within that you are the one now teaching Gavin instead of how it normally was the other way around.

“This piece is the King. It can only move one space at a time.” You point to the tallest piece that holds a cross at the top.

You then point to the piece fixated next to it, the one with the crown. “Next to it is the Queen. She can move anywhere she wants, however many squares she likes. She’s the most powerful piece in the game.”

You then point to the row above the King and Queen. “This row is full of pawns. They can move up two spaces in their first move. After that, they can only move one space up at a time.”

“When you’re older, you’ll find someone else to play chess with... and someone who will be by your side.”

That memory abruptly resurfaces from the depths of your subconscious, like each Chess piece of a chessboard gradually coming together with each piece of explanation you gave to Gavin. The black and white pieces- the good and bad memories, especially the ones with your father. You pause for a bit, before continuing on- before Gavin could notice the split second of hesitation.

“Rooks move horizontally and vertically, and Bishops can only go diagonally. Knights move two squares and one across on either side, like an “L” shape, and is the only piece that can jump over other pieces on the board,” you say, pointing to each corresponding piece. Gavin’s eyes follow your every move, nodding with his eyebrows slightly furrowing. You can’t help but let out a little smile from being able to capture a glimpse of this rarer side of Gavin- Commander Gavin.

“You have a choice to capture the opponent’s pieces if the opportunity ever comes up. The point of the game is to “checkmate” the other person’s King. This means that it is being targeted and has no other places to go. Before that, when the King is in danger but not checkmate, this means the King is in “check” and is forced to move. That’s it! As long as you remember these few rules, you’ll be okay.”

Gavin nods. “Got it," he responds, sternly. He most certainly is starting to look like a Chess grandmaster to you at the moment. You know he has to deduct investigations and complete various missions and STF tasks daily while you struggle to write the first draft for a show proposal. You feel he's way too intelligent, sometimes.

“Since you’re a beginner,” you start, “you can play as white first. White always makes the first move. We can start now if you don’t have any questions.”

Gavin pauses and observes each piece before him. Then, he reaches out for a pawn on the right side of his board and moves it forward two spaces. You move up the pawn in front of your King in response. Both of you slowly exchange moves, and more pieces congregate up in the middle of the chessboard.

“Who taught you how to play Chess?” Gavin finally asks.

“My father. Whenever he had time off set. He taught me a lot, including important life lessons relating to Chess as well. Though, I can't remember much.”

“Oh.” Gavin looks up from his chessboard, his eyes filling with concern. You look back with indifference, but smile, using this opportunity to stare right back. In this moment, you gradually take in the way his hair perfectly falls into place, with the sunlight highlighting the contours of his face and bringing out the shine in his amber eyes.

Your thoughts drift back to that autumn day, vividly reminiscing the ginkgo leaves dancing with the wind, pleasantly surprising you enough to stop your piano playing.

You blink out of that memory, and move your Queen towards Gavin’s King, cornering it with the support of a Rook.

“Checkmate.” You smile, a giggly feeling overcomes you from finally being able to beat Gavin at something, especially with a game that values a lot of strategy and analysing.

“Hm. Very good,” Gavin says, observing where I had cornered him, no doubt archiving this moment to use against me in future matches. Even though he lost, the corners of his mouth perks up at the sight of my joy.

“Let’s have a rematch! One more," you exclaim. Hopefully you could keep this enthusiasm up and form a winning streak.

Gavin helps reset the board without the help of the guidebook. This time, you play white and Gavin plays black. You both follow the same rhythm of how you two were the first time, however you notice Gavin’s movements were faster and more sure, strategically succeeding in capturing a lot of your pieces- pawns and all, though luckily not the Queen yet. The amount of growth he was displaying compared to earlier really shouldn’t surprise you, but it did anyway.

In the middle of the game, you make a bold risk, moving up the black Queen to the adjacent square to his King, certain that you have won this time again. “Checkmate!”

“But… you don’t have a supporting piece for it,” Gavin states, watching your face slowly flush in embarrassment. You observe his slim fingers move the King towards where your Queen was, and captures it. You grab your cup and take a sip of your tea in response, hopefully covering up your disappointment behind your hand. You kick yourself for having completely forgotten about that.

From then onwards, Gavin swiftly checkmates your King with the two Rooks lined up on the board, making it impossible for it to escape. You sigh. You tried your best, at least.

You try to disguise your disappointment in the wake of your defeat again with a smile and grab another cookie to chew on while Gavin studies the board. However, despite the result on your end, you were still admittedly proud of Gavin and allow yourself to feel grateful for being the only one to see this side of him to you.

“You lost a lot of pieces trying to attack. Especially with your Queen- you weren’t hesitant to sacrifice. Your pawn structure was weak and you moved without purpose.”

You stop munching the cookie. “You got all of that from those two games?”

Gavin nods slowly. He nonchalantly takes a sip of his third-time freshly poured tea, its steam floating towards the ceiling. “In STF simulations, you need to take note of every variable. Evol abilities, weather, weapons, and your fellow comrades- especially time. The criminal won’t hand you that much luxury. Every wrong decision would cost you. You need a plan for attack and defence, always. Always have a Plan B. If not, a Plan C. And if none of them will do, always have a Plan Z. Sometimes I’ll need to command nine groups at once. Other times it’ll just be me.”

You look at him blankly, your eyes widening as the only sign of response to his words. His eyes widen as well, not expecting that you would take it that way.

“I mean…” Gavin coughs before continuing, “it always works out. Please don’t worry. We’re highly trained for these operations, remember? I’ll always come back to you. I promise.” His hands reach out to hold yours at the table, meeting each other’s half-way.

"When I got used to holding your hand, buying different flowers for you each occasion, having reserved dinners and looking at the stars with you at night, I knew I couldn't continue the way like how I was before... before I met you again. Like being trapped in a building or apprehending someone and missing out of something that we planned in advance, I- I can't have that. Which is why I'd need to think of alternative operation routes, ones that require less sacrifice however still bear the same effectiveness as before. This is why I am the way I am now."

Who knew back then that this man would be your first love- a man so honest and sincere. Back when you would take a moment to smile at him in the hallways, receive help for retrieving the textbooks on the 2-metre shelves or just those few times when passing by the senior classrooms on your way to the music practice room and see him sleeping or staring outside the window where he sat.

“And you’ll find him. That person who will be with you through all life’s joy and heartbreak. Someone who will never leave you. Your King.”

You recall your father’s words as you squeeze Gavin’s hand a little more tighter. He squeezes right back three times.

You notice Gavin’s eyes awaken with a certain emotion that only you will notice- that something only you will ever know- directed at only you.

You squeeze his hand a little more tighter. He squeezes right back three times.

“Whether life is a game of Chess or not, you’re the only one who can dominate my territory, my pieces and my King. And when it comes to you, I’ve already won... my Queen.”

Closing his eyes, he brings forth your hand to his lips and lightly kisses it, already forever fulfilling his declaration of love.

I haven't posted any fan fiction before, let alone officially write one. This also accounts my first time having written this particular second person perspective, (apart from the Blue Temperature Gavin Empty Arena story) as this isn’t how I usually write. Normally I use first person and more indirect dialogue more than direct dialogue in my creative writing but this was really fun to try! Honestly, I couldn’t help myself but to bring forth some foreshadowing/parallels with the actual main storyline because admittedly, my writing takes need a lot of thought to understand the techniques I use and why my writing is the way it is. So, I won't be completely sure on if this will be received or not HAHA. But apart from everything else, this piece of work was made for this very special case for this very special day for a very special person so I won’t be posting much fan fiction as much as my other current work as I still prioritise my analyses and miscellaneous posts more but if you happen to want to see more, please let me know :) Thanks for reading and let’s all show Cheri much love for her accomplishments and milestone, today!

[beauregardlionett]

morning begins with your lips

AO3 Link

The Mighty Nein was a group that one could describe as existing in a constant state of flux. Sometimes they appeared competent and sometimes...well. Precious little in their lives remained as a fixed constant, including themselves. They were always changing and shifting one way or another, and it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It did, however, make it rather difficult for allies and enemies alike to keep up.

There was, however, one consistent constant - even if it was a minuscule detail. Beauregard Lionett always woke first in the morning.

Her training was a hard thing to shake, and life on the road did not lend to sleeping late most days. Beau also wasn’t in the market for changing her sleeping habits. So she woke moments before the dawn each morning and went through her usual workout.

That morning found them in a tavern, Caleb having used up too many spells the day before to cast their tower. It was a fairly nice tavern, so none of them minded. Beau sat herself at a circular table in the corner with coffee and some food (thankfully they had bacon here), and waited for everyone else to arrive.

The rest of the Nein arrived in a particular pattern - one Beau kept intricate familiarity with. About twenty minutes after she got back from her workouts, Caleb would show his face, slightly haggard, but awake. His inner alarm clock benefited him in waking up on time. Veth often followed close on his heels, especially since they frequently shared a room.

Fjord came next, no more than ten minutes after Veth. Beau suspected his life at the docks had ingrained the habit into him over the years of work. Jester and Caduceus were a toss up because sometimes Jester arrived first, others it was Caduceus, and sometimes both appeared at the same time. No matter what the order, the clerics always arrived to breakfast looking perky and put together.

Yasha always woke last, and Beau knew it was because the Aasimar always struggled to fall asleep at night. She slept late every morning, and usually just rolled out of bed, straightened out her clothing, and came down to breakfast.

A consistent morning routine that Beau knew by heart, a practice in a punctual routine that soothed like meditation. A promise kept the same way the sun rose every morning.

Sure enough, Beau sat in her seat, nursing her coffee and savoring her bacon as Caleb trudged down to the tavern. His tired blue eyes scanned for her, his feet carrying him her way once he located her. Beau watched as he gave the barmaid his quiet request for breakfast on his way over. The wizard dropped into his seat beside her and yawned a greeting.

Beau slid what remained of her coffee his way in silent commiseration. His fingertips were ink stained, which meant he probably had gotten little sleep, the fool.

Veth came bounding over minutes later, cheerful and sleep rumpled as she perched on Caleb’s other side. Stretching up on her tip-toes, the Halfling planted a sweet kiss to his cheek (a practice only done occasionally) before hollering an order to the barmaid that hollered back.

“Morning,” Beau said as she tugged a piece of bacon into two, trying to make it last longer.

“Morning,” Veth returned, fiddling with her crossbow already. Beau didn’t ask what she was attempting this time, just monitored the mechanism in case it misfired.

Their conversation didn’t extend much past that as Veth continued fiddling and Caleb tried to keep his eyes open. Beau was content with the familiarity.

They had barely finished exchanging pleasantries when Fjord arrived, yawning but alert. The half-Orc caught Beau’s eye with a nod before he wandered over to the bar. She watched him exchange pleasant conversation with the barkeep for a few minutes, probably gleaning some information about the town or surrounding area. He did this sometimes when they got to new towns none of them had heard of or been to before, and it almost always helped.

Beau tracked Fjord’s movements as he left the bar with a coffee, making his way to their table. The barmaid arrived with Caleb and Veth’s plates as Fjord sat down on Veth’s free side.

“Whatever you’ve got works for me,” Fjord said pleasantly, his effortless charm pulling a smile to the woman’s face. She bustled away, and Fjord suppressed another yawn as he turned to the table.

“Barkeep says the town’s been calm ever since the war was called to truce. Decreased presence of guard, not as many brawls in the streets and bars, and trade has been up. I don’t think there’s much going on here if we want to move on later. We might have some luck in the market for rations, but beyond that,” Fjord ended with a shrug.

Beau appreciated his forethought in matters like these, because she sometimes got caught up in the bigger picture. Her mind worked in ways better attuned to connecting threads and digging up nuanced details. Sometimes she could ground herself enough to get shit done in the present, but it was hardly ever regarding mundane day-to-day plans.

“So, shopping and hit the road?” Beau said, tearing her bacon into smaller pieces again.

“Sounds like a plan,” Fjord nodded, sipping at his coffee. The barmaid arrived then with the half-Orc’s food before she bustled off again.

Beau settled into her seat, one leg thrown over Caleb’s lap as he chipped away at his plate. Veth began needling at Fjord in teasing conversation, the half-Orc indulging her with fond exasperation. Beau watched on and chuckled now and then, thoroughly entertained.

Veth had just convinced Fjord to play a game of boulder parchment shears for his last piece of sausage when Caduceus and Jester arrived. The clerics were discussing the benefits of talking to the massive oak tree they saw on their way into town as they took their seats. Jester flounced into the seat beside Fjord, Caduceus sitting on her other side as they kept talking. The pair paused long enough to greet the table before getting back into it.

“I’m just saying - morning guys! - we should try it,” Jester said, eyes boring imploringly into Caduceus’. “Maybe the oak will be friendly!”

“Of course we can try,” Caduceus agreed, setting his staff to lean against the table. “But in my experience, oak trees are always rather stuck up.”

Beau decided not to question how many oak trees Caduceus spoke to in his free time. The barmaid swept up to their table again, distracting the clerics momentarily.

“I’ll have some potatoes and tea, please,” Caduceus drawled with a pleasant smile.

“Do you have any pastries?” Jester asked predictably, violet eyes wide as she twisted in her seat.

“We’ve got muffins?” The barmaid said, eyeing Jester’s bright, eager eyes warily.

“I’ll take three!” The Tiefling chirped. “And a glass of milk, please!”

“Sure,” the barmaid nodded before sweeping off.

Beau gnawed on her bacon as Jester and Caduceus resumed their conversation, Fjord dejectedly losing his sausage to Veth’s victorious crow. Caleb started tapping an absent rhythm against Beau’s knee, and she let him. All was as it should be thus far, Beau’s eyes wandering to the stair as she waited for the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place.

Yasha’s absence when she had been under Obann’s control was a jarring discontinuity to Beau’s routine. She had been off kilter for more than one reason the entire time Yasha had been away. Beau hated to remember those days. As much fun as they had on some of their adventures, there was always that missing piece, that quiet snark that never piped up in conversation. There was no one at her back in those fights, no familiar battle cry, no unyielding support that Beau could fall back on with absolute trust.

She knew Yasha was last to rise, but the passing minutes never failed to pulse in Beau’s veins with anxiety. An irrational yet rational fear that she would never show.

Beau counted the minutes, tuning out conversation, absently aware of Caleb’s pattern against her kneecap.

Yasha stumbled down the stairs, tugging her tunic into order as she made her way over to their table. A surprising amount of tension bled from Beau’s shoulders with every step closer Yasha took. Jester came up from devouring her muffins long enough to greet Yasha, crumbs falling out of her mouth as she did.

“Mornin’ Yafa!” Jester managed through her food. The Aasimar offered the Tiefling a sleepy smile as she headed for the only empty seat between Caduceus and Beau.

“Good morning,” Yasha murmured as she rounded the table. Her eyelids still drooped with exhaustion she had yet to shake off. But she smiled small and warm at them all, her eyes landing on Beau as she stepped up beside the monk. Fondness made Beau feel like her heart was melting in her chest as she grinned up at Yasha, tipping her head back to catch her eye.

Yasha bent down and planted a quick, sweet peck on Beau’s lips, the monk’s smile curling wider as Yasha pulled away with a murmured, “morning Beau.”

The Aasimar wandered off to the bar a moment later to get a drink, yawning as she did. Beau happily went back to her bacon, picking it into pieces and popping them in her mouth. It took her a few moments to realize that something had changed.

Looking up, Beau froze with bacon halfway to her mouth when she found everyone at the table staring at her in stunned silence. Caleb’s tapping against her knee had ceased, Veth’s mouth was hanging open with sausage half-chewed. Fjord and Caduceus were giving her matching stares that were somehow both knowing and awed. Jester looked as if she were two seconds away from combusting into glitter.

“What?” Beau asked, somewhat defensively.

“Beau!” Jester exploded, squealing loudly. “You didn’t tell me you and Yasha finally talked!”

Beau’s cheeks grew hot, and she put her bacon down slowly. “Talked about what?”

“You kissed Yasha like it was a normal, everyday thing!” Veth said, thankfully swallowing her mouthful of food beforehand. “When did that happen?”

Beau froze, eyes going wide.

Oh.

“Uh...just now.”

“What?” Fjord said, brows furrowing.

“It happened just now,” Beau said, quiet and struck.

“Oh my gosh,” Jester gushed, practically vibrating in her seat. “That was your first kiss with Yasha? And it was that easy? And we all got to see it? That’s so romantic, Beau!”

Beau’s eyes flit to where Yasha stood at the bar. The Aasimar had twisted around to look back at the table, eyes wide and mouth agape. Clearly, she had come to the same realization as Beau. That same fondness from before softened everything in Beau’s countenance near instantly, and she smiled across the tavern at Yasha. She watched the Aasimar blush as she grinned back, turning to the barkeep to order when they came up to Yasha.

“I guess it is pretty romantic,” Beau whispered.

Veth and Jester squealed with each other as Fjord and Caduceus went back to their breakfasts. Caleb gently pinched the inside of Beau’s knee where her leg was still across his lap. He smiled when she looked at him and squeezed her ankle.

Beau’s chest felt full to bursting when she realized that her happiness could spread so easily among this family she had cultivated. She settled into her seat as Yasha came back and held her hand under the table for the duration of their meal.

This was something new Beau wouldn’t mind adding to their routine.

[sahuara-third]

Tonight there will be an excavation.

But to rise the cancer to surface, I’ll climb the theater stairs once more in ceremony.

How has your face faded to just eyes? Why do I not recoil but reach?

To watch this horror film is to relive the day I left the coffee shop on repeat like I have for some many years but this time my eyes are taped open while my tears collect in minuscule pools on the slivers and shards of broken glass reflecting all of our lost futures. This is one last indulgence.

In the morning, I will report clean margins but tonight I’m engulfed in crumbs of what could have been but is not; what should have been but will not. Tonight I will slice off each goosebump that stands in reaction to your breathe left on my neck, between my thighs. The buttons of blood will scab over and that will be all that is left of this destruction. This is self mutilation but I see only beauty as I stand in front of the mirror in affirmation that extinguished hope, no, faith, was the only course of action.

The dawn offers two options for existence after you - cease or continue.

[theincompetentgenius]

Warlords Reaction to their S/O on their period and guarding their snacks

Anon: Hideyoshi, Yukimura and Mitsuhide's reaction to their s/o being on her period and aggressively guarding their stash of snacks even going as far as to say "if you want this you gonna have to kill me for it"

I’m not sure if you wanted to this to be cute and adorable, but this turned out to be more like some crack headcanons so sorry in advance!

Hideyoshi

At first, Hideyoshi is NOT GOING TO HAVE IT. He’s gonna be like “Absolutely not. You are not going to have all that JUNK because it is bad for your health and might kill you one day.”

He’ll glare at your snacks as you clutch them to your chest and back against the wall. The two of you are having a silent stand-off as you crawl closer to the back corner of the wall.

Hideyoshi reaches for your bag of chips when you scream, “I’M BLEEDING FROM MY VAGINA AND IT FEELS LIKE SOMEONE IS STABBING ME IN THE STOMACH. LET ME HAVE ONE SECOND OF HAPPINESS BY LETTING ME EAT MY DAMN SNACKS IN PEACE!”

His face drains of all color as his hand freezes in midair. He did not expect that answer to come from your mouth. While he’s in his state of shock, you open your bag of chips and munch of them as loudly as possible. The poor boy just shakes his head and closes the door.

A few moments later, you hear another knock on your door. You grab your snacks in one large circle and prepare yourself for Hideyoshi’s next move by guarding them.

When he comes in, Hideyoshi has both hands raised in the air. You eye him suspiciously, but he speaks before you can develop your suspicion. “I’ve come to make a peace offering.“

In his left hand, you see a bag of Nobunaga’s konpeito. In his right hand, there seem to be other goodies that you don’t recognize. Nevertheless, they look delicious and you’re excited to try them.

Luckily that’s not the only thing he brought. He has a hot cloth (which acts as the old-timey heating pad), water, sanitation cloths (old-timey pads), and other menstruation essentials.  He even feeds you the konpeito as you rest your head against his shoulder.

He takes a break of feeding you the konpeito and feeds you one of the other snacks that you don’t recognize. He gingerly places it in your mouth and you take a large bite out of excitement.

The sweetness that was once in your mouth disappears along with your happiness. A murky, earthy scent coats your tastebuds as your tongue recoils from the bitter taste of string beans.

Hideyoshi has two seconds to run before you beat his ass for tricking you into eating vegetables.

Yukimura

Yukimura walks into your room because he wanted to spend some time with you. So imagine his surprise when he sees you accompanied by all these snacks with absolutely no room for him to sit.

Your face is covered in crumbs as you shove a spoonful of cake into your mouth and look at him with a nonchalant expression. Do you look like a mess? Yes. Do you care? No.

Yukimura takes one of your bags of chips in his hands and frowns. “You know you’re going to get fat if you eat all of this junk, right? You’re going to more like a wild boar than you already are.”

With the little strength you have, you snatch the bag from his hands and give him a cold glare. “If you want this, you’re going to have to kill me for it.”

He just blinks with his mouth slightly ajar. He’s never seen you so angry and passionate about something so minuscule? Yukimura tries to wrap his head around it, but he doesn’t understand why you’re making this such a big deal.

That’s when you explain to him that you’re on your period and that you're bleeding for your lady bits, so your stomach became an endless pit that needs constant attention.

His face turns bright red as he instinctively averts his eyes from you. Of all the reasons in the world, he wasn’t expecting that. To be completely honest, he was still confused about the whole period=more food thing, but he didn’t need any more information about your uterus. He’ll just shake his head and call you a wild boar.

Yukimura will watch you finish your cake and move onto your bad of chips. Although he rarely eats junk food, he can’t help but notice how much you seem to enjoy it. If you like it that much, there must be something good about it right?

He asks you for a single chip. It takes you some time to decide whether his request is worth you losing one chip, but you ultimately agree.

When Yukimura puts one chip in his mouth, you watch with narrow eyes (his reaction better be worth the sacrifice). He’ll make a weird face and excuse himself, leaving the room. In a matter of minutes, he’ll be back with an entire shipment of the latest junk food.

You wrap your arms around him, hugging and kissing him. He’s the best boyfriend ever (he totally not buy them because he was scared that you were going to break his face).

Mitsuhide

Now our favorite snake boy already knew something was wrong when you weren’t coming out of your room for the entire day. He wasn’t sure why you were upset, but he wanted to give you some space before he made sure you were alright.

When he enters your room to check up on you, the smell of steamed pork buns fills his nose. You turn around, clutching the canteen of buns close to your chest. There are bags of konpeito, chips, and other desserts surrounding you. All he does is raise an eyebrow and ask, “What are you doing?”

You shove a whole bun in your mouth. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m eating.”

Mitsuhide picks up a packet of your chips and reads the contents. His eyes narrow as he examines the rest of your food more carefully. “I hate to sound like Hideyoshi, but do you know what these things are made out of? I’ve never heard some of these ingredients before.”

That’s when you yell at him about leaving you alone and telling him that he’s going to have to pry the snacks from your dead body. You mention the fact that you’re on your period for the guilt factor.

Mitsuhide doesn’t blink. Instead, he chuckles and pats your head, finding your aggression quite adorable.  He’s not sure why you’ve developed such a strong connection to your snacks, but he isn’t surprised that you’re binging as a coping mechanism.

He places the bag on the floor and tells you that he has something important to show you. You eye him suspiciously as you tell him to leave your room so you can change into something decent. He leaves and you use the opportunity to shove all your snacks into the closet.

When you come out in your cute kimono, Mitsuhide notices that all your snacks have magically disappeared. He asks you about them while you shrug in return. He’ll notice the closest door is looking unusually full and decides to open it.

Cue all the snacks pouring out into the floor. He raises his eyebrow again as you give him a sheepish grin. It takes him a while to convince you that he isn’t going to steal or take the snacks away.

After a while, you give in to his persuasion and follow him to a sweets shop. Mitsuhide tells you to buy anything that you like and you give him the biggest kiss ever. Hopefully, that’s enough to make up for the fact that you spent thousands of yen on some sweets.

[boxed-n-bottled-arson]

Yandere Virgil chapter 3

Summary: Virgil’s deal with the mysterious ‘Rem’ needs to be filled. So Virgil finds a way to expel of Remy Skyes and makes his worst ever mistake.

Warnings: Food mentioned, plotting murder, murder, brief description of dead bodies, cursing (2), blood mentioned, injury mentioned, fire mentioned, near-death experiences.

Ships: one-sided moxiety, RemyxPatton slightly

      Virgil walked through the cafeteria staring down at his feet. A week had passed since Logan’s murder, and a week had passed since he made a deal to kill Remy Skye. He had two weeks, two minuscule weeks to kill Remy or…. He didn’t know what would happen. But Virgil really didn’t want to find out. 

       He arrived at the table he and Patton always sat at (well… Logan and Roman also sat there, or at least used to). He took his seat next to Patton, who immediately leaned on Virgil. This had been happening a lot recently since Patton had been taking the deaths of his friends not very well, but at least Virgil was there to comfort him. They sat in comfortable silence for a bit till Patton spoke up, “Virge, I’m scared.” “Why would that be Pat?” Patton looked at Virgil, “I know that Roman and Logan’s deaths look like accidences but” Patton paused for a second, “what if they weren’t?” Virgil’s eyes grew big, as Patton continued talking, “And...and,” tears started to roll down Patton’s face, “what if I lose you?” Virgil pulled Patton into the closest hug he could. “Shh, Pat it’s ok. You’re not gonna lose me I promise.” Virgil sat there, holding Patton as Patton continued to cry, it took a bit, but Patton had managed to calm down. “Sorry about that Virge,” Patton said, gaze resting on the floor. Virgil put a hand on Patton’s shoulder, “It’s ok Pat, and it’s ok to be scared.” Pat looked up at Virgil and nodded, before giving him a shy yet genuine smile. A smile that was so rare since the passing of Roman. A smile that made Virgil’s heart flutter. A smile that Virgil fell in love with.

       A bell rung, signaling the end of final period. Virgil gathered his stuff and made his way out of the classroom, heading for the door at the front of the school. He made his way through crowds of students and eventually made it to the front doors. Stepping through the doors, Virgil looked around the front area od the school till he spotted Patton who was talking to...Remy. Virgil’s eyes grew wide and his breathing picked up. Why was Remy talking to Patton? Is Remy flirting with Patton? Countless more questions ran through Virgil’s head before he calmed himself enough to be able to walk towards Patton and Remy. “Ya, the party’s from 8 to 10 at my place tomorrow, you better not miss it, girl.” Virgil heard Remy say. Virgil was hoping the anger he was feeling didn’t seep out and onto his face. “Of course I’ll be there Remy!” Patton said, tone bubbly and excited. Remy walked away before Virgil had arrived, but Remy had left oh so many bread crumbs that would lead to his very own demise.

     Virgil arrived in math class on the morning of the party, taking his typical seat in the back of the room. Nothing seemed unordinary till Virgil opened his math binder. In it were the typical scattered papers and notes, but on top of everything was a party invitation. An invitation to none other than Remy’s party (with Rem signed in the bottom corner,). Murmuring a thank you under his breath to this mysterious 'Rem', Virgil flipped the invitation over reading to read the details. The party was as Remy said from 8 to 10 tonight, at 118 Greencircle (which Virgil presumed was Remy's address). The invitation had been obviously stolen, though, maybe Virgil would take the hint from Rem that now was the time to strike.

     Virgil stared from across the street at the house he was about to infiltrate. The house had rainbow light flowing out of it, and Virgil could faintly hear the music from it. Virgil was shaking, like fully shaking. Unlike any business he had conducted at school, this was loud and there were SO many people, along with a higher risk to be caught. Virgil pulled his patchwork jacket close to him as he walked shakily across the street, towards the front lawn when he saw them. Them, as in people including Remy sitting on the porch, he was walking towards. Virgil's breathing hitched before he immediately ran for the bushes on the side of the house and ducked into them. Virgil's breathing was heavy, and he desperately hoping the people on the porch were to busy drinking punch and talking to notice him walk towards the house. 

     Virgil sat in the bushes staring at the wall of the house he was next to. His plan of sneaking in and desperately avoiding anyone he knew, had been foiled and he needed a new one. That's when he heard a girlish squeal followed by a distressed Remy screaming, "GIRL, I WALK INTO THE DOOR OF MY OWN HOUSE FOR MY OWN PARTY AND GET A BUCKET OF PUNCH POURED ON ME!?!?" Virgil smirked. Whether this was Rem’s doing or the universe itself, Virgil couldn’t help but feel a bit lucky. "THANKS, BITCHES, IM GOING TO GET CHANGED UPSTAIRS" he heard Remy scream again. Ah, so Virgil had a place to head to. Virgil stood up, staring at the siding on the house. There was no he would be able to grip onto it and climb up. But the ivy running all up and down the sides, he might just be able to climb that. The pressure from the clock and thought of his and Rem's deal pushed him to start climbing without a second thought. 

     The ivy was thornless, but still hard to climb up and had very few places Virgil could put his feet, not to mention the house he was climbing was also two stories. The worst though happened about halfway up the house. 

     Virgil's hands gripped the ivy, like a lifeline. He barely dared to even breathe, scared it would lead to ripping the ivy he was holding on. Virgil moved his left hand a little higher, grabbing a new strand of ivy and pulling himself farther up. He pulled his body up, and his left foot rested on another part of the ivy when he felt it break from under him. His hands slid down the ivy as his feet dangled off the side of the house. His hands gripped to the ivy, like his life depended on it, wait, his life did depend on it. This was it. Life or death. Mustering up all the strength and adrenaline he could, Virgil pulled himself up and grabbed a nearby window sill as he felt all the ivy he was gripping snap. Virgil pulled himself onto the sill, his breaths coming in gasping, wavy lengths. The sill was barely big enough for him to sit on, but it felt sturdy enough to support him. Virgil wished he could have tried to calm himself, but the clock was ticking and Remy wasn't gonna be in the bathroom all night. 

     Virgil pushed his face against the glass of the window, it seemed to be a bedroom of some sort. Backing away from the glass, Virgil looked up to the next window sill. It wasn't that high above him, and he jumped and got a good enough grip to pull himself up. The window obviously belonged to the bathroom, the lights were on so you could easily see the toilet, sink, and shower. Most importantly though Remy was there, staring at himself in the mirror. 

     Virgil could taste the victory on his tongue, or maybe that was the blood from him biting his cheek out of nerves. It took a moment but Virgil managed to open the semi-broken (which had already been broken) window and was now able to access the bathroom. Remy was talking on the phone, supposedly to someone who was not able to make the party and not paying attention to his surroundings. "Agh, girl these bitches decide to pour a bowl of punch on my head and it's still sticking to my fingers and I'm gonna have to blow dry my hair!" Virgil silently snickered at Remy’s overdramatic tone. The person on the other end spoke up, "try soaking your hand in warm water or something, idk that might help." The voice was unrecognizable to Virgil, "Fine I'll see if that helps," Remy said as he turned on the facet. 

     It was unexpected, it was sudden, and Remy never saw it. He thought he was alone, except for Tayln over the phone (He had called them complaining Patton looked way too cute in the outfit they were wearing). He had just turned on the water, trying to rid his fingers of the annoying sticky feeling they retained from having punch poured over him when in barely the blink of an eye, he saw his hairdryer fall into the sink. Almost instantly, Remy felt the electricity pulse through him. Through his hands, then his arms, through his torso, then right to his brain. 

He was dead before his body hit the floor.

      Virgil watched from the side as Remy’s body hit the white tile floor of the bathroom. It was strange how weird people looked when they had that spark of life removed from them. They looked almost clouded, their eyes no longer glowing. Virgil could see that even through Remy’s sunglasses. 

    “Hello there? Rems, you there?” The person from Remy’s phone asked. Virgil froze up. There was no way in hell he’d be able to answer that. He quickly weighed his options before clicking the end call button. Virgil let out a shaky sigh, his eye’s resting to the sink that he’d turned into a murder weapon. How much of this was he willing to do for Patton? Patton… The one thing keeping him going. Patton. Virgil couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him. 

      Right before Virgil could go on to start daydream he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, notifying him of a new text. 

“Good work. Remy has been...dealt with. Though you now have a party full of people with a missing host, and a most likely distressed friend you hung up on. Not to mention the fingerprints on the side of the house and window. Nevertheless, I’m going to offer my help to you. There is another person hot on my tail, and I need them removed. You agree to take care of them, I’ll clean up this party and evidence. Do we have a deal?

-Rem”

     Virgil had never realized how much evidence he made, nor how glad he really was to have Rem. He quickly texted back his agreement.

 “Fine, I agree to help you.”

  “I’m glad”

A second passed before Virgil received another text,

“I’m gonna need you to leave that house, there should be an easy exit from the master bedroom connected to the bathroom you’re in. Bedroom also seems to be deserted.”

“Ok”

     Virgil tucked his phone in his pocket before walking over to a near door. Opening it he was greeted with the sight of the master bedroom. Pulling out his phone he texted Rem again,

“What type of exit am I looking for?”

“Window closes to the bed has a tree outside of it. Jump on to it and climb down, tell me when you’re on the other side of the road.”

      Virgil turned off his phone and made his way to the window. Rem was correct, a large birch tree sat right outside the window. Unlocking the window and opening it, Virgil gave no second thought before jumping into the tree. That was a mistake. He ended up slamming into one of the branches and hurting his ribs. He had to keep going though. He didn’t have long before someone went looking for Remy and found him dead. High on adrenaline and fear, Virgil made his way done the tree (trying to ignore the stinging pain from his most likely bruised ribs). 

    At the base of the tree, Virgil took a few deep breaths, yet as much as he wanted it to be over it wasn’t. He still needed to make it to the other side of the road. With one hand gripping his side and hurt ribs, Virgil sulking made his way over to the side of the road (making sure to check for cars, he had already had too many near-death experiences today). Once there Virgil practically fell onto the side of the road and laid there. He was exhausted. Slowly he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“I’m at the side of the road”

He laid his phone on his chest and felt himself smile slightly. It was over, Remy was dead. He just had one more person to get rid of and if you were smart he wouldn’t need rem’s hel-.

All thoughts were cut off by the smell of smoke and sounds of screams. 

     Virgil hastily stood up and looked at the scene in front of him. Remy’s house was fully ablaze, people were filling out of it, and smoke was rising up from the house. Virgil grabbed his phone and frantically started typing.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Rem responded back quickly

“Removed evidence. The fingerprints and body are simply burned away, and the people in the house are leaving. The whole thing will look like someone simply left a burner on or dropped a cigarette in the wrong place.”

Virgil’s eyes drifted back to the sea of people now in front of the house.

“PATTON WAS IN THAT HOUSE.”

“And he is completely safe.” 

Rem’s response was delivered with a picture of Patton right outside the house, he seemed to be on the phone panicking, most likely calling 911 or his family. 

Rem sent another message soon after,

“Now if you’re done panicking, I have another client you need to expel of.”

     The message was sent with a picture of a person called Damion ‘Deceit’ Nova. Virgil’s eyes grew as he stared at the picture. Damion was the kid everyone was scared of, he was rumored to be part of some mafia and was that was always in fights. Fights, that ended oftentimes in blood and potentially the other person not walking out. Damion was heavily dangerous and could probably snap Virgil right in half.

“I assume you know who this is,”

Virgil typed his response, panicked thoughts running through his head on about how long he would have to expel of Damion

“HOW AM I SUPPOSE TO KILL HIM? ANYONE WHO GOES NEAR HIM PRACTICALLY DIES!!”

“I cleaned up one of your messes, you’re cleaning up one of mine. You have 3 weeks, I expect Damion gone.”

Virgil would have texted Rem, but he knew there was no hope in bargaining with the mysterious figure. Virgil stared up at the still burning house. He really was screwed, wasn’t he?

[hozierandco]

Imagine Hozier x Reader: The Trench

[A/N]: Set during WWI, this AU imagine presents Hozier as a soldier during the First World War. Irish, he serves for the British armies and while on leave meets a woman that could possibly change his life for good.

Andrew Hozier-Byrne was a brave soldier, had been from the very first day he signed up a paper making official the decision he put his mind through: he was to serve for Britain. Not that he particularly appreciated the country that had repeatedly humiliated his native soil nor did he particularly like bellicose times but in Ireland, he was an idle young fella since no work was given to him. In fact, Ireland shared a common point with the United Kingdom it so harshly tried to take distances from: both countries were elitist, assigning the proper jobs to always the same people, the better born, the most likely to get a job. For other men, war felt like a relief, an opportunity for them to prove their value to the world, no matter what the cost of that sacrifice could be.

When he was given a number to which he must reply by now, Private Hozier-Byrne realized the whole process of making canon fodder out of the loud host on its way to fight because one archduke had not been lucky and got killed. The talion law had never been that cruel before. All those men willing to die to have their corpse being prayed upon by all those politicians who would never take one tenth of the risks taken just to keep on living. Naturally, almost organically, Andrew started scribbling words that soon became sentences, sentences becoming journal entries day after day. Those notes were supposed to give a face and a name to the men he would meet, those he would fear, those who would give him absurd orders and those he was supposed to hate.

In order not to drive insane with the unhealthy humidity that brought the days of November and the unidentifiable insects milling about in the trenches, Andrew wrote verses that were seemingly only written by his zeal for living, verses that could have easily made his superiors die of the sorrow caused. Ignoring that many other men, such as Private Wilfred Owen followed the same destiny, Andrew could not help but to write, sometimes wasting the rare sleep he was given the permission to get. That exhausting process was here to fill something he could possibly not have, something that scarce crumbs of stale bread cannot replace: the company of someone that was, like him on the lookout for the next assault against the Germans. He was craving for an ear he could talk about the tough hours of waiting for something, even a wee thing, to happen. About the tears he would shed when the twilight would eventually fall over the cliffs, leaving him thinking of the sweet coast of Ireland he had left behind. Simply about life and death being so close from one another and the harsh fight to keep away from the latter. The weight of his riffle against his thorax, he would dream of the armistice and of a brighter future for him in Ireland, if he was ever to return.

By chance, his name was to serve him once. His surname being Hozier, it soon captured his sergeant's attention. Indeed, not less than Clementine Hozier who by marrying Winston Churchill - a promising politician who, in despite of some men who saw in him an opportunist, had already showed to the world his temper a few years before - had become a socialite and thus, an important woman in the British society. Sergeant Mooney, a fierce Irishman proudly wearing medals he had gained by the past on a grim green outfit strongly believed that amongst his men was a relative to Clementine Churchill, a nephew perhaps. If it was not even remotely true, as far as Andrew was aware, if he kept mum, he could possibly leave for a while the dire fields of blood. Which he did on February of 1915 when some respite was offered to the soldiers who were for some fighting since September on end.

Through the cold streets from the North of France, Andrew ended the short period of his leave in a distillery in the region of Lille. Very early in the morning, he was to take a carriage that would inevitably put him back to the front. He had had three days that he spent getting drunk, trying to forget that he was a soldier now. He had had three days that he spent writing hollow letters that he could resolve to send to his parents and to his brother who had remained in Ireland. Although the French government tried hard to stop the spreading and the sale of the Green Fairy, many bars were still offering that poisonous comfort for broken men, prone to despair and nihilism. It is in that context that Private Hozir-Byrne had discovered the holy beverage. He was about to order another glass when all of a sudden, he heard, from behind him a sweet voice he thought to be belonging to his imagination:

"That thing's gonna kill you", a woman it was. She had such a tenderness in her features. Her age was difficult to guess, she could have been fifteen or forty. If Andrew could not tell what her age was, he could tell that a woman was a beautiful one. He put the glass back on the counter and introduced him, his hand reaching out for the woman's.

"I'm Andrew, dead man walking", those three last words had escaped as an Austrian psychanalyst had written ten years earlier as the expression of his repression. If Sigmund Freud had studied his case he would have drawn the conclusion that Andrew Hozier-Byrne, so zealous to live a few months ago was now wishing that he was dead. Now that he had someone to talk to, even for just a couple of hours, would he change his behaviour?

"I'm Y/N, sutler for the soldiers in Neuve Chapelle", the woman replied with a candid voice that made Andrew's face white.

"Nice to meet you!", Andrew replied to that sordid encounter. Y/N nodded as to say that she too was glad to have met the man at that time of her life. Volunteer like Andrew, Y/N had no skills enough to be a nurse but was to get involved in the Great War, one way or another. Her father had been a soldier too, she could understand more than anyone what it means to fight for one's country, but above all for freedom. She had become a sutler on September of 1914, giving a hand to more than one soldier in the villages of the Marne and now in the North of France, since the dreadful battle of Arras and then Ypres, in Belgium. She had seen bodies scattered, plundered from their weapons, making them appear to be gawkers when they had been brave, making them look sad when they died happy, happy to have been part of that humongous fight.

That meeting was doomed to no outcome, which made it even more intimate. Knowing that they would not see each other after that night, they could talk about everything with no fear. That is how they started talking about the war freely, the lost hopes, the victory that was so difficult to imagine once amid the stifling dust and the mice. If Y/N had been a spy or if any malevolent soul had listened to the conversation, Andrew would have easily been charged for treason against his country, or at least the country he served under the flag for. But even then, Andrew would not mind. If he was to be hung, at least he would have been honest doing so. His neck attached to a noose could not be as revolting as what he had been witnessing for months.

After a whole hour of a heated discussion about silly orders men were told to follow and about the beauty of the Irish coast, Y/N was called by the owner from the other side of the bar. "And now, may I introduce you to the gorgeous Y/N", he said in a strong French accent. Andrew looked at her as an improvised stage was now floodlit. Y/N advanced on the minuscule promontory and began a little speech that she concluded by: "To all the Irish soldiers, that song dedicated" and on that looked at the distraught man. With eyes closed and the voices dumb around her, Y/N sang heartily The Wind that Shakes the Barley, thus echoing to the morbid taste Andrew was given in as well as his melancholy towards his country.

Tears were forming on Andrew's canthus as the words were so precisely describing his feelings. Between the moment Y/N had started singing and the moment she sat back next to Andrew, the latter knew that singing was his own destiny. If he was to come back from the war, he would be a singer. He congratulated Y/N when she sat back. The two of them spent the night together, aware that the world was coming to an end, trying their best to delay the deadline.

By seven in the morning, Y/N woke up in an empty bed, hers that an angel had blessed during the night. During the rest of the fight that had torn apart Europe, Y/N did her best to get informed on Andrew's fate. Has he survived? She hated herself for she had not asked his surname, which would have helped far more than to look for every single Andrew fighting in the trenches.

She had no information when the armistice was signed and started losing hope as to see him again. She was still living in the North of France, thinking that if Andrew wanted to see her again, he would seek in the region, making things easier for their reunion. Which was a great option since that happy day happened.

By December of 1918, almost a month after the war had ended in Europe, Andrew wished to go back to Ireland. He still had some papers to sign to make official his departure from the army. In Ireland, a new fever impregnated; men who fought during the war now wanted their young wives and their future children to be called Irish, and not British anymore. Andrew wanted to take part in that fight too, with the same strength that he put into the Great War. From the fields to Ireland, Andrew had to cross the region in which he had met Y/N. He prayed that she was still there. When the two gathered, it felt just like they had never stopped seeing each other.

Three months later, the two moved in together in the venerate Ireland that only a year later became independant, far from the mud of the war.

[complicatedandstained]

358 Nights: Poker Night Part 2

It’s not that Luxord’s entirely opposed to the idea of sitting around and watching Demyx and Xigbar trade saliva. There is something intriguing about the single-minded intensity with which they go about it. 

The way Demyx’s hands trace the well-defined muscles beneath Xigbar’s coat, and Xigbar’s fingers curl into Demyx’s carefully crafted hair, their nails digging in, careless of whether they meet skin or leather, yanking each other closer until one coat is indistinguishable from the other and the heat radiating off of them is so thick he can almost smell the sweat… 

He’d be all for it really. It’s just that it’s encroaching on his poker night. 

So Luxord shuffles once more and then flips a card across the table like a boomerang. It nicks them both in the neck before curving back and settling neatly between Luxord’s outstretched fingertips once more. 

The two tear apart immediately, hands flying to their fresh, minuscule paper cuts, coming away tipped in red. 

“Hey!” Demyx gripes, quickly overshadowed by Xigbar’s thunderous, “What the fuck?”

“Oh, wherever are my manners?” Luxord deadpans, arching a neat golden brow. “Did I interrupt?” 

Xigbar strategically shifts Demyx to one side of his lap so he can set an arm on the table and glare across it. “You got something to say, Lux?”

Luxord sets the card down. “Round one. Just trying to determine whether you two are in or out.”

“Feels like maybe we should be asking you that,” Xigbar jeers, fingertips toying with Demyx’s coat zipper as if in invitation, though Demyx noticeably balks at the notion. “I mean, c’mon. We really going to play poker with three people? There are better ways to kill time.”

“Yeah, where is everybody?” Demyx glances around, meaning to search for other familiar faces, but becoming distracted by his guitar, abandoned on the tabletop. He slides into the chair beside Xigbar’s and, slipping the strap around his neck, begins to fiddle with it. “Larxene’s usually here beating all our asses by now.”

Luxord and Xigbar exchange confused glances. 

Demyx winces, stretches an arm behind his head. “What?” 

“Uh,” Xigbar’s glove wraps the back of Demyx’s neck, “Larxene’s dead, honey bun. ‘C.O. got K.O.’d,’ remember?” 

“Oh.” Demyx looks puzzled for a moment and then hearing his own words echoed back to him kicks his brain into gear. “Oh, yeah! Duh. Totally forgot about that whole Castle Oblivion clusterfuck.” His attention returns to his guitar, he smirks. “Good riddance.”

Luxord frowns his disapproval, and Xigbar lets out a bark of laughter, squeezing the back of Demyx’s neck and then letting go as a shadow falls across the table. 

“Good riddance to what?” Gibbs inquires with a good-natured smile, nestling a basket of smoking, warm beer bread in the center of their table beside a bundle of exhausted napkins and nicked cutlery. 

Xigbar’s smile is sharper than the bread knife Gibbs stabs into the fresh loaf. “Larxene.”

“Your crew’s little she-devil?” Gibbs smiles a different kind of smile. “Take off with a man, did she?”

Xigbar pulls the bread basket his way. “In a manner of speaking.” 

“Davy Jones,” Luxord replies, more familiar with the local lingo than the other two. 

Gibbs staggers slightly, catching himself on the back of a chair. “Good heavens, no! She’s dead?” 

“Yeah.” Demyx fidgets with one of his guitar’s tuning keys and plucks out a discordant note. “Apparently, like, super dead.” 

Gibbs’ hand settles over his heart, sobering gaze passing between the other two, “’Tis no easy feat to lose a crew member. I am sorry to hear it.” 

“Thank you,” Luxord replies tonelessly, sliding a bread plate out from the stack. Xigbar merely nods, proceeding to slice up the loaf. 

“You’d be the only one,” Demyx mutters, and Xigbar should choke down his snort for Gibbs’ sake, but he doesn’t. 

The silence is distinctly uncomfortable. For Gibbs. Fortunately, working in a bar, he’s accustomed to making hasty retreats from awkward scenarios, and he promptly nods toward their unusually small table.

“Well, you’ll be needin’ a few more chairs, I reckon?”

“Er… no.” Shifting his deck of cards out of the way, Luxord accepts the delicious smelling plate of bread Xigbar passes him. “I’d wager we’ll all fit here for the night.”

“Surely not?” Gibbs bites his lip, trying to remember a night their crowd was any fewer than seven strong. “Those two big, burly fellows never miss a game, do they?” 

Lexaeus, Xaldin.  

Luxord dismisses the notion with a swish of his butter knife. “They won’t be joining us.”

Through his evening buzz, Gibbs gradually recalls the other faces that typically crowd his tables each month. Not difficult to recollect, really, considering their mystically dyed hair, strange manners, deep pockets... “And what of your doctor? And your priest? And your botanist?”

Vexen, Zexion, Marluxia.

Xigbar glances up, really tries to muffle the smile. “Also not coming.”

“They’re not…also…” Gibbs cringes as the men in dark coats continue to cut and butter the beer bread instead of reacting. “...Are they?”

Xigbar offers a theatrical little sigh. “’Fraid so.”

“Damn,” crumbs spill down Demyx’s chin, and Xigbar can’t resist the urge to come at him with a napkin, garbling the rest of his words, “zounds baff when you put it all togeffer like bat.”

Weighed down by the news, Gibbs slides into the seat at Luxord’s side. Luxord pats him on the back because, if he’s recalling correctly, that’s the thing to do, and he figures at least one of them ought to be trying to keep up regular human appearances. 

“There, there, old man. It’s all as the fates designed.” Luxord slides his tankard Gibbs’ way. “Have yourself a drink.” 

Gibbs obediently takes a hefty swig. Being a sailor, he isn’t a stranger to loss, but this particular crew had been at the height of their youth and tough as you please… 

Gibbs taken care of, Luxord nods to Xigbar and Demyx. “Now then, anyone know any three-person card games?”

Gibbs about spits out the swallow he’s just taken. 

Xigbar groans, burying his face in Demyx’s shoulder as Luxord ponders their options. 

Demyx glances between the two expectantly, and when nothing is proposed, shrugs. “I mean, there’s always Go Fish, man.” 

“What the hell is Go Fish? ” Xigbar asks, words hot against Demyx’s neck, though he doesn’t seem particularly invested in the answer, his teeth nudging into sensitive skin, causing Demyx to squeak and swat at the gunman’s broad chest to no avail.

 “Hm.” Luxord slides the deck Demyx’s direction. “I’m not familiar with it, but it sounds thematically appropriate to me.”

“What, seriously?” Demyx’s jaw drops open a little, as he picks up the cards. He squeaks again before elbowing Xigbar’s ribs. “None of you have heard of Go Fish?”  

Gibbs’ mug settles harshly against the table as he rises abruptly to his feet. “You three are mighty cool for a group who’s lost half their crew.” 

“Almost half,” Xigbar corrects, shifting his cheek onto Demyx’s shoulder to stare down his companions.

Luxord exhales through his nose, splays his hand on the table. “Xigbar.”

“Well, technically speaking, only almost half.” Xigbar shuts his eye to better ignore the reprimand. “And not even, like, the interesting half.”

“What the devil is wrong with you lot?” Gibbs seethes, bushy eyebrows furrowing, lifting up a napkin to wring between his palms.

Luxord exhales again, hands raising, “You’ll forgive us, Mr. Gibbs, we had a—What do you call it around these parts?—a mutiny on our hands. We’ve undergone losses on both sides.”

“And been working double time to make up for it,” Xigbar grunts, straightening to draw his beer closer. “At this point, we’d prefer to drink, fuck, and forget.” 

Demyx groans but whether from the reminder of their hefty workload or the sudden lack of warmth is unclear. 

“No.” The napkin flutters back to the tabletop. They watch Gibbs work this over, stern expression going slack as he looks at what’s left of the lively crew in a new light—their shoulders slumped, their faces haggard, their appetites like men half-starved. 

“No, but...” Gibbs slumps back down into his chair. “But yous were all so close!” 

All three Nobodies laugh. This time they can’t help it.  

“Yep.” Xigbar doesn’t open his eye. “Hung the traitors out to dry ourselves. Or, well,” he smirks, “Axel did, anyway.”

Gibbs sets his head in his hand and then abruptly glances up, misunderstanding. “Don’t you be telling me Red Jack’s dead too?”

Gibbs had grown particularly fond of Axel, whose swagger and wild hair reminded him of a local legend he had once been well-acquainted with, an infamous Captain Jack Something or Other. And, Axel, for his part, seemed to almost enjoy regaling Gibbs with colorful, elaborate tales of Captain Xemnas and his mighty, fearsome crew off on adventures to battle against monsters who swallow hearts whole. 

Axel seemed to weave half-spun truths with blatant lies as easily as breathing. He’d lost several Organization members’ trust mid-tale but completely captivated Gibbs’.

“And…” Gibbs glances up at the silence. He takes Luxord’s hesitant, utterly blank expression as confirmation of the worst and buries his eyes in his palm again, “your cabin boy? Oy, gods, please don’t tell me anything befell the sweet, young angel…” 

Luxord pats Gibbs’ shoulder some more. “Rest assured, Mr. Gibbs, both are quite well.”

“Yeah, Axel’s no turncoat.” Bread polished off, Xigbar’s set to lighting up a cigarette to stem his urge to drink more, but he pauses mid-light to smirk. “He and his first mate are quite close.” 

Luxord chuckles. First mate. “Nice pun.” 

The end of the cigarette blazes, bobs around a muffled, “Fank you.” 

“Huh?” Demyx head tilts, but Xigbar hastily shuts up the inquiry, placing his own cigarette between Demyx’s lips and lighting up another. 

Gibbs does not look entirely reassured, so Luxord nods toward the entrance, crowded with sailors embracing or fighting or maybe just staggering drunk. 

“They ought to be arriving any moment now, provided that Roxas hasn’t completely forgotten, and Axel’s not already in bed.” Luxord strokes his goatee thoughtfully. “Ordinarily, I’d send for them, but they have had quite a long week. Perhaps they need their rest.”

Either this set him at ease or the alcohol is kicking in, because Gibbs’ teeth show crooked through his wry grin. “Can’t imagine the pair of them’ll be getting too much rest though, mm?”

Xigbar chuckles and then coughs as he inhales a mouthful of tobacco smoke. Luxord’s brows arch gracefully and Demyx gets a tight crinkle between his.

Gibbs’ smile slips. “Y’know, alone? ...Together?”

The responses do not change, though Xigbar manages to get his breathing under control.

Gibbs coughs a bit. “... In bed. ”

Demyx’s cigarette drops to the table as he bursts into laughter. “Axel and Roxas? No fucking way.” 

Xigbar’s not laughing anymore as he retrieves the thing and replaces it. His fingertips linger too long on Demyx’s lips, as he catches Gibbs’ eye. The corner of his lip quirks up and he nods as if in approval. “You see it too, eh?”

Luxord sets down his drink with a harsh objecting sound. “What utter nonsense...”

Gibbs nods sagely, eyeing the crowded tables, sailors of all flags gathering under his roof day in and day out. “Working here, life I’ve led, I’ve seen just about everything.”

Luxord leans back in his seat, posture impeccable as ever and smiles, resting his wrists on the tabletop. “Don’t be so sure of that.”

Gibbs sighs. Much as he despises arrogance, he can’t expect these men to believe a humble pub keeper’s seen cursed Aztec gold and skeleton crews. He opts to move on. “I’m just grateful nothing’s befallen the dear young lads.” 

Grinning through another puff of smoke, Xigbar taps the rim of Gibbs’ drink, a silent entreaty for him to take it up again and stop killing the mood. “Like you said, the only thing to befall Axel’s cabin boy is Axel.”     

“Don’t be so harsh, Sniper.” Gibbs draws the tankard nearer, cocks his head obligingly. “I do believe Roxas is quite content with that particular position.” 

“If not, I’m sure Axel can think of a few more,” Xigbar retorts and they both laugh outright. 

Luxord tsks, head shaking. “Axel’d boil you alive for suggesting such a thing.”

“Only ‘cause it’s true.” Xigbar winks, turning to wrap an arm around Demyx’s shoulders and see how he’s taking the news. 

Demyx doesn’t pull away, wrapping a hand over Xigbar’s to keep him in place, but he does lean back, skepticism tugging his face at strange angles. “Don’t be ridiculous, Xiggy. Axel’s always complaining about getting stuck on missions with zombie kid.”

Xigbar’s smile turns indulgent. “And I used to complain about training you. Had to teach you everything under the sun and keep you out of the firing range of the others. Was fucking exhausting, mind you, because, first off, you were so damn lazy and, second, you were so damn distracting… ”

His arm flexes, drawing Demyx closer, and receives a sheepish smile and shrug in return. “Well, the distracting part was to make you less of a hardass so I could get back to the lazy part.” His lips draw closer to Xigbar’s ear, tone quieter, “And I’m pretty sure I did awesome.”

“Tch.” Xigbar pats Demyx’s leg with his free hand. “Small price to pay.”

Luxord leans wearily on one fist, propped against the table, but his tone remains proper and confident as ever, “So what I believe you’re saying is you might be projecting.”

Xigbar barely glances at him, grin turning somehow smugger, as Demyx leans back and stretches a leg across his lap. “What I’m saying is I know what I’m talking about.”

“What about Xion?” Luxord proposes. “She seems quite taken with our Roxas.” 

Gibbs’ mouth opens in silent inquiry, further proof that he’s learned entirely too much, milling about the table of this fascinatingly strange set of foreigners while his bartender and waitstaff run his business for him. 

“Xion’s our—er��other cabin boy,” Luxord adds.

Xigbar’s gold eye rolls and his chuckle is cold. “If by ‘taken,’ you mean they’ve said more than three words to each other, then sure. Poppet’s probably hearing wedding bells.” 

As he speaks, Xigbar slides back the coat caught on Demyx’s leg and begins to lazily massage his calf through cool, form-fitting black trousers. 

Demyx’s eyes slip half shut and he looks about ready to start purring. Xigbar removes his other arm from the back of Demyx’s chair to draw a circle in the air with his cigarette. “Meanwhile, her groom-to-be spends every spare second following around a certain tall, flirtatious red-head…” 

“Speak of the red devil,” Gibbs mumbles in near a hush, as if he fears he may actually have summoned them.  

Gibbs nods toward pub’s crowded entrance. The door has just slammed open, banging into the wall, and in darts a scarecrow of a man in a glossy black coat and ostentatious, gold trimmed, captain’s hat that doesn’t quite smother a mane of pure Scottish red hair. The man looks around, nods, adjusting his coat, and glances over his shoulder. The door swings again, crying out on its hinges, and in sprints a short, slim black coat topped by a fine brown tricorn hat. He stands for a second, hands above his knees, catching his breath as the one in the captain’s hat squeezes his shoulder and whispers something that makes the smaller one glance up abruptly, grin, and swat the hand off.    

“They together?” Xigbar asks, leaning to see past other tables until he spots the pair. “Well, well, well. You’re a gambling man, Lucky. Tell me, what are the odds?” 

Luxord watches his coworkers’ entrance with a critical eye, but sees nothing unusual in the nuances of their brief, harried conversation.  “Still slim to nothing, Xiggy. ”  

“Well, reckon, I ought to…” Gibbs starts, rising to go fetch them, only to find both of his arms held fast by Luxord and Xigbar, both of whom are looking not at him, but each other. 

“I bet you five hundred munny their lips will meet by the end of the night.”

“Is that a genuine wager?”

“Gibbs can set the terms.”  

“I’m listening.” 

They release Gibbs’ arms and he crosses them in thought. He’s presided over many a gamble and this one seems straightforward enough and relatively harmless to boot. He could set ground rules, but he can’t imagine these fellows will play by them, so best not to bother. 

Gibbs nods. “Five hundred... munny, was it?” The currency sounds almost made up, but the men nod. “And a free bar tab next time ‘round,” Gibbs adds to sweeten the pot and make the competition all the more entertaining. “If Red Jack and his bonny lad kiss by the end of the night, Sniper wins. If not, the Gambler and the Bard triumph.” He waggles his finger in the air seriously, “There’ll be no telling Red Jack and the cabin boy about the bet, otherwise anything goes.”

Xigbar reaches out a gloved palm and Luxord gives it a neat shake, before patting the thigh splayed across his. “Demyx? You in?”

“… you’re worse than that sea witch in Atlantica.” 

“Damn straight I am.”  

Demyx’s suddenly weary eyes examine the determined set of Xigbar’s jaw, the laughter lines born of a zillion cruel jokes crinkling at the edge of his eye. 

Demyx sighs heavily. “Ugh, fine.” He scoops up the deck of cards Luxord had passed him some time ago, and passes them back with his left hand while clasping Xigbar’s with his right. “But next time we are either playing strip poker or Go Fish.” 

[paganinpurple]

A Feline’s Family - MariChat May 2019

Buy Me A Coffee?

AO3

Chapters (If there’s no link, it’s not written yet)

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10

11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20

21  22  23  24  25  26  27  28  29  30  31

Day 12 – Post-Reveal

“Adrien?” she gasped, her hand slipping from his hair to brush against his cheek instead.

“Um, hi,” he breathed, frightened to raise his voice too loud in case he broke whatever enchantment they seemed to be under.

“But that means…” she trailed off, her soft, surprised look fading away quickly to be replaced by a hard, infuriated frown.

“How much will it cost me to stop you from running out right now and murdering my father?” he asked.

“Far more than the allowance mama and papa give you,” she said with a glare.

***

It was jarring how much things remained unchanged at home. Yes, home. Because that was exactly how he had been thinking of Marinette’s house for a while now.

They had confidently agreed that neither one of them was ready for her parents to know the opposite sides of their masks yet; the last he seemed to have seen of confident Marinette in a few days now, in fact.

“Okay, there’s no way the two of you ganging up on me is fair,” Tom complained as he pounded his thumbs against the controller in his hands with a pout.

“There’s no fair in video-games, Papa,” Marinette told him, briefly removing one hand from the controller to offer Chat a fist bump before returning immediately, refusing her father even a second of mercy, and definitely not thinking about how Chat had tried to hold on after she had pulled away.

***

Adrien wrinkled his nose at her words. “I still don’t need an allowance, you know.”

“Sure, you don’t. You just flutter your eyelashes and waitresses just give you your lunch for free,” she countered, remembering now how Adrien had emptied his pockets to come up with enough change for a sandwich the other day. She had just assumed he had left his wallet at home.

“They might, you don’t know,” he blushed, “Ladies love a black kitty. I seem to remember someone telling me that black kittens are their favourite.”

He winked at her.

***

“Hmm, not cool, son. I thought we were friends,” Tom said after his third defeat of the night.

“Sorry, Tom,” Chat replied with a grin, “But if the princess requests aid, I must deliver.”

Marinette prayed her dad didn’t sit forward in his seat, because if he did, he would certainly see how warm her face had gotten. She stood up as she caught sight of him beginning to move from the corner of her eye, under the pretence of fetching herself a drink, and stumbled when she felt a clawed hand on her shoulder unexpectedly.

“Hey, I was thinking we could watch a movie tonight,” Chat said, oblivious to her flushed face - or at least doing well at pretending he didn’t see it.

“S-Sure,” she answered, keeping her eyes trained strategically on the apple juice she was pouring and absolutely refusing to focus on him or her dad, “Anything in particular?”

“Well, there’s a Lucy Liu marathon on tonight. Fancy it?”

“Urgh. I hate her.” She pulled a face and rolled her eyes.

“What?” he asked, turning to look at Tom in disbelief, who only laughed in response, “Why?”

“She can pull off freckles when I can’t. It’s not fair.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, leaning in extremely close without warning, until his nose was almost touching her own, “Your freckles are absolutely breath-taking.”

***

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yup! Sure! Yeah! Just…suddenly replaying everything that I ever said or did around Chat and realising I did it around you - Adrien!”

“Uh, okay? Is…that bad?”

“OhmyGod!” she squeaked, ignoring his question, “Everything Chat’s ever said was coming from you!”

***

“Well then,” Tom said with a hidden chuckle amongst the words, “Some of us have to be up early tomorrow, so I guess I’ll leave you kids to it.”

“’Night, Papa,” Marinette murmured from her place at the kitchen counter, intent to keep her face hidden until well after the colour had faded from her cheeks.

“Maybe skip the Lucy Liu tonight, son,” he told Chat as he walked through the door, “Just stick with a rom-com or something instead.” Marinette pretended not to see the wink he sent Chat before closing the door completely.

They both stood there in silence for several minutes; Marinette intently studying her glass while Chat watched the door, his black ears flicking as he seemed to pick up on minuscule noises her own ears couldn’t hear.

“I think he just got into bed,” he said suddenly, “What are the chances he’ll get up again, or should I wait until he falls asleep too?”

“He’s down for now,” she answered, finally trusting her traitorous blood vessels enough to turn and face him again, “It’s safe.”

Adrien let out a huge sigh as he detransformed, as if the act of staying in uniform took its toll on him, as well as Plagg. The kwami himself phased into the fridge briefly before the door flung wide and he emerged with a huge wedge of cheese

“I am going to eat this on your bed, and you can’t stop me,” he told his chosen.

Smiling, Adrien waved the back of his hand at him as a dismissal. “Just don’t get crumbs in the sheets,” he said, “or I’ll make sure we’re mysteriously out of any unprocessed dairy next time.”

Deciding to disappear with a grump, Plagg went off in search of Tikki in the loudest way possible, the room full of tuts and huffs until he finally made his way through the open trapdoor.

***

“You were there when I asked you to protect me from Evillustrator!”

“Well, yeah. Obviously. But-”

“Argh! You jumped off a building when your bodyguard was akumatized!”

“Well, to be fair, you told me to.”

“I don’t know if my heart can take much more of these realisations, Adrien!”

***

“Are you okay?” Adrien asked her, and Marinette’s head snapped up, brain fog dissipating enough for her to realise he had been speaking to her, while she stared blankly.

“Sorry,” she said, her lips wearing a soft smile as she suddenly found the strength to make herself relax.

This was Adrien. This was Chat. This was her roommate. Her partner. Her friend. This boy meant the world to her, regardless of which side of the mask he was on.

“I was miles away,” she said with a gentle shake of her head. “Are we putting on this movie or what?”

***

“Maybe I shouldn’t have shown you who I am. You don’t seem to be taking it very well.”

“What! Me? Noooo!” Marinette said, a little louder than was strictly safe if she didn’t want to alert her parents. Drawing on all her courage reserves she took a long, deep breath, turning to look at Adrien when she had done.

“I’m just adjusting to the idea that the boy who has been fighting akumas with me and sharing my room, is also a boy I…go to school with.”

“But, does that matter? I thought you liked me. We’re friends at school, aren’t we?”

Marinette pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and let out a deep sigh.

“Yes, I l-like you,” she said, proud of herself for only stuttering once, considering the potential double meaning behind her words.

She glanced up to see how he had reacted. Despite her admittance, his face was pained. Hopeful, certainly, but he was preparing to be disappointed and emotionally injured just in case she devastated him.

“And don’t you like Chat?” he asked in a choked tone.

Marinette swallowed roughly, her throat feeling drier than it had twenty minutes ago.

“Yes, kitty,” she said, a sudden realisation flowing over her, “I like Chat too.”

Buy Me A Coffee?

[arcanesupern0va]

Rick In The Water; Ch11: Exit Wounds

Summary: The night of Ryan's death from Nova's perspective.

A/N: This chapter was so fucking hard to write. It broke my heart to put myself in the fucking shoes of Ryan and say such horrifying things about my bb. The next chapter will deal with Nova dealing with the trauma of the aftermath of everything that happened. My poor sweet girl 😭 Also, next time I do interwoven chapters I will absolutely try to do them so much better. I wasn't thinking about using the hospital scene in this chapter but I wanted to kind of try to explain why she was acting the way she was and I just don't think it's the best. It's not the most important part of the chapter so I'm going to leave it alone. I tried really hard to word it right but I just couldn't get it to feel the way I wanted it to within the parameters I'd set in the last chapter. In any case, this story is a trial and error of me trying to hone my skill again after years of being unable to focus long enough to tell a story of this caliber and length so I just kind of hope you guys bear that in mind when you're reading. Thank you so much for reading and commenting, it really means the world to me! -Jess♥ CW: There is heavy violence and extremely abusive language within. Please continue with caution. Pairing: Rick Sanchez/Reader Word Count: 7179

My ao3

Masterlist

|Ch10: Nothing Follows, Nothing Stays| 

+Nova+

The previous night

The car ride to get Madison was the kind of terse silence that should be used to torture information out of violent offenders. I was ‘lucky’ to even be brought along on the trip but rumors that I had become a recluse was tarnishing Ryan’s reputation earned me my first painful steps out of the house.

“You have one hour. I want you looking put together and refined,” he demanded sharply. I had been in the kitchen, scrubbing the counters down as per his request when he stormed in angrily. “People think you’ve become some fucked up hermit after losing your job. I’m going to see to it that you put an end to it.” I nodded obediently, dropping what minuscule crumbs that had been on the counter in the trash and hurried upstairs.

I was in and out of the shower in a flash, sitting down at my vanity to dry and style my hair. I avoided meeting my own eyes in the mirror, unable to bear the sight of the large bruise that circled my eye, courtesy of a misinterpreted offhand comment. I brought my hair into a high braided bun, simple enough but also didn’t allow any extra leverage if Ryan decided I had done something to upset him. I started on makeup, struggling to make any real change to the dark circle. I went over to my closet, retrieving a long halter sundress and a light cardigan to cover the hand-shaped bruises that covered my arms and legs. I posed in the mirror meekly, surveying myself carefully. The dark around my eye still drew the most attention so I dug around for a little while, finally extracting a pair of large sunglasses from an old purse. Their tint was dark enough to mask the bruising while the frame large enough to cover it.

I returned to the vanity to touch up my lipstick but I found myself staring out into space as anxiety seeped into my resolve. I was terrified of having to confront him, all these bruises, my busted lip; they had all been for this night. Once Madison got home, I was going to wait until Ryan went to sleep for the night and finally make my escape. The plan was to go straight to Beth’s house. If Ryan showed up, the cops could be called or if worse came to worst, Rick would just kill him. It was tempting but the thought of Madison growing up without a father who loved her reminded me too much of how I grew up. I couldn’t let that happen to her too.

I couldn’t let her end up like me.

“What in the fuck are you doing? We’re going to be late!” Ryan swore as he flung the bedroom door open, glaring down as he surveyed my outfit carefully. “I guess this will have to do, put on those sunglasses. We’ve got to fucking go.”

I grabbed the closest pair of shoes, unfortunately not my trusty running shoes, but a pair of high heeled wedges. Ryan grew frustrated quickly as he watched me wobble across the carpeted floor, grabbing my wrist to pull me behind him. I managed the first few steps but stumbled despite my best efforts, colliding into the wall as a sharp pain shot through both my ankle and my brow line. Ryan groaned in frustration as blood trickled down the curve of my nose.

“You have got to be fucking kidding.”

He released my wrist with enough force to send it in to the wall as well. The old wound ached at the impact as tears streamed down my face. I limped into the bathroom, gingerly inspecting the damage in the mirror. A large gash now split my brow as blood continued pouring out. Wetting a washcloth, I pressed it to my forehead as I searched for the liquid bandaid I kept for things just like this.

“(Y/N), stop fucking around, let’s fucking go,” Ryan bellowed, walking into the bathroom. He watched my methodical application of what was essentially glue, a small smirk forming over his face at every wince of pain. Was he enjoying this? Was watching me suffer this much of a thrill to him? I returned my sunglasses to my face, relieved when they covered most of my brow line to conceal the wound, pulling my bangs back down to cover the rest. I popped a couple of painkillers to try to mitigate the pain still shooting through my ankle.

“I’m ready,” I announced timidly. I walked carefully, trying to ignore the shooting pain I felt with every step. When I was outside, I didn’t dare look anywhere near the Smith household. I couldn’t see Rick right now. I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to throw myself into his arms again, to feel that overwhelming sense of protection I hadn’t even noticed until it was ripped away from me. I could feel his eyes on me but with Ryan putting on the show of dutiful husband, I couldn’t chance it.

*+*

The drive was long, only the dulcet tones of the talk radio he enjoyed so fervently. A man droned on and on about stocks and their rising and falling but I found my usual comfort in staring out the window. If I closed my eyes for a moment, I could tell myself this was Rick’s ship. I could pretend, even for that short moment, that it was Rick next to me just taking me out on another adventure. The illusion would inevitably be shattered by the mind-numbing voice on the radio, a poor replacement for the low music always playing in Rick's ship.

“When we get home, you may mend your ankle but for the time being you are to act as though nothing is wrong,” he told me as he swerved in and around traffic. “We will be stopping for dinner on the way home, I won’t have time to wait for you to make it yourself.”

“I-I’m sorry-”

“Quiet. I am in no mood to listen to your voice.”

Picking up Madison went as smoothly as I could’ve hoped. The pain killers had their intended effect, numbing the pain enough for me walk smoothly in the high heels. I was able to keep my sunglasses on, never going inside or anywhere else that would have warranted their removal. We made small talk with the other parents and Ryan even told jokes. Everything a normal and happy couple would do; Ryan’s mission seemed to be completed, at least for today. The other parents seemed overjoyed to see me, assuring me of how happy they were as a couple of the husbands nudged him with remarks of how they were glad we hadn’t killed each other yet.

When we finally climbed back into the car, Madison shoved her earbuds into her ears, blasting music to drown out the world around her. Ryan glared into the rearview mirror but said nothing to her, instead, berating me in a low voice for allowing this kind of behavior at all. He begrudgingly stopped at the closest fast-food chain that was still open this late; ordering for the car in the drive-thru before parking the car and divvying out the food. I was given a salad and muttered comments about my weight, my cheeks burning red. It tasted like ash in my mouth but I swallowed every bite knowing there would be repercussions if I left a single leaf to waste.

I was relieved when our exit finally appeared, knowing the car ride from hell was almost over. This life from hell was almost over. It was dark now, my sunglasses now being used for me to fiddle with anxiously. I straightened up in my seat, earning me a reproachful look from Ryan as he looked me over suspiciously. I slunk back into the seat at his piercing gaze and returned to the window, praying silently that this nightmare would truly be over soon.

I dared a glance at the Smith house as we pulled into the driveway, surprised to find the garage dark with the shutter still wide open. As Ryan delegated tasks to me, I dared a glance over to the garage, spotting a familiar blue glistening in the moonlight. I offered the most minute of smiles at the garage but the feeling of protection allowed to smile to linger allowing Ryan to quickly put two and two together.

“Madison, take this inside,” he ordered, handing her suitcase to her. He watched her disappear inside, before gripping my arm tightly.

“Don’t fucking think I didn’t fucking see that,” Ryan muttered as he twisted my arm behind my back. “Get in the fucking house.”

Obediently, I grabbed as many of Madison’s belongings as I could and carried them into the house without a second glance to Rick. Tonight was only going to work if I was careful. If I wanted to get out of this house with Madison and me intact, I had to focus on the task at hand, not Rick. I carried Madi’s bags up to her room, stopping to kick my wedges off by the door. My ankle cried out in anguish as I made my way up the stairs to her room, the painkillers finally wearing off. I knocked gently before pushing her door open to find her sitting on the side of her bed scrolling through her social media accounts and catching up with her friends.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you come downstairs?” I asked, sitting the bags down by the bed and holding my hand out to her. If she was distracted, she wouldn’t unpack. If she didn’t unpack, she would be ready to go as soon as possible.

“No, that’s okay Mom,” she replied, not even looking up from her phone, “Dad seems like he’s in another mood. I’ll just hang out up here.”

“I’ve missed you, sweetheart.”

My eyes welled with tears as I played with hair, twirling it around my fingers. Her brown hair was longer, almost reaching the small of her back. The sun had done well to lighten it a few shades in exchange for deepening her tan over the summer. She looked older and her general demeanor had seemed to mature as well.

“I missed you too, Mom,” she groaned, detaching from her phone long enough to smile up at me before immediately returning to it.

“I guess I’ll just leave you to your phone,” I teased. Kissing her head softly, she groaned at me loudly again before I finally took pity on her and left the room, leaving her to her friends to catch up. I stopped quickly in my bedroom, changing out of my long dress and into a tank top and sweats before taking a deep breath, steadying myself before heading back down the stairs.

“What were you and Madison talking about?” Ryan demanded, stepping out of the living room with a furious glare plastered on his face as my foot came in contact with the bottom step.

“N-Nothing Ryan,” I blurted out, stumbling back in surprise, “I just told her I missed her and asked if she wanted to come downstairs and spend time with us.”

“Mhm.” He watched my face carefully as I slipped around him into the living room, trying to find any inkling of a lie. “You really think I don’t know what you’re up to?”

“U-Up to? I’m not up to anything!” I lied, proving only to make him angrier.

“You’re going to take Madi and try to run away tonight, aren’t you?” he accused as he followed me, hysterics beginning to leak into his voice. “You are not taking my daughter anywhere and I will be damned if I let you go running back to your senior special.”

“R-Ryan, I am h-here. With you. Not Rick-”

“Don’t say his fucking name,” he spat. “You sound fucking pathetic.”

“Ryan, it was nothing. What happened between him and me, it meant nothing-”

“Shut your fucking mouth (Y/N). I don’t need you fucking insulting me. I’m not fucking stupid, at least not completely. I don’t know what’s been wrong with me this past fucking summer but that shit is over with. You are my fucking wife until death does us part. Don’t fucking make me speed up that process.”

“Ryan-”

“I fucking said shut up,” he bellowed, using the back of his hand to throw me into the couch. “Don’t you fucking start crying either. Don’t start fucking screaming. If anyone shows up here, I don’t care if it’s a fucking Mormon missionary going door to door, you’re going to fucking regret it. But don’t worry, you won’t die. Although, I'm not sure what the life expectancy is for a mother who lost a child violently.” He paused, eyeing me maliciously as the true threat of his words sunk in. “You’re out of control (Y/N) and I will do whatever it takes to put a stop to it and restore order to this house.”

I didn’t speak, but I couldn’t stop the silent tears that streaked down my cheeks. He had gone too far threatening Madison. I brought my hand to the stinging on my face and it seemed that even silent, the emotion still offended him. He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me violently as veins bulged in his forehead.

“I fucking told you not to cry.”

His shaking was getting harder yet, my head flinging forward and back sharply. I knew if I didn’t start fighting back soon, he wouldn’t stop until he snapped my neck. I brought my arms up between his to push his hands away from me, managing to take him by surprise and break out of his grip. I slid out of his reach, crawling away as he recovered. He caught up quickly, grabbing my ankle and pulling me back to him on my stomach. He flipped me over, doling punishment out by colliding his knuckles into my cheek violently as I tried to squirm away. On my back, I was able to deliver a swift kick to his groin, dodging out of the way of his onslaught. I pushed myself off the floor as he doubled over gasping for air. In a last-ditch attempt to buy myself some time as I fled the living room, I quickly flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.

I headed to the kitchen, desperate for any kind of weapon to defend myself with. I could hear him groaning behind me so I flicked the light off behind me, trying to silently root for any sharp object to keep him at bay.

“Where are you, you stupid bitch?” he growled into the darkness. I sunk against the counter, trying to keep out of sight as he searched for the light switch. Light poured around me as I pressed myself against the counter, listening for his footsteps to edge toward my location. I tried desperately to press the panic button Rick had implanted in my hand what felt like ages ago. I never stopped trying to use it even though I knew it was in vain. A small part of me hoped that he could repair his, that he would realize I needed his help but it all seemed so hopeless. Deep down I was sure he had taken my words to heart. He had given up on me.

“If you stop this stupid shit, I promise I’ll make it fucking quick.” His footsteps turned around the kitchen island I hid behind, breaking me from my feelings of hopelessness as I continued inching around the island, trying to get around it before he could find me.

“I never understood why they called you Nova, you know? You, a star? That’s fucking comical,” he taunted, trying to lure me out. “The most you are is a fucking black hole.”

My ankle spasmed under my weight as I turned the corner and my position was blown when I face-planted onto the floor. He chuckled darkly as he rounded the island, glaring down at me.

“The reason they call me Nova wasn’t because of fucking stars you idiot,” I hissed, pulling myself off the floor with the knife extended in front of me. “If you’d ever paid a fucking iota of attention you’d know it was from fucking Planet of the fucking Apes. There was a charact-”

“You really must be a fucking moron if you think I actually give a fuck.” He shook his head in disbelief before launching himself at me. The impact forced me back into the wall, my head coming in contact with the wall and everything going dark.

*+*

“I’ve spent way too long fantasizing about this.”

My eyes blinked, quickly adjusting to the inky darkness of my bedroom. My back rested against the foot of my bed as Ryan stood over me, sneering as I returned to consciousness. I tried to stand, only earning another backhand for my insolence. The small chair from my vanity became the next subject of his rage as he picked it up and broke one of the legs off. He inspected the sharpest end before turning to face me again.

“My parents told me women with bad childhoods were guaranteed whores, but you always seemed so fucking genuine. Somehow, my stupid ass fell in love with you and God only knows why I went and had a baby with you.”

“You’ve never loved anything in your life,” I hissed weakly.

“You’re probably right, it always kind of seemed like a waste of my fucking time,” he nodded, “but there I was, getting married to a girl with every red flag my parents warned me about. Mommy didn’t love you? Check. Daddy maybe loved you too much? Check. Abandoned by most of the adults she came in contact with? Fucking home run.”

“You’re fucking wrong.”

“Oh come the fuck off of it (Y/N),” he glowered, “The only reason I wanted you was because I already knew you could be beaten into submission if that’s what it took. You’d spent your entire life that way, you wouldn’t even know the fucking difference.”

“Fuck you.”

“I could make time for that if you wanted.” He offered darkly, his eyes glittering with malice before rolling at my cowered form. “It wouldn’t be worth it, you’d only be thinking of Colonel Blimp next door.”

“What are you going to tell Madison?” I asked desperate to change the subject. “How are you going to explain to her that you killed her mother? She’s not going to just forgive you. She's smarter than you've ever given her credit for.”

“I don’t give a fuck about that stupid brat,” he scoffed with another roll of his eyes. “She’s too fucking much like you.”

I couldn’t muster a reply. My blood ran cold as my heart raced with fury. He watched my face, seeming to relish in the fear of my revelation. He truly did not want me to have anything. My daughter, my friends, they were all allowed purely because they could be taken away.

“Why me?” I uttered finally, tears brimming in my eyes as I watched him twirl the broken chair leg around in his hand.

“You were pathetic. I took you home and fucked you on the first date.” He shrugged smugly. “I knew your kind, I knew the words that it would take to get what I wanted from you.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a calming breath before pushing myself off of the floor to look at the man who had made my life a living hell in the eyes. I groaned as I put pressure on my ankle only to stumble back onto the bed. Ryan laughed at the sight, his chuckling continuing as I awkwardly pushed myself back up, swaying as I stared up at him.

“Like I said, you abusive piece of shit, you don’t fucking know me at all.”

My words set him off and he pushed me back into the bed, my head ricocheting off the headboard with a loud yelp. I stood back up, my head spinning from the impact as I tried to catch my balance again. Being disoriented made it easy for Ryan to overpower me again, forcing me back onto the floor and holding the chair leg to my stomach.

“When are you going to fucking learn (Y/N)? You’re fucking nothing,” he declared smugly, pushing the improvised weapon into my stomach. I cried out as it broke my skin, pain searing out from the wound through my entire body. My body screamed at me to fight against him but with every minuscule movement, he drove the spike in deeper.

“Rick-” I cried out weakly, my voice raw with pain.

“He won’t save you, (Y/N). Why would he want to? He left you once before and it seems it was easy for him to do it again. Where is your savior (Y/N)? Why isn't he here to save you if he loved you so much?”

A light appeared under the doorway, calling my attention to it quickly. The door burst open quickly, relief coursing through my body. Ryan was wrong. He had come to save me.

“M-Mom?” Madi stepped in nervously, stepping in the pool of blood that had formed next to me. “D-Dad, what are you doing? Stop hurting her!”

“You should’ve stayed in bed Madison,” Ryan hissed, driving the spike into my gut completely, leaving me to scream out in pain.

I clawed desperately at the wood now buried in my gut as Ryan chased Madi out of the room, trailing my blood behind him. He returned mere seconds later, a crazed look forming over his face as he lumbered back over to me, picking me up by the straps of my tank top. He drew back, bringing his fist down to crash into my cheek repeatedly. I wanted to fight back, to do anything to stop his assault but my arms only hung loosely by my sides as broken English began pouring out of his mouth. The ringing in my ears prevented me from understanding a word he was saying and my eyes were swelling shut so when he abruptly stopped, I simply assumed I was dead.

“Nova!” A  gruff voice cut desperately through the ringing and I swore I saw the blue hair that reminded me of home as I finally allowed myself to slip into darkness.

*+*

That man sure has an oddly shaped head.

“She’s going to need to be put under, we have to open this wound further to get the shards of wood out.”

I wonder if his brain is the same shape as his head, he must be really smart.

“Sh-She was attacked, I-I think she was stabbed with a wooden spike.”

He sounds like Rick. I miss him so much, where is he? Where is Rick? He said he would save me.

“Sir, I promise you, we will help her. You just have to allow us the space to do so.”

“H-Her name is Nova. P-Please, don’t let anything happen to her. I can’t- I can’t lose her.”

Rick?

*+*

The world around me was dense, lush forest surrounded us as Rick and I sat hand in hand as we watched the waterfall in the distance cascade into the small river beneath it. I dared to glance over to him, receiving a playful smile as he averted his gaze. I giggled, turning my own gaze away, I peeked over again only to find Ryan in his stead, leering down at me viciously. My blood ran cold as I saw Rick’s mangled body beside him, contorted into an unnatural form as he stretched his arm out to me desperately before Ryan finished him off. With one last crushing blow from his boot, Ryan extinguished any form of life in Rick’s eyes, something he assured me of by bringing the optical gore mere inches away from my face. I cringed, looking down to avoid the view only to find the chair leg wedged into my gut once more. I looked up again desperately, only to find myself completely alone save for the gurgling corpse a couple of feet away.

“He’ll never be able to protect you from me (Y/N). You can run as far away as you want but I will always find you.”

“Nova? Is that your name?” a gentle voice asked. I blinked as I awoke, wincing from the blaring light filling the room. I slammed my eyes shut again as the voice asked his question again and the bed lowered next to me as he sat down.

“N-Nova,” I rasped, trying to nod in confirmation. My neck was stiff, making any movement impossible. “Wh-Where am I?”

“You’re in an alien hospital. Well, it’s alien to you, to me it’s just a hospital,” he informed me genially. I tried to open my eyes again, squinting to find the same oddly shaped head I’d seen in my dream.

“H-How’d I get here?”

“Your family brought you in. You had a deep wound to your torso.” My eyes widened as I brought my hands to my stomach, surprised to find none of the pain it provided previously. Instead, a low ache reverberated throughout, far more manageable than the searing pain from before.

“Wh-What happened to me? My husband- Ryan, he-he…” I fumbled my words, tears stinging my eyes at the memory.

“We were able to repair the damage done by the wooden spear he lodged into you,” the doctor informed me, “You’ll be back to normal in no time my dear, just have to wait for the stitches to heal away. They’re medicated with a serum that hastens the healing process. It should only take about a week until you’re back to normal, physically speaking.”

“M-My family, where is my daughter?” I asked tearfully, taking time to survey the room, expecting them to pop out at any moment.

“She’s out in the waiting room with the rest of your family and when you’re ready, we can send them back. We should also be able to discharge you soon, as long as you’re feeling up to it.” I nodded eagerly, sitting up a little to be more presentable. He smiled wisely, saying nothing more as he left the room presumably to go find my family. I continued straightening myself up, taking a moment to peek under the hospital gown to get a look at the long scar now gracing my body.

“Mom!” Madison cried out as she entered the room, rushing to my side a tearful mess. I held her tightly, patting her back soothingly as she wept and muttered apologies into my hair, “Mom, I’m sorry. I should’ve done something sooner, I should’ve tried to stop him, I was just so scared. I’m so sorry.”

“Baby, there’s nothing you could’ve done. You did the right thing, getting out of there and going to Beth’s. I’m so proud of you.” I left a watery kiss on her hairline, as Beth finished talking to the doctor, turning to survey me.

“Nova, how are you feeling? What happened?” she asked urgently, finally tearing her gaze away from the pulp I called a face.

“Jeez Mom, calm the hell down,” Summer chastised her before I could answer. She met my gaze with a watery one of her own, “Aunt Nova, I’m so glad you’re alright.” Madison left my side briefly, allowing her surrogate sister to hug me tightly. As Summer pulled away wiping away her tears, my eyes fell to Beth again, decidedly ignoring the lanky man who’d been watching me intently with a look of painful regret.

“I’m okay you guys,” I assured Beth, “The man with the oddly shaped head said I’ll be able to leave whenever I’m ready.” She forced herself into my arms, sobbing into my shoulder.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you, Nova,” she sobbed. I rubbed her back as I’d done for Madi before she abruptly pulled away, wiping away her tears roughly. “He’s gone, Nova, he’s dead.”

My eyes flicked to Rick quickly, trying to fight the horrified rage boiling into my gut. Ryan was dead and Rick had been the one to kill him. Exactly what I hadn’t wanted to happen. I couldn’t be completely enraged, but it was easier and more justifiable to just be angry. How was I going to explain this to the police? I was going to lose Rick for sure now, and despite the feeling of relief welling in my gut, an inexplicable heartbreak was squashing it down at the thought of losing him when I finally became free to have him. If even he still wanted me.

“What happened?” I asked quietly, finally meeting Rick’s sorrowful gaze.

“His heart gave out. I didn’t even have to lay a finger on him, it was pretty anticlimactic really,” he explained with a careless shrug. Just the sound of his voice was making my heart race and a part of me wanted to climb out of the bed and fling myself into his arms but I hardened myself to him, turning to Madi instead.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart,” I offered to her softly. She would never know the cruel things her father said about her, she knew he was a monster, but she could at least live under the illusion of his unending love for her.

“I’m glad he’s dead Mom,” she told me sharply, standing up from the bed.

“Y-You don’t mean that sweetheart.” I insisted. I didn’t want this for her, I didn’t want her to go through the same pain I went through. I pulled the blanket off of my lap, relishing in the cool air the swirl around my legs.

“I do mean that. Dad was a monster a-and after what he did to you? He deserved to die,” she assured me coldly. I didn't have it in me to convince her otherwise and I slumped back onto the bed in defeat.

“N-Nova, sweetie, what happened?” Beth asked cautiously, her eyes flitting to Summer’s quickly to stave off another interruption.

“I-I don’t want to talk about it, not here.” I brushed her off, standing up from the bed, a ghost of a pain shooting through my ankle. I was grateful it hadn’t lingered, seemingly repaired along with my other egregious injuries. I moved to the chair next to the bed where I found a bag containing my clothes.

“When we get home, I promise I’ll explain.”

Beth conceded, ushering the kids out of the room so I could change. I dug through the bag, dismayed to find only the blood-soaked clothes I been wearing when I got here. Rick stayed behind, still watching me awkwardly as I pulled the stained sweats out of the bag.

“D-Do you need some help?” he offered timidly as the door shut with a click. I shook my head quickly, stubbornly pulling the sweats on under the gown. “Y-You don’t have to wear those, I can get you something else.”

“No Rick, don’t worry about it,” I hissed, pulling the sweats up over my hips before grabbing my shirt.

“Come on Nova, let me get you something else, let me help you-”

I took a deep breath, trying to stop the anger and terror I had been living with for the past few months from boiling to the surface. I didn't want to snap, I knew I had hurt him but as my gaze found Rick, despite the look of sorrow that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face, the sight of him only made me angrier. All of that talk of protecting me and he still fucking left me high and dry. Again.

“Oh, now you want to fucking help?”

He grabbed the shirt out of my hands, solidifying my anger as I spun around, looking up at him with all the hate I could muster. Every feeling of hopelessness and terror coursed through me as I looked into the eyes of the man who claimed he wouldn’t leave me, not again. Not unless I asked.

“Y-Yes?” he sputtered, looking confused at the sudden turn of my mood.

“That’s pretty fucking funny, could’ve used it a lot fucking sooner.” I yanked the shirt back out of his hands, pulling it over my head.

“N-Nova, you told me to leave you alone. You told me you didn’t want me anymore. I didn’t know what to do, B-Beth thought you were waiting for Madi to come home-”

“N-No!” I bellowed back at him, “I mean a fucking hours ago when my husband almost fucking killed me.”

“Wh-What? I was there as soon as I could be- as soon as I heard anything,” he insisted, running his hands through his hair.

“The moment we walked in the door, it was over. He was out for my fucking blood.”

“I-I didn’t hear anything Nova, I’m sorry,” he apologized. Seeing him look completely defeated, my rage softened. Rick was someone who was always five steps ahead. Seeing him like this, looking so lost, broke my heart. “You didn’t use your panic button- I was going to get you out of there tonight, I-I didn’t know.”

“I did use my fucking panic button,” I assured him venomously. Just as soon as my heart softened to him, the mention of that useless fucking piece of technology enraged me all over again. “But I guess it doesn’t fucking work when the body housing its receiver is floating through the fucking vacuum of space.”

I watched as the blood drained out his face at the realization and I couldn't help but feel justified by his reaction. I had come to terms with it, knowing he hadn’t even thought of it since we hadn’t even used it since I moved in with Beth. I couldn’t blame him, not entirely. It hadn’t crossed my mind either and when I left, it had been so abrupt- there had been no time.

“I didn’t- I didn’t even think about that,” he confessed, despondent, “I just thought- I mean I heard you guys fighting but I thought if he was hurting you-”

“I used that fucking panic button every fucking night.”

“I’m sorry, Nova, I’m so fucking sorry. I let you down,” he murmured sadly, staring at the floor.

“I thought you gave up on me. I know what I said to you was cruel but I thought you would be smart enough to see right through it. Guess you let your ego get in the way.” My voice was distant, unable to sustain my anger anymore. I didn’t want to be upset with him, I lived, I was going to be okay, at least physically.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” he cried. The sound of his wavering voice crumbled my resolve, allowing me to finally move closer to him, prepared to offer him some comfort, “I never gave up on you. I just-I thought you had a plan, that you were just waiting for Madison- I just let myself believe what you said so I wouldn’t beat down the door and put her at risk.”

“I was waiting for Madi. You were at least right about that,” I relented, pulling the torn and bloodied shirt off with the gown underneath. I watched as his eyes found the scar that now distorted my torso. “I can’t wear this shit, can you find me something else?” I offered, extending a metaphorical olive branch.

“Of course.”

He opened up a portal stepping through it and re-emerging with fresh clothes, including undergarments and my running shoes.

“Did you just go into my house?” I asked, almost horrified at the clothes presented to me.

“I mean, I don’t know your sizes, I just figured-”

“These are fine, thank you, Rick,” I interrupted him, pulling off my sweats, tossing them and the tank top into the trash. It was somehow strange to be standing here, completely naked in front of him but I didn’t shy away, didn’t take any extra care to hide my dignity. He wasn’t leering down at me like I was a piece of meat, he just wore a look of concern carried in his furrowed brow.

“Beth knows,” Rick told me softly as I finished tying my shoes. I froze a moment, looking up at him in horror at the implication.

“Sh-She knows…?”

“About us,” he confirmed with a curt nod.

“H-How did she- Oh she must be furious,” I rambled, running my hands through my hair as I started pacing.

“She’s not mad,” Rick assured me, grabbing my shoulders to stop me in my tracks, “She thinks it's… strange but she said it kind of made… sense?”

“Sh-She did?”

He nodded quickly, pulling me into his embrace. I melted into him completely, finally able to allow myself to release the stress on my shoulders. There was so much. Burying Ryan, dealing with the police, the house but right now in Rick’s arms, that all fell along the wayside.

*+*

It didn't take long for my entire world to fall apart. The moment I stepped through that portal, it seemed the entire world felt wrong. Gone was the comforting, if not brazen lights of the hospital. I spent my first week back dealing with the police answering every single one of their difficult questions.

“Where did the blood come from?”

“What happened that night, is it possible you did something to set him off?”

“Your injuries have never been reported and you have no visible wounds, we have no history of abuse in this household.”

Rick had offered to just make Ryan’s body disappear but I knew there would be people who would be looking for him, his parents, his coworkers. This path, however, resulted in me spending a night in jail. It didn't last long though, Rick stormed in demanding I be set free within the first hour I was there. When he was met with opposition, he merely nodded and asked to speak to the chief of police to straighten things out. He would never fully explain what he said to the man but when he emerged from the now docile police chief's office, I was released and free of all charges. My house was still a crime scene but I had no interest in going home. Beth eagerly welcomed me back into her home instead, clearing out Jerry’s office completely to put a bed in, allowing me some form of sanctuary. She even snuck over to my house and grabbed my living room TV to mount on the wall for added comfort.

This didn’t stop the frequent nightmares, however. Most nights I would wake up screaming, and depending who woke up first either Rick or Beth would appear to soothe me. Despite this, Rick and I hadn’t returned to our previous level of comfort with one another and I desperately missed it. The little kisses snuck in whenever there had been an opportunity, him playing with my hair while we watched TV… I missed it all. I missed it and yet I couldn't quite bring myself to broach the topic.

“Nova,” Beth called, knocking on my door softly one afternoon, about a week after I’d been released from custody. I knew why she was here already, she wanted to talk about Rick, about what happened before and after Ryan’s death. All the things I desperately wanted to avoid. I had given her cliff notes of that night and she seemed to be satisfied. Now she was just interested in understanding my relationship with her father.

“Come in,” I sighed wearily, gearing up for the conversation I had been dreading. I focused my attention on my TV, desperately trying to seem invested in whatever adult cartoon was playing to put it off even another minute longer.

“Nova, I wanted to talk to you,” Beth started, her eyes flicking up to the TV. I sighed again, muting it as I turned to her. “I just wanted to talk about you and… Dad.”

“I figured as much,” I conceded, cringing at her. “What, within reason, do you wanna know?”

“Well, how did this start?” She asked timidly, not quite able to meet my eyes.

“When he came back,’ I assured her, resting my hand on hers.

“I-I know that. I meant, when after he came back?” she pressed gently.

And so I launched into our sordid story. Starting with the dampener and only editing some of the details like the encounter with Unity and the first time we’d slept together, mostly just to save her the trauma. I told her about the Council of Ricks and how Ricks and Novas were a common occurrence in most of the dimensions. He and I were just two people that fit together like puzzle pieces. She stayed silent as I spoke but I took care to note that she wasn’t angry, she wasn’t upset, if anything, she almost looked satisfied.

“Ryan caught us i-in the garage. We had been… m-making out and he had walked over, looking for me. That’s when he dragged me out. That’s the end of our story,” I concluded, unsuccessfully fighting the mournful tone from creeping into my voice.

“Why do you say it’s the end?” Beth asked, her brow furrowing the same as her father's would when logic seemed to run out.

“I hurt him and he hurt me.” I shrugged. “And for once, his part was actually accidental whereas I broke his heart to save my daughter.”

“As bizarre as this feels to tell you, I think you need to give my dad a little more credit,” Beth chuckled softly. I cocked my brow at her and she elaborated, “I just mean- I talked to him the night Ryan died, about you. About what this thing is between you two. I think you need to talk to him, sort this stuff out and see if you can’t move past your pain.”

“If Rick had anything he wanted to say to me, he would’ve already. He’s not exactly a beat around the bush kind of guy,” I told her flatly, returning my gaze to the TV.

“Dad also doesn’t do emotions,” Beth reminded me gently, “When you’re ready, just try talking to him, okay?”

I nodded softly, as Beth stood up and thanked me before leaving the room. I stared into the TV as I considered her words, finding them to be the most obvious path but I couldn’t will myself off of the bed to go confront my issues. I’d had enough of confronting issues in the past two weeks to last me a lifetime and I just wasn’t eager to run off and go fight some more. I rolled over, tucking my blanket under my chin as I curled up into a ball and the haze of exhaustion flooded over me immediately. The dulcet sound of the TV lulled me to sleep and I didn’t even bother trying to fight it.

+Down With The Rickness - Ch1: Such Small Hands+

[observantdrifter]

Activity Within a San Jose Party Hub on a Costa Rican Friday Night.

One must enter a spontaneous and impulsive mindset if interested in understanding the habits of a Costa Rican partygoer. Fully submitting to the experience is crucial, especially regarding new experiences. In this case, I was lounging in my home, sedated by inactivity in previous hours. This was disrupted by a call from a close friend of mine. She was in the neighborhood, and invited me to spend a night on the town with her. Naturally I told her to say no more, I’d be with her shortly.

First was beer, always beer. It’s important to lubricate the minds thought processing capability by diluting the consciousness. To be an impartial observer, alcohol is a great help. One liter in, the idea of making the trek about one kilometer west to “La Cali” came about. Neither one of us had any opinion on the matter, although a subliminal curiosity was present. Without much thought at all, we began walking in that direction.

La Cali is a street lined with loud bars and clubs of assorted themes. There’s something for a wide range of socialites. Reggae, Rock, Hip Hop, ect. Any mainstream entertainment seeker would find themselves right at home. For a person like me, a place like this is intolerable without first dissolving any concept of sobriety. 

Such a place, on such a night, attracts large flocks of traditional members of the mass mentality. Immediately after penetrating the anesthetized crowd countless red faces and glazed over eyes inspect you from head to toe, silently evaluating the random individual who has just entered their vicinity. Clouds of low-grade marijuana smoke came from unknown sources. They mingled with clouds of tobacco smoke coming from less clandestine regions. These predominant smells were joined by those of vomit, beer, sweat, and a hint of sewage. The few of those who did not have some sort of psychoactive substance in their system were feeding off the turbulent energy of the environment. This scene was scored by the unsettling loudness consequent to all of the locales’ sound systems operating at maximum capacity. 

The one kilometer walk to this strange place had made us dangerously sober and the smell of ditch weed triggered a craving. Our funds were severely limited, so the low-grade cannabis would have to do. We spent the next 20 minutes or so infiltrating the congregation from multiple angles. Periodically asking suspected stoners for some weed please. We asked multiple watchymans (Costa Rican term given to men who watch parked cars) and each time we were told “Wait right here while I go visit the doctor.” Often they would come back empty handed.

The lack of luck in comparison to the abundance of odor was mildly frustrating. If we were crack users we would be in a much different situation. Every time we would stand on a certain corner to assess potential marijuana users, we would witness countless crackheads coming and going contently. Each time saying hello to what seemed like old friends, handing them a bundle of coins and leaving with a couple loose pebbles of crack in their palms. I figured this out by asking a particularly shabby looking individual who had just exchanged a suspicious hand shake with a redheaded woman on a street corner. I asked, “Just out of pure curiosity, whatcha got there?” He proudly opened his hand and presented to me a small crack rock. “Crack! Hey, you want some? What do you need? I’ll get it for ya!” I kindly declined the offer.

This interaction raised suspicion in the dealer, who was now looking over at us frequently. She was surrounded by men within the next few minutes, all notably interested in our presence. We decided the area, although highly populated, was potentially dangerous and relocated. 

After we left we met a lively individual by the name of Ivo. He was selling lollipops for a living. This did not trouble him however, he was an extremely joyous man. We asked him for some weed please and he said he would go visit the doctor at once. To make sure we wouldn’t leave this business opportunity he left us his jar of lollipops as a certain binding contract. After a few minutes, he returned with a small twisted piece of plastic that contained what resembled a brownish-green pebble that weighed no more than a quarter of a gram. It also contained a balled up rolling paper. He charged us 2,500 colones for said brownish-green pebble. We refused and negotiated the price down to 1,025 colones. 

Now completely sober, we fled to the near by Parque Francia. We sat at a picnic table and I produced the twisted plastic containing the brownish-green pebble and rolling paper. I inspected the surface of the pebble closely, looking for any sort of unwelcome powders or particles. I deemed it OK to smoke and broke the pebble into minuscule crumbs. I rolled the pebble crumbs into a joint, and requested a light from a nearby couple. After introducing flame to flower, I smoked it viciously. My friend took much more modest drags. 

I hadn’t smoked in weeks, and the alcohol had expanded my blood vessels. There was no doubt in my mind that it was coming. The experience. The high achieved by ditch weed is very rough around the edges, negative side effects are often expected. While the effects where gradually overcoming me, I decided it would be best to do something pleasant as soon as possible to keep my mind off of these overwhelming side effects. I had remembered a large Datura plant in the vicinity of the park, and the signature sweet, aromatic smell that they release in the night to attract nocturnal pollinators. In this case the plant attracted a severely uncomfortable drug user. 

When we got to the tree, it had no flowers. I realized the dry season was upon us. As I looked up to the branches in disbelief, somewhere down the road a man began screaming. Threatening to kill something or someone. He was in a vehicle and his piercing screams amplified by the second as he seemingly accelerated towards us. We ran. The responsible man and his vehicle passed through a nearby intersection at fantastic velocity, and as the distance between him and us increased his voice faded. 

The panic did not fade. We continued running back to the park. By the time we got there I was completely overwhelmed. My heartbeat was pounding through my eardrums and I felt as if I was about to collapse. Beads of sweat ran down my forehead and beliefs of unreal dangers and threats bombarded my mind. My friend was not affected as severely as I was. We sat on a curb for several minutes while my debilitating mental state came and went in a series of waves, each diminishing in intensity. 

The effects subsided completely after about 30 minutes, and we walked home where it was warm and safe and abundant in delicious food. There was no more talk of the night that had just occurred. All we knew was that it was a great success in every strange and uncomfortable and sadistic way.  

[shadowdianne]

I wish you could hear all the words I’m too afraid to say [SQ One shot]

This one is brought to you by this amazing gifset @emettkaysworld directed me to a few days ago. Done marvelously by @parrillasbaby a few years ago each part is written in the scenes the gifs were taken from so the moments are from:

4x15,5x02 and 5x22

@waknatious and @godandmonsters1996 you also asked to be tagged I believe xD

(I wish)

Rain and cold, wind and darkness filled every corner around her with howling words and ticking time and yet Regina kept glancing at her left, at a very obvious silhouette that shouldn’t be there, staring back with worry reaching through the distance; asking, bargaining with her to leave and move away.

She shouldn’t look: she wasn’t keen on subterfuge, not the one that she was supposed to be preforming but she knew that she shouldn’t be as obvious, as open, as she now was being. Yet the sound of the rain seemed to cloak everything else away from her and so she took seconds that were far too precious on taking deep breaths and drink on the fact that she was allowing herself to be wistful, to be childlike. On the warmth that spread through the tips of her fingers to her very core.  She allowed herself to bask on the need to be taken care of; on promises made in the middle of libraries, on eagerness wrapped up in that delightful stupidity she had grown to expect and smile at. She allowed herself to dream that links made by deals made in shadowy corners of a mansion out of town meant more than they truly were.

And yet she knew that she was being greedy on those very same stolen glances; greedy and selfish in a way no dark magic could ever compare. Egoistic in a way that she would never be able to pronounce. Not outload.

The air smelled like ozone and she relished on the fact as a car flashed, approaching her as she was brought back to the present, dreams falling away from her eyes, shredded away by what her actions were supposed to bring that night. She didn’t spare another glance, a third presence letting itself known just as she busied herself with yet another gust of wind: this one stronger than the rest, flecked with magic that wasn’t hers but could have been.

She had something else to do; someone else to be.

Yet she wished.  She wished on the need to be helpful, on the need to be looked at and protected in the same way her younger self had sighed stupidly at books read beneath covers, under candles with flickering light and burning wax.

But she still left; decision made.

(you could hear)

Loud and obnoxious, bright to the point of blindness. Noise and chatter that didn’t keep her grounded but strangled from a world she willed to enter into even if she didn’t feel capable of.

Loss and guilt, words that felt far too real, far too full of life and reality, enough to create shadows on her palms as she clenched her fingers together, her senses attacked and yet soothed away by another’s presence, the tightness easing, the need to bolt forward, to disappear, ebbing away even in the slightest ways.

A glance and a nod were everything she needed, however, for the rush of the noise come back to her, the added pulse of her heart beating on her chest, on her ears, too much for her as she glanced back; green and guilt burning, dirty white magic reaching in an almost afterthought.

She hated what hadn’t been said already, whatever words were muttered, hiding now beneath others softer and full of sympathies she didn’t need coming from the taller woman standing in front of her.

Not out of anger, not out of a need of retribution that wasn’t simply there: she had made a decision, she had followed as such and she would do it all over again. Yet, she also wished for her lips to say so, to let words take what actions really couldn’t push forward. Not with every moment kept being stolen away by circumstances and villains: a never-ending supply of almost moments that kept up building on her very limbs and heart. Making them sluggish: burning hotter with the need to scream even as Emma kept pretending to be just as unaware as she was.

She couldn’t be doing this, she reminded herself. Not in the middle of the diner, not with black clothes still on her, crumbs of runned mascara darkening her eyes, magic fiddling in and out.

So she listened, she hoped to receive and offer the same kind of comfort loss and death brought with it.

And so, as many other things, that also got destroyed.

(all the words)

A scream and a mumble, a whisper and a plea laced in dark waters sloshing against a far too rickety dock. A promise and a betrayal inked with fears too old and so jaded that blood run free on her tongue when she tried to swallow them back.

She should know better; she had grown up with magic slithering over her, burning her skin and every last bit of hopeful imagery she would have been able to create. She should trust her instincts better; not the mushy ones, the ones that kept her awake at night, the ones that found their way in when her mind wasn’t focused in the next step, in the next trap, in the next curse. She should protect herself better; with power and ire as her weapons of choice.

Words were powerful; capable of things that not all the magic and spells would be able to counteract and yet she found herself toying with them, pretending they didn’t cut into her heart, slicing her open, letting her insides fill with far too much pressure; making every other deep breath an almost impossible thing to do. Not when every second, every instance, was colored with the fact that she was remaining quiet. Mute. As if there wasn’t anything to say.

She could feel the air chilling around her, the cold extending its fingers, closing on her throat. She could feel the words battling against her tongue and teeth, coating the back of her mouth, nibbling at its roof. She could hear them already, she could picture them escaping her lips, reaching through the distance, striking and leaving nothing but an empty carcass behind.

She had been so full of them for the last few years that the mere thought of letting them go free made her stagger. Yet, she kept on picturing what could happen, what would happen, if she ever did that: open the seal she had crafted around them, tight and dark and ludicrous as the words buzzed and bubbled; sizzling and growing until nothing could really contain them but the sheer fear of what they meant.

She longed to say them, she thought as her hands balled into fists, the feeling of crescent-shaped gashes on her palms momentarily making her refocus part of her thoughts to those, letting her magic take care of them as she called forth anger and bitterness. She longed to throw them, to use them as the self-destructive admission they would end up be. She longed to scream them, to mutter them as she cried, trapped against lips and hands that weren’t hers to feel or hold. She longed to repeat them, to let them fall not as blades and poison but as tender confirmations of something that was shared, cherished.

She knew she wouldn’t do it. No matter how much the words burnt her chest, clawed at her lungs, rattled and peered through her ribs; as if they were imps and gremlins ready to destroy once the sun settled.

And yet…

Yet she longed to be strong enough, brave enough, stupid enough, to be able to block every fear and every rejection so she was able to say them, to admit them, even for a second. She wished for a quiet gasp and green eyes filling with something that wasn’t fear or disgust. She wished for loud admissions and even louder answers.

So she turned and left, not ready to tell those to the woman that stood at her back; dark angles and grey shadows; her very stance forever changed.

(I’m too afraid to say)

Heat, far too much heat for the weak sun that elongated shadows at her feet, making them scurry and dance at the asphalt in front of her as her voice reached her, full of the need to create bridges that felt too frail and too strong at the same time. Regina found herself drowning on the sun, on the warmth and magic and she wished desperately to be able to speak up on how anger and bile didn’t fill her mouth. Not like disappointment and worry were reaching their own breaking point. Disappointment at the doubt she had seen on green eyes; on the careful way she was approached the night before; tears already dry, magic crackling on her skin, breaking free in minuscule amounts. Worry at Henry, at what his actions could bring upon them all.

Bitter jealousy, dry acceptance. Those were also words that made her bled as she turned and stared, as she wished for anger to scream and plead for another Emma to answer back; the one she could almost see beyond the façade so stupidly built under the impression of what acceptance would be. How to say, however, that she wanted that imperfect version? Not the too perfect, not the too close to a princess and a royal but the one who fought back, who ate too many pastries, the one who was loud and proud. The one whose voice was deep and tender when needed, high and soft when asked.

How to indeed when her fingers burnt for contact and her tongue trembled for movement. How to when her eyes raked through a body she knew far too well, when her chest longed and wished and hurt.

Fright. That was yet another word she could use; another one that felt far too out of her reach to even consider, even for a second, even for a stolen one. The kind of ones they seemed to be bound to have; without outside input of those who wished them both well: no matter the poor efforts.

She bristled and talked back, wishing for Emma to fight her so she could stop feeling detached and broken; in need of a bite she no longer possessed. She used titles she knew that hurt, the use of “sheriff” just as imperfect as Queen felt for her. Muscle on jaw trembling, she almost thought she had managed to do it, but Emma didn’t bite. And so she nodded and listened to her, wishing for any idea on how to find Henry, how to bring him back.

She muttered the words later, however, already following Emma’s retreating back; the jingle of keys dancing on the blonde’s palm.

Words that spoke of love admissions not supposed to be true. Words that spoke of feelings that made their magic glow gold and red. Words that spoke of far too many what ifs, of too many pages that felt out of a destroyed book.

Yet, she wished, she listened, she feared.

She felt.

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

The Black Swan

Chapter 11

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word count: 6722

Chapter: 11/17 (All chapters)

Summary: Everything comes to a head.

Read on AO3

AN: Hello. Sorry this is late. If some of you don't already know, I've got pretty severe chronic headaches. They're unpredictable af and can completely incapacitate me, which they have for the past two days (hooray). But I'm mostly alright now, so here's the chapter! Enjoy :)

———————————————

“And now, block,” David said as he brought his sword down. He was moving slower than a normal fight, but faster than would probably be safe for a normal person. But Simon blocked him with ease, two hands tight on the hilt, legs bracing himself against David. His arms barely shook with effort anymore. Years of training were paying off. Simon didn’t care though. He didn’t really care about much of anything lately.

“Good,” David said, though his voice was more neutral. “What do you do now?”

Simon didn’t bother to answer verbally. He rarely had the energy for words these past few days. Instead, he simply did what he knew. He stepped to the side and stuck his leg out. David purposely tripped, and Simon pressed the flat of his sword to the back of his neck. In a real fight he’d use the edge, of course. However if this were a real fight, Simon would never have a chance to get this close to a master sword fighter like David.

“Good, Simon. Now let me up”

Simon took a second longer than normal to let David up. Everything Simon did was taking a second longer lately. He felt like he was moving through a fog for the past six days. He followed a normal routine. Got up, ate his meals, did his studies, did his training, went to sleep, then repeat. Simple enough. But the world was murky, unreal, so unbelievably distant. Simon was just...numb. And he would hate it, if he felt anything at all.

David stood straight and sheathed his sword. “Good work, Simon.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied mechanically.

“Have you been training more?”

“No, sir.” A lie, but Simon didn’t want to explain his extra training to David. Besides, lying was apparently part of who he was. Why not embrace it?

“Hm, well, you’re doing alright. If you put as much effort into your policy readings and magic as you did your sword work, you’d be the perfect heir.”

It was typical David. A derision disguised as a compliment. Simon might be hurt on any other day. Today, he just nodded as he sheathed his own sword.

“How is your magic going?” David asked.

“It’s the same,” Simon replied. Which was probably not a lie. He hadn’t tried to do any magic in days, but it was most likely still the same level of terrible.

“Well, there’s always room for improvement. Why don’t we practice your fire magic? You’ve always been weak in that area. Go put away your sword and get your wand.”

“Okay.”

Simon’s journey to his room happened in snapshots. He was in the training ring, then the stairway, then his room. He barely registered moving from one place to the other. That had been happening to him a lot since the horrible night. Simon was too out of it to notice a lot of life as it passed him by.

His room was even more of a mess than usual. He didn’t care enough to fix it, but now it was coming back to bite him in the arse. Because now Simon had to sort through the sea of clothing and midnight snack leftovers for a tiny bone stick. Simon almost felt annoyed. He threw clothes about, scone crumbs falling down on him like rain. Some would probably get in his hair, but that wasn’t unusual for him. He casually looked, lazily tossing things about. Piles were put into different piles. Things were kicked into corners. The floor was slowly cleared.

But there was no wand. And Simon started to feel something for the first time in days; panic.

He threw everything around again, but far more frantically. It was like a tornado flew through his room. He looked through everything three times, but still no fucking wand. Eventually there was no more places to look. Simon was sweating and hyperventilating. Where the hell else could it be? Simon thought. He eyes fell to ground, and soon locked on a piece of fabric. His breath hitched. It was the strap of his rucksack.

Simon hadn’t touched the bag since his last night at the lake. Looking at it was painful enough. He feared touching it would physically burn. Except now he didn’t have a choice. He knew he tended to stick everything in there. And a wand counted as “everything." With a shaking hand, he grabbed the backpack. It didn’t burn, though a pit did form in his stomach that threatened to eat him whole. The memories almost brought tears to his eyes again. He still opened the bag anyway.

There were the usual things that never left the bag, like his dagger and a spare shirt in case his got dirty. There was also the copy of Swan Lake he’d borrowed from Canterbury, and a now very old sour cherry scone, both pathetic peace offerings to Baz that he never even got the chance to take out. He carefully took the scone out as to not get more crumbs all over his stuff. Once everything was taken out piece by piece, Simon’s eyes went wide.

As if life didn’t have it in for him already, things were only worse. There was no wand in his bag. But there was a small hole, just the exact size of a stupid bone stick.

Simon remembered the way he snatched his bag and ran from the lake. How it jostled and everything rattled around. How easy it would have been for his wand to slip out of that hole while he was stomping away crying from the man he might be in love with.

Simon’s wand was in the lake. Where Baz was. And Baz never wanted to see Simon ever again. But Simon needed his wand.

Fuck.

“Simon? What’s taking so long?”

David’s voice was close. Simon inhaled sharply, then threw his blanket over his stuff. He didn’t need David asking questions. It was just in time, as David walked in the next second without knocking. They stared at each other for a long moment. Simon hoped David didn’t see the panic in his eyes.

“What’s going on?” he asked slowly.

“N-Nothing,” Simon said. “I was just...uh...” Looking for the wand I left in the secret hiding place where the probable love of my life who hates me lives, his brain oh so helpfully supplied. Like he could even say anything like that to David. “I-I’m just thinking...could we, uh, leave the magic training until tomorrow? My arms are tired from swords, and I’m not sure I could even lift a wand right now.”

He chuckled, trying to laugh it off, which was futile with David. His eyes narrowed on Simon, arms crossed over his chest. “Oh really?”

Simon rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, yeah. W-Would that be okay? We’ve been training a lot. I could use a break.”

David’s eyes got even smaller. “There are no breaks in ruling, Simon, I’ve told you this.”

“I-I know, I just, I’ve been doing well. Maybe...I could take just one afternoon off?”

David stared at him for a long time. Simon’s pulse was beating in his ears. He silently prayed that David would be accommodating for once in his goddamn life. And thankfully, his prayers were answered.

“Very well,” he sighed. “You have been working hard. You may take the afternoon off.”

Simon let out a breath. “Thank you, Sir.”

David nodded curtly. “Rest well, Simon.”

He turned around and walked briskly out of the room. Simon let the muscles in his arms relax, head hanging between his shoulders. One fight down, one more to go. Simon would have to return to the lake tonight. The idea of that filled him with so much dread, so much anxiety, and just the tiniest, most minuscule sliver of hope. It had been days. Maybe Baz was ready to talk. Maybe they could fix things.

It was strange to feel such a mix of emotion after days of nothing. It was overwhelming, but Simon could cope. Because he could go see Baz. Even if he still hated Simon, Simon might see Baz's face again.

That was the only thing he was looking forward to in almost a week.

———————————————

Simon first worried he might have forgotten how to get to Baz’s lake. But the second he reached the edge of the Forbidden Lands, it was pure muscle memory. His feet knew the exact route through the treacherous wood. He didn’t bring his sword or dagger in a show of peace, so he hoped nothing was going to jump out at him. All he had in his bag was Swan Lake and a new scone, a second attempt at a pathetic peace offering. He hoped it was enough. It wouldn’t be, but Simon desperately wanted to hope.

He got closer and closer to the invisibility shield. His pulse increased with every step. Simon soon reached the three white birch trees that signaled his usual entrance. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and-

Wait. Was that...smoke?

There was a smell of smoke. And it was coming from just ahead.

For the second time that day, Simon started to panic.

His body went into autopilot. Simon’s feet flew like a wind, and he soon fell off the invisible cliff into the invisible lake. His magic somewhat cushioned his impact. But it didn’t cover up the black smoke all around him, or the flames licking at his heels.

It was all on fire. Almost the entire lake was engulfed in flames. Simon coughed and covered his mouth. His eyes were watering from the heat. This was literally his worst nightmare brought to life, and somehow so much worse.

“Baz!?” he yelled. “Baz!”

There was no response, but the fire was so loud that Baz might be able to hear him. Or Baz was already dead. Simon wasn’t going to think about that.

Simon shielded his eyes and walked forward. He did his best to clear the flames away with his magic, but the path in front of him was still burning. His watery eyes scanned the area. He saw the scorched grass, and flames reaching the cottage, and finally the flash of black hair under a tree. Simon ran towards the tree, fire be damned.

“Baz!” he shouted.

Baz was sitting under the burning tree, knees to his chest and face hidden. Just as Simon got close, Baz lifted his head. He blinked his puffy eyes at Simon. His cheeks were tear streaked, but Simon had a feeling they weren’t from the heat of the fire.

“Simon?” he said weakly. “Is that really you? I’m not dreaming?”

Simon stood in front of Baz, breathing heavily. “Yeah, yeah it’s me. What the hell is going on?! Why is everything on fire?!”

Baz’s face fell even more. With a weak hand, he lifted up something from behind his leg. Simon’s eyes went wide. It was his wand. And when Baz held it, it spit fire out in a weak sputter.

“You left this,” Baz said weakly. “I found it a few days ago. I picked it up tonight, and just...thought about how mad I was. Then fire started coming out. I couldn’t stop it no matter how hard I tried, and I couldn’t put it out. But then I thought, ‘what’s the point?’”

Simon dropped his sack and went to his knees in front of Baz. He wanted to touch Baz, but he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed. “No, Baz, d-don’t say that. There’s a point! There always is!”

Baz didn’t snap or fight. It seemed all the fight was drained out of him. He pulled in on himself even more. “No, not this time.” Fresh tears fell down his face. His mouth quavered. “I really forgot how horrible it was, to be alone and cursed with no chance of freedom. And I...I can’t live like that again. I’d rather  burn."

He tried to spit the last word, but it came out more like a choked sob. Simon’s heart had dead for almost a week, but it was most certainly alive now, and it was splintering in two. He shuffled forward, needing to be closer to Baz.

“No, Baz, please don’t say that,” he said desperately.

“It’s true,” Baz muttered. “You were my last chance at escape, and I pushed you away. You’re probably just here to get your wand.” He waved it weakly, making it dribble more fire.

Simon gulped, because he couldn’t deny it. But that wasn’t important anymore. He put his hands on Baz’s knees. He didn’t care if he was allowed, he just needed Baz to know he wasn’t alone.

“Baz, you didn’t push me away. I’m right here.”

“Why?!” It wasn’t an accusation, but a plea. Baz’s teary eyes were round with sadness and bewilderment. “Why would you ever want to be here with me again? I said such horrible things. I hurt you and pretended not to care. You should hate me!”

“I don’t! I forgive you! I-I hurt you too, and I’m sorry as well!” Simon’s voice was strained and desperate, but he truly meant it. He forgave Baz instantly. None of what happened before even mattered anymore at the moment. Now he just didn’t want to lose him for good.

But the look on Baz’s face said he didn’t believe him. “I’m sorry, Simon, I-I just, I can’t live like this anymore.”

He let his head fall forward onto his knees, his entire body shaking. The flames were crawling towards him. Simon’s heart raced and ached. He thought of Swan Lake, of Odette and Siegfried, of the word written on that last page.

I won’t let our story end like theirs, Simon thought.

He reached forward, grabbed Baz’s head, and tilted his face up. Simon looked straight into Baz’s blood shot grey eyes and refused to look anywhere else.

“Baz,” he said firmly, “you deserve to live. No matter how messed up everything is now, you should live, because you’re important. And you will escape this place, I promise, okay?” He leaned even closer. “I’ve never turned my back on you before. I’m not starting now.”

Baz tried to jerk away, but Simon refused to let go. He never wanted to let Baz go again.

“Simon...” Baz said, somewhere between a sob and a plea. He looked like was about to say something, something that would inevitably destroy Simon’s heart again.

So Simon kissed him.

Simon had thought so much about kissing Baz since the festival. Almost too much. How it would happen, when it would happen, how Baz’s mouth would feel pressed to his. Even after their falling out, a piece of his mind still fantasized about how they could have kissed if Simon hadn’t ruined everything. But here they were, under a tree, with the world burning down around them, nothing like how Simon imagined. And it was still incredible.

Baz’s lips were cold, colder than Simon remembered Agatha’s being. And they were soft. Simon had slept on silk sheets rougher than Baz’s mouth. It was an astounding, wonderful, life changing, world shaking revelation that he felt so ecstatic to know. He pressed hard against Baz, pushing him against the tree and holding his head in place. Baz gasped in surprise, and Simon wondered if he was about to get shoved into the flames. But then Baz pushed back, trying to match Simon’s furious, desperate movements with all his might. Simon felt instant relief. He held Baz tighter, kissed him harder, trying to push all his feelings in desires through his mouth. Lips slid together, panting breaths exchanged. Baz eventually relaxed somewhat, letting Simon shove him against the rough bark. Letting Simon just snog him for all he was worth.

Their mouths fit together so perfectly, like a key turning in it’s lock. And it opened so many doors in Simon’s mind. He knew the second his lips touched Baz’s that this was all he needed. Baz, not suffering, not in pain, just safe here in his arms, the two of them kissing so hard they forgot their lives. Simon would gladly die kissing Baz.

Simon’s eyes flew open. The flames were still licking at his feet. They were dangerously close to Baz. No, he couldn’t die kissing Baz. Because he refused to let Baz die.

Simon ripped their mouths apart. Both men were breathing heavily, half from the snogging, half from the copious amount of smoke in the air. Baz’s eyes were still half lidded and his cheeks were very flushed. He looked like a dream. Simon wanted to stare at him, but he couldn’t right now. He reached besides Baz and snatched his wand, then turned to the roaring flames.

“Out with thine flames!” he shouted. One fire went out, but it quickly re-lit. Simon growled. “Extinguish!” Still nothing. The magic was jamming up in Simon’s arm and fizzling out. His heart was beating so hard. He was going to die. Baz was going to die. He couldn’t let that happen.

Suddenly, cool fingers wrapped around Simon’s hand. He turned his head, and Baz’s eyes met his. They weren’t sad anymore. They were determined, strong, as fiery as the trees burned around them. He deftly plucked the wand from Simon’s hand, and pointed it over Simon’s shoulder.

"Out with thine flames!” he shouted, voice dripping with magic. Half the fire went out, but some stuff still burned. Baz tried again but the fire was unchanged.

Simon’s worry peaked again. Instinctively, he put a hand on Baz’s chest. Suddenly, he felt his magic somehow...push into Baz. It rushed like a roaring river into the other boy. Baz gasped. He looked at Simon, mouth hanging open. Simon’s breath was heavy. This was supposed to be impossible. But so much about both of them was already impossible. Why not this too?

“Try again” Simon said, voice strained but clear.

Baz nodded. He pointed the wand again, and shouted, “out with thine flames!”

His voice was thunder, more powerful than his captor’s. The fire went out with a rush of air so sudden Simon’s ears popped. Most of the ground was charred black and smoking. The cloaked man wouldn’t like this. It needed to be fixed. Simon looked at Baz again.

“Say, ‘as you were.’”

Baz’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Simon pushed more of his magic into Baz. Baz inhaled sharply. “Trust me, just say it.”

Baz, still breathing heavily, nodded. He pointed the wand. “As you were!”

One boom later, and it was all gone. Everything was returned to normal. It was like the fire had never been there in the first place. The grass was green and lush again, the trees completely unscathed. The lake was once again a beautiful prison of a sparkling blue water and strange floating lights. Simon let out a sigh of relief. Baz wouldn’t get in trouble with his horrific captor. Baz wouldn’t be burned to ash. Baz was safe.

Simon turned back to Baz. Baz was breathing hard, eyes wider than saucer plates, and arm still ramrod straight. Simon quickly realised he was still pushing magic into Baz. He removed his hand, and Baz’s arm fell as he let out a long sigh. The wand rolled on the ground. Baz’s eyes were slits. His chest slowly rose and fell, neatly matching Simon’s own. It took many moments before he founds words again.

“You’re a mage,” he whispered. Baz nodded weakly. “You can control my magic.” Baz nodded again. “H-How?! That’s not possible. You- You’re, how can you-”

Baz sighed, then grabbed Simon’s collar. Before he knew it, their mouths were crushed together again. Simon inhaled sharply, but didn’t move away.

Instead, he kissed Baz back with all he had. Just like he wanted.

———————————————

Simon wasn’t sure how long they spent sitting under that tree, holding Baz’s face, kissing him. It could’ve been minutes, hours, years, who knew. Time stretched into a meaningless infinity when Simon was kissing Baz. He still had a tight grip on Simon’s collar, lips moving furiously, obviously having no clue how to kiss. Simon didn’t mind. He just didn’t want to stop. Baz’s eyes were squeezed shut. Simon didn’t know if he was in pain or trying to shut the world out. He hoped it was the latter. He wanted to shut the world out too. He wanted it to just be the two of them forever.

There were so many things he wanted to do with Baz. Like this; he pushed his hand through Baz’s hair. The smooth strands slipped through his fingers, just like he thought they would. He clenched his fist to better shove Baz’s face into his. Baz inhaled through his nose, then suddenly pulled back.

“Sorry,” Simon said. (He was out of breath. It was embarrassing.)

“No,” Baz sighed, “it’s alright. We should just...” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Everything isn’t on fire anymore, so we should talk.”

Simon felt the lump form in his throat. Part of him knew he shouldn’t be worried. Baz said he felt bad about what he said, he had kissed Simon back. But Simon was still scared. He felt like he’d just gotten Baz back. He didn’t want to lose him again.

But he nodded anyway. “Okay. Just, right here?”

Baz stretched his neck and rubbed his head. “No, this tree is very uncomfortable. Let’s sit against the cottage.”

“Okay.”

Simon stood up, but his legs were shaky. He used one arm to balance against the tree for a moment. Baz grabbed his elbow, keeping him steady. The lump in his throat lessened somewhat. His eyes flicked up to Baz, a small smile on his lips. Baz returned it. And Simon felt warmer than he had in a week.

They walked together to the now unscorched cottage, loosely holding hands. Both sat down together, shoulders against the wood, bodies turned towards each other. A long silence stretched out. Simon stared at their touching hands. At Baz’s fine bones and long fingers. He missed this. Not just holding Baz’s hand, but having him close. He felt better with Baz next to him. He meant what he said to Penelope. Here, holding Baz’s hand, he felt so real.

“Hi,” he said, almost wistfully.

Baz chuckled under his breath. “Hello,” he said.

“I-It’s been awhile.”

“I know.”

Simon gripped him a bit tighter. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry. For not telling you, about being a prince. And for what I said, when I left. I don’t want you to be alone. I never want you to be alone, I-I was just being stupid and pissed and that’s not excuse but I-”

“Hey,” Baz placed a hand on his upper arm, thumb sweeping over his skin, “it’s alright, I accept your apology. I just...” He sighed and lifted his head to meet Simon’s eyes. He looked both sad and confused. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve understood. At least, I would’ve tried to.”

“I-I know. Well, I know now.”

Baz mouth tensed for a moment. “Did you think I’d tell my captor? I wouldn’t have. I never would’ve.”

Simon shook his head vigorously. “No no, not like. I trust you, Baz, I never thought you would do that. Honestly,” Simon sighed, “it was really selfish. I just hate the way people treat me as a prince. Like I’ll smack them if they don’t call me ‘your highness’. Even my friends talk about my royal duties a lot. But you...you never had to know. I could forget I was a prince and just...be myself with you.” He groaned and rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, it was stupid. I should’ve told you. You wouldn’t have treated me like that. I was just a coward.”

Baz put both hands over Simon’s. Their eyes met again. Baz didn’t look sad or confused anymore. He looked sympathetic, a small smile on his face, and Simon let out a breath.

“I understand,” he whispered. “It was a bad choice, don’t be mistaken. You should’ve told me. But I understand why. And your reason is better than what I assumed.” His face fell, but this time, he looked ashamed. “If we’re trading apologies, I’m sorry too, Simon. I was horrible to you, and you didn’t deserve that. I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t think you lied about your childhood, or were trying to trick me, or using me for fun. And I certainly shouldn’t have dismissed all the horrible things you went through. I felt hurt and I lashed out. Which is not an excuse either. I’m so, so sorry.”

Simon shifted closer, his knees touching Baz’s. “I understand. I forgive you too.”

Baz let out a very relieved breath, all the tension leaving his face. The air suddenly felt less heavy, and not just because the fire was gone. Simon smiled weakly at Baz.

“You’re sorry, I’m sorry,” he sighed over dramatically. “What a pair of sorry messes we are.”

That made Baz laugh. Just a small, breathy giggle mostly out of his nose. But it was everything. It made Simon grin and chuckle as well. Their forehead fell forward, pressed against each other. They laughed together in the small space between them. Simon reached up and cupped the back of Baz’s neck. Baz gasped and his eyes flew open. Simon immediately moved his hand off.

“Sorr-”

“No,” Baz breathed out. “No, it’s fine. Just...” His eyes flicked down, red spreading on his cheeks. “No one has ever touched me there, or like...that. Affectionately. Romantically...”

Simon’s own face flushed. He knew Baz was inexperienced, what with being imprisoned alone for years and all, but it was another thing to see him like this; looking down all blushy, being so adorably innocent. It made Simon smile so hard his cheeks hurt.

“Is it okay if I do?” Simon whispered.

Baz bit his bottom lip and nodded. So Simon slowly moved back towards Baz’s neck. He touched him again, finger by finger, until he was holding him again. Baz’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a long sigh. Simon closed his own eyes, letting himself sink into the feeling. Baz’s skin was tepid, and strangely smooth for someone who lived in the woods. Simon found that amusing. Black bristles of hair tickled his fingers. He ran his thumb over Baz’s sharp cheekbone. Baz squeezed his wrist. They sat like that for a long time, simply breathing each other in.

“I like this,” Simon said quietly, when he had the confidence to. “What we’re doing right now, I like it. And I...I liked kissing you too. A lot”

Baz giggled, breath ghosting over Simon’s skin. “So you didn’t just kiss me to get me out of my suicidal funk?”

He meant it as a joke, but Simon didn’t want it to be a joke. It was horrible. He held Baz’s neck tighter, shaking his head against Baz’s. “No, it wasn't that. I really wanted to. I’ve wanted to since the festival.”

Baz’s breath audibly hitched. He squeezed Simon’s wrist. Their noses brushed, sending sparks through Simon’s nerves. “So have I. Maybe even longer.” Baz moved his hand further up Simon’s arm. “And I like what we’re doing too.”

He said it, but Baz’s voice was slightly strained. Simon pulled back so he could see his face. Baz was half smiling, but his eyes looked pained. And Simon immediately knew there was something else tumbling around in his big brain.

“But...?” he said.

Baz sighed, using one hand to push hair from his face. “But, I’m still stuck here, indefinitely. If we do...this, being together, you’re tying yourself to someone who’s cursed. Wouldn’t you rather be with someone more normal?”

Simon let out a disbelieving laugh. He couldn’t help it. Baz’s brow furrowed, his mouth pulling into a frown. Simon beamed at him, rubbing Baz’s neck slowly.

“Baz,” he said firmly, “you don’t have to worry about that. I don’t want to be with anyone else. Because you’re one of the only, sometimes the only person that I feel normal with.”

The pain went away from Baz’s face in an instant, replaced with a relaxed smile. He squeezed Simon’s forearm. “That, is the most eloquent thing you’ve ever said.”

Simon laughed again, and Baz quickly followed. Their foreheads tapped again. Simon’s hand moved across Baz’s face, ending with his thumb pressing just under his lower lip. The giggling immediately stopped. The air was heavy again, but with something different, something better.

“Can I kiss you again?” Simon asked before he lost his nerve.

“Yes,” Baz said immediately. “And you...you don’t have to ask. You just...can.”

Simon grinned, and leaned forward to kiss him. It wasn’t frantic this time. It was slow, languid. Of course Simon knew that Baz had never kissed anyone before, but it was a bit more obvious when they kissed slowly like this. He was hesitant and exploratory, trying to figure out what to do in the same methodical way he approached sword fighting. And like sword fighting, along with everything else he did, he quickly figured it out. He tilted his head just right, learned to slot his lips perfectly with Simon’s, and soon his movements became so confident it was like he’d been kissing Simon for a lifetime. Simon would happily have a lifetime of kissing Baz.

Once breath was scare, they pulled apart. Of course, that was when Simon yawned.

“You tired, Simon?” he teased.

“Fuck off,” Simon grumbled. “I was training all day then I had to stay up to come here.”

“Aw, you poor sleepy angel.”

Simon shoved Baz’s shoulder. Baz snickered and grabbed his hand. When he pressed his lips to back of it, Simon’s flush went down to his neck. Baz smirked. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. It was a relief to have their usual camaraderie back though.

“C’mon,” Baz said, tugging Simon to his feet. “You need sleep.”

Simon pouted, too tired to feel ashamed. “I want to spend time with you. I haven’t seen you in a week.”

Baz’s lip quirked up. “That’s very sweet, Simon, but you won’t have much fun when you’re exhausted.”

“I always have fun with you though.”

Baz sighed, exasperated but amused. “As do I. But you still need to sleep. So how about you sleep tonight, and we’ll have fun the next time you’re here, alright?”

Simon considered arguing more, but Baz had a point. And there was no point arguing with him. He was just as stubborn Simon. It was annoying and amazing. Simon couldn’t have found someone better for him.

“Okay,” Simon sighed. “As long as you help me up.”

Baz’s small smile turned into a beaming grin. “Gladly, love.”

He tugged Simon to his feet, and even let Simon fall against him, strong lean arms wrapped around his back and holding him up. Baz brought them both into the cottage and gently shut the door behind them. The cot was pristine again. (Vera must’ve taught Baz to make a bed well.) Baz pulled back the thick quilt. Simon collapsed on the cot instantly, sleep permeating his bones and mind. He let his eyes slide shut. Distantly, he heard Baz kneel next to him, pulling the blanket over his body with a free hand. Simon felt Baz’s cool lips be pressed to his forehead. He shuddered. Before tonight, no one had ever kissed Simon anywhere except his mouth. It seemed both of them were experiencing new things tonight.

“Goodnight, Simon,” he said softly, then started to stand up.

“Mm, no,” Simon whined and tugged on Baz’s hand. “Stay.”

Baz inhaled sharply. “I don’t usually sleep during the night...”

“Don’t care. Just want you to stay.” He tugged again. “Please?”

Simon could almost hear Baz thinking up there. He waited for what felt like an eternity, trying to resist sleep. But then he felt the blanket push back and the cot dip. He smiled and let go of Baz’s hand, but only so he could place it over his heart. It was beating wildly against Simon’s palm. There was a tiny bit of space between them, Baz’s arm resting lamely between them, and it felt too far away.

“You can touch me,” Simon said. “I don’t mind.”

Baz audibly gulped. “I, uh, I don’t know how.”

Simon laughed under his breath. He grabbed Baz’s arm and laid it across his side. He pulled him even closer, so Simon’s nose was almost against his chest. Baz was still hesitant, but he left his arm where it was. Simon traced a finger over his collarbone, touching the edge of his cotton shirt, brushing against his delicate silver chain. Bit by bit, Baz’s arm held him tighter, fingers pressing into his back.

“G’night.” Simon almost added “I love you” to that, but there had been enough excitement for tonight. He would save those words for another time.

Baz pressed his nose into Simon’s hair. “Sweet dreams, Simon.”

And when Simon drifted off, his dreams were undistinguished, but they were made of light and happiness and warmth.

———————————————

Waking up next to Baz was infinitely different than any other way Simon had ever woken up. He felt it all come into focus one by one. Baz’s arm on his side, his nose in his hair, their legs pressed against each other. It was like there was a wall between him and the outside world. Nothing could touch them. Simon didn’t want anything to touch them. He wanted Baz forever.

Simon sighed and gripped his shirt. Baz’s arm squeezed him.

“Good morning,” Baz said into his hair.

Simon pulled back to see Baz’s face. His eyes were half lidded, a small smile on his mouth. He looked like someone on the verge of drifting off.

“Did you sleep?” Simon asked.

Baz shook his head. “No. I told you, I don’t sleep at night.”

“So what, you’ve just been watching me sleep?”

“Maybe.”

Simon frowned sarcastically. “Creeper.”

Baz chuckled, pressing a kiss to Simon’s temple, and Simon all but melted into the cot. He was so happy. He never thought he could be this happy. And from the look on Baz’s face, he was too.

He pushed a curl from Simon’s forehead and sighed heavily. There was clearly something on his mind.

“What is it?” Simon asked.

Baz gently cupped Simon’s face, and Simon leaned into it. “I’m just realising, I never thought I could hate this curse anymore than I already do. But I do now.”

Simon’s brows pulled together. “Why?”

“Because,” he sighed, running his thumb just under Simon’s  eye, “the sun’s about to come up. And once it does, I won’t be able to stay here holding you anymore.”

Simon’s entire face turned tomato red. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. No words felt sufficient for the supernova exploding in his chest. Baz chuckled.

“Cat got your tongue, Simon?”

“Shut up,” he mumbled.

Baz kept laughing, so Simon grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down until their mouths met. Baz gasped, but quickly melted into it. His fingers were splayed against Simon’s cheek, his other hand against the small of his back. They kissed slowly, peacefully, like they had all the time in the world.

But unfortunately, the sun was coming up.

Simon pulled away with a small sigh. He looked out the small window to see the dark orange sky. He instinctively held Baz tighter.

“I have to go soon,” Baz said, voice breaking slightly.

“I know. But I’ll be back, and so will you. And...” Simon’s mind drifted back his rucksack outside, with the scone and the book. The book that might hold the key to Baz’s freedom. “And I found something out west that might really help with your curse. I’ll leave it here. You can read it tonight, if you want.”

Baz looked unsure, but he nodded anyway. “Okay. I’ll take a look.”

“Good, good.” He looked to the window again. The sun was getting closer to the horizon. The glow around Baz’s body started to show. Their time tonight was almost up. Simon’s gripped Baz’s hand tightly. He didn’t want to let go, not yet. “Um, I know you don’t like it when I see you as a swan, but...would it be okay if I stayed? For a bit? I-I’ll go when you’re asleep. I just, I want to stay with you for a little longer...”

Baz was quiet for a long moment, longer than was probably appropriate for the amount of time they had. His glow was getting worse. Simon didn’t let go of his hand, and neither did Baz.

“Okay,” he said, voice strained. “Just, stay in here until after the sun rises please?”

Simon nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

His grey eyes became unbelievably soft. He pressed a last kiss to his lips. When he pulled back, Simon chased his mouth, but Baz put a hand to his chest to keep him back. Simon let himself be pushed him back onto the cot. Baz stood up and walked to the door. His entire body was lit up now, minutes from changing. But he still took a second to look at Simon one more time. Simon smiled at him, and Baz smiled back just before he closed the door.

Simon flopped back on the bed, hand over his thundering chest. He needed a moment to catch his breath. So much had happened in less than twenty four hours. He and Baz were okay now. More than okay, they were together. Together in a way that involved soft words and kissing and everything Simon didn’t know he desperately wanted until Baz. Simon was grinning, he couldn’t stop grinning. He knew their problems weren’t over, but at least they had this. No matter what happened, they would have this.

The sunlight bled in through the window. Simon felt it was safe to get up. He slowly opened the cottage door, and opened it all the way when he saw the lake’s shore. Baz was sitting next to it, wings pulled in, neck still stretched up. His clothes were in a neat pile next to the door. Even though he had permission, Simon still walked toward him cautiously. Baz didn’t hop or fly away, so he took that as a good sign. He sat just next to Baz, knees pulled up and one hand on the ground between them.

“Uh, hi,” Simon said. “I-I don’t know what to say now, since you can’t really respond. With words...” Baz let out a series of little honks, which Simon assumed was the swan equivalent of a chuckle. Simon laughed and scooched closer. “Yeah, yeah, shut up.” He leaned even closer, but still kept a reasonable distance “I know you want to sleep, I won’t keep you up. I just, I wanted to do this because I want you to know that I...care about you no matter what. Swan or human. If that makes sense.”

He looked down. But it was hard to read Baz’s emotions when he was a swan. Simon was worried. Baz could see it completely differently. He didn’t like being a swan, maybe he didn’t want Simon to care for him at all like this, because he didn’t care for himself like this. But Simon did, and he wanted Baz to know.

He scratched at the back of his neck. “Can I, um, can I touch you?”

Baz’s eyes met his. It was still that deep sea grey. No matter what form, his eyes were gorgeous. He nodded his small bird head once, and Simon let out a sigh of relief. Simon placed a hand between his wings, just laying it on his black feathers and silver chain. He didn’t pet Baz though. That felt rude. Baz wasn’t a wild animal, and Simon wouldn’t treat him like one. And Baz seemed content. He curled his neck around and placed his head on Simon’s hand, eyes sliding shut. Simon’s heart felt so full it was painful.

In that moment, he made a promise to himself; he was never going to lose Baz ever again.

———————————————

AN: Aw, aren't they cute? :) Yeah, I can't keep them apart for too long. Next chapter is the longest one in the fic, I think, and the knight and warlock fic is still in the works (that's going slowly because of my headaches unfortunately) so look forward to those! Hope you enjoyed this :D