#i think this is part of why most rosemary fic leaves me cold

[hinotorihime]

on a completely different note it is desperately important to me that rose lalonde is a fucking mess who is not nearly as insightful as she thinks she is

[my-happy-little-bean]

Do The Cooking By The Book

pairings: LAMP/CALM words: 6013 warnings: swearing, alcohol, implied panic attacks, small burn mention, general angst summary: patton bakes when he’s sad and nowadays, no amount of chewy chocolate chip cookies would be able to cover that up.

or: the five times patton bakes something for the others and the one time he can’t.

a/n- hello! welcome to part 2 of that series i mentioned before called  ‘let’s indulge bean in their slightly low quality, very personal fics’ (maybe i should actually make this an actual series on ao3 lol) :’)

i have been having a bit of writer’s block between this patton/janus one shot and golden slumbers (there's just o n e more scene i need to figure out, trust me it's haunting my every move), so i decided to write a bit of a fresh warm up instead! and by warm up, i mean i started writing it in the beginning of july and it somehow spiralled into a big thing, like they always do :’)

inspired by my declining mental health and my unhealthy obsession with baking focaccia at 2 am :)

p.s – later there's a [1] that's supposed to be a footnote but the formatting just said no so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

read on ao3 ~

enjoy!

----------------------------- 

~ patton’s chewy chocolate chip cookies ~

ingredients: 

2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

0 teaspoon club soda

2 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, softened (or melted, like my heart around my honeybees <3)

1 3/4 cups packed dark brown sugar (must be working out ;) )

1/4 cup granulated sugar sugar, honey honey (except no honey :P)

2 large eggs, room temp.

2 teaspoons vanilla extract (and not any extra-ct ;) )

2 cups Virgil-esque chocolate chips*

 *semi-sweet! ^v^

 –– 

“Holy shit, Pat.”

Patton smiled, all toothy and wide. He was still standing beside the couch Roman was lounging on, holding up the tray with his pastel blue oven mitts.

“You like it?” he beamed. Roman nodded, scrambling over the armrest to grab another.

“Umfh,  yeah,”  Roman replied, crumbs spilling out of his mouth. “Ovfiously.”

“...What?”

Roman quickly swallowed and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Patton laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “No worries! I think it’s a- dough -able.”

“...If you weren’t holding cookies right now, I'd say that you suck. But you're holding cookies, so..."

There was a pause that Patton quickly filled with laughter, even if it suddenly felt like he was struggling to carry the sound out of his chest and into the air.

Luckily, Logan walked into the room before Patton could say anything that was affected by the spontaneous pang in his chest. His eyes lit up upon seeing him. 

“Logan!” He cheerily dashed over to the other side of the room, holding up the tray to Logan’s face. “A treat for my smart cookie?”

Logan reeled back slightly to avoid getting hit by the edge of the tray. He pushed up his glasses.

“Ah, thank you, dear. But I do believe it is too early for copious amount of sugar consumption–”

“Just try one, cookie-tita,” Roman cut him off, “you and I know that you want one.”

Logan frowned at him over Patton’s shoulder, then looked back at Patton. He gave Logan the widest smile he could muster, which made him sigh. 

“While Roman’s reference was a bit of a stretch–” He eyed the cookies one more time, then looked back at Patton– ”I suppose I will agree to half a cookie.”

“Goody!” Patton said brightly. “Or should I say, gooey?”

“You shouldn’t.”

Logan picked one cookie up and took a small bite. His eyes softened, which made Patton’s heart melt. 

“...Oh sweet Einstein,” he muttered, grabbing one more cookie off the tray before making a beeline to the coffee machine in the kitchen. Patton just smiled to himself, admittedly a bit proud. 

Before he turned around to go see if Logan needed help, he heard shuffling coming up beside him. He looked over and smiled. 

“Virge! You’re awake!” Virgil pulled one side of his headphones up as Patton presented him the tray. “Cookie?”

“Uh, sure.” He took one and nodded when he had a few bites, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Thanks, Pat.”

“No problemo!” he chirped, wandering back to the living room. Virgil trailed behind him, now slipping his headphones around his neck. 

“Did you bake these this morning?” Virgil asked as Patton set the tray on the coffee table in front of Roman, who readily lunged at it. Patton turned and smiled brightly at him. 

“Yeah! I mean...it was technically morning, heh.” 

Virgil blinked in that knowing way Patton was all too familiar with. Patton mentally cursed.  

“What do you mean by technically–”

Before he could say anything else, Patton clapped his hands together. 

“Well, I’m glad you all liked the cookies.” He tried not to think about how loud his own voice suddenly was. “Feel free to finish them!”

Roman frowned, mid-bite of his third cookie.

“Don’t you want any, sweetheart?"

“No no! I chip-ed in so much effort in baking them that I tired myself out, heh!” He faked a yawn. “I’ll just go to my room!”

Roman just laughed, stuffing another cookie in his mouth with a shrug. Logan wandered back from the kitchen, conjuring a book as he walked and nodding at Patton. He grabbed another cookie and sat on the couch beside Roman, leaning against his shoulder.

Virgil just looked at him as he left, eyes narrowed and steely. 

They’re so perfect, Patton thought as he sunk out to go to his room, leaving the three of his boyfriends alone with a wave. Perfect just the way they are.

 Without me.  

----------------------------- 

~ ‘i got ya’ focaccia ~ 

ingredients:

for the garlic-infused mixture

1/2 cup extra-virgin, PG-rated olive oil

2-3 minced garlic cloves

0 garlic gloves (haha i’m hilarious)

1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme or 1 teaspoon dried

1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary or 1 teaspoon dried

1/4 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper

for the bread

1 cup warm water

2 1/4 teaspoons active dry yeast (1 packet)

1/4 teaspoon honey honey, you are my candy girl–

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt (maybe it’s wearing some nice clothes!) (sea what i did there? i’m funny, aren’t i?) 

–– 

Virgil heard a soft ‘ shit ’ coming from the kitchen. 

Don’t panic, it’s probably all fine,  he thought, slowly walking towards the entrance to the kitchen.  It’s totally not some burglar, ready to steal all our spices and blow them into my eye, making me blind. It can’t be, we’re not even real so how could there be a burglar–

As he neared the dimmed light coming from the kitchen, however, a quiet sob broke through his thoughts.

A chill ran through him. The sob was muffled, squeaky, and admittedly a bit pathetic in terms of how there was an attempt to cover it up. Almost like the sound a puppy would make when someone accidentally stepped on their paw.

All too familiar.

“Patton?” he murmured, turning on another light in the kitchen. 

Patton was hunched over the counter space beside the oven, next to a saucepan on a burner; which was emitting a strong garlic and herb smell. 

That wasn’t what Virgil was focusing on, though; but rather the way Patton held his hand close to his chest.

Patton spun around on his heel when his name left Virgil’s tongue, his eyes wide and glazed over, like a deer caught in headlights. 

“Sh– Virgil! Hi!” He laughed nervously. “What are you doing here? It’s like, 2 am!”

Virgil dug his hands in his sweater pockets. “I’m always up at 2 am. What are you doing here?”

He watched as Patton’s smile forcefully tugged at the corners of his lips.

“I’m baking focaccia! Wanna join?”

There was a slight crack in his cheeriness. Virgil took a step closer. 

“What happened to your hand?”

Patton looked down at it, then held up his index finger, which was slightly red. 

“Just accidentally brushed up against the pan!” he chuckled. “It was still hot. ”

“How could you brush up against the pan,” Virgil deadpanned, hopping onto the kitchen island. “Roman’s asleep.” 

Patton blushed as he ran his finger under cold water.

“Grab the flour and pour a cup of it in that bowl,” he said, shaking his hand dry and going back to the stove. “I think that the yeast and honey had enough time in the water. I’m just about done with the garlic stuff.”

“Okay, honey,” Virgil hummed, already scooping the flour in the measuring cup.

Patton turned to face him over his shoulder with a smile.  

“Gosh, you get funnier at 2 am, kiddo.”

Virgil shrugged. “It’s easy to cater to your humour, babe. Though no one does it as good as you do.” 

Patton’s blush intensified, and it made Virgil feel a little more at ease that he could still make him flustered like that. 

“So really, Pat,” Virgil asked, stirring in the flour as Patton went over with a smaller cup of the garlic-infused mixture. “Why are you up so late baking focaccia of all things?”

A pause. Patton finished pouring in his cup before turning his back away, his head low. 

“No reason!” he said brightly, though Virgil suddenly felt edges of darkness to each word. “I thought it’d be nice. Plus Roman loves my focaccia. Thought I could surprise him!”

A pause. Virgil wanted to press him more, but there was something about Patton’s cracked smile that advised him against it. He knew a warning when he saw one. 

“He likes anything you bake him, babe,” he said instead, adding salt and the rest of the flour before beginning to knead the dough in the bowl. “You could bake him a frog and he’d be grateful.”

“Now Virge, I think you’re mixing the twins up again,” Patton giggled. Virgil smirked, even if he felt like he shouldn’t. There was such heavy air in the kitchen; a positive emotion wouldn’t last a second. 

“You sure you’re okay, Patton?” 

When Patton finally faced him, it felt like the air was sucked out of him. Now that he was standing under the light, he felt like he saw all of him more clearly. There were dried tear tracks running down his cheeks. Did he always have those? And under his eyes were bags of purple, dark and stormy; clear evidence that maybe Patton had been late-night baking before. 

However, that broken smile was what haunted Virgil the most.

“I’m just peachy, Virge!” he chirped, conjuring up a towel and covering the bowl of dough Virgil probably over-kneaded. Patton’s eyes seemed to drill right into his own. “ Positive.”

Virgil numbly nodded as Patton clapped his hands. 

“Well! Now we wait!” He smiled again at Virgil. “Want some coffee?”

 ----------------------------- 

~ mushy gushy marshmallows ~

ingredients:

marshmallow base

2 cups of sugar 

1/4 cup corn syrup

1 cup water (1/2 for for dissolving gelatin)

7 tsp / 3 packets of gelatin

1/4 tsp salt

1 1/2 tsp of vanilla extract

 dusting powder

1 cup confectioner’s sugar

1/2 cup cornstarch

*note to future patton: don’t make these, actually. they suck.

–– 

“Fuck!” 

Logan heard the curse from the kitchen, lifting his head from his book and immediately smelling for any smoke. 

“Patton?” 

There was no smoke. Instead, just another string of curses. Logan sighed; it was not like the moral side to swear. But reprimanding him didn’t sound like a wise idea. 

Instead, he set his book down on the coffee table in front of him and wandered to the kitchen. 

“Is everything oka–”

He stopped mid-sentence and looked at the sight in front of him. 

Surrounding him was a sugary mess, with many bowls of gelatin and water littering the entire counter. Logan could only assume they were failed attempts at whatever was being made today.

In the middle of this mess was Patton, holding the hand mixer up in the air with tears streaming down his face. 

“...Let’s put the hand mixer down, shall we?”

Logan moved forward before Patton could even respond, slowly lowering his hand that held the mixer. Patton just sobbed, dropping it on the floor in defeat. Logan tried not to panic at the suddenly broken hand mixer. Logically, they could summon a new one. It was extra energy, sure, but it was fixable.

However, he wasn’t quite sure he could fix the sight in front of him.

“Is there something wrong, starlight?” he murmured, ushering Patton toward the kitchen table. Patton just sighed. 

“It’s the stupid marshmallows.” Patton threw his apron onto the floor as he sat down. “I just don’t get what I’m doing wrong. I tried everything.  And they– they just suck.” 

Logan blinked, almost dumbfounded. In all the years he spent together with Patton, he had never seen him so distraught. Not even his arguably-worse decisions elicited a response similar to the frustration he was currently witnessing. Patton always wore a smile and carried on. Any mistake was just a mistake; nothing more to it. 

So what was different here?

“I even tried summoning a candy thermometer,” Patton continued. Logan tried his best to be present, even if his worry was slowly overtaking all of his senses. “Those things are stupid! I thought–”

“Hey,” Logan finally said, cutting Patton off by holding his hands into his. “Let’s slow down for a minute, okay?” 

When Patton looked up at him, his heart broke. 

Patton’s eyes were glassy with tears, some kind of foreign look not too far behind his irises. The absence of his smile was even more unsettling. 

He looked completely different; as if someone took one of the loves of his life and replaced him without even leaving a trace. 

Suddenly, he was filled with what he only assumed was longing. 

“Patton,” he said slowly, looking down at their intertwined hands, “please don’t worry about the marshmallows. They’re just marshmallows. Clearly there is something else that is–”

He cut himself off as he heard Patton’s breath hitch. When he looked up, there was a faraway look in his eyes.

And that was when it clicked. That foreign look…

It was fear. Fear and guilt, all wrapped up in one. 

The face of someone who just got caught.

Patton quickly pulled his hands away from Logan’s, stumbling onto his feet and muttering something about cleaning up later under his breath as he sunk out. 

Logan blinked, taken completely aback. He quickly re-evaluated every word he said that could have led to him leaving. 

“They’re just marshmallows.” 

Logan winced. Shit. Perhaps Patton was still in his ‘in his feelings phase; not his ‘in need of rational solution’ phase. He should have known better and now, Patton was further away from him than he was before. 

Logan then thought about the guilt that struck Patton’s face before he could confront him; the fear in his eyes when Logan dared to dig a little deeper. 

Patton wasn’t far away, actually.

Patton was just gone;   and Logan didn’t know where to look to find him.

----------------------------- 

~drunken    bitter    butter rumcakes~

 ingrdents:

for the cupcakes:

1 cup of choped picans

1/2 cup coconut flake

yellow cake mix, lots of it probs

some vanilla puddin apparently? i dont know why

eggs i dont care how much fuck it

1/2 milk

vegetable oil (optional cuz it sounds gros)

rum

for the bitter rum glaze:

some butter and sugar

more rum

rum 

 for the frosting

confictione confecion confectioniser’s powdered sugar

soft buttter

vanilla extract

rest of the bottl eof rum probably

 ––

It only took a crash from the kitchen for Roman to realize that Logan and Virgil were right: something was wrong with Patton. 

Virgil had been the first one to express his concern, and it was right on the day Patton baked them all cookies. Patton had since baked many more cookies; which for some reason, only intensified his worry. Roman didn’t think much of it at first. Virgil, bless his soul, always held a bit of his paranoia close to his chest. Plus, Patton’s cookies were the best! There wasn’t much to complain about. A few days later, Virgil mentioned something weird about Patton’s focaccia; but even that admittedly didn’t raise any concern from Roman. 

It was when Logan mentioned the marshmallow incident that Roman knew something might be off. 

The two had warned him that going to the kitchen late at night could possibly bring some less than ideal sights, but that only drew Roman closer; like a beautiful moth attracted to light. If Patton was truly upset, Roman had to be there! He knew that the others didn’t know much about navigating the small crises Patton would have every now and then, but Roman did! It was Patton, after all! Roman had experience — and he just had to play it by the book. 

But when he finally walked into the kitchen upon hearing the source of the crash, he was greeted with something he never quite saw before. 

Patton was on the ground, holding a long, glass bottle by its neck and a bowl—with all its contents—was splattered on the floor beside him. 

Roman stood there, almost dumbfounded. Patton didn’t even realize he was there before he looked up and blinked a few times. 

Then, Patton started to cry. 

“Oh, sunshine,” Roman murmured, sitting next to him on the floor. The strong stench of alcohol filled the air beside Patton, and Roman saw a glimpse of a rum label on the bottle. It was half empty. 

“M’sorry,” Patton mumbled under his breath, immediately resting his head on Roman. “Didn’t–” He hiccuped– ”Didn’t mean to make noise.”

“Shh, mi amor, it’s okay.” Roman stroked his hair slowly, going through the familiar motions of comforting his boyfriend. “I understand. Let me help you, okay?”

Another sob wracked through Patton’s body. 

“I– I don’t deserve your help.” The words came out in a slur. Roman had a slight feeling that Patton didn’t use all the rum in his bottle for baking.

“Nonsense! Of course you deserve help,” Roman whispered, twirling a strand of his hair. “I’m here to help you. I always am.”

Patton leaned into the touch, though the weight of his head seemed heavier than usual; like he was unintentionally pressing himself onto Roman, limp against his shoulders.

“S’fine,” he said after a few more teary hiccups, trying to push himself onto his feet. “Gotta– gotta finish cupcakes. Tryna new recipe.” 

Roman frowned. “The cupcakes can wait until tomorrow, Patton; I’m going to bring you to bed and clean up–”

“No!” 

Roman jumped at the sheer volume of Patton’s voice, suddenly nervous that he’d wake the rest of them up.

I can handle this myself,  he thought.  I always have been able to, this isn’t different. 

“No, I don’t– I don’t need your help.” Patton stumbled up to his feet, leaning his arms on the kitchen counter like it was a life raft. He buried his head in his hands.  “I don’t need your help, I don’t need anyone’s help, I just need– I just need to finish this, then–”

“Darling, I don’t think–”

“No thinkin!” He pushed his index finger onto Roman’s lips. “No thinking, that’s for Logan. Tonight, we’re not thinking of anything– not thinking about anything anymore.”

Roman was taken aback. 

“Patton, we can continue,” he said gently, “but only if you sit down first and let me grab you some water, okay?”

Patton lifted his head to face Roman, his eyes red from the tears. 

“Why do you take care of me?” he suddenly asked, his voice a small whimper. Roman froze as he continued. “Why do– why do any of you care?”

“Patton, I–”

“I don’t do my fucking job right anyway,” Patton hissed. “I’m– I’m broken junk in Thomas’ brain! I can’t even do the right and wrong thing, I can’t– I can’t make him happy. I can’t make you guys happy– ‘n I  love you guys! God, I can’t even make stupid cupcakes–”

“None of that is true, Pat,” Roman tried to protest. “You make us extremely happy, you make me– ”

“You’re a liar!” Patton cried, turning on his heel to stare at Roman, whose heart dropped. “You’re– you’re a fucking liar, Roman.”

The air suddenly felt too thick for both of them to be breathing. Patton must have noticed that because as soon as the words left his tongue, he covered his mouth with his hands with teary eyes. 

“...Patton, please sit down. You’re not thinking straight.”

“M’not–”

“I know.” Roman tried to keep his voice levelled as he spoke. “Just...just sit down, okay? We’re going to talk it all through.” 

Patton just stared at him blankly for what seemed like an eternity before finally speaking up. 

“I’m sorry.”

And before Roman could plead for him one last time, Patton sunk out, the bottle of rum still in his hand.

Roman blinked at the spot Patton once stood in, all shaky and teary like he was facing an inky, twisted nightmare. His words echoed in his head and while Roman knew it was best not to take it all to heart, he still felt the sting of each curse. 

What kind of a hero was he?

He then looked at the splattered mixture on the floor and sighed. It looked a lot like cake mix. And if there was rum in that, it probably would’ve been good. A shame, really.

His eyes then spotted a book on the kitchen counter, open to a page that had a bit of rum on it judging by the smell. Roman frowned, going over to grab it. He closed it to look at the cover. 

It seemed to be Patton’s recipe book, judging by the baking-themed stickers littering the blue cover. When he opened it, he was greeted with pages of ingredients and instructions to make some of Patton’s signature baked goods. The first few pages made Roman smile; there were puns besides some of the ingredients and even cheesy references to him, Logan, and Virgil. It seemed very Patton-esque. 

But as he went further through the pages, the tone seemed to shift. There was an absence of puns for one of the recipes, and Roman knew he could’ve at least hit a few. And when he got further than that, he just stopped writing measurements all together. The rum cupcake recipe, which seemed like a recent entry, was barely decipherable. 

He flipped back a few pages and saw words scratched out; sentences that didn’t belong in a typical cookie recipe. And the corners of some of the pages were crisp, as if water dried on them over time. 

Roman’s breath hitched as he closed the book. Something was wrong, and for the first time he didn’t know what to do.

----------------------------- 

~ whats good-berry muffins ~ 

ingredients

who

cares

theyre

just

stupid

muffins

berries, probably

––  

“Roman, he did not mean what he said,” Logan said as Roman paced in front of him. “Perhaps you caught him at a bad time.” 

“A bad time?” Virgil echoed incredulously, turning around on the couch to face Logan. “Dude, he was wasted. That’s not a bad time, that’s a ‘code red’ time.” 

“Besides, shouldn’t you be advocating for intervention,  lo -ve of my life?” Roman asked, still pacing. “You seemed pretty upset about the now-called ‘marshmallow incident’.”

Virgil gave Logan a look and Logan looked down, almost embarrassed. 

“...I have since realized that my actions were not ideal, but that is to no fault of my own. Holding guilt does no good, and neither does intervening when one does not want to be...intervened upon.”

“Okay first off, even Janus lies more subtly than that.” Logan didn’t make eye contact with him, but stiffened at Virgil’s words. “And second of all, Patton  needs support. We’re supposed to be there for him – not just waiting for the most dire sign. The plane is crashing, Logan; you can’t just put your seatbelt on and wait. You have to do something.” 

“Actually, if an airplane is crashing and you are instructed to put your seatbelts on, it is of your best interest that you–”

“For Odin’s sake,” Roman groaned. “I love you, my nerd in shining armour; but you got to learn what a metaphor is.”

Logan fell quiet as Roman continued. 

“We need to do something. This isn't a typical Patton dilemma. And I know he doesn’t want to talk about it just out of the blue so we can’t confront him. We have to figure out a way for him to trust us.”

“He loves us,” Virgil grumbled, though hints of anxiety singed the edges of his words. “Shouldn’t the trust be there already?”

“Virgil, he loves us an infinite amount,” Logan said reassuringly, finally settling back into the chair. He pushed up his glasses. “In fact, he probably loves us too much to want to worry us or cause us any emotional strain.”

“But it wouldn’t cause us– well, whatever you said!” Virgil protested. He slumped over, his elbows pressed into his thighs. He looked defeated. “I just want to help him. I can’t stand seeing him like this.” 

“I know, stormcloud,” Roman murmured, sitting down beside us. “But...but we can do this. Together. We always have and now, we will.”

Logan nodded, tapping his shoulder so Virgil could rest against it. 

“Roman is correct. Besides, we do not even have to confront him. Perhaps confrontation is where part of this issue stems from. The trust is there, we just have to remind him that we are willing to, given that we are his partners. We just need to make a comfortable environment for–”

Suddenly, Virgil felt a small tug in his chest; as if something was pulling him downwards. His eyes widened and his breath hitched at the sensation. He knew where it was coming from. 

“Guys, it’s Patton. Something’s wrong.” 

In a flash, he sunk out, Logan and Roman soon following suit. Roman pulled out his sword just in case.

When they rose, they found themselves in Patton’s room; though it was less bright than usual. The fairy lights were flickering and swaying against the walls and the frames were all askew. It looked as if it was struggling to keep itself together. 

And in the middle of the room was Patton, on the floor and tugging at his hair as he cried, heaving into each sob. Surrounding him were boxes of half-summoned muffin mix, as well as some sugar slowly fading out of existence. In front of him was his recipe book, tearstained and ripped at the edges. 

Virgil immediately went to Patton’s side, scooping him up into his arms. Patton made no effort to protest, his body still clenched up from all the energy he was spending summoning the ingredients into his room. In the corner of his eye, he could even see the beginnings of what would be an oven.

“Patton,” Virgil heard Logan breathe out, still standing in the same spot behind them, almost in shock. “You are spending too much energy summoning all these things, your room nor your form cannot handle it. Why don’t you just go to the kitchen?”

Patton sobbed even more, tugging at his hair and curling up into Virgil’s chest. Virgil looked up at Logan over Patton’s hunched shoulders and just shook his head, his eyes flickering between him and Patton. 

Logan then made a small ‘o’ shape with his mouth, slowly approaching the two on the floor and sitting cross-legged beside him. He made an attempt to lower Patton’s hands from his hair. Eventually, it turned into him rubbing small circles in Patton’s back with the palm of his hand, softly whispering “it’s okay” under his breath as he moved closer to him and Virgil. 

Roman dropped his sword onto the floor and followed suit, grabbing a fluffy blanket from Patton’s bed and going behind his three boyfriends, laying the blanket over their shoulders as if he was shielding them from the unstable room surrounding them. He hovered over their shoulders for a while before kneeling down and hugging all three of them. 

And as the ingredients slowly disappeared around them, the room began to fix itself. Patton could breathe a bit slower now, yet the others curled up into him like the warm blanket they were surrounded by. 

Eventually, Patton realized that he was no longer crying;  yet everyone stayed. 

And then, Patton fell asleep;  and they stayed for that too. 

----------------------------- 

~ Don’t Forget-ti That We Love You Funfetti Cake* ~

 Ingredients:

 For the cake

1 and 2/3 cup (210g) all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon baking soda (because so-da one for us!) [1]

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup (1 stick or 115 g) unsalted butter, melted

3/4 cup (150g) granulated sugar

1/4 cup (50g) packed light brown sugar

1 large egg

1/4 cup (60g) yogurt

3/4 cup (180ml) milk

1 Tablespoon (15ml) pure vanilla extract

2/3 cup (90g) sprinkles (nonpareils not recommended**) 

For the buttercream

1 cup (2 sticks or 230g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature

3–4 cups (360-480g) confectioners’ sugar

1/4 cup (60ml) heavy cream

2 and 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

salt, to taste

 *Virgil actually came up with this and thinks its so lame so thats why that’s the name LOL ~ Roman

[1]  Roman wrote this pun but I am making the executive decision to retract this comment from the original script because it is not a necessary part of the recipe.

**can you tell that lo was the one who wrote the recipe ~ v 

–– 

Patton tried his hardest to fight the pull coming from the kitchen. 

It’s been a few days since the others found him in his room after his failed ‘bake muffins in isolation’ mission and Patton hadn’t dared to bake since. After all, if that incident wasn’t a good enough warning, the other times they found him in the kitchen were. He couldn’t let them see him like this again, what ‘this’ was. 

The others thought they knew he was upset about something, but Patton didn’t know how to tell them that he didn't even know what he was feeling. He wasn’t upset, he wasn’t stressed; he was just feeling every feeling, all at once.

And he didn’t know what to do. 

Baking was the only thing he could do when he felt like this. He longed to see a smile on Virgil’s face; to watch Logan actually eat and enjoy it rather than talking about how it didn’t matter that they ate; to laugh as Roman scarfed all of it down and ask for the recipe. The recipe book was actually going to be Roman’s gift for their anniversary. It made his heart ache even more knowing that it wasn’t good enough for him anymore. 

When he felt everything or nothing at all, he would just bake and watch as the people he loved were filled with joy; and Patton, selfish as it is, would bask in the sunlight they radiated. If he kept baking and kept making them happy? Well, their light could never disappear. 

But then, it did.

And Patton couldn’t bear to stand in the darkness of that kitchen anymore. 

Still, the tugging persisted. Patton secretly hoped that him pitying himself would guilt whatever force was summoning him to the kitchen into giving up its pursuit. 

Patton sighed, tugging the strings of his cat hoodie a little tighter so that the hood with wrap around his head. Maybe if he didn’t show his face, no one would see that he had been crying for an hour or so. 

When he sunk out, he was met with a warmly-lit kitchen and a small cake in the middle of the dining table.

Patton frowned, walking towards it curiously. It was a very...rustic cake, if rustic still meant ‘messy’ in baking terms. The icing was a bit rough around the edges and he felt like the writing in icing was supposed to say “WE ❤ U” but the heart looked a bit like...well, Patton didn’t want to say. 

Still, it was rather cute. There was a small plate beside it with a fork and a slice of the cake, dots of sprinkles baked into it. Patton smiled; it seemed to be a funfetti cake! His favourite!

Patton took a bite out of the cake without really thinking about it, his smile only growing at the sweet taste. 

That was when he saw the book. 

It laid neatly beside the plate, open to a page he didn’t quite remember writing. On it were various scribbles of bright red ink mixed with blue ink, along with a note written in pencil at the bottom of the page. He recognized the handwriting immediately as he picked up the book and began to tear up. 

“Virgil, if he does not want to be summoned you cannot–”

Patton looked up from the book and saw Logan and Virgil suddenly at the entrance to the kitchen, stopped in their tracks with their eyes wide. They stared at each other for a brief moment before Virgil huffed, breaking the silence.

“See, Lo?” He kissed Logan's cheek and went on his tip-toes to ruffle his hair, much to Logan’s dismay. “Patton always comes down for cake.” 

Patton dropped the book on the table and went over to sweep the two in a big hug, warm and tight and filled with love. Virgil fell quiet, but hugged back as Logan chuckled, patting Patton’s back. 

“I sincerely hope the cake is to your standards, Patton,” he said as he pulled back. “I know that the aesthetics are not...well, they are not ideal; Roman spent so much time planning that he forgot to take into account the amount of time we’d  actually have–”

“Logan?” Patton said, his voice still scratchy from being close to tears. “I love you. It’s perfect.” 

Logan smiled brightly, the light from it almost blinding Patton. 

“You guys didn’t have to bake for me!” Patton rubbed at his eyes with a small laugh. “I know baking a cake is no easy task, especially a funfetti cake!”

Virgil shrugged. “Logan led most of it. I kinda just made sure the kitchen didn’t explode. You know how those two can get."

Patton giggled. “Of course.”

“Roman should be on his way shortly,” Logan said, pushing up his glasses. “He is acquiring a few blankets and pillows from his room.”

Patton perked up at the thought. Roman’s blankets were made of the softest, most delicate velvet. The idea made his chest warm up.

“You guys did all of this for me?” Patton asked, his voice small. 

“Of course we did, Pat.” Virgil held Patton’s hand and kissed it softly. “We love you. And we want to be here for you; even in the less-than-ideal times. You would do the same for us.”

“But we do not expect you to dwell on your emotions if you do not feel comfortable doing so,” Logan continued as he went over to the dining room to grab the cake. “If you would like, we can watch Disney movies and eat cake and provide a distraction. However, we want to reassure you that we are here to listen to whatever is troubling you, so whenever you feel comfortable, please do not hesitate to reach out.” He paused. "We do not have to find a solution right now. We can metaphorically 'sit in the feelings' for a while."

Patton smiled as Logan arrived at his and Virgil’s side. He kissed Patton’s shoulder softly before making his way to the living room, where Patton could hear Roman rambling about what movie would be the best to watch; and he heard Logan’s rebuttals come after. 

And walking out of the kitchen and into the living room could only be described as a slow-moving blur. Patton watched as Roman spotted him and swept him up into a big hug, startling Virgil who was later brought into the hug as well. He watched as Logan gave them an amused smile, patting the blankets Roman arranged under a pillow fort in front of the TV, the opening to Tangled—Patton’s favourite—playing on the screen. 

“I love you guys,” Patton murmured as he sat in the middle of the pillow fort, a plate with cake in front of him. Logan sat beside him with a nod, kissing his head as he summoned four forks with a smile. Roman and Virgil found their way somehow into the tangled mess of each other, cuddling against Logan and Patton until they were the closest humans, or sides, could ever get.

And no one complained when Patton paused the movie when Eugene got stabbed, crying a bit and telling them about how that scene sort of reminded him about what he felt the night before. No one left when Patton began to spiral a bit from that and sob into his cake, finally admitting to them his thoughts and how he had just been feeling everything. 

And then, everyone stayed; even after that. 

[oh-for-fic-sake]

A Witcher's Pack Chapter One

Masterlist

Chapter Two

Warning: Adult situations +18 SMUT, Breeding Kink, A/B/O

A/n This is the brainchild of me and @havenoffandoms who helped me a lot with suggestions that I hadn't even thought of xx this will be a short chaptered fic hope you enjoy

Geralt finds his omega and Jaskier helps.

A Witcher's Pack Chapter One

You sighed watching the younger children running playing, weaving in and out of the sparse stalls in the village market. You sighed wistfully as they played chase, not a care in to world. You was jealous. You had that at some point, a reason to laugh, smile and play. You hand tightened on the basket as you were spotted by one of the mothers she was glaring at you. A beta. Most people here were betas there was only two alphas in the village. One an old waif of a man long past his prime and the other a young teen who had only just presented now that puberty had hit him and it had hit him like a brick wall, you smirked as you recalled the mouthy little shits wails as his senses were overloaded and had caused him to erupted in the most unsightly of ways.

You smiled as you remember him kicking, screaming and groaning, how he could be an alpha was beyond you ,he was a well known mamas boy even now at eighteen he hid behind her skirts. Your bet was on black magic Alphas presented at puberty he was eighteen summers old. But of course his presentation was a good omen and there was a celebration over it. You sneered 'yes it was fine for them'. You hissed in your mind as you strode across the market picking up vegetables for the week. Quickly taking your share you turned leaving the market without a second glance heading through the gates, the village didn't need a wall but apparently you was a threat. you almost felt honored they had been so wary of you they built a wall to keep you out. How thoughtful. You quickly walked to the old granary shack it was tiny but you'd been condemned to on the outside of the village. We wouldn't want the omega to seduce the villagers with her evil sinful ways now would we?.

You cringed remembering that day. You was eleven. Playing with the other children much like the ones in the market today and you began to feel unwell. The bakers son sven who you was sweet on, walked you home. That night you got the shivers your mother tried to help but the fever persisted and got progressively worse. By dawn you was moved to the healers cottage. You remembered how every breath was agony, the air was freezing in your heated lungs you truly thought you was dying as each breath was a struggle. Sitting by the fire you could still feel the pain, reliving it your bones ached and your head felt fuzzy then it happened it felt like you had been drowning your whole life everything muted and suddenly you was above the water hearing, smelling, seeing for the very first time. Terrified the village was convinced at first it was a curse, or maybe they hoped it was. You never really found out all you knew was that after the awakening came the cramps and your first bleed. The pain that sealed your fate was agonizing and nothing soothed it. You was an omega, it was a daunting realization. Omegas are a commodity around these parts either sold to an alpha to produce more alphas or sent to whore houses, but our village didn't have either and you had presented young a whore house probably wouldn't pay much, you didn't have tits yet.

The next option was killing you, an honor killing they said before you could disgrace your family with your depraved instincts. Your mother was against it, she was torn an omega was a bad omen believed to only present just before a disaster that would kill many the thought being the omega would repopulate and replace those lost and on the other hand you was her little girl, her youngest, miracle child who was born without breath yet somehow managed a cry after being declared dead. So at her insistence you was banished from the village, you could enter for commerce but nothing else, they couldn't risk you tainting them anymore then you had. you cringed as a cold wind swept through the shack planks were missing from the side and your hearth consisted of a small pit in the center of the space with rocks haphazardly strewn in a circle to try and avoid the place burning to the ground, a rug was your bed with a thread bare blanket for comfort. you survived on vegetables and berries, no one in town would sell you weapons for hunting they refused to waste the meat on you that was for there own.

Not you.

Luckily you had managed to dig through the soil with your hands and plant some of the seeds you had carefully picked from the food you was allowed to have.  you watched as the sun began to fall below the walls casting a red glow above them. You wanted them to burn. It may be bad but you didnt care. Three days was all it took for you to become an animal to them. A child they had watched grow and flourish, was cast out without a second thought. You sighed poking at the fire adding a some tinder and curled up before the fire trying to preserve as much body heat as you could.

"Geralt are you sure this is the place? it looks to- well its not exactly high brow is it? i though witches like fancy places not back water villages" for once Jaskier wasn't spouting nonsense.

Geralt sighed looking up to the sky. it'd be snowing soon, he really should turn around and make his way back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He glanced down from roach at the bard who was still trailing behind him. he found himself doing that more and more recently, checking the beta making sure he was still there. looking forward again as he contemplated what exactly that meant, witchers didn't have packs. Or at least they weren't supposed to but Geralt had found himself classing Jaskier as pack and now couldn't help but look out for the weaker male wanting him to remain close. he shook his head irritated tho he was a witcher he was also an alpha and that was something the mutations couldn't take. But it wasn't all bad he summarized, he didn't endure ruts and didn't fall prey to heats like other alphas that's not to say he didn't find omegas appealing, they were a good fuck responsive and fed his ego, called him alpha and let him do as he pleased well until they realized he couldn't knot them then things changed very quickly. They went from wanton bitches to spitting hellcats so fast that even he couldn't keep up. He glanced forward sitting straighter seeing their destination peak over the long stretch of tundra.

A village that had rumors off a witch casting dark magic across the village or that's what he had been told when he was asked to come, normally witches struck places that held valuable artifacts or rarities. The meager defenses of wooden stake walls and simple slat gate that he could probably scale with roach didn't suggest there was anything here of value.

"I'm sure bard, lets get this over. Its probably just a widow and nasty break out of fever" he grunted already thinking this as a waste. But the coin was good and if it meant he just had to place some protection runes to give them piece of mind he'd be a fool to pass it up. He began feeling funny as he closed in on the village noticing something off as small barely standing shack sat outside of the makeshift walls. A scent it was pleasant, very pleasant it didn't burn his nose like most did now. Rosemary, mint and something else he couldn't put a name to. It wasn't thick like most. Many scents felt thick and muggy to Geralt's witcher senses but this was free and wafting. He took a deep breath enjoying the scent more and more as he approached the shack wary it was different, too different from anything he had ever smelt ,even Jaskier seem to be inhaling deeper.

"What is that? oh it smells divine" he said without thinking the bard followed the scent. Geralt swore getting down from roach following the beta that was probably about to be caught up in some form of trouble. They both followed the scent until arriving at the door to the shack. He peered in. His heart stopped as the scent washed over him making him growl low. he took a dominant pose squaring his shoulders. Omega. But what the fuck was she doing out here?! she should be inside the walls not sleeping out her almost freezing to death!. He wasn't sure just where this immediate protectiveness came from but he was ready to slit the throats of who ever had allowed or forced the young female out here.

"Oh an omega." Jaskier said sadly almost sympathetically, he wasn't angry . Why wasn't he angry?. He should be omegas were rare. Rarer now then ever as attitudes had changed. But that was just it attitudes had changed. Omegas were no longer cherished as they should be, as they had been when Geralt was younger. the reality was that She was most likely abandoned. Geralt felt his rage shaking him to the core as he peered over the tiny malnourished omega she shivered in her sleep pulling her knees to her chest. His gaze took in the room. This was not a nest. No comforts for her, Nothing soft for her to sink into. Nothing to defend herself in her heats. Not even a proper fucking hearth. 'I will make her a nest. She will be safe'. He was disturbed by just how his thoughts turned he had never had this reaction to an omega before even when they were in the depths of heat pining fora male.  Jaskier moved to her side about to stroke her face. With no control over it Geralt snarled and snapped at him fangs dropping.

"No!! OFF!MINE!" Jaskier slipped back nearly toppling over unprepared for the out burst as Geralt lunged forward at him. His .His omega. He heaved deep breaths watching Jaskier with predatory eyes. He was challenging him for the female. Jaskier shaking and completely frazzled only just managed to present his throat to the feral witcher, surrendering to his alpha. That seemed to pacify him as Geralt swung his cloak off draping it across the female smiling as she snuggled into it and her shivers ceased. he sat down heavy beside her casting axi on the dying fire bring new life and a burst of heat. after a few moments Jaskier slowly made his way to him and sat cautiously.  

"G-Geralt what was that? is- you called her yours... I thought witchers didn't you know?" he was hesitant with his question. Geralt cast him a fleeting glance.

"We don't... Well not normally... Honestly we aren't taught about it just told that we are impotent and wont have ruts... But I suppose it could be like all mutations, they are all expected to do certain things but all mutations have varying results and mine are different anyway." he looked down at the content female by his side. His omega. Thats what his lesser had called her. And it wasn't a lack of judgment either. Once the words left him it had clicked , A soulmate just for him, A scent tailored to for him. That would be why she didn't smell like any other. A mate. A pack. He lifted a finger to her slowly running a knuckle across her slim cheek. She would never go hungry or cold again. Now that he found her he wouldn't let her go.

"Bed down for the night we will talk to the master of the village tomorrow." Jaskier nodded uneasy going to roach to retrieve the bed rolls.

You whimpered coming to you was warm. Oh my god yes. You groaned melting into the warmth that encased you feeling a large heavy fabric like a huge warm hug. And the fire before you was roaring hot on your face and the scent of meat filled the space. You wiggled a little pressing your face into the hot firm cushion below , must be a dream. You flinched as other scents followed two. Male. Both intoxicating one of herbs and something tangy and addictive the other was musky and sandalwood-no oak like an aged whisky barrel deep masculine and alpha. You tensed as you came to then frowned warm? no that's not right and the fire? that dies every night something was seriously wrong, you squeezed your eyes tight whimpering dreading opening your eyes in case you found yourself sold to a whore house. You fears grew when you felt a huge hand scratch your scalp lightly

"sshh its ok don't worry I've got you now" you opened your eyes there was a male in front of you sleeping soundly on a bed roll he was a beta you- you just knew soft kind features he looked healthy and you bet he had a glow when awake he was resting peacefully. So the one stroking your hair must have been the alpha. You gulped taking in your surroundings you was in your home still. They had broke in. You shivered getting hot ,sweat beaded across you as the scents swirled around you in a delicious overwhelming mix. Effecting you like a sorceress potion. You panted panicking lifting your hands to the hand in your hair pulling expecting resistance but instead he let you remove his hand.

He sighed shushing you again a deep voice that vibrated through you. A large warm hand landed on your shoulder rolling you to your back. It was then you realized that he was sitting cross legged you'd been using his thigh as a pillow. You looked up gasping as you met two amber irises long silver hair fell framing his angular face slight stubble donned his face making him even more handsome. You wanted to panic. Should have panicked but you instead had this overwhelming urge to bury yourself into his chest. To drink in as much of his scent as you could. You whined crying softly as the heat that had begun to race through your body became a scorching fire. Torrents of boiling and uncontrollable lust flooded your body leaking onto your skirts. This mus be it. The disgusting shameful desires of omegas you was spat at for. You'd had heats but never this way. It was coming fast and merciless, you watched as the alphas nostrils flared  he released a slow breath.

"No wh-what hahahah i cant - What have you done!?" you panicked as your body was bending to his will and you didnt understand why. had the village done this? sent him to seduce you? or have they done what they always threatened and sold you to an alpha?. you cried out thrashing hitting him.

"no wh-what hahahah I cant Wha-what have you done!?" you panicked as your body was bending to his will and you didn't understand why. Had the village done this? sent him to seduce you? or have they done what they always threatened and sold you to an alpha?. You cried out thrashing hitting him.

He wouldn't allow you of his lap instead lifting you into it. Your bottom on the floor knees bent over one leg back resting on the other.

"Its ok.....Its ok omega... I'm your mate, your true alpha your body is responding  it want's to mate... wants to bond" your cries must have woke the other male as you both looked to a new voice.

"Ge-GERALT! What are you doing to the poor thing?!?" he called moving to remove you from him. The alpha, Grealt growled as he went to touch you.

"Fuck off Jaskier I'm trying to help her, I've sent her into a proper heat!" Jaskier stopped scenting the air before going pink embarrassed.

"Well she looks terrified! you should explain to her, i doubt they teach omegas here especially considering she is out here not in there" Jaskier gave a small smile.

"Do you know what you are love? Whats happening?" you nodded then shook your head sobbing yelping as another cramp, worse this time longer tighter and lower.

"I'm a harlot, bad" was all you could get out as you fell into your more basic state not capable of coherent thought. Geralt growled at that then crowded you holding you close wanting to sooth you.

"No...No your not bad.... Your good such a goood girl... It hurts I can make it stop...Please let me make it stop it will keep getting worse until I do please..." he kissed your face cradling you into him his need to help his mate was almost to much but he would not touch you if you refused him. Unlike other males he did not use instincts as an excuse for such things. Jaskier watched unsure of what to do, he didn't doubt his alpha for a second but this female was young uninformed she was fragile and frightened and he suspected that she didn't know much about what she was or what was to come. She cried grasping at Geralt

"H-how?... I-help please make it stop its bad..... Really bad" you pleaded weakly with him. unable to move as your body quivered in pain as it felt like one continuous cramp. The alpha called his beta over ordering him to help rid of her clothes, he would stay and help. Jaskier gaped, alpha's generally didn't let anyone else near omegas in heat but it would seem his alpha was different on many levels. Quickly recovering you felt hands pulling and tugging the sticky dress from your body discarding it quickly you created as your slick made your cooled your heated skin you felt dirty, shameful. Wailing trying to cover yourself from them as Geralt quickly striped himself cock relieved as it sprung up tall and proud. He wont waste time pushing Jaskier before her as he moved her into position she was to far gone to try and protest as she was bent over on hands and knees then GeraLt pressed between her shoulders angling her for him. He wont bite not today. No he would get her threw this and then when she was back down to earth he would talk to her. Or at least that is the plan.

"Jaskier help her stay calm and still." he ground out watching with bright eyes as Jaskier crouched by you head letting you reach out to him clutching as his hands scared not sure what was happening as Geralt poised himself then quickly drove forward sheathing enough to quickly break threw the barrier that he knew was just inside wanting it out of the way as soon as possible.

"AAAHH! NO I-STOP!" you scrambled tying to dislodge him constricting your walls to push him out whimpering as he held firm holding the same position, his hot calloused hands cupped your waist holding you still not allowing you to move an inch from him when you bucked forward and he followed. You leaned so far that your knee slipped and Geralt had to catch it before you fell ripping him out of you. He growled

"Jaskier fucking help her!" he grunted still tucking his chin to his chest trying desperately to refrain from moving for your sake the worst was over. The beta quickly cupped your face wiping the tears away reassuring your quaking form.

"shh shh its ok the worst is over now... good girl I know he's a grump isn't he but its fine...... so good" he winced as you cried pitifully he knew you would be soothed in a moment but it was gut wrenching for him to endure try and temper your cries. Slowly Geralt began pushing forward dragging you back on him impaling you as gently as he could. You keened as you stretched to accommodate his lust, so full and taught almost felt as if you was tearing apart at the seams. Grunting lightly as your passage rippled across him he groaned moving a hand across your back rubbing soothingly.

"Yes that's it relax...... OH FUCK.. Yes that's it so precious..... See it feels better now doesn't it? all that fuss you made" you tried nodding it did feel better almost as if you'd applied a healing balm to your insides. You moaned digging your nails into Jaskier's hands. panting as Geralt's hips finally pressed into yours his balls resting on your little bud making you squeak and try to rub back against him trying to grind up into the light taps they delivered.

"Ha-oh is that it?... You like that?.......All you needed?.... Good girl all there now" his praise made you glow  he rocked slowly , just enough to reward you with soft pats from his balls against your clit. You gasped trying to buck against him.

"AH! Please-Alpha PLease I want!" you panted forcing the words

"Oh I know what you want... you want to be bred like the good little bitch you are" his words were filthy derogatory and perfect, Jaskier watched wide eyed as Geralt placed a hand below you rolling the pad his finger against your erect bud . Gulping Jaskeir closed his eyes, face on the rug beside you drinking in your moans and pants that went straight to his own cock, he moaned softly a hand sneaking to his bottoms cupping and rubbing, smoothing his digits around the engorged flesh. His eyes popped open glazed and hazy as you moved a hand to his crotch slim and dainty holding him through the fabric. You cried out as Geralt withdrew and pushed back forcing your body to give way to him.

"Don't you .....omega you want to be bred? full and round..... your so fucking ready for pups aren't you?" he grunted as his pace quickly escalated as he lost himself faster than he ever had. His own words revealing his own darkest desire. A pup of his own. Watching his mate swell with proof of there coupling. Yes. He closed his eyes relishing in the impossible image. You screeched holding Jaskier's thigh moaning and crying your pleasure all the way. Your walls fought him at every plunge of his hard flesh, resisting his punishing deep thrusts as he kissed at your cervix yet at the same time clutching at him trying to take as much as it could, muscles trying to capture him properly as nature intended but at the same time clenching to push him out. It was cruel and delicious  Jaskier couldn't help it you look to appetizing he leaned down licking into your open mouth coaxing your hand down into his bottoms you clutched him underneath his palm as he began making you stroke him in fast even strokes he groaned loud a beautiful high sound that, to Geralt was much better then his singing. Grunting, Geralt's fingers pried and pinched your clit and flicked the tip of the swollen bud that peaked from between his tight fingers you screamed squeezing Jaskier he faltered as your hand was ripped off him. Geralt was powerless as his fantasy became to much of a temptation making a snap decision, as he saw Jaskier on the floor beside you crying and panting himself trying to fuck into your hand faster and harder.

"Jaskier here now!" Geralt couldn't stop he needed it. Needed to see it, to feel the kick of pups in the telltale bump of his omega. He longed for the soft heart beat's he had heard enviously in the past. He relished in the glow that all omegas had when full with a litter. He wanted that happiness for his omega. He would give that to her one way or another. Jaskier was confused but obey rounding the rutting couple unsteady. He was caught off guard as Geralt pulled him to rest his forehead to his still pulling and pushing into the small wailing female. The alpha kissed him not deep or lewd a chaste kiss and pulled back holding the smaller male's gaze.

"wh-what? I cant do that?" Geralt growled as he felt his end coming trying to fight it until this was sorted.

"YOU! have a cock don't you?!? do it bard SHE needs it!" you moaned not hearing much of anything as you tucked your hands beneath yourself rocking quicker and quicker chasing something needing more.

"PLEAASE! please pleaspleas I-I dont know wha-I need please alpha!!" you brawled scratching and digging at the rug. Jaskier looked between you and his alpha the desperation that you both leaked was to much, he bit his lip then nodded. Relieved Geralt finally let loose roaring his release spraying his useless load into you the force hitting your cervix grunting low as you came at the sensation, howling into the floor below. panting Geralt sat back on his heels grabbing Jaskier by the scruff sitting his ass on his thighs ignoring the bards protests as he shucked his trousers down and gripped his cock using his scruff to raise him into position

"I-I cant do it-ger-GERALT!" he shouted gasping as geralt lined him up with your entrance the witcher thrust his pelvis forward forcing the beta into your quivering heat. You squealed as your sensitive walls caressed a new cock, although not as large it was still an addictive feeling you lowered back down pressing your chest to your makeshift bed pebbled nipples rubbing skimming the rough fabric as they swayed with each rock of your body.

"AH-OOHH! please yesyesyes... please fill me!" you withered below the new male as Geralt was on his knees behind Jaskier still holding the bard by his neck.

"Don't worry love..... You'll be full soon enough...Well you better be..." Geralt threatened as Jaskier took over holding you and rocked into you grunting quietly trying so hard not to think of the alpha watching as his cock disappeared into you. You cried as you felt a familiar hand return to play with your tender clit your body spasmed violently finding a second release with a loud high pitched cry. Geralt held Jaskier up not allowing him the chance to bite a mark into you at the same time he ground his pelvis to the his ass pining him still and deep as your twitching passage milked him with a loud series of grunts he came into you not as powerfully as Geralt but still spurting pleasantly tickling your insides.

"Jaskier deeper- I want her bred" Geralt stated noticing that as the bard finished he had arched removing an inch of so as he did. Sighing as Jaskier was to lost moaning and rocking he rolled his eyes at the beta. Omegas were the best fucks and this was most likely the last time he would fuck you he would want to make the most on of it. Geralt hooked an arm below your hips tugging you back you cried as you was forced still and tight against them. Jaskier still leaking small streams of cum this time you felt it at your true opening wetting and burning as his seed trickled past it. you cried.

"oh-OH fuck its- done yes fuck I-hot its hot" you babbled trying to raise up stopping as you heard a growl

"No stay there let it keep going... Good girl.... I'm so proud.... Cant wait to see you round with them....Fuck yes you'll be so good" Jaskier stayed still awkwardly clamped between the tow of you. Amazingly enough feeling like the third wheel even if it was him pumping you full. geralt slid back patting jaskiers rump

"Stay... I'll be back" then left Jaskier blinked smoothing his hand across your back.

"you ok down there?" you nodded sleepy folding your hands below your head content and ready for sleep. Geralt returned carrying a pack then dragged the bard off you dropping to the floor  legs spread placing you between them his inner thigh against your pussy pressing tight trapping everything inside you leaning you back cradling you he tugged a black shirt of his from the pack sliding it across your arms and buttoning it up. Jaskier sighed pulling up his trousers

"dont bother with them you'll need to give her another load soon." Jaskier sputtered

"I'm sorry? what?"

"Beta or not if your going to breed my omega you'll breed her like an alpha, now drop em" Geralt said seriously as he reached over to the almost forgotton meat tearing small chunks bringing it to your lips. You took the bites happily still lost in your haze.

"I'm sorry Geralt I'm not an alpha I cant just pop one off on demand"

"Not with that attitude you wont, sit eat your going to need it breeding is serious business" the bard was speechless then huffed throwing the trousers to the floor he wasn't going to win so whats the use, taking a seat by you both helping himself to the meat deciding that he should fuel up if this was going to last for a whole heat. Secretly excited about the prospects of the new addition to the small pack and pups.

You sat there thrilled some primal part of you understanding that your alpha was tending to you, Feeding and providing for you and had called the other pack member to eat with you. You took several bites before turning away from his hand. He tutted.

"No you need your strength, come on open up we need you big and strong for the pups." you contemplated the words agreeing as you let him continue to feed you. Jaskier just stared watching Geralt drop all walls for the first time. He looked happy. Truely happy. There was a slight worry for the future but he brushed it away choosing to bask in the glow of the newly formed couple.

[coffeebruha]

Quick little fluffy sick Victor fic

The weather finally broke. Winter was here at last. My neighborhood started to become beautifully adorned with multi-colored LED lights and festive lawn displays. Though the cold chill in the air sent my spine a shiver, my heart felt warmed by the holiday spirit. I happily walked into LFG with my tote filled with goodies for my favorite Scrooge and a few for Goldman as well.

“Good morning, Penny, I see you’re in a good mood as usual,” Goldman greeted me in the elevator.

“Of course! This is my favorite time of year! Have you seen the boss man yet this morning?”

“I spoke to him on the phone earlier. He said he was running a bit late, said he had somethings to do before coming to the office. But he...”

Excellent! This will give me enough time to prepare my surprise for Victor. Goldman noticed the sparkle in my eye become brighter and changed whatever he was going to say next.

“No. No, no, no, no! I know that look! Whatever you’re planning cut it out! I really don’t want to poke the bear today, Penny!”

“Oh, come on, Goldie! Where is your holiday spirit,” I winked as I walked backwards out of the elevator.

However, instead of looking way cool, the heel of my boot caught on a dip in the tiling and suddenly I lost my balance. Goldman reached out and grabbed my arm a tired look on his face.

“Lord help us,” he mumbled, while steadying me. “Fine, but you have to be out of here before he gets in!”

I laughed and rubbed the back of my neck. Goldman got settled at his desk and began immersing himself in work, sorting through different files. I smiled at him as I placed a tiny pre-lit tree on his desk.

“Thank you, Penelope. I hope for your sake and mine that the boss is in the holiday spirit too. And remember you have to be out of his office before he gets in!” Goldman smiled, as I finished draping festive garland around his desk.

I opened Victor’s office door and giggled to myself. Then, like one of Santa’s elves I danced around the room while decorating, bring a much needed pulse to the other wise cold office. Just as I was hitting the high notes to All I want for Christmas a’la the queen, Mariah, Victor walked in. I heard an exasperated sigh.

“Just what do you think you’re doing,” a deep baritone voice startled me.

I spun around and smiled.

“Ta da! I am bringing some holiday spirit to brighten up my favorite Grinch’s office.”

I was quite pleased with my handiwork. Victor’s eyes slowly examined each decoration with a hard to read expression then silently made his way to his desk. My eyes followed him looking for a hint of something, but he got right to work.

“Do...you...like it,” I finally spat out. Little to no response usually meant he liked something, but I couldn’t help feel something was off.

I studied Victor’s face. His usually well pressed appearance was not as crisp as usual. His fierce eyes were glassy and his cheeks were slightly flushed. I was so lost in my analysis that I hadn’t realized how close I got to him. I could feel heat radiating from his body.

“You’re sick,” I exclaimed.

“It’s nothing. Are you planning on gawking at me all day? I seem to recall giving a project to a certain someone to get done by next week.” He spoke without removing his eyes from his laptop, fingers flying as he responded to a few emails.

“It is in your inbox,” I said as I placed the back of my hand on his forehead.

Just as I suspected. His skin was a blaze and clammy.

“You are sick!! You’re always up my butt about taking care of myself, yet here you are with a fever!”

“This company did not get where it is today by coincidence. I don’t have time to take off.” He looked me dead in the eyes, said what he needed to say and then went back to work.

“But you could be running the risk of infecting your staff with whatever bug you have,” I protested.

Victor let out an annoyed sigh.

“I called Goldman this morning to tell him to cancel all my meetings and let everyone know that I am really busy today and not to be bothered, but it seems he forgot that part.”

A timid knock on the door broke our intense staring contest.

“Come in,” Victor growled.

“I am so sorry, sir! I told her to be done and gone by the time you got here!”

“Stop groveling. It’s fine...”

“He is sick,” I interrupted.

Goldman’s jaw dropped slightly and he looked confused and terrified, his eyes darting back and forth to me and Victor. I could tell he was unsure of what to do or say. So, before Victor’s sharp tongue could cut us both to shreds I exclaimed:

“Victor, let me take care of you today,” my voice dripping with determination as I stomped my foot on the ground.

I swear I could hear crickets and the slight squelching of Goldman’s blinking. Then,

“Fine! I know you well enough by now that once you get an idea in that thick skull of yours it is hard for you to drop it. Goldman, I will be taking a sick day. I will continue to work from home. Call me in emergency circumstances only.”

Victor grabbed his coat.

“Let’s go.”

I was super excited. Perhaps I will get to see a more vulnerable side of Victor. The CEO walked out and I gave a thumbs up to Goldman as I walked out behind Victor. The car ride was quiet enough for me to hear the rattling in his chest. A light sheen of sweat made him glow like a Greek god.

“Do you have medicine at your place,” I asked.

“No.”

“Can we stop by the store before we go home?”

Victor took a quick glance at me and the corner of his mouth curled.

“Sure.”

I zipped from isle to isle gathering all the things that brought me comfort when I get sick. Lemons, honey, NyQuil, green tea, orange juice, chicken broth, rosemary, and garlic cloves. Victor quietly and sluggishly following behind.

“Do you have a thermometer,” I asked looking up at him.

He shook his head, taking the bundle of items from my arms and carefully laid them in a cart. I ran over and grabbed a digital one. I looked over the cart once more checking things off my mental list, feeling pleased with my selections we headed to the check out.

“You know I have most of this stuff at home, dummy.”

“Well, I can use the stuff you already have and you can consider this as a replacement for what I use! I think that’s everything. Let’s go home and get you in bed!”

Victor didn’t even try hiding his grin this time. At the check out Victor was ready to pay, but I got my card in before he could even get his out. He grabbed the bags and we made our way to his car. When we got to his condo I took his coat. The heat released from his body made me gasp.

“Go get changed into some comfy clothes and get in bed! I will be there is just a second.”

He kicked out of his shiny dress shoes and into a pair of white slippers. As he got changed I began preparing my go to drink while I am sick. Hot water, half of a lemon, and two tablespoons of honey. After the drink was made I broke open the thermometer and slid a cover over the tip.

“Ahem, are you decent,” I announced, before walking in.

“Yes.”

His usual strong booming voice seemed muffled. I walked in and smiled. He looked so cute all bundled up in his giant king sized bed. I sat next to him and gestured him to place the thermometer under his tongue. He obediently complied.

“101.2!! Yikes! OK this will not do! We need to break this fever. Here drink this. I am going to get you some medicine.” I tucked him in and without thinking I kissed his forehead. The heat on my lips brought me back to reality. Oh no! Should I just walk out and act like that didn’t happen. I pulled back quickly. Victor’s brows were raised, but his glossy eyes were still half lidded and followed me out of the door.

I gently slapped my blushed cheeks. What the hell was I thinking! Perhaps I should just give him his medicine and leave? But I told him I was going to take care of him. Why do I always do this stupid stuff around him? I scolded myself the entire way to get the medicine and back. I handed him the carefully measured cup of thick liquid.

He threw it back like a shot and his upper lip curled, handing me back the tiny measuring cup. I inspected it.

“Ah ah, there is still a little left.”

He sighs and took the cup downing the last little bit.

“Good boy.”

Victor raises an eyebrow.

“You’re quiet bold today.”

My cheeks burned and I opened my mouth to protest.

“I like it,” he said while rustling down farther into his blankets, cutting me off.

“Do you usually go to work when you’re sick like this?

“I don’t get sick very often, but to answer your question, yes.”

“Well not as long as I am around! If you’re not going to take care of yourself then I will have to do it for you!”

I wasn’t sure if Victor was clearing his throat or chuckling.

“You get some rest, ok?”

“Are you leaving?” There was disappointment in his voice that broke my heart.

“Of course not, silly. I will be here. I have my work laptop, so I will be just over here getting some work done in case you need anything.”

He smiled.

“Good.”

With that he closed his eyes and a few moments later his breathing evened out and his lips parted slightly. The furrow in his brow gone, he was now sleeping soundly. I smiled and patted myself on the back getting right to work. A few hours into my work, Victor started snoring and whimpering. I got up and checked on him. His brows twisted and the corners of his lips frowning deeply.

I brushed his hair away from his drenched forehead. I should get him a cold rag for his head, I thought. So that is what I did. When I came back to his room he had kicked the blankets off. He was so adorable. I wondered if this is what he was like when he was little, as I put the blanket back on him and the cold rag on his forehead I heard what he was saying.

“Ma...mom...” he whimpered.

“You miss her a lot huh? I understand. I miss my dad all the time and even more so when I am sick. But it is ok. I am here with you and I promise not to go anywhere.”

I gently kissed his cheek, but when I pulled back his eyes were blearily fixed on me.

“Dummy, keep kissing me like that and you’ll catch my cold and then we’ll both be sick.”

“Well then we we’ll just have to take care of each other then won’t we?”

“Thank you, Penny.”

I was surprised and quiet proud of myself.

“It has been a long time since I’ve had anyone care for me like this. Thank you.”

—My MC is named Penelope so I just used that name.

[sunnytumbies]

look at the stars (look how they shine for you)

So...what we have here is another plot fic, one that wound up having a relatively small stretch of kink. I planned to have more fiendish scenes, but it would’ve just been unnatural and forced, and this chapter is primarily meant to set up some background info about the subplots of this story and to reveal some stuff about Quincy/Cal’s past that will make writing kink drabbles and side fics a lot easier (aka I won’t have to cartwheel around stuff that hasn’t been revealed in plot yet!) That said, we’ve got a good 1044 words of fiendery! 

Suffice to say, the next thing I post will be a fully-fiendish side fic, I promise. No hard feelings if you don’t read this due to the low kink to plot ratio, but I hope someone out there enjoys it! 

Title comes from “Yellow” by Coldplay (I know, I know)  Word count: 10,508

Warning! This fic includes violence, transphobia, graphic descriptions of wounds, depression, anxiety, and mentions of a suicide attempt (fleeting and not elaborated on). Please stay safe should you choose to read! 

2005  

Virginia Pembrook is damn good at her job, even when her hands shake. She’s seen people burned to death in fires, gunshot wounds to temples, seen bodies that were left for weeks before they were found, smeared Vicks VapoRub under her nose and carried on like nobody’s business. She is, objectively speaking, a badass.  

Virginia is damn good at her job, but this is Mary Kline she’s looking at, and a month ago she was swapping pie recipes with Virginia, planning their group Thanksgiving. She’s having trouble looking down at her and not seeing that kid, too damn young to have lost his mother this way. Truth be told, there is upsettingly little left to identify. Fires are like that. 

But she volunteered for this, because Henry Kline insisted on the autopsy (which, despite her pleas, Virginia was not permitted to perform, and God if the thought of someone cutting Mary open like she’s any other cadaver that comes through their lab doesn’t cause her pain, sharp and aching and difficult to describe), because he similarly insisted on the toxicology screen that has taken an agonizing month to come back, dragging out the funeral and putting that kid through hell, not giving him the damn closure he needs.

She exhales. She was not permitted to perform the original autopsy, but she can do this, at least. She can review the toxicology screen, can sign off on the report, can finally give Cal the closure he’s desperate for, why won’t Mommy come back, Ginny? Why is Daddy so sad?

She can do that, at least. 

She’s been at it for an hour and a half when she sees them: two small, perfectly round marks just shy of what would have been Mary’s jugular. She grows cold, all of a sudden--they look like bullet holes, albeit of a particularly small caliber, or maybe some sort of puncture wound, nearly small enough to escape her notice. Nearly. 

The thing is that Mary died in a fire. 

That’s what it says on the report, at least, in Dr. Stephens’ unusually neat handwriting. There is no note of any puncture mark, of any wound other than post-mortem damage from the blaze. Virginia takes a deep, steadying breath. Dr. Stephens is not a careless man. Ballistics aren’t even Virginia’s area. Perhaps the marks are simply burn blisters, she reasons, but finds herself fighting prickles of unease, like part of her has registered something she hasn’t yet consciously realized. 

She’s being ridiculous, she tells herself, trying to shake off her sense of foreboding; she’s simply overly-emotional because this case is far too close to her. She’ll check the toxicology report and go from there. 

It isn’t until she reads over the report that Virginia’s hands begin to tremble. 

It is, for the most part, unsurprising. No ethanol in Mary’s system, no amphetamines, no drugs; Virginia can’t help but feel a flicker of morbid amusement when she flips to the positive findings section, which lists nicotine and caffeine--of course those would be present in Mary’s system, Mary who could never take a damn break--and then Virginia is frowning in confusion as she reaches the last finding: 

Compound: Uncategorized barbiturate Result: positive Units: mcg/mL Matrix source: 001 - Peripheral blood 

Virginia has seen many toxicology screens in her day, far too many. She has never, ever seen an uncategorized result, and regardless, why would Mary test positive for anesthesia, particularly running through her veins? Mary died in a—

Mary died in a fire. Because she didn’t--couldn’t--get out of the house. 

All at once, Virginia is  hyper-aware of the sensation that she’s being watched, of the gruesome expression Mary’s face is pulled into underneath the sheet, of the flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of death permeating her nostrils. Suddenly and undeniably, she is terrified, and she drops her tape recorder with a clatter (she’d forgotten she was even holding it, what with how she has been taking dictations all evening), letting the toxicology report fall with it. 

Tomorrow, she decides. She is clearly in no state to handle any of this now. Tomorrow she’ll come back and reevaluate, when she’s had enough sleep;  maybe she’ll call the reporting chemist to inquire as to why he approved such a baffling report. Maybe it’s an error--she’s tired, that’s all. Overwrought. It’s a relief to sink into the comforting embrace of logic, of jargon. She’ll research. She’ll find an explanation that makes sense. 

Still painfully aware of the feeling that she is not alone, Virginia opts to endure the inevitable flak she’ll receive for leaving the report and the tape recorder where they’ve fallen, rushing to gather her things and flick off the lights. She’s almost made it to her car when she’s stopped by a cold, hard hand gripping her wrist. 

She has time to yelp in surprise before another cold hand clamps over her mouth like a vice, a cloying scent filling her nostrils.  “Mary Kline died in a fire,” says a voice, low and furious and far too close to her ear, and her head is yanked to the side, to a pair of blood-red irises making intent, startling eye contact. She’s shaking, she thinks, and dimly she is registering terror, fight-or-flight, urgency, but she is transfixed by those eyes, dizzied by the scent filling her senses, cloying her lungs. She can’t scream, can’t think, but struggles to remember why that matters. “There is nothing strange on the tox screen,” she hears that voice say, feels her head nodding like a thing that doesn’t belong to her. 

“Nothing strange,” she murmurs behind the hand, her tense muscles slackening as the fight drains out of her. Her mind is cloudy.  

“That’s right. Mary Kline died in a fire. Say it back to me, would you, sweetheart?”  

“Mary Kline died in a fire,” she parrots back obediently, confused. Why is she having to repeat a truth so obvious? “Nothing strange in the report.”  

“Good.” The hand releases her wrist, pulls away from her mouth to let her breath fresh air. “That’s good, Dr. Pembrook.”  

“Good,” Virginia murmurs absently, or someone else murmurs through her lips. She can’t be sure, but can’t find it within herself to care very much. 

 Later on, Virginia will find it strange that she can’t remember anything between leaving work and driving home, that there’s a chunk of missing time there, but she’ll put it off to exhaustion. She’ll think nothing of the strange, musky herbal smell that has been trailing her all day, putting it off to a mixture of her rosemary-scented shampoo and the grime of working a few days in a row. She’ll chastise herself for leaving a sloppy work station the night before, picking up her tape recorder with a frown--she didn’t notice it falling out of her lab coat pocket, but it wouldn’t be the first time it had happened. She casts a brief glance over the toxicology report, simply affirming that it’s signed--she’s surprised that her signature is so neat, given what a rush she was clearly in at the time--and finally, finally signs off on the death certificate with a morose shake of her head. 

“It was smoke inhalation,” she’ll lie without knowing it to a still-grieving Henry Kline, a hand on his shoulder. “She wouldn’t have felt a thing. I’m so sorry, Henry.” 

“It didn’t hurt?” Henry manages, lifting his head to meet Virginia’s sympathetic gaze with watery eyes. 

“Not at all,” Virginia soothes. “It would have been like falling asleep.” 

Now

Quincy is moving into the apartment anytime after 2 per Cal’s text message, but it is Tuesday, meaning that he is expected to make it to an 11am lunch with Graves. His alarm, as per usual, is scheduled to go off with enough time for him to spend an hour or so wallowing in bed before he really has to get up and get ready. 

Quincy does not like mornings.   

This is why he does a double take when he stretches and glances at his clock to see that it's only a few minutes after eight--a good hour before his alarm--and even more perplexingly, that he's looking forward to getting ready. He's standing in front of his full-length mirror deciding between two sweaters (one mustard yellow, one navy blue dotted with white stars) before he realizes that he's only considering the yellow one because Cal had so much trouble looking away from him the last time he wore yellow. He frowns and yanks on a collared denim button-down and then the navy blue sweater, rolling up his sleeves a bit more aggressively than is technically called for.   

Cal is good, Quincy thinks. Cal is good and kind, and Quincy cannot do this, cannot even think about doing this.    

He forces himself to shake it off, casting a cursory glance around his dark bedroom. It's filled almost to capacity with boxes, most of their contents new; others are filled with his clothes, the only material possessions he lets himself hold onto. The only well-used items in the room—his plain mattress, sagging on its pathetic box spring, and a CD player that wheezed its last wheeze weeks ago—will not be coming with him. Everything else he'll cram into his Mercedes.    

He'll miss this place, he supposes, in a useless, nostalgic way with only tenuous ties to reality. He's not going to wax poetic on the perpetually damp air, the water stains on the popcorn ceiling, the busted window screens.  

He guesses what he's really going to miss is solitude, because there is a certain sort of safety in lonesomeness that he has taken for granted over the years. Like the proverbial fool who doesn't know what he has until it's gone, Quincy knows that he is on the edge of something, here, and he is frightened.    

(It’s just that Quincy is not allowed to be frightened. This has to be done, and Quincy is the one who has to do it, and that, like so much else in his life, is simply the way of things.)   

He takes an unnecessary breath and calls Graves.    

"Little bro! You're up before noon!"

Quincy rolls his eyes, because despite everything, he is still capable of being annoyed by Graves, an extraordinarily ridiculous man. They aren’t related, but they certainly aren’t merely friends--brother is much more accurate, and besides, Quincy enjoys the confused glances as people slowly process their extremely disparate skin tones. 

"Don't get used to it," he says, reaching into his pocket. His keys are there, of course. They always are. He flicks open his knife with his thumbnail, the motion fluid, carried out with the ease of familiarity. It was a gift from Graves for his birthday last year, a short, cold-iron blade that looks like a key when he flicks it closed. "I was wondering if we could meet earlier than 11. I'm, uh, hungry."    

Quincy has to pull the phone away from his ear to save himself from Graves’s top-volume belly laugh, no doubt in response to his obvious lie. "Eager, huh? Does Quincypoo have a cruuuuush?"  

Quincy's brows furrow. He doesn't understand his brother, sometimes, the way he can live the way they live and still be downright goofy.    

"I just want to get started, I guess. There's nothing left for me here.”

Graves goes a little somber, then, or at least as somber as he gets. "I get it. When can you be there?"  

"How soon can you meet me?" Quincy counters, and presses the button on the key fob to unlock his car, but not before slipping on his rumpled jean jacket, stained and holey as it is. It's the only article of clothing he knows for a fact that Graves hates.    

 *  

Quincy has mixed feelings about Noxboro, the little town just west of the university, with its clusters of locally-owned curiosity shops and its rainbow-painted crosswalks. It's less crowded than the area immediately around the university but just as congested, and everyone is so nice to him, chirruping cheerful good morning!s and how are you?s when he passes them on the sidewalk. He is inconspicuous in an unassuming, progressive Southeastern town sort of way, but he is also extremely conspicuous as someone walking alone in an unassuming, progressive Southeastern town, and thus an ideal candidate for being showered with the well-meaning friendliness of strangers. Quincy isn't antisocial, but he would still rather be left unbothered. He flips up his collar, pulls his jacket more tightly around himself.    

Alice’s Diner was one of Graves’s finds, nestled in Nox Mill Mall. In World War II, Nox Mill was a munitions factory, and it was bought out after the war to become a woolen mill. It was briefly an underwear shipment facility—a fact that amuses Graves to no end—before being abandoned when the mills closed. They were going to demolish it, but the little Noxboro community petitioned to have it turned into Nox Mill Mall, a sturdy brick building with a couple of restaurants, a toy store, and a tea shop. Quincy tried to visit the tea shop once, and there was a guest speaker, a woman with grey hair in braids down to her waist talking about aliens walking among us. Quincy does not believe in aliens, but she looked at him like she knew, and well. Quincy doesn't like tea that much anyway.    

Quincy likes Noxboro, is the thing. He likes buying fresh milk at the co-op grocery store, likes to listen to Alice herself talk about her mother’s recipes and peddle her cake mixes on Sundays (I'm gonna throw in something extra, honey, she always says, and Quincy invariably finds protective amulets and sachets tucked into his coat pockets, recipes passed down in Alice’s family as meticulously as the recipes she makes at her restaurant). He smiles at the middle schoolers in band t-shirts clustering to take pictures of themselves on the rainbow crosswalks. He likes that, to get himself out of an unfortunately awkward incident involving a very flirtatious waitress, he lied, haltingly, without looking Graves in the eye, uh, I—I have a boyfriend, and the waitress—Sammie, he later learned—said, Aw, Forrest, we're just playing here, that's all it is. My girlfriend and I could just eat you up. (He doesn't know why she called him Forrest. When he asked, she threw her head back and laughed.)    

Quincy likes Noxboro. But between Nox Mill Mall and the co-op is a big-name corporate grocery store, and last time he bought some of Alice’s cake mix she was crying. Mama spent her whole life here, she said, voice trembling, did you know that? Started that restaurant with sixty-four dollars, no more and no less, $40 for food and $24 to make change. Used the money she made at breakfast to make lunch and the money she made at lunch to make dinner. No recipes, no nothing, just her eyes and her mouth. Quincy remembers nodding, squeezing one of her hands that she'd placed in both of his. She stayed here forever, spent her whole life building this community, and now I don't know if I'm gonna be able to afford to let her retire here.

Quincy loves Noxboro, and that is the problem. He is not supposed to get attached, not supposed to put down roots (is certainly not supposed to have rapport with locals, God, what is Quincy getting himself into, here?). He’s not supposed to know things like that Alice’s grandchildren run around outside without shoes on, half because they want to and half because they're the only shoes they'll get to have for the rest of the year and they want them to stay nice for church. It’s certainly not supposed to make Quincy's heart ache. 

But he comes to Alice’s, every Tuesday. And he keeps buying cake mix.   

Quincy pushes his way inside the diner, nods at the tired-looking hostess who recognizes him by now. He slides into the booth across from Graves, who already has food on the table, one plate on Quincy's side, one on his. Really, it's just Graves’s order twice.    

"Howdy, Forrest," Sammie purrs, and Quincy looks up in surprise to see her sauntering over to the table. Eleanor—the girlfriend, Quincy learned some time ago, who does in fact look like she would eat him—trails after her with an amused expression. The restaurant is fairly empty, and he supposes they have nothing better to do. Eleanor semi-permanently has that look on her face, like everything Sammie does is funny in just the right ways. When Eleanor isn't looking, Sammie looks at her the same way. It's love, Quincy guesses. He's glad for them. "Anything I can get for you?"  

“As usual, no,” Quincy says, perhaps more flatly than he entirely means to, because he is accustomed to Sammie’s antics. Still, he adds a perfunctory, "But thank you."  

Sammie doesn't push, just clears Graves’s already-empty plate and snorts as Graves drags "Quincy's" plate toward himself. Quincy doesn't eat his—never does—but Sammie doesn't question it, not ever, and for that Quincy is unbelievably grateful. He doesn't think for a second that she doesn't notice, that she doesn't know, and that's the thing about Noxboro, really. This town, and these people—so many of them have a way of knowing, in the most italicized sense of the word, a deep and perceptive kind of knowing. They've grown up with the old magic of kudzu and jimson weed, of lightning bugs clasped in their palms, of preachers who believe the words in the Holy Book, believe fire and brimstone as feverishly as most people believe in the earth going around the sun. There's something about growing up surrounded by belief like that that breathes a different kind of understanding into them.    

Quincy was afraid, at first, but now it's familiar. Comforting. The way Sammie looks at him when she thinks he isn't paying attention, like he's a puzzle she's trying to figure out, may as well be a mother's lullaby. It means Quincy is real. It means that he is not quite as far removed from reality as he thinks he is.  

"I hate that damn coat," Graves says then, pulling Quincy from his mental abstraction. "I keep telling you you need to let me dress you once. Just once, and you'll see how much potential you have."    

"I like my clothes," he says with the simplicity of someone who has had this fight many times. His nose wrinkles in disgust as he watches Graves shovel down his second helping of hashbrowns, licking crumbs off his lips. It wouldn't be so bad if Graves didn't insist on smearing them with strawberry jam. His exasperation at his own brother makes him think of Cal and his found family, of the brotherly disdain in his voice when he talked about Amy’s tarot and her well-meaning gestures centered on Cal’s health, and Quincy promptly shoves that thought back where it belongs.    

"So what is he like?" Graves asks with his mouth full, so so much for that, Quincy guesses. "Did he suspect?"    

"Suspect what?" Quincy says irritably, keeping his eyes on his hands. He'd usually tear up his napkin for something to do with them, but he's been toying with the rack of jam sitting on the table by the napkin dispenser. He picks up a container of strawberry to fight the urge to empty the rack and count them all. He looks at the light reflecting off its foil cover, tilts it so it alternates between reflecting and not reflecting. "He was...kind, and welcoming. He had no problem with me moving in so soon." Reflecting, not reflecting. Reflecting, not reflecting.    

"Good. That's good." Graves takes a swig from his massive mug of hot chocolate, and when he comes up for air he has a whipped-cream mustache.  

I feel strange about this, Graves, Quincy wants to say. I don't usually mind, but this one feels...different.    

He's working himself up to maybe saying it out loud, but then Graves states, very decisively, “As much as I love these brunches of ours, Quincypoo, it is especially important today. We have a Dick problem."  

Quincy wonders if this is a joke about Cal, and says flatly, "What."  

“A Richard Brandt problem, to be precise,” Graves says, and slaps a newspaper down in front of Quincy.  

BRANDT BREATHES NEW LIFE INTO NOXBORO, screams the headline, with a photo of the man himself grinning sleazily into the camera, posing in front of the new grocery store’s double doors. Quincy notices, not without bitterness, that they have cropped out the protesters who were posted just to the left of the entrance.  

"Brandt is behind this? Why?"  

"Not just the grocery store, bro. Read the article."

Quincy's eyes widen the more he reads. "What?"  

"I know. If the hard-hitting journalism is to be believed, Richard Brandt Enterprises isn't stopping with the superstore. They want to completely overrun this place."

"They have no reason to lie to the people. What’s the point?" Quincy murmurs uselessly, his brow furrowing as he gets to the part of the article that details the corporation's plan to construct more mainstream stores as cheaply and quickly as possible: According to Richard Brandt, CEO and founder of Richard Brandt Enterprises, "People want brands they can recognize. It's all about brand recognition. By making Noxboro a hub for those kinds of stores, we're going to ultimately bring in more people than ever before." In response to the concerns raised by protesters concerning how this plan will impact local business, Brandt had this to say: "That's ludicrous. The more people we bring in with these big-name stores, the more people there are for those local businesses that Noxboro prides itself on." He went on to say, "At Richard Brandt Enterprises, it's all about the people.  

"That's not how that works," Quincy says, looking up from the paper. "He's going to bankrupt these people. He's going to drive them from their own homes!" He thinks of Alice, his chest tightening. (He thinks of Cal, and hates how gently he pushes the thought away.)  

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Like I said. We have a Dick Problem."

Quincy is opening his mouth to object, but then Graves pauses mid-bite, eyes focused on a place somewhere behind Quincy's right shoulder.    

"What is it?" Quincy murmurs, muscles tensing reflexively. His hands, still tilting the jam back in forth, clench into fists around it.    

"At the co-op." Graves puts down his fork, and without moving his gaze puts a wad of cash on the table beside his plate. "We have a problem, little bro. Non-Dick-related."    

"We always have a problem," Quincy says, very quietly, because in truth doing what they do is still better than doing nothing.    

"Go out the back door and I'll meet you there, okay? Bring the car around."    

"Okay," Quincy says, and Graves is gone. He can be fast and practical when he wants to be, which is rarely.    

"Peeling out already, Forrest?" Sammie calls. So she was paying attention after all, not just making out with Eleanor in the kitchen.    

"Why do you call me that?" Quincy asks, futilely. This, too, is a fight he's had many times.

Maybe he looks as wrung-out as he feels, because Sammie’s face softens marginally as she watches him stand up, push in his chair after himself.  

"Dunno. Like the move? Forrest Gump?" she says, and shrugs. "You remind me of him. The kindness part, not the clueless part. I guess nicknames are my love language."

She gives him a wink, of course, because any interaction with Sammie would be incomplete without blurring the line between conversation and flirtation, and Quincy bites his cheek to keep from smiling. He needs to move.    

He considers the wad of cash, then considers Sammie’s shirt, long-sleeved and wearing thin in places, completely inadequate for keeping her warm, considers how she, too, is probably suffering from how Noxboro is changing.    

How she's going to keep suffering, if Richard Brandt goes through with his plans.

"Keep the change," he says quickly, and he's out the door and halfway to the Mercedes before he realizes he's still holding the little packet of jam. He slides it into the breast pocket of his jacket.    

I guess nicknames are my love language, he hears Sammie saying in his head, feels the packet of jam jostling close to his heart. He thinks of Cal calling him Quince, how the nickname settled like a blanket on his shoulders, easy and familiar and right.    

He cranks up the car and thumbs at his key-knife. He wonders if Cal ever goes to Alice’s, if he sits across the table from Amy or Zara or anyone and laughs open and red-faced at someone's joke, initiating conversation around bites of toast. He wonders if he spreads jam on it, if he prefers strawberry or orange marmalade.    

It's probably been enough time, now. He cranks up the car and thinks maybe he'll leave the jam packet where it is, out of sight but noticeable against his chest. It reminds him that Cal is kind, that Cal is so, so fragile.  

It reminds him that he's not allowed to have this.  

*

When Quincy pulls the car around to the co-op, Graves is waiting at the curb. As he edges closer to the passenger door, Quincy sees him tuck his blade back into his sleeve, dripping with black blood. He's holding a paper grocery bag in one hand.  

"How many?" Quincy murmurs.

"Three," Graves says, voice tired. In their line of work, it is not particularly uncommon to have to kill their own kind, but it always hits Graves particularly hard. "And they were all hunting the same girl. I was just in time."  

"What?"   

Daytime hunts are rare. Group hunts are even rarer. The odds of both happening at once are slim to none, and yet the black blood that's starting to seep through Graves’s shirtsleeve is as convincing evidence as any.

"I should clarify that it is not just any girl,” Graves intones, and Quincy goes very still. “It’s Amelia Fournier.”   

“What are the odds of that?” Quincy asks rhetorically.

“They already think that Kline knows something. The fact that you’re getting so closely involved probably just confirmed it, and it’s not like the kid has blood family.” 

“They didn’t waste any time,” Quincy murmurs. He feels sick, the knowledge of what could have happened had he not just happened to ask Graves to meet him earlier than usual heavy in his stomach.

“You can say that again. Fucking creeps.” Graves’s grip on the paper bag tightens, crinkling in his fist.

"Do you think there will be more?" (What he really wants to ask is, is Cal safe?, the question reverberating so loudly and urgently in his skull that he’s sure Graves can hear it.)

Graves meets Quincy's eyes. "I think we have some time, but...yeah. They were working for someone."  

Quincy hisses out a curse, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. "Any idea who?"

"Someone big," Graves shrugs. "They wouldn't name them, and there are only a few people with that kind of intimidation factor."  

"Fuck," Quincy says. He doesn't swear often, but there is little else to say in this particular situation. "We have to tell Alexandria."  

"I imagine she'll want to call a meeting," Graves affirms, scratching at his forearm, where the blood is no doubt beginning to coagulate on his skin. "As if she didn’t already have a bug up her ass about the roommate thing. And I have to take care of this now." He gesticulates wildly with the paper sack. "Looks like you'll have to postpone move-in."  

*

Cal wakes up early in that strange way that happens to him sometimes, groggy-calm, opening his eyes to stare up placidly at the ceiling. When they first moved in, he and Amy got wine drunk and stuck glow-in-the-dark stars up there. "I'm gonna give you the best constellations," Amy slurred, because she was, despite all her talk to the contrary, a lightweight, but as it turned out the only one either of them knew was the big dipper, so that's what they did, over and over and over. Big dipper after big dipper after big dipper.  

Cal smiles at the memory and has approximately two more peaceful seconds before his brain explodes with Quincy, Quincy, Quincy, and he bolts upright with the sudden, crushing terror that he's slept too late, that he's missed it, but his clock reads 10am and he sags, relieved. It's Tuesday, so he doesn't have any classes, and this is probably the first Tuesday he's woken up before 2pm all semester. Weird.

He sits there for a second, a strange but familiar feeling welling in his gut that he recognizes as anxiety—not just anxiety, but nerves, about-to-go-onstage nerves, high-school-graduation-and-my-name-is-next nerves. He's not stupid. He knows there's a one-to-one correlation between this feeling and the fact that is he going to be seeing Quincy later today. He's just having trouble getting over how monumentally stupid that is.  

As it stands, he can't think of a single problem he's ever had that's been made worse by showering, and his back aches from binding his chest, so basically he can't think of anything he wants more in this moment than water as hot as it will go, his bougie peppermint-scented shampoo, his bathrobe. He heaves himself off his bed, albeit reluctantly, and shuffles into the bathroom.

The thing about Cal, he thinks as he waits for the water to heat up, is that he doesn't hate his body the way he's supposed to, the way they tell you you're supposed to, because his body has never been the real problem. It's not his smooth, unstubbled face that he hates. It's not his soft body, his curves, the chest he binds every day; it's not even the hair he chopped off as soon as he told Henry, Dad, I'm not your daughter, I'm your son. Yeah, he feels more comfortable when he has his binder on, but he thinks that's mostly because the problem isn't his body, it's other people's assumptions about it. The problem isn't that his body isn't a boy's; the problem is that it is, but no one else saw it until he changed his name and cut his hair and started binding, and well.  

Of course he gets dysphoria sometimes. He steps into the shower, and yeah, it's a day where he has trouble feeling at home in his skin, but.  

The thing about Cal is that his body is not the problem.  

By the time he gets out of the shower, it's only 11, and he's feeling restless and doesn't want food yet, so he sits on his bed, fidgeting restlessly, before he realizes who he wants to talk to about... this, this feeling in his belly like he swallowed a fish.  

He decides to call Zara.

 "So what I'm getting is that he's incredibly hot, incredibly intelligent, and you've dropped the dead dad bomb and the trans bomb."   

"That...sums it up very concisely, yeah," Cal says, sighing and flopping back onto his bed. "But I've talked to him for a grand total of...I don't even know, an hour, maybe? So let's reign in the value judgments."   

"Not only did you drop those bombs, but he just rolled with them."   

"Yes, Zara."   

"That's kind of perfect."   

"I don't know. I'm not going to give him too many points for the trans thing. That's just him not being a shitty human. The dad thing, though."

“The dad thing though," Zara replies, emphatically, and Cal misses her so badly that his chest aches.   

Zara Pembrook is the one person from high school that Cal didn't completely sever ties with. Her mother, Virginia, is the medical examiner over on the far side of the city, and her dad is the chief of police. It's not that Cal's parents were bad, exactly, it's just that they were often gone, Henry off guest lecturing and Mary busy first with going back to school for nursing, and later on, pulling graveyard shifts at the hospital, and later on, when Cal turned seven, she was just in the graveyard dead, and Henry kept guest-lecturing, kept staying absorbed in his now-all-important research. There was always a seat for Cal at Virginia and John’s table, he and Zara kicking each other's shins just out of Ellen's view. Before Cal was Cal , he and Zara braided each other's hair and let John teach them about cars in equal measure, Zara patiently letting Cal do her makeup sometimes (he never liked wearing it himself) in between their competitions to see who could shoot the most bottles off the old wood fence out back. Later on, they traded bottle-shooting for sneaking out to the only bar in town that didn't card, a seedy place with an arcade on the first floor, where Zara would bat her lashes and make bets with beer-drunk, middle-aged men, shattering high scores on all the games that used a gun (until, of course, the night Cal decided to try tequila, the night that he only remembers in flashes, vomiting on his shoes until his stomach cramped emptily, Zara’s tears, Virginia’s stormy face and her eyes full of concern, an IV in his arm and hair being smoothed back from his face, no, baby, we know you're sorry, we won't tell your daddy). And then when Cal became himself, traded short skirts for flannel and boot-cut jeans, it was Zara who cut his hair over the kitchen sink with a pair of rusty scissors (Virginia whose eyes grew big as saucers in abject horror, who took the scissors for herself and gave him something resembling a decent haircut).    

So yeah, when Cal erased everyone else from his life before college, erased every trace that anyone other than Cal Kline, trans man ever existed, Zara stayed. Zara was always going to stay. Virginia wanted her to be a nurse, but to no one's surprise, Zara would have nothing to do with that. She's going to a two-year college to get her degree in mortuary science , which makes her infinitely more interesting then Cal will ever be, but also makes her kind of disgusting to talk to.  

Exhibit A. "Ugh. You're getting to demystify uber-hot Sweater Guy. Meanwhile I'm pretty sure I've figured out where the smell is coming from, and the answer is all of the clothes I've worn to lab in the last week. The lab with dead people, Cal."  

"Um."   

"My clothes smell like dead people. Mom, my clothes smell like dead people. My mom just walked in, Cal. She says hi."   

"Hi, Ms. Pembrook."   

"Cal says hi, Ms. Pembrook. Cal, my mom says shut up, you haven't called her Ms. Pembrook since kindergarten, it's just Virginia or Ginny and you know it. "  Cal hears the words twice—once from Virginia murmuring in the background and again from Zara’s spot-on impression—and he feels warm, feels something akin to homesickness.  

"Anyway. Your boy," Zara says decisively before Cal can wallow too much.  

"He is not my boy. I can't stress this enough. We basically stalked him for months, Zara, and he finally talked to me. He's intriguing. He talks like he's never really talked to people before, and I just...I don't know. I feel like there's more there. Intriguing. "   

Zara gives an exasperated huff so familiar that Cal can see the face she's making, can practically feel the puff of breath on his cheek the way he used to when they'd lay on his bed at home, curled together like a couple of parentheses. “Counterargument: we basically stalked him for months, Cal.” She lowers her voice in a pretty decent imitation of his. “I’d say that makes him your something.”

“Fuck you,” Cal says, but he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep the smile out of his voice.

Zara, for all of her and Cal’s outlandish shenanigans, only got suspended once in high school, and it was for Cal.

It was in gym class--Cal swears to this day that gym class is an unjust institution designed to pit high schoolers against each other in some Hunger Games bullshit. Cal had just come out to his father a couple months before, and as such been on testosterone for a couple months. The transition from what he was before to Cal was hard at school, but if he wasn’t feeling brave, Cal just told people it was a nickname he preferred, and no one cared enough to press the issue. It wasn’t until he cut his hair and started binding his chest that certain problems arose.

Certain problems, of course, primarily referred to David, a greasy, weaselly guy that Cal had the pleasure of enduring from kindergarten until the day he graduated (and even then, Cal thinks now, bitterly. David got into the university on a full scholarship. He’s a business major, which came as a surprise to no one).  

“You’re in the wrong locker room, Kline,” David hissed that day, far too close to Cal for his liking. He remembers squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of sour breath, reflexively pulling his crumpled t-shirt to his chest.

“I’m not,” Cal said, voice wavering, because it had taken several angry phone calls on Henry’s part and some tenuously legal under-the-table funding for the school library, but Cal was changing in the boys’ locker room with the law (and the principal) on his side.

“You won’t mind if I check to be sure,” David purred then, reaching around Cal to cup his chest in his binder, and before Cal could say anything, Benny--also a longtime classmate of Cal’s--put a hand on David’s shoulder.

“Dude,” he said, and Cal remembers opening his eyes, daring to hope. “Cut it out. Just let Cal be.”

David slunk away, but not before pinching Cal’s ass when Benny’s head was turned.

“Thanks,” he managed to squeak out to Benny, before throwing on his shirt and grabbing his sneakers, resolving to put them on on the bleachers.

Zara noticed immediately, of course.

“Cal? You look like you did that time you tried to out-hot-dog me.”

Cal hung his head, trembling a little, and he just about lost it when Zara’s voice softened.

“Dude, seriously, what’s up? Are you okay?”

Cal told her what happened in a voice barely louder than a whisper. Before he could do anything about it, Zara was up and off the bleachers. He barely had time to register who he was marching toward before she punched David in the face, hard enough for him to curse and clasp both hands to his face, blood spurting through his fingers.

“Welcome,” she said grandly, cutting Cal a vindictive grin he remembers clear as day, “to the 21st century, asshole. We respect people and we punch transphobes in the face.”

“Zara!” Cal cried in shock, but the gym coach was already running toward her. She didn’t fight when he told her on no uncertain terms to hoof it to the principal’s office.

“It didn’t even bother me that much,” Cal lied feebly, later on when they were sitting cross-legged on Virginia’s couch. (Virginia was angry for about a minute and a half, but when she heard what happened, she rerouted them to Dairy Queen. Anything you want, baby, she said, kissing Zara on the top of the head, and then Cal, too.)

“Maybe not,” Virginia had said, not calling him on his bluff, “but it bothered me.”

And it’s not like David stopped after that, but it was still incredibly badass, and Cal is remembering this and is swelling with love for Zara, is going to ask her if she remembers, when she says "Shit, Cal, I'm running later than I thought. I gotta go. Keep me updated on your love affair!"  

"It's not a love affair, Jesus," Cal says, but she's already hung up the phone.

  *

 Cal is off the phone for about thirty seconds before it occurs to him that he hasn’t Facebook stalked Quincy yet, in this, the 21st century, asshole. He barely has time to process the thought before he pulls up the app on his phone.

It's not difficult to find. He pulls up the university Class of 2020 Facebook page and searches for "Quincy" in it, and it's not exactly a common name. The profile is almost entirely blank, and he only has fifty-two Facebook friends. Even Cal, after cutting off everyone he knew in high school, has a couple hundred.   

Cal wonders if he's lonely. If that's why he was so quick to jump on the prospect of rooming with Amy and Cal—because he doesn't have anyone else. Maybe the way he's treating Cal is how he'd treat anyone, given enough time and attention.

Cal really doesn't want to be the kind of person that resents that.  

There's only so much to be gleaned from a blank profile, and Cal flops back onto his bed. He doesn't have another shift at the hospital until Thursday, and with no classes to fill his time, he has nothing to do but agonize over this.  

As though in direct response to his restlessness, his phone vibrates insistently. He tries not to hate himself for how quickly he snatches it up.  

 From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:34PM

Hello, Cal. I apologize, but I am afraid I must postpone my move-in until further notice. A pressing family matter has come up. However, I do not anticipate this delay taking more than a day or two. I will keep you abreast. Sincerely, Quincy Washington

Cal snorts reflexively—he hasn’t known Quincy for long, but him composing text messages that read like business memos feels very in character — but beneath the amusement is a creeping disappointment that he cuts off before he has to think about it further than that.

 From: Cal Kline  

To: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:36PM

heh heh. breast. =P

 Quincy responds immediately, wow ur so mature, it's a good thing ur eyes are so pretty ;], and Cal just about chokes on his own lungs, but a second message appears almost as quickly as the first:

 From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:38PM

I apologize. That was my brother, Graves. He can be...difficult.  

 From: Cal Kline

To: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:40PM

does he read tarot? and/or drink health shakes? I would kill for amy to do something natural like steal my phone once in a while

 From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:42PM

I asked him, and now he is in tears from laughter. Apparently, you are hilarious.  

 Cal smiles at his phone and types out, I won't let it go to my head, lol, and then, after a moment of thought, see ya around, Quince. hope your family is okay.

 From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:47PM

Thank you, Cal. I look forward to seeing you soon.  

 That last text message is almost but not quite enough to alleviate the heavy feeling in Cal's chest, and he tries to make himself focus on it, but instead his brain is shouting there's no urgent family matter, no one texts during something like that, he's just having second thoughts about moving in, and before he can stop it he's trapped himself in a tightening gyre of self-doubt, chest tight with anxiety.  

Why do you care so goddamn much? He screams at his brain. The trouble is, he knows why. Quincy made him feel more understood in half an hour than anyone else has in years, and that matters to him. He thought maybe Quincy felt the same thing, based on all the smiling he did (and God, Cal thinks, what a smile he fucking has ), but maybe Cal was just projecting. Maybe he's gotten this all wrong. Maybe...

Like always when this happens, when Cal gets this clawing feeling behind his sternum, he thinks of his dad. Don't fucking psychoanalyze it, but he thinks of his dad.  

Cal remembers a different Henry, before—the Henry who took him fishing that time, who told him bedtime stories whispered quiet and conspiratorial after his bedtime. When Mary died, she took some of Henry with him, and doesn't that just hit like a punch in the gut every time.  

(Cal remembers Mary too, of course—you remember his thoughts on hospitals. Cal remembers soft nightgowns and grocery store pies because who has time to bake, a soft voice singing him back to sleep after nightmares, showing him how to tie his own tiny toddler shoes. Mary used to give Cal these elaborate hairdos when he was younger, and Cal grumbled about it until she said to him, eyes sparkling, you’re going to be such a beautiful bride one day, and yeah, okay, that's its own fucking can of worms, that his fucking mother Mommymommynoplease, Daddy why is Mommy gone died thinking that she had a daughter, Cal's not fucking talking about that right now.)  

Before Mary died, Henry made pancakes on Sunday mornings. Chocolate chip, shaped like Mickey Mouse ears. Afterward, Cal was lucky to see him three times a week. It was Cal who packed his own lunches, Cal who puzzled through his own homework (Virginia who picked him up and drove him to her place, gave him a good hot meal and let him stay over more often than not).  

Cal doesn't exist in a vacuum, okay? He knows that most people who knew Henry think that he had some kind of psychotic break, that it led to his death, somehow.  

The thing is that Henry never acted quite the same after Mary died, threw himself into his research like never before—strange veins of his research, more precisely, that almost cost him his highly-anticipated tenure more than once.  

Every country in the world has a vampire story, Cal, he told him once, eyes glinting feverishly across the table. Don't you think that's odd? I think I'm really on to something here, kiddo.  

I guess so, Cal mumbled that way kids do when they're 15—because, like, come on Henry, Cal was fucking 15, he had a geometry test the next day, he didn't give a fuck about your latest goddamn research interest—and Henry had pushed the food around his plate a little longer before rabbiting off to his study again.  

Because yeah, there's another reason Cal tries to avoid saying his full name within earshot of anyone who might know anything about Henry Kline: it means willfully associating himself with a professor of theology who plunged off the deep end headfirst. He used to be proud of it, is the thing, showed off his Dad and his research on every single Father's Day assignment in elementary school. Kids got less forgiving as time went on. Buffy, they used to call Cal behind his back in high school, hahahaha —Buffy as in the Vampire Slayer. As in crackpot Professor Kline's kid. 

In college, of course, no one cares about that kind of bullshit. Never did. They whisper about Cal for different reasons: that's Cal, you know. That professor's kid—you know Dr. Kline? Yeah, the one who died, usually followed by something like oh my God yeah, my friend's sister's cousin took Religion 101 with him, that is so sad, et cetera, et cetera.  

It's just that Cal wishes he would have listened more.  

After Henry died, Cal was obsessed with listening to the last cassette he left in the truck--a mediocre Steppenwolf album, Cal remembers. He listened to it over and over and over, memorizing every word, trying to derive some meaning from it being the last one Henry ever played.  

When Mary was alive, she used to give Henry feedback on the articles he submitted to scholarly journals, proofreading them and scrawling her own thoughts on whatever the subject was in the margins. The last thing Mary did before she died was give Henry feedback on one last journal article—coincidentally, which is code here for really fucking uncoincidentally, that article was on the topic of universal myths, the topic that Henry would later dedicate his life to. Universal myths, of course, are legends that crop up in one form or another in every area in the world. Like dragons, Henry posited in his article. Like vampires.

He doesn't think his dad was crazy. He thinks he was coping.

*

“You look like shit," Amy says as soon as she walks in. To be fair, Cal is a lump of junk food wrappers and blankets on the L-shaped couch, blanket-burritoed legs stretched in front of him, the blaring television (Food Network, Cal's first and only love) the only light source in the room, but still, Cal huffs indignantly.  

"We can't all be hyper-productive all the time," he grumbles.  

"Where's Quincy?" Amy hangs her keys up on the key hanger—Christ, when did they get a key hanger?—and Cal gets that tight feeling in his chest again.

"Oh, yeah," Cal says, going for casual. He makes eye contact with Gordon Ramsay on the television, who is currently yelling at a guy who dropped his freshly-plated shrimp alfredo, because at this particular moment he seems a lot less threatening than Amy and her soulful eyes or whatever the fuck. "He had to postpone. Something came up. He'll be moved in in a day or two."  

"Rent's due in three days, Cal," Amy says, not unkindly, but Cal flinches anyway.  

"I know, Ames," he murmurs, and he must sound as tired and beaten down as he feels, because Amy switches on the lamp and turns off the TV, sinking down beside Cal on the couch.   

"You doing okay?" She says it so fucking softly, and shit, you know?

The worst part is that Cal still finds himself with a joke on the tip of his tongue, but it was Amy who the summer after first year had to bring clothes to Cal in the inpatient program he was in for a suicide attempt (a hard night, a handle of liquor, a bottle of pills). It was Amy who had to measure out Cal's antidepressants for him once he got out, Amy who suggested they live together for their senior year. That's the funny part, hahahaha,  about the fact that Cal's even thinking about lying to her: Amy has already seen him at his worst.  

Hahahaha.  

Cal shakes it off, mumbles, "It was a depression day, but I'm fine," and Amy nods, because they've been doing this for a while now, and against all odds Cal has gotten pretty good at telling the difference between what he can and can't handle.  

"Anything trigger it?"

Fuck. Amy knows him. 

"Yeah," he says finally, and then against his better judgement, "I was kinda thinking about my dad."  

Amy sighs, long and sad. This is a whole thing with them.

“Cal, I know you’re still struggling with this--”

“I’m not, okay?” Cal says, immediately and defensively, because he can’t help it. “I know he’s dead. It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

This is far from the first time they’ve had this conversation, but Amy looks no less earnest every time, like she genuinely wants to understand. Cal guesses that’s why he keeps trying.

“It’s just…” He lets his eyes slip closed, leaning his head back against the back of the couch. “I know you all think Dad was crazy. And I get it. I do. The dude clearly had some issues. But I just…”

“Just what, Cal?”

Nice try, Ames, Cal thinks, because he remembers their joint session with Dr. Moore, the one where they talked about active listening and good support systems, but he guesses it’s working because he still finds himself saying “Just everything, Amy, fucking everybody.”

Amy doesn’t say anything, so he forges on. “Just fucking...you all assume he was a crackpot, but aren’t even just a little bit curious about what had him so convinced? About why he got so hooked on that idea? It’s like no one even thinks about him as human, you know? He’s just crazy Dr. Kline, that professor who died tragically or whatever the fuck, and like...no one’s drinking beers, talking about his life. No one’s here to fucking miss him except me, because even Zara, Amy, even she, the closest thing besides you that I have to a sibling, moved on so fucking effectively, and I’m happy for her, but she didn’t know him before, before Mom. Back when he was just...Henry, father of one. Fuck. I don’t know.”

Amy’s quiet for a minute. “You feel...alone in this.”

“Yeah,” Cal sighs, rubbing his temples. He has a goddamn headache.

“Look, honey,” Amy starts, and Cal looks up. “I don’t harp on you moving on because I think he was crazy. I just…” She shrugs, and suddenly she’s the one looking exhausted. Cal is suddenly and acutely aware that this is, in effect, his baby sister sitting here. “I think your life would be better if you could. That’s all.”

Cal doesn’t drink anymore, but he really, really wants a beer. “Well, Amy,” he says, “we can at least agree on that.”

There is a moment of tense silence before Cal hears a little sniffle, and God if that doesn’t have his head snapping up in a second. Amy’s head is bowed, her shoulders shaking slightly. 

“Amy? Ames? Oh my god!” Cal throws the blanket off his legs, immediately folding Amy into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. “Holy shit, babe, what’s wrong?” (He doesn’t flinch at the pet name. He doesn’t. Amy is safe. He can be real with her. She can know he loves her. She won’t hurt him.) 

“I’m sorry,” Amy says, with this heartbreaking, wet little laugh. “I just--I just had kind of a bad day. Nothing exciting, just school stress. And I--” Her breath hitches, and Cal feels his heart break a little in his chest. “I don’t want you to feel bad for being down, too. That’s not what this is. But it really sucks that I c-can’t help you like Zara did, the way you need--” 

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Cal says, faux-sternly, making sure to gently pull Amy back so she can see his face, set in a soft little grin. “You do help me the way I need, sunshine. You are literally a bundle of joy--wait, that’s something you say about babies, isn’t it? Okay, you’re not a baby, but the point is that you’re amazing and warm and lovely, and you’ve supported me so much that I don’t know how I’d survive college without you. You’re my sister too, Ames, and I love the shit out of you.” He tucks a loose strand of red hair behind her ear, and she sniffles, a bit less despondently than before. “And if I was a chem major I would definitely be dead, so I don’t want to hear anything about how you’re not allowed to be stressed out too. The tragedy olympics is banned in this household.” 

Amy leans into his hold, pillowing her head in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry. I know. I love you. Everything just happens so much sometimes, you know?” 

Cal opens his mouth to respond--he does, in fact, know--but all at once he hears and feels a deep, irritated growl from Amy’s stomach. 

“Amy,” he says when she immediately flushes, “When’s the last time you ate?” 

“This...morning?” She says sheepishly, as though it’s a question, and Cal shakes his head in lighthearted disapproval. 

“And you’re wondering why you’re crying! That’s it. Tonight’s a pizza night.” 

“For real?” Amy says, grinning a little despite herself. Their pizza nights are sacred--pizza delivery and Lactaid are both expensive indulgences when you’re a college student, but like, come on, you expect Cal to hold out when Amy’s big brown eyes are still glistening with tears, when her nose and cheeks are still flushed with the exertion of crying (when her stomach is growling with increasing irritation, and Cal can practically feel the queasy ache of hunger pangs that she must be feeling?) 

“For real,” Cal says decisively, and pulls her in for a tight hug, burying his nose in her hair. 

*

“Oh my god,” Amy moans. “Oh...my god. Oh my god. I’m full as a tick.” 

Cal bites his lip to hide his smile, continuing his gentle ministrations. Amy is splayed across the length of the couch, her head resting in Cal’s lap, her tummy a downright mound, churning laboriously around a truly alarming amount of pizza. Cal has one hand cradling her lower belly, providing much-needed support, his other hand stroking across the bulge beneath her ribs, working against the occasional cramps and twinges as they arise. 

“You don’t feel sick, do you?” he asks, pausing to brush a few strands of hair from her eyes, feeling a flicker of concern.

“No, just--” She grabs his wrist, replacing his hand on her upper tummy, arching eagerly into the touch. “Don’t stop.” She flushes a little. “Please?” 

Cal melts, obediently massaging at her bloated tummy, and Amy exhales in relief. She’s pulled her shirt up over her ribs--your hands are so warm! It feels nice, she’d defended herself indignantly--and Cal notices absently how tightly the skin is stretched over the bloat, extremely noticeable on her slight frame. 

“I find that hard to believe,” Cal murmurs, as Amy’s tummy gives a laborious gurgle. She’d plowed through an entire margherita pizza single-handedly, and Cal was as delighted by her actually eating as he was alarmed by the determination with which she did so. “You’re just so small! And that was...so much pizza.” 

“It was,” Amy mumbles, a little breathlessly. “But it doesn’t hurt! I’m just...very ful--oh--” Cal has kneaded against a particularly tight spot to alleviate the pressure, and she wheezes with the relief of it, looking a little dazed. “Oh my word, you’re good at this.” 

“I guess I’ve had a lot of practice on myself,” Cal says, pleased and a little touched that he can help Amy for once. 

“Are you doing okay, by the way?” Amy manages, cracking open one eye and resting a hand on Cal’s own belly. “How’s the Lactaid working?” 

“Perfectly,” Cal soothes her, stroking her lower belly, receiving another grunt of contentment. “Besides, I ate, what, three slices? I wasn’t quite as ambitious as you.” 

“That means leftovers,” Amy says gleefully, impossibly, shimmying a little, before groaning at the effects of the movement on her stomach contents. “For tomorrow. Oof.” 

“You’re insane,” Cal says, bending down to kiss her affectionately on the forehead, rubbing careful, small circles into the bloat beneath her ribs. Somehow, Amy cuddles closer, shifting in Cal’s lap so that she’s pressed against his torso. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbles sleepily, flushing when Cal’s ministrations coax up a tiny burp but looking  exceedingly relieved. “Just...keep doing what you’re doing. Please.” 

Cal is content and very, very warm, the unique pleasure of being helpful chasing away the gloominess from earlier. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.” 

Amy sighs happily, having moved from the precipice of too-full to the relief of being wonderfully, comfortably sated; Cal’s own stomach is pleasantly full, the comfort of it all dragging at his eyelids. 

Right now, he can think of nowhere he’d rather be than this blanket nest, with his best friend--no, his sister. 

*

Later that night, after walking a very sleepy Amy to her own bed, Cal can’t quite fall asleep. He rolls over, quietly pulls open his bedside drawer to keep it from squeaking (and fuck if he doesn’t smile a little to himself at the habit--what, he’s going to wake up Zara? That’s not exactly a concern anymore) and pushes aside the bed of crumpled tissues and used spiral bound notebooks until he feels smooth leather under his palm.

The book is objectively beautiful. Even Cal, self-proclaimed not-a-literature-guy, can admit that. The title is embossed on the dark brown cover in gold script: The Writings of Ebenezer Finch. Unlike most of Henry’s book collection, the pages are well-worn from use in addition to age. It feels good in Cal’s hands. Solid.  

Cal was the first to brave Henry’s study after he died (who else was there, really?). A lot of things, he put into boxes to deal with emotionally later--photo albums, journals, and the like. He got through both of Henry’s desk drawers and dropped something--a stapler, he thinks it was--and frowned when it landed with a hollow thunk. After some finagling, he managed to find a latch underneath the lip of the desk, and when he pressed it, the false bottom of the drawer popped out.

His hands shook as he reached for it, expecting...he didn’t know what. And what he found was The Writings of Ebenezer Finch.

He didn’t know what to make of it at first. Didn’t touch it for months. By the time he finally cracked it open, he was almost disappointed to find that it was high-concept vampire fantasy--not surprised, given Henry’s line of research, but disappointed. Still, he felt compelled to keep the book a secret, reading it in snatches after Amy had gone to bed, the yellowed pages comforting and familiar beneath the buttery yellow of his bedside lamp.

It only took him a couple of weeks to get through it, that first time. Now, he goes back to it on nights like these, tries to curl up and hide in the words and understand why Henry cared about it so much.

Tonight, despite the comfort found with Amy earlier, his heart hurts with the weight of the day, so he starts on page one.

 In the beginning, there were three.

The greeks called her, the first her, Empusa. They believed her to be the offspring of Hecate, and housewives whispered her cautionary tales to their husbands once their children went to sleep. For Empusa, they warned, was a seductress, and once even the most steadfast of men had fallen into her grip, they would not be free of it until she had consumed them entirely. The second being, they knew by his sons--the striges, the bird-creatures, sinister in intent and biding their time to snatch children from their beds. The third and final being, they knew as Lamia. A secret lover of Zeus, they said. When Hera discovered Zeus’s adultery, she slaughtered the children of Lamia, swiftly and without remorse. As retribution, Lamia, too, took to stealing children and drinking their blood to sustain herself. The blood of babies, according to Lamia, was the sweetest of all.

They were wrong, of course, if only in name, and in some of the details. These things do become muddy with the passage of time, and humans do prefer a story they can understand.

Here is the real story: the first she was called Lamashtu, the second being Gallu, and the third, Lilitu. Humans don’t know the truth of them and never have, but if you are holding this book, you are about to.

This story, like most good stories, begins with love.

[snarkandsarcasmftw]

tag games, ftw

I was tagged by both @rampagewriting and @heelsamizayn to answer this and it seems like a fun time and my brain’s being a bag of dicks rn, so whhhhy not... Here we go.

0) Name/Nickname? If ya wanna share it.

Ashley, AA, Snark - mostly on here. Oh and lil bit, but... family only.

1) If you could bring any two fictional characters (from books or film/tv) into the same world who would they be, what world would you put them in, and what would their relationship to each other be?

Uhhh... Uhhh... Okay, alright, hm... This is going to be an unconventional answer but.. I’d take Bucky and Cap and I’d drop them right into the middle of The Walking Dead. Hear me out.. They’re both military trained / enhanced superheroes and they can walk that line of having compassion and being totally ruthless if they must. I think it’d be neat. They’d be friends / psuedo brothers, of course.

2) If you could drop yourself into any fictional world from books or film/tv, which would it be?

Oh god, oh noooo.. Every part of the fifteen year old trapped within my old woman body is screaming at me to answer Harry Potter -cos magic.. But.. I’m going with The Walking Dead. Just for the simple fact that I could smack both Lori and Dale Horvath in the back of the fuckin head.

Alternately.. I’d really wanna hunt vampires with Edgar and Allen Frog, and the eighties were my shit, so.. That too.

3) What’s your spirit animal?

A cat or a raccoon. I have under eye circles, stay up late, eat only junk and I’ll bite if you take my food plus kinda chonky ( raccoon) and I like to take naps, I’m... adamant about cleaning / grooming plus, I like to sit around and give people side eye when they’re doing dumb shit. ( cat.)

4) What is the most unpopular opinion you hold?

NO. NOPE. NOT ANSWERING. ISSA TRAP.

Okay, since I obviously have to put something here, I’ll say it. And I’ll start with wrestling:

Seth Rollins is vastly overrated and I don’t get the whole.. Attraction to him. And the same goes for Cody Rhodes. Also, is it just me or are his fucking intros too long? Idk, maybe that’s me and my lack of patience. If you like either of these, sorry, continue to do you, but.. I’m not a fan and I honestly don’t particularly care about either and this is my own personal opinion. I’m allowed to have one. I’m not saying bad shit about either guy here, if you take it that way, it’s your own damn problem? I’m not telling you not to like them. I’m simply saying I do not.

As far as media goes : Fifty Shades of Gray is fucking dumb. I mean.. 10 page contract.. to get what has to be mediocre dick, at best? And it’s not even written with any regards to true BDSM concepts for the most part? Nah. I’ll pass. 

And now, for one about our current situation: I think the idiots who hoarded TP at the beginning of this should be allowed to return things.. Provided it’s unopened, they have a receipt, and they don’t see a fucking dime of the money they spent and that the money from the returns goes to masks / other methods of protection for front line workers or straight into the unemployment packages and the stimulus thing. Like literally, the hoarder gets nothing, people who need TP / sanitizer / etc get UNOPENED NEW PRODUCTS and the front line workers get the proceeds of the voided returns. We all win here. (I realize this probably cannot happen, but. It’s one way to kind of... help this current shit show we’re all trapped in.) 

5) How do you like to style your hair most often?

Uhh.. Down. I’m too goddamn lazy to be bothered.

6) I always love this overdone question - you’re allowed three books on a desert island, what do you bring? (Note: Survival Guides don’t count).

The Shining, The Dark Towers series - Stephen King, The Client - John Grisham and The Outsiders - S.E Hinton

7) Something new you’ve learned in quarantine/lockdown/corona times?

That no matter how hard I try, I cannot apply false lashes. That more than two noisy things going in the background is TOO MUCH. Oh and I’m pretty damn good at baking when I bother to try / don’t toss out the directions.

8) Favorite alcohol? (Or non-alcoholic beverage if you don’t drink!)

Haven’t drank in... a while-ish. But my favorite thing to drink when I do is vodka or tequila. Occasionally White Claw ( i know, i know.). Favorite non-alcoholic beverage is water lately.

9) Music you can’t stand? Music you love?

I’m gonna get torn the fuck apart for this but yolo.. I can’t get into K-Pop. I’ve tried. It’s just.. It’s up there with new pop for me. Older boy bands / pop stars? Not a problem. I just don’t like a lot of pop music and I can’t get into K-pop. If you like it, awesome. It’s just not for me personally. Beyond that? I love literally any other kind of music. I have a veeeery varied eclectic listening preference but my all time favorite? 80′s glam / pop or country.

10) Have a favorite herb?

FIRST OF ALL.. GARLIC.. yeah, it’s not a herb buuuut... yeah.. Anyway, for actual herbs..Basil, Rosemary and Sage.. Oh and cilantro. Cilantro will save your ass in a pinch. 

11) What kinds of cups/glasses/bottles do you prefer to drink out of?

My big tol cold cup. Or.. my stemless plastic wine glasses, of which I have apparently lost.

12) Preferred mode of communication: texts, phone calls, emails, letters?

Text or email. I’m not... fond of making calls, but I will if I have to. I prefer texts or email. Oh, I do enjoy writing letters now and then.

13) What is your favorite weather?

Not too hot, not too cold. Not too sunny but not overcast and gray either. A light breeze. NO POLLEN.

14) What kind of lighting do you like?

Softer lights, for the aesthetic.. Overhead lighting, so my blind ass can... yannow... see. If I had my way, I’d have candles and string lights every where though.

15) What is the best thing you cook?

Honestly, I feel like it’s my chili or my stew. Alternately, husband seems to ask for chicken / bacon / ranch pasta casserole a lot, so... Idk.. I guess pretty much anything (except fucking hamburger helper, i can NEVER get this shit right, despite directions, sacrifices to the culinary gods and pleas/promises of my first born. It always turns out icky so I never cook it.) 

16)  Do you have a favorite font to write in?

Handwriting or typewriter fonts for the most part. Roboto when I’m writing / editing my own fics and such.

17) What is something you’ve always wanted to write in a fic, but you’ve been too afraid to? Or, what is something that you were afraid to write, but then you did and it ended awesome?

Honestly, I’m scared to death to write smut. Which is why I’ve been trying to write more of it lately. I won’t say it’s going awesome ( I’m pretty sure some of you sit and read it when I post and are like what the fuck... this isn’t realistic and this is so bad.) but it’s going.

I’ve wanted to dip my toes into writing for more obscure fandoms too. Like ones that I personally enjoy. As far as something I’ve always wanted to write? Horror. But I’m scared to death I’d fuck it up.

18) If you were in your favorite fantasy world, what would your weapon of choice be?

A sword or a knife. Machete, maybe?

19) Is there a commonly used expression/saying that you can’t stand?

While I agree with the answers J and K put to this “It’s in God’s hands, etc” - sometimes things are GOD AWFUL. The last thing I want to hear is what the reason God had for doing it is. So don’t tell me. 

Triggered is a useful term.. if it’s used right. And I’m starting to realize that 95 percent of people DO NOT know the proper use. They think that being triggered =‘s a reason to bitch and tear someone apart over some miniature thing they’ve done. So now, when I hear it being misused, it fucking annoys me.

20) What is something that you would like people to know about you?

I’m a grumpy ball of rage. I’m petty as fuck and saltier than all the oceans combined in the right circumstances. But.. I can be a nice person and I love getting to know people and helping people or talking to them. Even if it’s hard for me to start it off bc I’m fucking awkward as fuck also - hence the reason it takes a while for me to actually... attempt... conversing with new people both IRL and on here.

I’m gonna leave this open to anyone who wants to do it bc Idk who has or hasn’t already and I don’t want to annoy people. 

This was a blast!

[deathbyapril]

The Complete History of you PT.1  Micheal Langdon x Reader

Part 2:http://deathbyapril.tumblr.com/post/179190647917/the-complete-history-of-you-part-2-micheal

Part 3: http://deathbyapril.tumblr.com/post/179254907757/the-complete-history-of-you-pt3-micheal-langdon-x

Part 4:http://deathbyapril.tumblr.com/post/179524697137/the-complete-history-of-you-pt-4-micheal-langdon

Part 5: http://deathbyapril.tumblr.com/post/179695089902/the-complete-history-of-you-pt5

Part 6: http://deathbyapril.tumblr.com/post/179833598502/the-complete-history-of-you-part-6

Part 7: http://deathbyapril.tumblr.com/post/180082017777/complete-history-of-you-part-7

To say being in love with Micheal Langdon changed your life would be an understatement. It changed who you were, your personality, your soul and even your DNA. Micheal was a force that could move hell and earth and because of him so could you.

You awoke in Micheals bed one morning, like you do most and felt the empty spot next to you. He wasn't there, why wasn't he there? Then it hit you. The fight you had last night. It all came flooding back. You found out that he had killed your lab partner at school... again. Micheal really was a jealous boyfriend and even though you told him hundreds of times that you loved only him despite his flaws and he had a few, he still needed a lot of convincing. This would often include hours of cuddling and small kisses all over his face but this time he wasn't biting. You spent most of the night arguing and you both went to bed angry. I guess he still was.

You swung your legs over the side of his bed and put on one of his black tank tops. Micheal probably wouldn't mind seeing you in just your underwear but Miss. Mead might have a word or two to say about it. She may be a Satanist but she had class.

 As you made your way towards the kitchen you could smell fresh French Toast. As this was his favourite you assumed he was in a better mood. You were wrong. "Hey baby, food smells good" you hum as you wrap your arms around his waist. Normally he would put down whatever was in his hand and hug you back but instead, he tensed under your touch.

"Oh, are you still mad at me? really?" you huffed at his childish behaviour.

"You know Y/N, after the length of time we have been together, I thought you would have been able to tell that or are you losing interest in our relationship finally?" Micheal spat. 

"For the love of Satan Micheal, how many times do I need to tell you, I am still in love with you and would never do anything to hurt you, despite the number of people you seem to kill, two of which were just lab partners. Can't I just pass science!" you screamed back as you pushed him slightly with your hand.

You could tell that he didn't like that, as his body began to tense up and his fist clenched around the fork he was holding.

" Sure you love me, then why were you over his house 3 nights in a row. You cancelled on two dates and our usual movie night. I bought Rosemary's Baby for you!" He yelled back.

" I was over his house studying for..."

" Sure studying" he interrupted. "Everyone knows you are the smartest girl in your year so don't give me that bullshit" He started to cry slightly at the thought.

" Baby what do I need to do to convince you that nothing happened between us?" You whispered as you moved you wipe the tear away from his face. "I don't know" He replied.

" Well, you need to think of something fast because I can't keep begging you to come back just for you to think the worst of me again when another guy comes along" you said.

"You would leave me?" The anger in his voice showing once more.

The room grew cold as he turned to look you in the eyes. The sudden change scared you. It was unlike Micheal to show his powers in front of you. "Answer me"

"Um, I mean..." but you were too worried to answer the question. 

Of course, you never would, he was the love of your life but his constant need to be loved by you grew tiresome sometimes. You just needed to think. You wanted to grab some air but you couldn't move. Something was pinning you in place, a dark and evil force. You looked Micheal in the eyes but you could only see white. The plates on the table began to fly through the air, smashing around you. Each plate missed. He was furious but he would never hurt you. He just wanted to teach you a lesson. More objects began to fly, even the knives from the draws. However, the sound of the kitchen door opening made him lose focus. Before he could get the chance to react properly, he heard the sound of a knife gliding through the skin.  He heard you whimper and then fall to the ground but he was too scared to turn and look. 

"Y/N sweetheart? Are you OK?" he whispered.

He knew the answer but he couldn't bring himself to look. That's when he heard it, the whispering. It was low and deep at first but it steadily increased in volume. He turned round to face the sound and he saw your lifeless body on the floor. He could tell that you were dead but your lips were moving. You were chanting something in Latin. "What the fuck?"

Your POV  

You were sat on your bed but something was off. It was darker than usual and your Mum was there, only she couldn't be. She died last year. She was telling you how she died over and over. It must be a nightmare. She was covered in blood, the bullet wound in her head pouring blood all over the floor. Then she stopped and fell to the ground. Behind her was a blonde boy, high school age, he was smiling down at you,

"Who are you? Where I am? What is happening?" You asked the boy who reminded you of Micheal.

"Hell" He said as though it was supposed to be an obvious answer.

"What? How is this Hell? I'm not even dead!" You replied confused.

"Well you can blame that on my son? He stabbed you in the head by accident. Emotions will get in the way of that boy and I need you to make sure that it doesn't" He shrugged.

"What? How can I help you? I'm dead and apparently by the hands of my boyfriend"

"I have a plan you see, one that involves him helping me to end the world. However, he is half human so I knew that him falling in love might get in the way. I fear that If he loses that love, he would no longer be focused on what I need" He said as he pulled you up from the bed.

"So what do you want me to do, he's already lost me?"

"That's why I am going to bring you back. I want you to make sure that he sticks to the plan. I know that as you are only a mortal girl and you will probably get into a little trouble along the way, including radiation posing so I will give you a little gift. The power to beat death. You will be immortal in a way" He stopped to see if you were processing what he was saying.

You looked confused but still nodded for him to continue.

"You will not only be free from death but death will become you... in time" He smirked.

"What does that mean?" you enquired.

"All in good time Y/N... oh before you go I want to teach you a little spell so you can talk to me if needed". The boy added.

Micheals POV.

"Please be OK, Please Be OK. I'm sorry baby. I'm so so sorry" Micheal cried over your body.

Suddenly you bolted awake. You were sat up straight with your eyes still closed. Micheal grabbed your face and stared at you. Wondering what you would do next. Your eyes flew open to reveal pure black.

"Ave Satanas"

A/N : Hey guys, this is my first Micheal fic so I’m not sure if anyone will like it. I had fun writing it and would post second part if anyone is interested. Let me know in the comments. XX

[emospritelet]

DC!rumbelle fic fest 32. “Perhaps you’ll take me out one day - or do I have to make an appointment?” 33. “The way you flirt is shameful.”

Send me a prompt from this list and I’ll write DC!Rumbelle!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15] [Part 16] [Part 17] [Part 18]

AO3 link

Belle had enjoyed looking over the library, browsing the book titles and making a mental list of those she most wanted to read, and before she knew it, midnight had come and gone.  She went to bed with some reluctance, but the thought of being able to spend her evenings in the library filled her with joy, and a growing fondness for her strange master.

She woke later than usual, but not so late that she would have to rush to prepare Rumplestiltskin’s breakfast, and after washing her face and tying up her hair, she strode to the wardrobe.

“Rumplestiltskin says my breeches are too tight,” she said aloud.  “Perhaps I should wear a dress today, Castle, what do you think?  We wouldn’t want him to get distracted, after all, would we?”

She opened up the wardrobe doors, tilting her head to the side as she looked over the contents.  Her breeches and shirts were still there, but the castle had also hung up several dresses.  There were full skirts that ended just above the ankles and tight lace-up bodices in shades of blue, green and yellow.  Sheer linen blouses were folded neatly on one of the shelves, along with fresh underwear and stockings, and small heeled shoes, and Belle nodded approvingly.

“Can’t hurt to have a change of look every now and then,” she said, and selected a blue dress and one of the little blouses, along with a chemise and stockings.

The clothes were beautifully made, and very comfortable, even the shoes.  She tied the ribbon at the waist of the skirt, and laced up the bodice with firm tugs.  It pushed her breasts high, the neckline of the blouse showing their pale curves and the deep shadow of her cleavage, and Belle turned this way and that in front of the mirror, pleased with the outfit.  Now to see if it was as easy to move around in as the breeches she had grown used to wearing.

She trotted down the stairs, enjoying the feel of the skirts swishing around her legs, and headed for the kitchens.  The castle had already set out the breakfast food, and a kettle was boiling on the fire, so Belle spooned tea into the pot and wrapped a cloth around the handle of the kettle to pour on the hot water.  At that moment the back door opened and in walked Graham, his cheeks pink from the cold spring air, a hessian bag slung over his shoulder.  He did a double-take when he saw her.

“Were you feeling nostalgic, my Lady?” he asked, looking amused.  “I thought you’d given up on dresses.”

“Rumplestiltskin said my breeches were too tight to be good for me,” she said, and Graham chuckled.

“Did he indeed?” he said, amused, and heaved the bag onto the kitchen table.

Belle peered inside, finding several large joints of venison along with some rabbits and pheasants.

“A good couple of days hunting, then,” she said.  “Perhaps you’ll take me out one day - or do I have to make an appointment?”

She grinned at him cheekily, and he sent her a wry look.

“Yes, if I ever feel like getting eviscerated I’ll just take you out of the castle with me,” he said.  “I have a feeling Rumplestiltskin would take a very dim view of that, my Lady.”

She sighed.

“I suppose,” she grumbled.  “I’ll have to make do with the tales you tell when you return.  Did you see anyone out there?”

Graham shook his head.

“Saw a few tracks along the borders of the forest,” he said.  “Didn’t bother following them.  Have there been any visitors?”

“Not that I know of,” she said.  “Rumple hasn’t had anyone here to deal in weeks.”

Graham gave her an appraising look, folding his arms across his chest.

“Rumple?” he said, in a very bland tone.  “Did you give the Dark One a pet name?”

Belle’s mouth fell open, and she felt herself blush a little.

“It’s - uh - quicker to say.”

“Uh-huh.”

Belle’s blush deepened, and she busied herself with the breakfast tray, setting pastries on a plate next to a dish of porridge with fresh berries and honey.

“There’s plenty of porridge in the pot,” she said, nodding at the iron pot keeping warm next to the fire.  “You can help yourself, if you’re hungry.”

Graham shook his head.

“I need sleep, first,” he said.  “I’ll leave you to take breakfast to your - Rumple.”

Belle shot him a look, and he grinned at her, touching his knuckles to his forehead before ducking out of the kitchen.  She carried the breakfast tray up the stairs, the doors to the Great Hall opening in front of her, and saw Rumplestiltskin already sitting in the chair at the end, tapping his fingers together.  He blinked when he saw her.

“You’re wearing a dress,” he said, and she smirked.

“Is that so hard to believe?” she asked.  “I felt like a change, that’s all.”

She went to set out the breakfast things, bending over to put the bowl of porridge in front of him, and Rumplestiltskin made a high sort of squeak at the back of his throat.  Belle raised her head.

“Is something wrong?”

He was staring at her, but at the sound of her voice he twitched irritably, glancing away.

“Nothing, nothing!” he said impatiently.  “Are you going to set that out before the tea gets cold, or not?”

She gave him a very level look, but placed the pastries next to the porridge bowl and set down the teapot.  She clicked her tongue in vexation as she realised that the castle had included a second teacup again.  It kept doing that, even when she took it off the tray each time.

“Well, since you’re here, you may as well have some tea,” said Rumplestiltskin ungraciously.  “I daresay I won’t eat all the pastries.”

Belle bit her lip to hide her delight.  He flicked a dismissive hand at her, and so she pulled out a chair, smoothing her skirts as she sat down.  She set the cups in their saucers and moved the tray to the side.

“Let me pour,” she said, and reached for the teapot.

Later that afternoon, Belle pulled on a thin cloak to keep off the chill air, before hooking a basket over her arm and going out into the gardens.  She wanted to pick some of the fresh herbs for drying, and despite waiting for a sunny day in which to complete the task she had begun to despair that the rain would ever stop.  The skies were leaden and angry as she stepped outside, and the wind was bitter, but it was at least dry, for now.  Black clouds promised more rain to come; she would have to hurry.  She made her way between the bushes of sage, thyme, rosemary and juniper that grew in the gardens towards the edge of the forest, snipping off the freshest herbs and berries as she went and humming to herself.  Rain was starting to fall again, and she sighed internally as she heard the distant rumble of thunder.

The crack of a twig ahead of her made her stiffen and she stopped humming at once.  She stood still, listening carefully, then took a silent step forwards to where the sound had come from.  A short, slim figure, its head covered with a thick shawl, leapt up from the undergrowth, startling her, and immediately ran off into the forest.

“Wait!” she called out.  “I won’t hurt you!”

The figure ran on, and Belle dropped the basket, hiked up her skirts and followed, ignoring the rain that soaked her.  She was soon in the thickest part of the woods surrounding the castle; black branches reached out to grab at her clothes like the claws of hungry animals, and she gasped as a twig scratched her cheek painfully.  She lifted her arm to shield her face and failed to spot a root at her feet, her toes catching on it and pitching her face-first into the wet leaf-litter.  Belle pushed herself up, breath hissing through her teeth as pain stabbed through her ankle.  She picked a dead leaf from her hair and rubbed at her twisted ankle, looking about her.

The rain was turning to sleet, and she shivered, wondering why she had been so foolish as to come out with just a thin cloak and then chase after a complete stranger.  She drew the cloak around herself, noting ruefully that it was already getting soaked through, and pushed herself to her feet, crying out as she put weight on her ankle.  There would be no more tracking this day; she needed to get home.  

Gritting her teeth, Belle held onto the nearest tree, and viewed her surroundings anxiously.  She could not see the castle, but she thought that she had been running south.  The leaden clouds did not help her sense of direction, but looking at the lichen on the tree-trunks she found what she believed was north and headed that way, limping badly and holding onto the damp trees for support as she went.

She had been walking for almost half an hour when she finally admitted to herself that she was lost.  Her ankle was badly swollen, the forest was getting no thinner, and it was growing dark.  Exhausted from the difficult terrain and the pain in her foot, she sank down by a large oak tree and leaned back against its trunk, wishing that its branches provided a little more shelter from the freezing rain.  She wondered if she had strayed beyond the boundary of the Dark Castle, and felt suddenly vulnerable.  She could not think of anyone that would want to hurt her besides Gaston and his men, but they were far away and highly unlikely to come against the Dark One.  However, she realised that someone could try to get to Rumplestiltskin through her; he would surely come after her if she was taken, if only to ensure her deal with him was fulfilled.  She knew he would come when she called his name…

You need help, you idiot, she told herself crossly, and sat up.

“Rumplestiltskin!”

“Well, well, what have you been doing?”

She looked up at him, his face silhouetted against the veil of bare twigs above her, his slender form clad in brown leather and gold silk.  His arms were folded, one finger tapping his elbow in irritation, but she was very glad to see him.

“I fell,” she said lamely, and he bent forward and pulled two or three wet leaves from her hair.

“Not your best look, dearie,” he said, his voice half-amused and half-angry.  She shivered, tugging her wet cloak around her, and he clicked his tongue, holding out his hands to take hers.

“Let’s get you back to the castle.”

He pulled her to her feet and she bit back an oath as her ankle threatened to give way beneath her.

“You’re hurt,” he said, concerned, and she nodded.

“It’s my ankle.  Only a sprain, but it’s painful to walk on.”

He sighed in annoyance.  “Well, in that case…”

He waved his hands theatrically, and Belle was suddenly in the library.  Heat from the fire hit her and she limped towards it, stumbling and almost falling before he caught her around the waist and pulled her upright.

“Throwing yourself into the fire will not help matters,” he said disapprovingly, steering her towards one of the nearby couches.

He pulled off her wet cloak and she sat shivering while he knelt before her, lifting her saturated skirts above her knees, tugging off her shoes and, to her horror, her stockings.

“I can do that myself!” she said indignantly, flushing.  Exhaustion, hunger and pain had made her irritable, and he tsked in annoyance.

“Foolish girl!” he snapped.  “What on earth were you thinking of?  You could catch your death out there!  Again!  I already nursed you through one bloody fever and to risk another is highly ungrateful!”

“What do you care?”

Belle’s voice was sullen, and he sat back on his heels, gold-flecked skin glistening in the firelight, frowning at her.

“What good are you to me if you die of a fever?” he demanded.  “Do you know how long it’s taken to get you to make my tea the way I like it?”

She glared at him, and he pushed himself to his feet, carrying one of the large painted screens from the other side of the room and placing it before the fire.  

“Here.  You can change behind this.  I’ll get you something dry to wear.”

He disappeared, and Belle began wearily to unfasten the bodice of her dress, limping to stand behind the screen, where she was in front of the fire and shielded from the door.  She was soaked through, her hair plastered to her head and still with pieces of the forest floor clinging to it.  She unlaced her skirt, letting skirt and bodice fall to the ground before peeling off her wet blouse and chemise.  The fire was almost too hot on her bare skin, and she turned slowly, drying every inch of herself as her shivering began to fade, the crystal pendant cool against her skin.  The scratch from the branch had cut her cheek; blood was crusted on it in a ridged line, and the heat was making it sting.

“Your clothes are there,” he said, from behind her, and she spun in surprise, her face reddening, arms automatically covering herself.

She could see over the top of the screen that he was on the other side of the room, pacing up and down in agitation and throwing the occasional glance in her direction.  She pulled the clean, dry, silk undergarments from where he had draped them and put them on, followed by the green woollen dress, warm and soft, then hung her wet things up to dry before the fire.  The dress was ruined, she could see that, but she thought the blouse and underclothes were salvageable.

She emerged from behind the screen, limping on bare feet, and cleared her throat.  He turned to her immediately, motioning her towards the sofa and wrapping his fur-lined cloak around her before she sat down.  Kneeling in front of her again, he took her swollen ankle in his cool hands, his touch gentle.  Belle saw a purple light flowing over her foot and felt a tingling sensation course through it, then the pain disappeared as the light faded, and warmth flooded through her, making her gasp.  The bruising and swelling had gone, her ankle its normal size again.  He reached up then to touch her face delicately, making her start, and again she felt a tingling and a rush of warmth as he drew his forefinger across her cheek, healing the scratch.  She smiled at him as he sat back and pushed himself up without a word.  Belle pulled her feet up beside her and he tucked them inside the cloak, the fur warm against her cold skin.

“I assumed you wouldn’t be in any fit state to make tea,” he said sternly.  “So here.”

He handed her a large glass of brandy and sat down at the opposite end of the couch with his own, watching her somewhat anxiously.  Belle swallowed a large mouthful of her drink, feeling its fire course through her, warming her from within.  She looked at him from beneath her thick lashes as she lowered the glass to her lap.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, and his mouth twitched.

“Good help is hard to find,” he said dryly, and she bit back a smile.

“Nonetheless,” she said, reaching for him.  “You’ve been very kind to me.”

She squeezed his hand, smiling at him, and he looked so startled at her touch that she let it go almost immediately.  She had noticed that he would readily initiate contact himself, with a hand on the small of her back as they walked, or a touch at her shoulder to gain her attention.  Yet, if she were the one to touch him, he seemed always to be shocked by the physical contact, and to recoil from it.  It was strange.  He was still watching her intently, and she felt a faint blush rise in her cheeks.

“What were you doing out there?” he asked curiously, and Belle sighed.

“There was someone here,” she said.  “Looking at me when I was in the garden picking herbs.  They ran off when I noticed them, so I followed them.”

He frowned.  “Who was it?  Man or woman?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged.  “Small.  A woman, I think, or perhaps a boy.  The face was covered, so I couldn’t tell.”

He stood, beginning to pace again, his fingers tapping against the side of the brandy glass rhythmically.

“I don’t like that people are snooping in my gardens,” he said thoughtfully.  “Perhaps I need to think about some better – security measures.”

Belle let her head fall back against the cushions.  “Rumple, no!  Just…leave them alone.  I’m sure they meant no harm.”

He spun to face her.

“Oh, you’re sure of that, are you?  Didn’t I promise to keep you safe?  And yet you go haring off into the woods after who knows what without a single thought about the trouble it might cause!”

She sighed wearily, and drank more of her brandy.  He was still pacing back and forth, and she slipped from the couch and put a hand on his arm to stop him, taking his hand in hers as he turned to her, and pretending not to notice his flinch.  His shirt was open at the neck, the gold flecks on his skin gleaming in the light of the fire and the candles.  She thought how pretty it was, that glittering skin he tried to hide behind like a shield.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said gently, looking up at him imploringly.  “They’re gone, I’m safe, and you don’t need to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he lied stiffly, and she bit her lip to hide her smile.

“Then sit back down with me and finish your drink,” she said gently, and pulled him back to the couch, curling up under the cloak again as he sat down beside her.

She leaned against his shoulder with a sigh as the warmth sank into her bones, and he surreptitiously pulled another leaf and a twig from her hair.  He sat upright and unnaturally stiff as Belle relaxed into him, sipping her drink and watching a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  She sighed, leaning into him a little more.

“Sit back,” she yawned.  “I won’t bite you.”

Rumplestiltskin huffed a little at that, but leaned back against the couch cushions.  She was shivering still, and he pulled the cloak a little more snugly around her.  Her hair was making his shirt damp, but he allowed her to rest her head against his chest as she sipped at her drink.  Her shivers slowed and finally stopped as she finished her brandy, and he looked down at her.

“It’s getting late,” he ventured, and she yawned again.

“Just a little longer,” she said sleepily, shifting her position slightly.

He sighed, and relaxed back into the cushions.  He rarely slept.  It wouldn’t hurt to close his eyes, just for a moment.

The thud of a brandy glass falling to the rug made his eyes spring open.  The fire had burned down to glowing embers, a warm orange light gleaming against polished wood and making shadows at the edge of the room appear darker than usual.  He felt a strange pressure against his legs, and looked down, almost starting with surprise.  Belle was lying down, one pale arm reaching out from the thick fur of the cloak, stretched across his thighs.  Her head was in his lap, her breathing even as she slept soundly.  It was a pleasant way to wake up, to be sure, but she was unlikely to find it so when she woke.

He pondered what to do, realising that he was not aware of the protocol for waking from unexpected sleep to find a young lady with her head pressed up against his groin.  Belle chose that moment to move her head a little, rubbing against him, causing him equal parts intense pleasure and mortifying discomfort at his own reaction.  He decided that it would be best to get her back to her own bed, and, careful not to wake her, slipped his arms under her back and behind her knees and stood up with her.  She didn’t stir.  He could, of course, have sent her to her rooms with a spell, but was enjoying the feel of her in his arms, and wanted to cherish it while he could.  He began walking slowly towards the stairs, taking each step carefully, so as not to disturb her, but even with his steady pace she shifted against his chest.

“Where are you taking me?”  

Her voice was a little slurred, drowsy with sleep.

“I’m taking you to bed.”

He could have bitten out his tongue!  He waited for her eyes to widen in panic, for her to struggle in his grip and demand he release her.  Belle let out a long sigh, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder, her breath tickling his ear.

“Good,” she said sleepily, making his heart thump harder.

He managed to reach her room without incident, and drew back the covers before laying her in the bed.  She nestled into the pillows with tiny sounds of enjoyment that were doing awful things to his self-restraint.  Looking down on her, he smiled slightly at her upturned mouth and flushed cheeks.  He debated loosening her bodice to make her more comfortable, but decided there was only so much he could cope with in one evening, and settled for brushing her hair back from her face gently and whispering goodnight.

“Rumple,” she murmured, as he turned to go.

“Yes, dearest?”

Now, why had he said that?  When had their relationship changed from that of master and servant to – whatever this was?  She smiled sleepily.

“You’re a good man,” she whispered.

If only that were true.

[themomerath]

I DONE BEEN TAGGED

Tagged by @viennathedachshund (thanks for thinking of me <3)

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE SONG(S) TO SING?

My music taste varies so dramatically from day to day that a single paragraph couldn’t cover any of it. HOWEVER, the songs I tend to sing in the shower most are as follows: 

I Choose You

Lifted

River Lea

Buenos Aires

How to be a Heartbreaker

I could probably go on forever but honestly by this point I’m just recommending the songs I like to shout.

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE FLOWER/TREE/PLANT?

I’m a fan of Willow trees, Wisteria, and Rosemary. For a variety of reasons, I suppose, but primary being that the first two are just.... super pretty and relaxing to look at, and Rosemary is just so satisfying to run your hand through because when you pull you fingers away you smell like the bets seasonings.

FAVOURITE COLOURS?

I always say this as “any colour the ocean can be”-- shades of blue, grey, and green. (I can’t pick one because GOD so many colours are so good!!!)

WHAT DO YOU ALWAYS DOODLE?

My default tends to be squares or geometric shapes. Occasionally I'll start face shapes and hair for characters but that usually doesnt last long :'D

HOW DO YOU TAKE YOUR COFFEE/TEA?

Coffee with lots of cream but no sugar, unless it's a flavoring (like coconut or raspberry). Tea I usually take straight unless it's earl grey or english breakfast, which I take with milk and/or sugar.

FAVOURITE CANDLE SCENT?

Suntan by Bath and Body Works

Turquoise Waters by Bath and Body Works

Spiced Apple Toddy by Bath and Body Works

(Can you tell I’m a slut for Bath and Body Works?)

SUNRISE OR SUNSET?

Sunset because It’s the only one I have the energy to be awake for  :’D

WHAT PERFUME DO YOU WEAR?

AIR by Bath and Body Works

WHAT’S YOUR GO-TO DANCE MOVE WHEN YOU’RE ALONE?

You know that leg thing Beyonce does in the Formation Music Video? Either that or just general hip gyrations because all my dance moves are entirely focused below the torso.

FAVOURITE QUOTE?

It’s highly important to recognize this as part of a larger context, but particularly this quote (from a Jeanmarco fanfiction) absolutely floored me when I read it. 

Let me tell you what it means to love a man who can’t admit to the world that he loves you back. It’s a unique thing. Somewhere between the pain of unrequited love and the absurdity of dumping someone via text message.

It’s a sunburn.

You spend all day outside and feel the heat on your skin, and it’s incredible. You feel free and you run faster and you play like a little kid because it’s summer. You stay out longer and your heart pumps slow, sluggish with the warmth. It is lovely. You want to stay like that forever.

Then you wake up the next morning, and all you’re left with is burns.

And in my case, more freckles.

[...]

The longer you spend in the heat, the worse it is; skin blisters and cells die forever and pain. The pain of a burn is so present and aching every moment and there is no true relief.

So you deal with it the same way you deal with a sunburn.

You do little things to make it feel better -- cold baths, aloe vera, ibuprofen -- and you pretend it’s not there.

It hurts at first, but you can’t stop moving. You can’t stop living.

Sooner or later the blisters will heal over, and the skin will peel, and you will be new underneath. A new man, with a college degree and a job in a flower shop that you actually like and that pays well.

And that area will always be a little darker than the rest of you. It will always burn first. But you learn to live with it.

You get dressed, turn the stove off, heave the overcooked eggs into the trashcan, wipe your fucking eyes, and go to work.

From Wisteria by @butterflychansan [omission mine, not because it’s less powerful by any means, but because the middle part truly does rely a great deal more on context].

This particular segment of this fic absolutely changed my perspective on fanfiction as an artistic medium.

And, a second quote for good measure: 

If you remember me, then I don’t care if everyone else forgets.

From Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami.

FAVOURITE SELF CARE ROUTINE(S)?

Going on a walk in the bright sunshine to buy fancy soda.

Buying a book and enjoying it with warm tea and comfy socks. 

FUZZY SOCKS OR HOUSE SLIPPERS?

Fuzzy socks, absolutely.

WHAT COLOUR ARE YOUR EYES?

Greybluegreen.

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE EYE COLOUR ON OTHERS?

This is an impossible question. What i like most about human eyes is the variety of colours-- from dark chocolatey brown to pale blue, every single of of them is so damn cool. I cannot possibly choose just one when there are so many good ones out there.

FAVOURITE SEASON? WHY?

My answer changes depending on what season it is. But I think typically, I would say Fall. The flavors and smells of the foods of the season along with and looks of the leaves changing colours to make way for winter-- That’s an absolutely stunning transition. So I’m a fan of that.

NECK, CHEEK, OR NOSE KISSES?

Probably neck. All three have their time and place, but... neck kisses are tender and intimate. And I like that.

WHAT DOES YOUR HAPPY PLACE LOOK LIKE?

A well-lit library and a cup of coffee.

FAVOURITE BREED OF DOG?

Labrador retriever! 

DO YOU EVER WANT TO BE MARRIED?

Marriage is an outdated tradition that has been forced upon people for generations. 

That said, fuck yes. Having a wedding has been something I’ve dreamed about as a child, and while I think the symbolism is manufactured, it’s just.... really great symbolism. And I would absolutely get married if the right time for it came.

CURSIVE OR PRINT?

Print. LIke, don’t get me wrong, cursive is pretty, but... It’s so decorative. It feels like special occasion handwriting instead of useful utilitarian writing.

FAVOURITE WEATHER?

Depends on my mood-- A crisp fall day might be great, but I also love a cloudless, sunny day with a bit of a gentle breeze.

Tagging @ahhhlec, @mccreamed, @shadow-silverman, @opallight, @jaja-han, @huggieshugdealers, @danwritesthings, and any of my followers who are interested!

[saphscribes]

For Rosemary

This is how Pelna grieves, on the eve of the treaty signing.

Because of course I had to write something for @glaiveweek. This is for the “Remembrance” prompt for Day 3, and I guess (???) is an intro to the one-sided Pelna/Crowe fic idea I’ve had in the works. We never got to see how he mourned Crowe’s death, and I wanted to explore it!

Want a song? Click here.

Rating: PG-13 for language & implied sex if you squint, but nothing explicit

Tagging:  @wolfgoddess77 @vashiane-archive @sailorprompto  @sedge-butt @marianne-dash-wood @me-yasato @alecair @toranyx @goodmorningawfulbye@paopusunshine @noxhighwind @sailormars109@bleucommelhiver @elloquench @ultimoogle @kidolegend @rhysspeaces

On Wednesdays, Pelna goes to the herb garden.

It’s a quiet little place he’s called his own, in an isolated corner by the Citadel. Technically it isn’t a corner—it’s part of a plot of public land a couple of blocks away from one of the art museums. And technically it isn’t quiet, either. Can’t be, with the wire fences and wooden stakes, or the roar and honk of shining cars, or infrastructure. (He might be here for strength and strategy, but he learned enough in school to survive off of flashbulb memories, to know what the hell all these government officials are talking about all the time. The word weighs heavy on his tongue because infrastructure was never something his people had to worry about; his people were infrastructure. His people were power.)

But naming it so makes the place a little more peaceful, somehow. Something out of a storybook. Like a place he could write poems. If he could write poems, that is.

The rental fee is a good use of his monthly stipend, at least.

It’s on an afternoon that’s entirely too cheerful and sunny that he pries the gate open and makes his way to his plot, his knees finding a home in the ground and his fingers searching delicately for spindly leaves. He’s started growing little things here, lost track of how long they’ve rooted. Sage, thyme, basil. He knows them like the back of a gloved hand because his grandmother did. Had to. That was her job. Was.

Pelna isn’t here to tend—not to the plants—though he should be. It’s an effort from the Astrals that he’s even tending to himself. It’s just that he knows it’s what Crowe would have wanted from someone she only sort of loved.

He only ever took her here the one time, on an open day like this, when the sun was still lucky enough to be up when their shifts ends. They linked arms, because it was the most she’d allow him out in the city beyond playful shoves, ruffles of the hair, are-you-kidding-me stares, the occasional hug. There was just a tinge of shame—vulnerability, maybe—in the creak of the gate, the give of the ground under knee-high combat boots. He wished he could have held her hand then. Wished he could have kissed the back of it when she grinned at his little patch of peace, crouched among the plants, and said, “So this is where you spend all that extra time.”

Gods, she was so easy to be around. It killed him.

“So why’d you bring me here?” Crowe asked him, brushing stray locks of dark, scraggly hair away from her eyes. “If this is something that’s all yours, I mean.”

“Just wanted you to see it, I guess.”

She gave him a look; if he closes his eyes now, he can see every hint of skepticism in the arch of her brow, every wrinkle in the quirk of her lips. “I know you,” she said, and the words were a fist around his heart then, pulsing with him, wrenching in just the right direction.

He sighed. “I just… wanted to let you in before you had to leave. Okay? Maybe you could help when you come back.” With the flat of his palm, he patted down the earth, a half-affectionate smile on his lips. “Gets lonely here, sometimes. I think they’d like someone else to talk their ears off for once.”

“Pel…”

“I know.” They’d had this conversation a million times, clothed and not, between sheets on lazy Saturdays and on floors in the dark, accompanied by furniture in disrepair and unrequited everything. “I’m not asking you to. I know you can’t.”

She scoffed, halfheartedly, fingertips tracing uncharacteristically delicate patterns in the soil. She wasn’t looking at him. “You make it sound like I’m incapable of this shit.”

Pelna shrugged. “Maybe you are.” He hadn’t meant for his words to sound so selfishly hollow, but it was the real parts of him that she liked, anyway. The kind of like that said, let’s be passionately angry, angrily passionate, both, all the time, everywhere, and never said, I love you, too.

A fucking firecracker, she was.

He’d see plenty of them tonight. Eve of the treaty, and everything.

He doesn’t even know how long it’s been since she came back in a bag. What her last thought was. What her last word was. He couldn’t even bear to see the body. Couldn’t even pay her that single stupid respect. Nyx had to tell him everything. That they found her laying with flies and hauled her to a room that bespoke nothing but cold, clinical isolation. The spidery veins that ran like mascara down the tops of her cheeks, her eyes like smoky glass, every nuance in her expression a scream.

He’d never known her to be so scared.

He’d never known Libertus to be, either. But maybe that wasn’t why they’d woken up to direct-to-voicemail calls his uniform tossed in a haphazard pile by his locker in the barracks.

He has to be careful now. Can’t upset the soil. Can’t throw off the balance of something trying to live. Maybe he should be taking a leaf out of their books—and maybe he shouldn’t be making such stupid puns—if he only knew how to do that in the first place.

Maybe this is the first place. Nyx and Libertus had the training ground; Pelna saw them seated there once, broken men with swinging legs and murmurs about fire and promise. Luche must have grieved somewhere, for all their bickering. Who is he kidding?

On a Wednesday, Pelna took her to the herb garden, and she asked, in a soft tone he could have sworn she saved only for him, “Which one’s your favorite?” Like a friend who had more than a couple of hours left with him.

On instinct, his fingers reached for the basil leaves, and there was a split-second that he stopped himself. Let his fingers curl in, hovering like dowsing rods as they unfurled to brush against a sprig of rosemary. “Tastes like where we come from,” he said. “Sharp. Makes itself known. Sticks with you after you’ve had your fill.” He spared her a glance then, at the hard light in her eyes, the length of dark lashes, every attentive part of her. “Tastes like you.”

He saw more than he heard her sharp breath, and her eyes never left him. (He can still see it now. The invitation. The click in her mind.) “Do you want to come home tonight?” she said.

Pelna pressed his lips together, a hard, firm line, and his voice cracked when he spoke. “I can’t.”

He peels his gloves off now, presses his palms flat into the dirt, and shuts his eyes tight. He could have said he loved her again. Should have. Sure, she might have rolled her eyes, given him that publicly-safe shove. Or maybe she might have lowered her gaze and shaken her head. Anything would have been better than the near-audible crack in her expression, the almost-silent “Oh” that left her lips before she clapped him on the shoulder and said she’d see him at first light.

She’s left him a man of the earth twice now—maybe more. Left him a cluster of those flashbulb memories. People. Power. Fists. Lips. Love. Parsley. Sage. Thyme. Infrastructure. Everything.

His eyes well with tears, and they seep into the ground before he has a chance to catch them, trickle down the back of his hand when he reaches for the rosemary she touched before.  (He read somewhere that human skin changes every seven years. How long before she’s never touched rosemary? How long before she’s never touched him?)

Spindles poke at his skin, sharp and wooden and alive, and he buries his face in the crook of his elbow.

Salt is never good for these poor things.

[forever-dreaming-cullen]

[FIC] Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme - Chapter 8

Image credit: @screenscapes

Hello, my lovelies! I am back with another chapter of my fic, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme for your reading pleasure — or not.

Thanks go to the lovely @ekoorb03 for her amazing beta! Go read her stuff on AO3 — it’s really sexy and good!

Of course, I also have to thank all my readers for staying with me, and new readers, too, for taking a chance on this fic. As always, reblogs and likes are love!

Read it on AO3: From the beginning or Just the latest chapter

Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather

Cullen sprang up from the bench, pushing the Inquisitor off him, all color drained from his complexion. “Eala!  Maker — fuck, this — this isn’t what it looks like. Please let me explain!”

He stumbled toward her, his arms outstretched in entreaty, and the shocked expression on his handsome face nearly made her hesitate. Almost.

“Really, love,” drawled the Inquisitor, slinking up to his side and pressing herself against him. “Such excuses from those beautiful pink lips!” The sultry look she gave him drove a spike through Eala’s heart.

Cullen wavered on his feet, raising one hand to his pinched brow as he side-stepped away from the elf. “I — I don’t — I didn’t — Maker, my head hurts.“  Again, he tried to close the distance between them, his eyes pools of confusion.

Anger rescued her. It boiled up fierce and fiery from her gut, drying her tears.

“No,” she said, her voice cold and controlled. “I don’t want to hear it. You lied to me — made me believe in something that was never real.” She flicked a glance between him and the Inquisitor who arched a smug eyebrow at her. “You win, Inquisitor.” She curtsied and turned away.

“Eala, please!” he called after her as she walked briskly in the direction of the clinic, but she ignored his pleas.

His office was quiet when she entered, his desk scattered with missives, reports, and alarmingly, several empty bottles of liquor. Turning away from his desk, she quickly climbed the ladder to the loft they had briefly shared.

“Maker’s mercy!” she gasped as her eyes took in the destruction around her. His armor stand lay on the floor, his mattress lay askew, all the pillows and blankets haphazardly tossed around the room, and every single one of his chests lay upended, their contents strewn on the floor. As she picked her way through the mess, she spied more empty liquor bottles.

What in the Void was he doing to himself? Shouldn’t he be happy to finally be with the woman he’d been pining for since Haven? Eala shook her head. Perhaps he was drinking to ease his pain. She would have to see if she could find another healer to treat him now that she could no longer do it. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Just because she was now at odds with her former patient was no reason to neglect his care.

Finding her chests intact, spared from the carnage that obliterated the rest of the room, she quickly gathered a few important items. She would send for the rest of her things later. As she turned to leave, she heard one of the doors downstairs creak open then slam shut, then the sound of booted feet on the stone floor.

Blast and botheration! She knew the sound of those footsteps; it could only be one person, and she very much did not want to see him just now. As she considered her next move, she heard the ladder creak. Maker, he was coming up! What should she do?

He took the choice away from her when his head appeared above the ladder. His appearance mirrored the state of his loft; instead of its usual perfectly groomed style, his hair was a mess of curls, and his jaw was covered with three days’ growth of beard. But it was his eyes that concerned her most: their usual bright golden color was now muddy and dark, and the circles beneath them were deep purple, like old bruises.

“Eala?” his voice was hesitant and rough. He scrambled up the rest of the way and came to stand in front of her. He raised one hand and brought it to her cheek, and she strained to avoid melting into his touch. “Eala. You’ve come back.”

She steeled herself against the longings of her heart and stepped back, clearing her throat against the painful lump that formed there. “I just came for some of my things.” His hand fell away, and the dim light of hope in his eyes died.

“I — I see,” he said, his voice fracturing. He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. ‘Um — will you — will you at least let me explain what happened?”

Eala shifted the box of her belongings from one hip to the other. Did she want to hear what he had to say? She looked around at the wreckage of his room and back at him. He looked so exhausted and forlorn. Did she owe him this much? The memory of him sitting on that bench with the Inquisitor in his lap, sucking on her lips the way he had done to her sparked the flames of her anger. She lifted her chin, her eyes turning frosty.

“What possible explanation could you give, Cullen? I know what I saw.”

“That’s just it — no, you don’t, Eala.” He ran his hands through his hair and began pacing back and forth. “I —I was called down to the gardens —a messenger — he ran in here and told me that there had been an altercation there involving my men and that I should come straight away.“ His breathing grew rapid and labored, and his hands gesticulated wildly, his every movement uncontrolled and frantic. “I— I went, of course, and when I got there, I didn’t notice anything amiss. I looked around, but there was no one around, and all was it should be — except for that smell.

“I should have known then and just left — I wish to the Maker that I had —“ he stopped pacing and turned to look at her, his eyes bright with tears and pleading for understanding. “Lyrium. The smell of it was everywhere, and I — weak bastard that I am —“ his tone became derisive, and a snarl of disgust twisted his features. “I became dizzy with it.  My head spun, and I could not see. I think I would have fallen except for a hand pushing me down on the bench. The next thing I knew, the Inquisitor was in my lap, and her mouth was on mine — and you — oh, Maker — you walked in, and the way you looked at me, it killed me.”

Eala shook her head, tears prickling her lids as she met his tortured gaze. “I have to go,” she said.

“Eala, please, you have to believe me — I —I would never — could never hurt you like that. Please! I — I love you!” The shell she had built around her heart burst at his words, pain flooding her chest and fueling the rage burning in her gut.

“You dare to speak of love?” she shouted at him, a small mean part of her reveling in the way he flinched at the words she flung like barbs. “You think you can offer up weak explanations, tell me that you love me, and then I’ll fall at your feet? “ She tossed back her loose black curls and threw him a glacial look. “No, Commander, I will not be your plaything. Go back to your Inquisitor. I’m sure she can soothe whatever hurts.”

He seemed to shrink in front of her eyes, his shoulders slumping. “Of course you don’t believe me. Why would you?” Turning away from her, he stumbled to his bed and collapsed on the crooked mattress, tossing one arm over his eyes.

She averted her gaze from the broken man on the bed, guilt dampening her anger. Was it really necessary to throw his feelings back at him like that? The part of her that still loved him, and always would, urged her to go to him and tell him she was sorry and that they could work this out, but the burgeoning part of her that was learning to stand up for herself ruthlessly squelched her softer feelings. Her box of belongings in hand, she slid down the ladder and left the Commander’s office for good.

“The Commander isn’t doing very well…just thought you might like to know that,” Dorian said as he strolled into the clinic one afternoon a few days later.

Eala sighed. “I know, but there is nothing I can do if he won’t accept treatment from anyone other than me. The stubborn man has rejected every healer I’ve sent to him. Maybe the Inquisitor will have better luck with him.”

Dorian gave a short bark of laughter. “Lysarah? Care about what Cullen needs? My dear girl, that woman is only concerned with winning the war and looking good while doing it!”

“Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” She threw down the treatment logs she was reading, irritation sharpening her voice. Inside, a worm of worry wound around her heart and squeezed.

The Inquisitor wants him back on lyrium — she asked her to convince him to do it

He gave her a sympathetic look. “I know, dear, and had I walked in on Bull kissing someone else like you did with the Commander, I would feel the same way. But,” he raised a beringed finger. “I still think something is fishy about the whole thing. Fasta vass, the man is besotted with you — why would he jeopardize your relationship like that? It makes no sense!”

“Truthfully, Dorian, I don’t think he even knows,” she told her friend. “He told me a preposterous story, did I tell you?”

Dorian’s gray eyes sharpened. “No, what did he say?”

“Come, “ she said, getting to her feet. “I'll tell you while I fill potions.”

In the workroom,  she took down a crate of empty glass flasks from a shelf and set it down beside the cooled pot of healing potions on the table.  Inserting a funnel into each empty flask, she related what Cullen had told her — about smelling lyrium and blacking out, only to wake with the Inquisitor kissing him.

Handing her a ladle, Dorian leaned a hip against the workbench. “Have you considered that he might be telling the truth?”

She scoffed. “Really, Dorian? Even a child could come up with a far more creative and believable tale than that!”

He gave a long sigh. “Well, darling, I’ll say no more except for this: consider that there are others in Skyhold who have a lot to gain by weakening the Commander. Just think about that. Now,” he straightened and brushed his pants off with a flourish. “I have an appointment with Bull. I’ll talk to you later.”

“See you later, Dorian.”

After he left, Eala turned her attention to spooning the yellowish mixture into each flask. A frown settled over her brow.  Could she really believe Cullen when it went against what she had seen with her own two eyes? It was madness!

And yet, she missed him. She corked each filled vial and set the finished crate aside, biting her lip. She missed seeing him every day, she missed touching him, she missed his kisses. Cullen was the only man to ever give her a second look, to treat her as if she were desirable. He made her feel beautiful.

Angrily, she wiped her wet eyes. Why had he kissed her, especially after how she treated him? Was he really just like most other men, beguiled by a pretty face? Had he been lying all this time?

But the way he had looked at her that day in his loft haunted her. The pleading look in those golden eyes and the resignation of his slumped shoulders when she had rejected his explanation He had looked as if she had physically struck him, cowed and beaten. None of that fit the puzzle, either.

Could he have been telling the truth? But he had been kissing the Inquisitor; she had not imagined that. Whatever his explanations, that fact rankled like a burr under the saddle.

Eala huffed in disgust and returned her attention to her work, resolving to put the matter from her mind for now.

“You don’t look so good, Curly. Maybe you oughta sit this one out. Want me to talk to the Princess?” Varric’s voice was saying. Eala quietly entered the great hall, staying in the shadows, a box of healing potions in her arms.

“I’m fine, Varric, and you will do no such thing,” Cullen responded, reaching into the pocket of his tan breeches and extracting a handkerchief. He used it to wipe his forehead and his neck, then tucked it back into his breeches. “As much as I detest the Game and Orlesian nonsense, I have duties to attend.”

Watching the two men from her position not ten feet away, she had to agree with Varric: Cullen looked ill. No longer was his skin that beautiful golden color; instead it was as pale as the white shirt he wore. His cheeks were gaunt, and although his golden hair was impeccably styled, as always, it had lost its luster, appearing dull and lifeless.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re as stubborn as a druffalo?” Varric shrugged. “Suit yourself, Curly. Hey, what happened to that little healer you were with?“

Cullen stiffened and fiddled with the buttons on his shirt, doing up the last three before shrugging into the red and gold military jacket that completed his uniform for the ball at the Winter Palace. Hugging the crate tighter against her chest, Eala listened closely to hear what he would say.

“Maker’s breath, Varric!” growled Cullen, “have you no better subject to gossip about than —“ he cut himself off with a heavy sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose.”Never mind, don’t answer that. As for your completely inappropriate question, let’s just say she and I had a misunderstanding and leave it at that, hm?”

Varric’s laugh boomed across the hall. She didn’t miss the way Cullen winced at the loud sound. “Alright, Curly, don’t get your feathers all ruffled — and you still look like shit.”

The blond ex-Templar looked around the hall impatiently. “Are we ready to go yet?” Eala sucked in a breath as his eyes passed over where she stood pressed against the stone wall, tucked into the shadowed corner of the large room. She caught the telltale deepening of the line between his brows and the sharp creases around his mouth; the man was suffering from a migraine.

Oh, Cullen.

She wanted to go to him, to rub his temples, neck, and shoulders the way he liked, to help him relax so that he could rest. Guilt flooded her, and she ducked away before he could see her, fleeing all the way back to the clinic. She handed the crate to another healer and told her to take it into the main hall at once.

Sitting down at her desk, she tried to busy herself with work, but the Commander’s white face, bruised eyes, and clammy skin kept intruding on her thoughts. Clasping her hands together in prayer, she asked the Maker to protect him and bring him home safe.

“Eala, you must come to the Commander’s tower at once!” Dorian cried, his voice breathless as he ran into the clinic two days later. The dark-haired man stood shifting from foot to foot in front of her desk, clearly agitated.

“Alright,” she said, picking up her healers’ satchel and following him out, dread quickening her steps. “What’s happened — what’s wrong?” Remorse and guilt twisted in her gut.  Why hadn’t she done anything? She could have insisted that he should stay in Skyhold for a rest. As chief healer, she had the power to do it. Why hadn’t she?

“We got back from the Winter Palace late last night, and everyone went to bed. I didn’t like how Cullen looked on the carriage ride back,  so this morning, I go to check on him, and I found him collapsed in his loft, mere feet from the ladder. He must have just climbed up before he dropped. Thank the Maker he didn’t fall.”

“Maker! I knew he wasn’t well. I — I should have seen to him myself.”

“Now, now, Eala, don’t blame yourself. If you think you could have persuaded him out of going, you’ve got another thing coming.  You know how stubborn that big blond oaf can be!”

She laughed weakly as they entered Cullen’s office. It was odd for it to be so quiet at this time of the day. She glanced at his desk and thanked the Maker that it wasn’t still littered with empty liquor bottles. A wry smile twisted her lips; her Commander was too responsible for that.

In Cullen’s loft, she found that everything had been set to rights from the last time she’d seen it, other than the fact that the Commander lay abed at this hour of the morning when he was usually up seeing to his duties. He lay on his back, the covers pulled around his waist, utterly still. If it weren't for the soft rise and fall of his chest, she would have thought he was dead.

Maker, please, no!

She sat on the bed beside him and lifted his eyelids one by one to check his eyes. Good. His pupils were reactive to light. Leaning over, she reached into her satchel for a bottle of peppermint and elfroot wash. She glanced behind her to Dorian who stood uncertainly at the foot of the Commander’s bed.

“Get me a bowl of water, please,” she ordered calmly, pushing aside her worry. Accepting the item from him, she nodded her thanks. “Tell me everything that happened. Did he take anything for his headache?” Her mind raced, thinking through all the reasons he might have collapsed, exhaustion at the top of the list, but he could also be having a reaction to another drug.

“I don’t think so. I can’t be sure of course, because I wasn’t with him the entire time we were at the Winter Palace, and he had his own private rooms during the night we spent there.” The Tevinter sat on the edge of the bed on the Commander’s other side. “He most certainly did not enjoy the ride home — we had to stop about five times for him to be sick along the side of the road.” He inhaled a long breath. “And every time he got back in the carriage, he looked paler than before. I tried to make him as comfortable as I could — I used ice magic to cool a cloth and held it to the back of his neck, but every jolt of the carriage seemed to make him wince.”

Pouring a measure of the wash into the water in the bowl, she took out a cloth and dipped it into the mixture. “He had a headache on the day you left, I know that because I saw him in the hall that morning.” She began wiping him down with the cloth, starting with his face and working her way lower.  “He is probably just exhausted, and the pain became too much for him. But we have to be prepared for anything.”

The mage looked sick. “Lysarah will want to hear about this,” he said, getting to his feet.  He  reached across the bed and placed a hand on her shoulder.“Be prepared for her to come storming in here demanding that you give him lyrium right away.”

“Let her just try it,” Eala growled as she continued her ministrations on the Commander.

After Dorian left and she was alone with Cullen, Eala allowed the tears to fall. Her hand shook as she gently ran the cloth across his sweaty skin. He looked almost fragile as he lay there; he was still a big and muscular man, but he was also smaller than he had been, the ropes and sinews of his close to the surface of his skin, blue veins winding their way up his arms.

“Oh, Cullen, my dear Ser,” she whispered as she bathed his chest. “I am so sorry that I haven’t been here for you.”

He moaned as she dragged the cloth down his chest toward his abdomen, the muscles there clenching and rippling as his breathing grew rougher. She looked up at his face, startled to see his eyes half-open. His brow wrinkled and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as his eyes slid in her direction, but there was no recognition in them.

“Please,” he croaked, and the desperation in that one syllable nearly unmade her. “Please kill me. I can't do this anymore.”