#if you’re wondering when the next script/fic chapter will drop

[bookinit02]

Hi!

Completely lost here, when should the next installment of your season 5 fic be out?

hi anon! i uploaded my last chapter exactly one week ago, so nothing new will be out for a while. as i said in my notes, the earliest i can get up the episode 7 script would be next sunday, and since i am working 6 days a week now, it most likely won’t be actually finished until sunday the 25th. and then the fic chapter will drop the week after!

i’m really sorry to have lost a consistent posting schedule, but i’m genuinely trying my best to still get quality content out to you guys in a relatively quick timeframe. i don’t ever want to sacrifice the quality of my writing just for the sake of weekly uploads. i hope you can understand! as soon as i have a concrete idea of when the next script and chapter will be posted, i'll let you guys know. but no worries—it will absolutely be sometime this month!

[dontmindmyshadowhunting]

When Clary meets Ash (Fan Fic)

Hey :) this is how I imagine Clary and Ash's reunion (after the events of TDA) in the fic I am currently writing.

It's Chapter 5 of "The new Shadowhunter Academy" (Ao3 link to the full fic is here but don't click or skip Chapter 4 if you are not in for Kitty sexy times).

Thanks to @amchara for providing beta work and to @blaidr for letting me bounce my ideas off him.

To give you context, Ash met Dru in Faerie and they exchanged their numbers. Clary seized the opportunity to obtain Ash's number from Dru and write him the following text message:

“Hey, Ash. Dru gave me your number and please don’t be angry with her, I am very strong headed and there was absolutely no way she could have refused. I am Clary. You may have heard of me. I am your late father’s sister. That’s right, your aunt. You can call me whatever you like. Emma told me what you did in Thule, how you saved her. How you saved everyone. That was very brave of you. In a way, both of us were faced with a very difficult choice and made the same. Doing what we thought was right. I would love to meet you and tell you about my mother – your grandmother – or just talk about anything. It can be things totally unrelated to the Shadow world. Hobbies, movies, books and games we like. You can pick the time and place. Neutral territory. Hope to see you soon. Clary.”

This is what happens following the text:

*****

Clary wrapped her oversized woolen coat tighter around herself, as she made her way through the crowded streets of Manhattan. The route was familiar. She took it almost every week to meet up with her parabatai and have what they called their “mundane hour”. They talked about everything, from Clary’s art to the latest TV shows they had binge watched. No topic was off the table, save for anything related to Shadowhunter duties, and the Shadow world in general. As co-head of the New York Institute and since recently, artist owning her own gallery, her weeks were very busy so she looked forward to those rare and precious moments when she could escape with Simon. Her heart rate seemed to accelerate with each of her steps, and it didn’t help that she also had the strange feeling she was being observed. When she reached her destination, she took a deep breath and opened the double glass doors leading her inside the coffee shop. She and Simon had their regular routine there, and her gaze went automatically to their usual spot, near the large windows.

A broad-shouldered jock with a baseball jacket was already sitting there, speaking loudly to his cheerleader girlfriend. Two of his friends were standing next to him, mock punching his muscular arms. It made her realize that Ash probably never had this. High school friends and romance. Ash. She was still struggling to figure out why he had asked her to meet up at this place, at the exact time she usually got there with Simon. Was it him being considerate, a clumsy way to make her feel comfortable in familiar surroundings? Or was it a warning? I know your habits, and precisely where you take your coffee, when and with whom.

Her gaze swept over the crowded room - her heart seemed to have moved up her throat, the frantic pulse almost choking her - and zeroed on a tall, white blond haired boy ordering coffee at the counter, standing with his back to Clary. She sucked in a breath. Ash. He was fully clothed in black - Dru had told her that was his usual style - and huge headphones were covering his ears. She slowly and cautiously approached him and when she was close enough, put a tentative hand on his elbow. “Ash,” she whispered. The boy glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes quizzical and… it was not Ash.

She mumbled an apology.

“Clary,” said a voice coming from behind, and she froze. It was not a boy’s but a man’s voice, the sound beautiful and ethereal. She just stood there for a few seconds before she slowly turned.

What had she expected? Merely a taller version of the young boy with pointy ears and a sour expression that she had met three years before, dressed in the same refined velvet clothing threaded with gold that identified him as fey royalty?

If so, she had clearly been mistaken.

She blinked a few times to make sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks. He was tall, as she had anticipated (Sebastian had been after all). At least two heads taller than her and probably taller than Jace. But he was also very different from the Ash of her memories, from the sketches she had drawn of him after they had crossed paths. He had amazingly grown into his features, his face now the best combination of the Seelie Queen and Sebastian’s. As if he had picked the most alluring colours of the palette. And the result was… Stunning. Clary’s hand twitched, aching for a pencil.

He was not dressed in black, but in plain blue jeans and he had stuffed his hands in a very elegant, long pale gray cashmere coat. His white blond hair and pointy ears were concealed under a deep green beanie, the same colour as the scarf around his neck.

He arched a silvery eyebrow at Clary, his expression bemused, and she realized she was staring.

“Clary, seriously?” he said, his gently scolding tone at odds with his enchanting voice. “This guy isn't even half as good looking as me." He glanced pointedly at the patron in question, who was gaping at him, and shrugged. "No offense, dude,” Ash added as an afterthought.

He turned his attention to the barista. She was beautiful, dark skinned with long braided hair and pouty lips. “Hello, gorgeous. We’ll have a double espresso with oat milk and a dash of cinnamon for the lady and a plain black coffee for me.”

Clary stifled a gasp and tried to hide her discomfort. He knew exactly how she took her coffee, and she didn’t know how she felt about this.

The pretty barista nodded eagerly, her cheeks red and her big dark eyes dreamy as she stared at Ash. “Why don’t you… Go sit at your table and I’ll bring you your beverages when they are ready?” the girl offered enthusiastically. The long line of patrons that had formed behind Clary and Ash would probably disagree but she didn’t seem to care.

“That would be lovely,” Ash said in his euphonious voice. “And so are you.” He winked at her, and Clary wondered if she would need to catch her while she swooned. He paid before Clary even had a chance to reach for her purse.

“Come,” he said in a commanding tone, as he made his way to Clary and Simon's usual table. This was unnerving.

The jock seated there paused in the middle of his conversation with his girlfriend when he saw Ash stand casually next to him. Clary braced herself for a heated exchange, but she should have known better.

“You want to sit somewhere else,” Ash said evenly, one hand inside the pocket of his designer coat and the other stretched out in front of him as he studied his fingernails.

“I want to sit somewhere else,” the jock repeated in a monotonous voice, his gaze blank. He stood, as if in a trance, and his girlfriend and friends followed him, puzzled, to an empty table at the far end of the room.

Ash drew a chair for Clary and she sat. He did the same, opposite her. He pulled off his beanie, and shook his silvery hair, like a crown of liquid white gold. He wasn’t dressed for the part but he had never looked more like a prince.

“Ash… please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Your mind tricks.”

He cocked his head and observed her, his face unreadable, for what seemed like an endless minute.

“You’ve been my aunt for what? Five minutes? And you’re already trying to boss me around?”

“I am not trying to boss you around, Ash. Simply asking you not to abuse your powers.”

A shadow flickered across his green eyes.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Clary. I spend much more time and energy holding back than using my powers. If I did let go, trust me, you would know.”

Clary opened her mouth to reply but was cut short as the barista popped in front of them and placed the mugs on the table. She slid a paper napkin to Ash, her phone number scribbled on it. Clary tried not to roll her eyes, as Ash flashed his dazzling smile at the girl, who almost tripped on her own feet as she returned to the counter.

Clary lifted her cup to her lips and paused, as she caught sight of the cinnamon powder floating on the surface. She put it down.

“What about this?" She pointed at her coffee mug and waved around them. “ What is it, if not a show of power? What are you trying to tell me? That you know everything about me? That you’ve been spying on me?”

Ash pulled on a fake shocked expression, mouth open and green eyes wide in mock innocence. “Spying on you? What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Ash. The evidence is right here.” She lifted her cup abruptly, and hot liquid splashed out of it. “You know exactly how I like it. When I take it, where I take it.”

Ash’s mouth twitched. “Where did you pick up these lines? From the script of some lame X-rated movie?”

“Adult movies have storylines?” Clary asked, arching her eyebrows.

“Of course they do. Where do you think the Grimm Brothers took their inspiration from?”

He grabbed the paper napkin and started mopping the coffee she had spilled on the table. The blue ink faded and the barista’s phone number vanished.

“You lost that girl’s number,” Clary noted.

Ash shrugged. “I have a girlfriend now.”

Right. Drusilla Blackthorn. From the moment she had met her, Clary had known that the smart and quiet turquoise-eyed girl would someday turn heads.

Clary knew that Dru hadn’t really confirmed their relationship status yet, but it was neither the time nor place to broach the subject with Ash. She was, after all, on a mission to win over her nephew and had not been doing a very good job so far.

A young lanky boy with pink hair and piercings covering his skin walked by and dropped a glossy flyer of the upcoming Mortal Instruments concert on the table between them. Clary hid a smile. It reminded her...

“I have something for you.” She said as she fumbled inside her bag and took out the drawing she had made of Jocelyn, Luke and herself, in front of Luke’s upstate farm (before it was turned into the new Shadowhunter Academy) and laid it on the table.

Ash looked at it hesitantly, like a kid who really wanted to grab the candy but was afraid there was a mouse trap under it. He hunched his shoulders forward and clasped his hands under the table, as if to keep himself from temptation.

“I recognize your art. I like it. I also appreciate Julian Blackthorn’s but I may not be as objective where… one of the subjects of his drawings is concerned.”

“You’ve seen my art?”

He leaned back on his chair, crossing his long arms behind his head. Somehow, he managed to make it look graceful.

“Which Shadowhunter hasn’t? I noticed that you often drew Jace with angel wings.”

“Yes. That’s how he used to appear to me. In recurring dreams.”

“Was it?”

“Was it what?”

“Jace. In your dreams.”

“Who else would it be?”

“Someone who looks like him, but who actually has wings.”

“You mean Kit.”

Ash shrugged. “It would make more sense.” His gaze flickered back to the drawing, which still lay on the table, untouched. “You look a lot like your mom.”

“So do you”, Clary blurted before she could take it back.

Ash shot her an unfathomable look.

“How is she?” She asked.

“You mean, the Seelie Queen? You tell me. You must see her more often than I do.”

“Well, not really. I am not that involved in politics, even though Alec is Consul. Julian Blackthorn is the one who deals with her most of the time. She appears to have... a fondness for him.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Clary’s mouth quirked up.

“I am glad you are getting along with the Blackthorns. They are such an incredibly strong and talented family.”

“They are.” He turned his face away, but not before she could see the expression of longing plain on his delicate features.

She swallowed. She was painfully reminded that Ash never had a shot at a happy family. Born of a political union, and dragged here and there, though interdimensional portals, by people more interested in his powers than anything else he had to offer as a person. And judging by how Dru talked about Ash, he had a lot to offer.

“I imagine it must have been awful living in Thule… But what you did for Emma and Julian back there... if it hadn’t been for you…”

“I don’t want to talk about Thule,” he interrupted her. “Can I borrow this?” He asked, his long fingers brushing the Mortal Instruments concert flyer.

“Sure.”

She watched as he started folding the paper, realizing with a jolt of surprise that he was making an origami and wondering what shape would come out of it. It was odd seeing him doing such an innocuous thing, as if he was not a faerie prince with a heavy heritage and a giant target on his back, but an ordinary boy. She remembered what Emma had told her of her encounter with Ash in a nightclub in Thule. The way he had shown no interest, playing a video game in a corner of the room, while Sebastian was committing atrocities. Had he really been as indifferent as he looked?

“Ash, we don’t need to talk about Thule if you don’t want to, but if I can help you… If there is anything I can do-”

“Why?” He looked up sharply. “Are you able to create a rune that could undo the things I saw?” His tone was even, but his delicate fingers had started slightly shaking and he suddenly dropped the paper - his work unfinished - to fold his hands under the table to hide it. From that moment, she knew.

“No…” Clary said, drawing the word out. “But trust me, coming from someone whose memory has been tampered with... it’s not a solution.”

“I said undo. Not forget.” He snapped. “I am not such a coward that I would choose blissful ignorance over knowledge.”

He caught himself, blinking, then clenched his jaw and looked away. As if he was ashamed he had allowed himself to show any emotion at all. But Clary had managed to catch a glimpse of what lay underneath the mask and wanted nothing more than to see the rest of it.

“I don’t think you are a coward,” she said.

He looked over at her, a silver eyebrow raised. “I let it all happen, didn’t I? I didn’t lift a finger.”

“Because you couldn’t. Sebastian would have killed you. And you, Ash, are just like me. A survivor.”

He snorted and crossed his arms in front of him, leaning back on his chair. He had stretched out his long legs and Clary realized that he was tapping a foot nervously next to hers.

“Wrong. I could have. I chose not to. Because I am selfish. I don’t care about other people’s fate.”

His face split into a lazy, wicked grin. Clary could see Sebastian’s influence in his leer, but she wouldn't let it deceive her. Just as she wasn't fooled by his laid-back demeanor.

“I think it’s the opposite, actually. I think it’s because you care too much. It’s not death you are afraid of. The thing is, you have such a tender heart, you need to protect it from an affliction far greater than any physical pain you could endure. So you’d rather lie to yourself and pretend you feel nothing.”

From the long conversations she had with Tessa about her ancestors, Clary knew of a Fairchild boy who had been too compassionate for his own good. And he had been surrounded by loyal friends and loving parents, even though he had shut himself, putting on a facade while burying his grief in alcohol. Ash never had that kind of support. Throughout his life, he was left to figure things out on his own. If he was as empathetic as Clary thought he was, Ash probably had no other choice but to deal with his sensitivity alone. It was a miracle he had turned out the way he did.

“You have a lot of imagination,” he said after a moment. The ghost of a smile was still playing on his lips but something had passed across his eyes. “Then again, you are an artist. You seek beauty in the ugly. You find colors on a blank page. I admire your faith, but in this case, there is nothing to see.”

Clary jutted her chin stubbornly and they held each other’s gaze - his green eyes glittering in amusement and hers dead serious - in a staring contest.

“Still,” he said when he finally broke, first. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. I am sorry.”

Clary softened. “Don’t be. I am glad you are finally showing your true self. You don’t need to wear your mask around me, Ash.”

He chuckled. “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

“It’s funny that you would quote Oscar Wilde.”

“And why is that?”

She shrugged. “Just another thing you share in common with a Fairchild I heard stories about.”

“Clary,” he said in a gently reproving tone. Her name sounded like a caress in his melodious voice. “Are you being purposefully cryptic to arouse my curiosity?”

She moved closer, so she was sitting at the edge of her chair, and leaned forward, hands folded over the table.

“If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” she whispered. “Let me in. Shed all pretense.”

“I can’t promise you that,” he whispered back in confidence, leaning closer still so that their faces were inches from each other. “It’s like fabric that burns and melts into skin. If you peel it off, the skin goes with it.” He grimaced, reclining on his chair. “It won’t be a pretty sight. I don’t think even my level of hotness could sustain it.”

“Ash…” Clary said, sensing that she finally had an opening to say what she had been brooding over ever since she had learnt of Ash’s return from that forsaken land. “I wanted to tell you… I am sorry.”

Ash’s green eyes widened.

“Sorry for what?”

“I should have looked for you. I should not have given up on you.”

Ash’s jaw clenched and he looked away. “Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do. Seb-...Ash, we...”

“What did you just call me?” He snarled. His eyes snapped back to her, suddenly cold as ice.

“Sorry, Ash. What I meant to say is… we are family."

“I already have a family.”

“I know that you care about Janus…”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” he cut her off.

“And we don’t need to. I just wanted you to know… I understand that he’s been like a father to you, and I don’t plan on moving against him, unless he strikes first or makes it impossible for me to overlook his actions.”

“Because of me?”

“Of course, because of you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Ash… You are my nephew, my blood. You may not feel the same way about me, but that’s how I feel about you. I want you to know that, if things go wrong, for any reason, you can always turn to me. My home is your home.”

“What you are actually telling me is, Ash, if I kill the one person who has ever really cared about you - and it might definitely come to that - you can always grab my hand, still sticky and warm from his blood. Well, how nice of you. To quote Oscar Wilde again, true friends stab you in the front.”

“That’s not what I am-”

“Clary,” Ash interrupted as he stood. “Do not make me choose between you and him. Because…” Looking down at her, he swallowed hard, as if the words pained him. “Because you will lose.”

She knew exactly what he was telling her. Because they were the same in that way. Ruthless, even with their own blood, when it came to protecting their loved ones. If I had to choose between killing him and you, I would not hesitate. I would end you. Yet, despite his cold statement, despite his sharp and resolved tone, his eyes seemed to carry a deep regret.

“Ash, I understand what you're saying and I swear I am not trying to make you pick a side”, Clary said, suddenly desperate, as she mirrored him and stood. “Please don’t go. I am sorry I brought it up. We will stop talking about him. Starting now.”

“This was a bad idea. Never try to contact me again.” He drew his green beanie from the pocket of his coat and put it back on. He turned and strode toward the exit. She grabbed the family drawing that still lay on the table, stuffed it in her bag and followed him, half-running, as he was quickly losing here with his long legs.

“Ash! Please. Give me another chance. I am so sorry.”

He paused right outside the coffee shop, closed his eyes and sighed. “Don’t be. It didn’t change what I had planned to tell you anyway. I don’t want to know anything about you or your mother. I don’t want to have anything to do with either of you.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said, and he whipped his head around to look at her in surprise. “I know you were under house arrest. You probably had to break out of whichever place they were holding you in to come here. You wouldn’t have done that unless you wanted something. Something from me. Tell me, Ash. Tell me what it is.”

He turned his face away so she could not see his expression. A full minute passed and she had almost given up on receiving an answer, when he finally spoke.

“My fa… Sebastian. How different do you think he would have been if not for the demon blood?”

“Oh. Ash.” she whispered. She brought her knuckle against her sternum instinctively, as if to cover the gaping whole in her chest. “I saw him, you know. The brother I should have had. The father that should have raised you. If only for a few minutes.” She paused to bite back tears. “In those few minutes, he told us how to get rid of the Endarkened and said he was sorry. It’s not much to go for, but… that’s not all. I have recurring dreams of the green eyed boy that was robbed from us. And I know in my heart he would have been the best brother a sister could ever dream of.”

He was still looking away and she could see the sharp line, the stubborn set of his jaw. She wanted to hug him, to tell him she would not fail him again. That they could mourn her brother, his father, together. That he didn’t need to bear the anger at everything that was wasted alone.

He finally turned to look at her. A tear had escaped to run freely down his cheek. He had completely shed off his mask, and what Clary saw was like a stab in her gut. She shivered. Wordlessly, he reached for his deep green scarf and tied it gingerly around her neck. The way Sebastian had when they had walked down the streets of Paris. Ash looked nothing like her brother had then. His green eyes held an infinite sadness that spoke of a grief deeper, older than the short years of his life.

“It doesn’t change anything.” He said - she hadn’t imagined his beautiful voice could sound so hollow - and turned to leave.

“Ash, wait.” She grabbed him by the elbow and he froze. His eyes widened as his gaze zeroed on the fingers covering his coat, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. She realized she had never touched him before.

“Clary, what do you want from me?” He asked in a tired voice.

“I just want to get to know you.”

“Trust me, you don’t. I am not the brother who was stolen from you. I cannot replace him. If anything, I am just like Sebastian was before me... my father’s broken toy. There is no way to fix me.”

“I don’t believe it for a second,” she said, almost frantic. “And I don’t want to find my brother's replacement, I want to get to know you! Ash. The real Ash.”

“I already told you. That’s not happening. Don’t ever try to contact me again. I am serious.”

“So that’s it?” She tried not to sound too whiny but panic was eating away at her stomach and she thought she would throw up. “You went through all this trouble spying on me, learning how I take my coffee to simply disappear from my life from one moment to the next?”

He gazed at her for a moment, his expression unfathomable. It seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke.

“I was not spying on you, Clary. I was merely following your stalker.”

“What? You were… protecting me?”

“Take care of yourself, Clary.”

He said as he stepped away from her and vanished into the crowd.

****

Clary threw herself in Jace’s arms as soon as he opened the door to their bedroom at the New York Institute. He froze, then started stroking her hair in a soothing gesture.

“Clary, what happened? Is everything okay?”

“No,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

“Tell me, Clary. What is it?”

She pulled away and wiped tears with the back of her hand. Jace’s face was a mask of shock. Clary couldn’t blame him. She almost never cried.

“I messed up.”

“What did you mess up?”

She walked to the bed and sat on the mattress. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for his reaction. “Ash. I met up with him earlier today.”

Jace tensed and his hands clenched into fists. “WHAT- Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have insisted on coming.”

“Damn right, I would have. And I would have been right, too. Look at you, you look miserable.”

“It’s my fault,” she said in a small voice. “I pushed him too far.”

Jace sighed and came to sit next to her, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I am sure you did nothing wrong, Clary.”

“I thought- When I showed him the drawing… the way he looked at it, Jace. He is not indifferent. He cares.”

“What drawing?”

“The one I made of the family,” she said absently, as she grabbed her bag and started fumbling inside.

She sucked in a sharp breath. The drawing wasn’t there. Peeking out in its stead, and folded out of the flyer of the Mortal Instruments concert, were origami faerie wings. The Fairchild family symbol.

[garbagevanfleet]

Brightest Blue (series)

PART TWELVE

Pairing: Josh x reader Warnings: THIS CHAPTER IS 18+! Explicit sexual content Summary:  Things are changing. New state. New school. New roommate. You just pray things are going to click into place.

Notes: ahh, sweet resolution. Writing this chapter made me euphorically happy. Thank you for reading! Extra thank you for liking, reblogging, or replying to this fic. I’m so happy people like it as much as I do. 

taglist: @valleyd0ll​ @satingrass-maidensfair​ @guitarfingers​ @thebohemianpenguin​ @peaceisouranthem​ @oblvions​ @hansonobsessed​ @myownparadise96​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @kill-fear-the-power-of-lies​ @bigblack-catattack​

MASTERPOST

The final week before the play was an oddly enjoyable hell. Every second felt like it flew by and dragged on for eternity simultaneously. 

You had skipped class on Thursday, just to make sure you had every costume just the way you wanted it. Your very favorite one to work on had been Alice’s dress - you put more work into it than most of your classes for the past couple of weeks, but by the time it was done, it could have been in a storybook. 

As it hung from your closet door, you took a moment to be proud of yourself, admiring the lace and the neat trimmings. 

Kate showed up around 5, and somehow you knew she would, even though she never mentioned a thing when you told her you were staying home. 

“Hi, you,” she greeted, letting herself in as she slipped past you. “Did you get it all done?”

“Well, if I had another week, I’m sure I could find more that I could work on with them, but they’re pretty great,” you agreed. “You want a glass of wine?” 

She shook her head at you. “Actually, I’m taking you shopping tonight.”

“Shopping?” 

“Yeah, have you thought about what you’re going to wear to the play?” she inquired, sounding smug like she knew you really hadn’t.

You frowned at her, unsure. “I was thinking probably something simple.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, it should be something classy, pretty,” she said. 

“And warm,” you reminded, thinking of the snow outside. 

“Sure, sure, yeah. So, are you coming?”

You gave her a sweet smile. “Let me get my coat.”

+++

“I don’t think I can wear this,” you said through a grimace as you turned this way and then that in the mirror. Kate had let herself right into the dressing room with you, her long legs taking up more space than you could afford in such a small room. “My whole vagina would freeze.”

“It’s not that short,” she giggled.

“Yeah, but it’s just an open dress. My legs are exposed!” 

“True, maybe you could wear leggings under it,” she suggested. 

“If I were going to wear leggings, I’d want a longer dress I think. Maybe something mid-calf. Then I could wear booties.”

She looked like she was considering it for a moment before nodding. “Yes, that seems like it would be super cute. What about your hair?”

“How about we find the dress first and go from there,” you teased. 

Once you were dressed again and had everything hung back on the “reject” rack, you ventured out into the store again, weaving through mannequins and lines of garments. You went to grab a hanger when you snapped your hand back in pain. 

“Damn,” you hissed. She turned to give you a concerned look. “My fingers are so sore from sewing. I’m kind of thinking they might never recover.”

You were joking, but she gave you a sympathetic look anyway. “You know this play is just as much yours as it is his, right?” 

You huffed a laugh. “Oh my god, that’s so dramatic.”

“Well, pretty damn close,” she objected, pulling a dress from the rack in front of her and laying it over her forearm. “His ass would have been grass without you.”

“We can thank Rachel for that,” you quipped, chronically annoyed by the thought of her. 

She paused what she was doing and met your eyes. “Did you figure out why she quit?”

You gave her a confused frown. Now that you were thinking about it, Josh never did tell you why. You shook your head. “Why?”

“Well, it sounds like she kinda had a thing for Josh. Like a big thing. And that’s why she signed up to work with him in the first place.”

You nodded for her to continue, your stomach feeling tight. 

“And I guess it went okay for a little while - he seemed receptive to it apparently, but she found out he had a female roommate and saw you guys eating lunch together all of the time, you know?” Kate continued carefully. 

You hummed, trying to seem casual, but you felt a little like you’d just been sucker-punched. 

“How did you hear about this?” 

“Grapevine,” she replied with a smile. “What do you think of this one?” 

She was stroking her fingers down a long dress, black with flowers in muted colors. “That would go really well with my coat actually. We have to accept the reality that I’m going to have to wear a coat the whole time.”

She smiled at you in an oddly genuine way for her. “I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but you should go for it.”

You gave her a confused look. “I have to try it on first.”

She put a hand flat on your chest. “Not the dress, you goober. Josh.”

You stared blankly at the ground until you were sure of what you wanted to say. “I don’t want to fuck this up. I can’t lose him as a friend - I’d be devastated.” 

“Why would you think you’d fuck it up? I don’t know that you could, to be honest.” You watched as she grabbed a pair of earrings, dangling off of their cardboard hanger. She started back off toward the dressing room, and you followed close behind.  

“We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

+++

You helped Josh get all of the costumes to the school on Friday, hanging them up on racks backstage. You took the time to make them all tags, writing the kid’s names in fancy, flowing script. 

Josh was working on getting the first set perfectly into place, so everything was ready to go for showtime the next day. Despite how clearly nervous he was, you could hear him handing out compliments and words of encouragement to the stagehands - even his constructive advice was said in a way that felt like every person in that room was his best friend. 

He had left you mostly alone to get the wardrobe ready, but when he popped back into your area, he crouched down next to where you were sat on the floor. 

“I probably won’t be home until late again tonight,” he informed with a half-frown. “There’s a lot I still have to get into place.”

You gave him an understanding smile. “Don’t worry about me, worry about you. You need a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.”

“I know,” he replied, looking thankful. “Show me some of these costumes.”

You had been oddly flattered that he had trusted you enough to have them done - and done well - by the time of the play; he hadn’t asked to see them even once until right then. 

“You can look through them, but they won’t look right until they’re on a child.”

His face lit up like that was the best news of the day. “That’s perfect because the kids should be here for dress rehearsal in about ten minutes.”

You smiled at him as he stood and helped you up with two outstretched hands. 

He ran his hands over the rack, pausing on the one you knew he would. With a perplexed look, he pulled the door mouse costume and held it up. 

“This is-” he started, but you cut him off. 

“I know, I really hope it’s okay, but I found a sheet in your room with some rough designs on it, and I really liked a lot of them,” you admitted sheepishly. 

“You were going through my stuff?” he asked with a grin.

You shook your head. “Just that. And it was when I went in to get Penny.”

His fingers slid down the tail of the costume, made from a string of peach-hued rope - just like his draft had called for. His brown eyes flicked up at you, looking like melted chocolate under the warm-colored lights. “I literally don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you for this.”

You could feel a blush rising on your cheeks, the sensation of flower petals brushing your stomach lining. “Let’s make it through the show without them falling to pieces first.” Your tone had been a teasing one, but he looked completely unaffected. 

The intensity of the moment was slowly creeping up on you - you weren’t sure if he was going to kiss you or cry. In the end, he did neither. 

“Do you want to stick around to see the kids in their outfits?” he offered, but you shook your head. 

“I’m actually really excited to see it all for the first time tomorrow,” you replied with a smile that was immediately matched by his. 

“Alright, I like that idea.” He paused a moment before speaking again. “Don’t wait up for me, okay?”

You chuckled at him, pulling your jacket on to leave. “No promises.”

+++

That evening you spent a long time in the bathtub with a bottle of wine. You had homework to do - and you tried for a couple of hours, but you just couldn’t be fucked with it, so you turned the water up as hot as it would go and rested your head on a rolled-up towel.

You felt silly about it now, but you were scared that once this was over, you would feel lost without the costumes to worry about. That moment never came for you - at least not with the costumes. 

You definitely couldn’t stop thinking about Josh.

There was this terrible feeling in the pit of your gut - a guilt, heavy like you swallowed a pile of gravel.

When you got out, you haphazardly dried off and left the wet towel on the bathroom floor. You got changed into a long-sleeved shirt and your pajama shorts and then grabbed what was left of your wine and made your way to Josh’s room. After you laid out on his bed, you rolled over onto your side and stared into the fish tank, pressing your fingers against the glass. 

Penny had been snoozing in her log decoration, but when she spotted you, she hurried out to greet your hand.

“I fucked up, Penny,” you whispered. You imagined she was making an angry face at you, but in reality, she was just floating there, probably wondering where her dinner was.

You glanced at the time on your phone. 

8:32 pm

You grabbed the little jar of flakes off of his bedside table and strained to drop a couple into the water. She gobbled them up excitedly, her safety-orange colored fins waving in the water. 

You had no idea when it happened, but you woke up to the dresser drawer by your head opening. You sat up, irregular heartbeat making you feel jittery.  

Josh turned to look at you, a warm smile on his lips, the sun illuminating his tan face. “Hey,” he greeted. 

“Oh my god, it’s light outside. What time is it?” you asked groggily.

“About 8:30. I got home at midnight and you were passed out in here, so I covered you up,” he informed, making your face run warm.

You pushed your messy hair away from your face. “I’m sorry, I was laying in here with Penny and I must have fallen asleep.” You glanced around in confusion. “I didn’t even feel you get out of bed.”

“Oh, I slept on the couch,” he replied, picking a pair of pants from his top drawer. 

You frowned, casting your eyes down to the bedsheets. He thought you didn’t want to sleep next to him, and instead of waking you up to move you, he slept out on the couch. The idea made you want to cry.

“Will you sit with me a moment?” you asked, patting the spot next to you. 

He gave you an apologetic smile. “I really want to, but I need to be over to the school in twenty minutes. I am planning on being back here around 4 to eat something quick and then get ready.”

“Okay.” You clambered out of bed as he pulled his shirt off and changed into a new one. “I think I’ll probably already be at Kate’s, but if you want to take my car you can.”

He shot you a smirk. “Really? You’re going to let me drive?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, putting on your best mom voice. “Yes, but only if you promise to be very safe.”

He put his hand over his heart. “I promise.”

“I’ll see you after the show,” you said, maybe a little too sweetly, and brushed a curl out of his eyes. It was well worth it to see the tops of his cheeks turn pink. 

+++

As Kate took you both to the theater, you couldn’t kick the nervous butterflies. She looked beautiful - you’d never seen her in anything but mom jeans, but she was dressed in a plaid skirt, tights, and a black turtleneck sweater. She had insisted on doing your makeup - sitting you down at her vanity and pulling a barstool close enough she could reach you. You had known better than to complain about the amount of time she took - besides, you had gotten over to her house so early, you had nothing but time. When she was done, you barely recognized yourself. Somehow she had made your eyes look bigger, your lashes longer and darker, and your face sharper. You were used to wearing foundation and concealer, but your face felt almost a little heavy under all she’d put on you. 

She had laid out a few extra things for you - a pair of boots and a set of green gem earrings and you gave her a thankful smile as you donned them. The truly hard part was resisting hugging her very affectionate polar bear - which was actually a dog, she informed you. You had tried once, but she scolded you, reminding you that white fur didn’t look good on black fabric.

You had whispered a promise to him that you would be back soon to give him all the love he could handle.

When she pulled up to the school, she had you get out at the doors and grab the tickets while she went to park, and to your pleasant surprise, Jake was waiting for you. He helped you out of the car with an outstretched hand. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to wear, but it definitely wasn’t a button-up shirt with the top few buttons undone and nothing underneath. 

“You’re literally making me cold just looking at you,” you teased, wrapping your arms comfortingly around your frame. You had earned a grin from him.

“I’m wearing a coat,” he reasoned, holding up the hem of a light peacoat to prove his point.

You rolled your eyes at him. “C’mon, let’s get our tickets.”

He pulled two tickets out of said coat’s pocket and handed them to you. “You mean these?”

“Did you buy these?” you asked through a frown.

“One of them. I bought mine and Kate’s, and I think you can guess who got yours,” he responded with a genuine smile. 

You took one of the tickets wordlessly, but you couldn’t suppress a smile. 

As soon as Kate had joined you in the foyer, you took your seats. Despite it being only a college production, you were shocked at how many people had come to the opening night. There were only a handful of open spots left when they flashed the lights, and you could just imagine Josh giving the kids a pep talk backstage. 

The show started with a fun, bouncy opening music number and you leaned against Kate as you looked on at all the set pieces you’d both worked so hard on. You had thought your job was hard, but Kate had to round up a bunch of art students to help her work on the hundreds of different props.

Leave it to Josh to treat a children’s musical like a broadway show. 

The first half of the show went pretty much perfectly - everyone seemed to remember their lines, and if they didn’t, you didn’t notice. You couldn’t help but smile in pride as you watched all of your costumes appear on stage, one by one. 

During intermission, your head snapped over when you heard a soda tab opening and you shot Kate a disapproving look - you’re pretty sure you’d read a “no outside food and drink” sign at the front entrance. She gave you an unapologetic smile as she took a long sip and then handed the can over to Jake. He laughed under his breath.

The time went by too fast, and the closer it got to the closing act, the more anxious you got. The final scene was a triumphant number, exciting and big. You could tell that a lot of the audience was family members because when the curtain fell, they all began to stand. Hooting and hollering filled the huge room, and you almost cried when the curtain rose again to reveal some of the kids wearing smiles that spread all the way to their ears. It started with the minor characters - the cards, the flowers, and then the Cheshire Cat, the Hatter, the Caterpillar, the White Rabbit. Then finally, The Queen of Hearts, followed by a grinning Alice. 

They waved excitedly at the crowd, eating up the standing ovation like it was candy. You saw Kate with her hand pressed over her mouth and the biggest eyes you’d ever seen her wear - she was absolutely in love with them, as was the entire rest of the room. 

A moment or two later, Josh stepped out onto the stage. You recalled back when you had first met him and had told him you couldn’t imagine him in business casual because he was wearing a dark blue suit, a pair of black dress shoes, and a proud grin. As the kids made a spot for him in the line, he crouched down in between them and gave a couple of them a pat on the back. You saw him speak something at the girl playing Alice, and it must have been praise because she gave him a toothy smile in return. 

When the cast members had returned backstage, you had told Kate and Jake to leave when they were ready - you were going to wait for Josh. Both of them had given you knowing smiles that you brushed off easily enough, but they left all the same with a parting word of “text me” from Kate. 

You gave it enough time that most of the audience had left - all the kids joining their parents with promises of ice cream and treats - before you made your way backstage. 

After looking for him for a moment, you spotted Josh chatting with an older man excitedly by the back exit. When the older man (his professor, you assumed) laid eyes on you, he gestured toward you with a, “Please head home, we’ll see you tomorrow. You’ve done a great job.”

Josh turned to look at you and the smile melted from his lips as he nodded a haphazard acknowledgment to his professor. 

“Hey,” you greeted, only needing to speak above a whisper in the quiet area. Viewing him on stage was fine - it felt impersonal, but up close it felt like looking into the sun. “You look so handsome.”

His cheeks turned red under the tan skin as he rubbed at the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said through a weak laugh, and a moment later said, “The costumes were incredible.”

“Not bad for someone who didn’t know how to sew a month ago, right?” you teased. You stared into his eyes for a long moment before crossing the room and taking his hand. “Are you ready to go?” you asked, then teasingly added, “Provided my car is still intact.”

He chuckled at you before taking a long breath. “Yeah, let’s go home.” 

The car ride home was tense, but not uncomfortable. You could sense the electricity running through him as you chatted about the production - the pride radiating from him was palpable. 

When you pulled into the apartment parking lot, it had just begun snowing, and neither of you made any moves to exit the car once it was turned off. 

After a long moment of silence, you spoke again. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He gave you a nervous look, one eyebrow quirked. “We do?”

You breathed a laugh, half-turning towards him in your seat. After a moment of collecting your thoughts, you said, “I want you to lay it all out for me. I know we haven’t been talking about it because it’s scary but I need to know exactly how you feel about me.”

He stared into your eyes for a long time, seemingly trying to predict whether this was a good idea or not. Just for assurance, you laid your hand on top of his where it rested on his knee - his fidgeting fingers pausing under your touch. 

“You know, I think I felt it for you the moment I first met you,” he admitted, casting his eyes anywhere but on yours. “I was nervous up until semi-recently that I just felt that way because I was lonely, you know? When my ex and I parted ways last spring and my roommate dropped out and moved away, I felt like I lost everyone all at once.

“I stopped going to parties and seeing my friends until I had none left. And I didn’t want to see my family - I think I had become accustomed to being alone, but you moved in and you were so kind. I’m not sure exactly when it happened - probably kind of a little bit at a time - with every interaction, you know? But I feel it for you. For real.”

He met your eyes again with a surprised frown. You watched his other hand come up, his thumb swiping under your eye, leaving a cool spot behind. “I’m sorry, don’t cry.”

You laughed weakly. “I didn’t know I was. I’m going to ruin all the makeup Kate spent an hour working on.” Before he could speak again, you took the moment. You leaned in and tugged him closer to you by the lapels of his suit jacket, pressing your lips to his. He melted into it for only a moment before pulling away with a sad smile. 

“I don’t want you to do this just because you feel bad for me,” he explained, voice uncharacteristically flat. 

You gave him a frown, taking his chin between your fingers and forcing him to look at you. “I’m not,” you promised, but he looked unconvinced. So you tried again.

“Josh, I’m so sorry about the way I’ve treated you. I fucked up. You have got to be the absolute sweetest person I’ve ever met - definitely the sweetest man - and it was fucked of me to sleep with you and then make you feel like you were wrong for wanting affection.”

He gave you a questioning look.

“It’s never going to happen again. Because - if you’ll have me - I want to give you all the affection you can handle. No weed-induced hook up’s this time.”

He was silent for a long moment, and you huffed a laugh as you visualized his brain working. 

“Oh,” he breathed as a smile started to tilt his lips up at the corners. “Well. That’s not how I expected this to go. Are we gonna fuck here - in the car?”

An abrupt laugh ripped through your chest. “I would prefer if we didn’t, this is cloth upholstery. But we could go inside?”

He nodded at you, and opening the door and stepping out, he came around to your side and gave you his hand to make sure you didn’t fall in the new snowfall. 

Inside, he toed off his dress shoes, and you bent to undo the buckles on your boots, your fingers shaking slightly in anticipation. The second you were stood again, he had you pressed back against the door with just enough force to knock the breath from your lungs. 

When he leaned in and connected your mouths, you wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers lacing into his hair. 

He kissed a trail down your jaw and to the base of your throat, the feeling of teeth dragging across your skin giving you goosebumps. He hummed into your neck as his hands snaked around your body, his fingers tugging up the hem of your dress.

You slipped your coat off with his help once he realized what you were trying to do. As soon as it fell to the floor, you were walking him back blindly through the apartment, neither of you caring when you bumped into this or that. He turned you around when you reached his bedroom, laying you out over the covers. 

You watched as he unbuttoned his suit jacket, then the cuffs of his dress shirt. 

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he mumbled, making you blush lightly as he gestured to your form. “Did you do this for me?”

Through a smile, you replied, “Of course.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he stated confidently as he worked to open his button-down shirt. You decided that you weren’t going to let him do that alone, so you sat up, replacing his fingers with yours. 

You huffed. “Don’t say that.” The second the fabric was undone, you pressed your lips to his warm stomach, feeling the skin twitch under the touch. “You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met - candy sweet.” It was his turn to flush pink across his face, but you weren’t done yet. “I find myself thinking about you constantly.” You nipped into the trail of hair below his navel as you tugged his shirt from his dress pants. He hummed low at the slight pain. “I actually got some condoms in case you wanted to use them. Probably not all of them tonight - it’s a big pack, but you know. Over the next couple of weeks.” Your tone was teasing, forcing a breathy laugh from him. 

“Where are they?” he asked, voice a little gravelly. 

“My bedside stand.” 

As he exited the room to retrieve them, you pushed yourself up onto the bed until your head hit his pillows. You could hear him rummaging in the next room until the noise stalled for a beat as you worked off your leggings. You listened to him pad back across the hall, wearing just a smile and his dress pants when he returned. 

He crawled up the bed over you, pressing his face into your cheek as his hand lifted the hem of your dress. 

“What’s this?” he asked into your ear, pressing something cold against your thigh. You knew what it was instantly, making you suck in a surprised breath. 

You laughed, but even to your ears, it sounded nervous. He held it up so you could see.

“That would be a vibrator.”

It wasn’t anything special - just a slim, blue plastic piece, but it was the only one you’d ever had, and it had been a very good friend to you. He hovered his lips over yours as he ran the toy up your leg until the tip of it brushed your panties. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, but he sounded smug like he already knew the answer. You squirmed in anticipation and nodded. 

When he brushed it across your mound, you jolted, your fingers pressing tightly into his shoulder. He applied a little pressure to it, pressing it into the folds over the fabric. The feeling made you whine in the back of your throat.

He sat up, slipping his legs under yours, pulling your ass into his lap. Your face felt hot, so you covered your eyes with your fingers, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth. This was a lot different than hooking up with him while high. 

He played the toy over your panties until you were wet enough to have left a damp spot in the fabric. Then he hooked his fingers under them and tugged them down enough to give him full access, though the position restricted him from removing them completely. 

When the plastic pressed against your bare skin, you had to suppress a moan. You couldn’t see, so you didn’t expect it when the toy flicked to life against you, and he ran it across you lightly, just teasing. 

You stared up at the ceiling through your fingers, your mouth agape as he brushed it over your clit in circles, making your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck,” you breathed, taking one of your hands from your eyes and running your fingers through your hair. If you tugged on the locks lightly, no one had to know but you. 

A little rougher, he deliberately pressed just the tip of it into your clit, forcing a shocked whine from the back of your throat. You made the mistake of sitting up on your elbows to watch, but instead, all you could look at was the form of his hard cock straining against his tight pants. 

You couldn’t have stopped yourself if you tried - you reached out and ran your fingers down the length of it. It twitched under your touch, but he didn’t stop what he was doing. You made a mental note to congratulate him on his dedication. Instead, he grabbed your wrist with a firm grip and laid you back down, all without taking his eyes off of his task. 

You could feel it starting to build in you as you rocked your hips into the feeling of the toy against your most sensitive part. You were positive that you looked absolutely pathetic, but when you met his eyes, he looked so entranced that it made you blush deeper - if that was even possible. 

Your fingers were flexing into his sheets as you came, a high whine ripping through your chest. When he pulled the toy away, a thread of your come was still connected to it, shimmering in the dim light of his lamp. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss against it, leaving his lips shiny. 

It took you a moment to collect yourself - your breathing was ragged and not at all appealing, if you had to guess. 

He gently placed your vibrator on his side table, and you watched as his fingers worked open the button on his pants, and then the zipper. When he pulled down the elastic band of his underwear, his cock popped out - rock hard. He pushed all the fabric down to his thighs and then tugged you further into his lap until your parts were flush together. 

“Did you want the condom?” you asked with a fucked-out smile. 

“Fuck it,” he replied with a grin as he rubbed his cock through your slit, making your over-sensitive skin pulse.  

You breathed a little “ah” sound as your whole lower half felt like it was hooked up to a live wire. “Are you telling me that you went all the way over there and forgot the condom?”

“First of all,” he started with a sinister laugh. “It’s just across the hall. Second of all, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

You had opened your mouth to respond but before you could, he pushed into you, his thumb holding his cock into place. 

“Fuck,” you rasped, throwing your head back into the pillow. You could feel how wet you were just by his movements. Your hands reached out until you could dig your fingernails into his forearms, his hands tight on your hips as he bottomed out in you. 

You looked up just in time to catch his tongue swipe out over his lips, his eyes half-lidded. 

He started rocking in and out of you like a tide drawn to the beach, sending little shockwaves through your core and up into your tight stomach.

To give your fingers something to do, they worked at the buttons on your dress. They only went down to the bottom of your ribcage, but it was far enough to expose your chest. He didn’t waste even a second before he moved one of his hands to your tit, squeezing it until it spilled out through his fingers. 

You were focused on that until he brushed something inside of you that made your jaw drop open. You went to moan but no sound would come out, so you sat up on your hands and pushed back against him, forcing him in deeper. His teeth were clenched as his hands found your hips again, holding you in the position you needed to be in to work yourself on him. He hummed, eyes fluttering as he met you halfway, thumbs pushed into the thin skin across your hip bones. You briefly wondered if he’d leave you little oval-shaped bruises.

He was staring into your eyes as best he could while his eyelids fluttered, so you knew when he was getting close to the edge. He pulled you up to him so you were riding his lap, his forehead against yours, the new angle putting his cock perfectly against your sweet spot as the length of him slid into you. 

You kissed him deeply as you worked yourself onto him, his breath hitching and his fingers lacing into your hair as he came. You were shockingly close behind, so when he drove you down on him harder to ride out his orgasm, you lost it too. 

You gasped into his mouth as it washed over you, leaving your senses as if you were swallowed by a wave. 

Neither of you moved for a few moments until you pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes. 

“You’re going to have come on your dress pants,” you whispered teasingly. He smirked back at you as he laid you out onto the bed. 

“Yeah, I’ll have to wash them before tomorrow night’s show,” he agreed, and the idea made your cheeks go pink. 

You were both silent as you cleaned up, and when you returned to him from the bathroom, he was already tucked under the covers in his bed. He smiled at you and held the comforter up for you as you crawled in next to him. You knew you were going to fall asleep almost instantly once you got completely situated, so it was lucky that he spoke before that happened. 

“I want you to come home with me for Christmas,” he stated, voice just above a whisper. 

You blinked over at him, a little stunned. 

“I don’t want you to be here alone - you deserve to be with a loving family,” he explained further when he saw the look on your face. 

You gave him a smile, feeling oddly sentimental post-orgasm. You could feel tears pricking at your eyes, so you buried your face in his neck. 

“I’d like that.”

[cshistfic]

Get-To-Know-Me: @shireness-says

We’re excited to introduce the authors and artists who will have signed up for this event! Stay tuned in September, and make sure to give them lots of love.

Tumblr/Ao3 handle: @shireness-says/shireness

How long have you been involved in fandom? I've been writing since 2017 and lurking for another couple years before that. Gosh, time flies!

What draws you to this event? Well, you know, I just thought "someone out there has such a brilliant idea to put this together, I ought to go show my support --" 

 It's me. It's my event. I'm greedy and I want more historical fics and the least I can do is participate, you know? At least get folks a new chapter of one of my historic WIPs. 

Do you have a favorite historical period to learn or read about? Reading, I've always been such a sucker for those cheesy regency romances. Call it cliche. Learning, I bounce around a bit more - I definitely had an Egypt phase as a kid, and I got really into bronze/iron age bog bodies for a while. Recently, I've had an itch to learn more about the Renaissance. Ask me again next week and we'll see what happens. 

Why do you like historical fics? PINING. Pining. I like enormous amounts of feelings having to be condensed into tiny gestures. I'm weak for that stuff. 

Beyond that... well, it’s interesting, you know? Historical fics have these built-in boundaries that writers have to work around when crafting their fics, by virtue of the time period and all the societal stuff that comes along with that. It’s fascinating to see the ways authors view our beloved characters fitting into those circumstances. 

What is the inspiration behind your story? I’ll be bringing you all a new chapter of A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (with more art by the excellent @eirabach!). I really want to finish one of my MCs this year, and while I want to support our wonderful authors in this event by throwing in my own two cents, I don’t have the time to commit to anything new. I hope you’re all excited all the same! 

Do you have a sneak preview or summary you'd like to share?

Killian has imagined this moment so many times over the years: the things he’d say, the things she’d say if things were ever out in the open between them.

None of them had ever involved an umbrella. 

All the same, the moment feels right in a way that Killian can’t describe, like things were always leading to this. Fate has brought them to this moment, and now, the universe can finally exhale. 

“It’s you,” Miss Swan finally says. Other women might have whispered it, or breathed it, or some other melodramatic gesture, but the circus’ magician has, ironically, always been made of more practical stuff. When Miss Swan speaks, the words are acceptance, the last action needed to fully recalibrate the world as she knows it. 

“Indeed,” he finally says. Any scripts have been thrown out the proverbial window as they stand here under identical umbrellas.

“How long have you known?”

“Since the beginning,” he admits without pause. There’s no point to obscuring or lying deflecting. “Since your audition. You were… different. The things you were doing were real, even if they were so obviously different from my own efforts. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.”

“I see.” 

A silence stretches between them, though it is somehow not uncomfortable. It feels like she’s sizing him up, perhaps trying to piece together their previous encounters with this new information. He would not blame her; he’d be doing the same in her shoes. It’s been over a decade that he’s known, after all. 

“May I interest you in a drink? A chance to talk this over?” Killian offers as a last resort.

And then - she smiles.

“No, I don’t think you can. Not right now.” And with a nod and a crisp sweep of her skirts, she continues on her merry way, as if they’d never met. 

Killian watches her walk back into the rain. The whole thing should discourage him, he thinks, should encourage him to keep his distance and not seek to learn more about the woman he has always struggled to view as merely his competitor. Instead, his fascination only deepens. They have time - and Killian is willing to wait however long it takes to have that conversation.

(It is only as he turns back into the rain, some minutes later, that he realizes - 

She never did return the umbrella.)

@shireness-says is the mod for this event, and I’m going to stop talking in the 3rd person because it’s getting real weird. 

My fic will be dropping on Friday, September 24th.

[plumoh]

[Yuumori] tethering touch

Rating: G

Word count: 1846

Summary: “Sherlock's soft and long fingers don't shake in the slightest when he touches William's hair, brushing aside uneven bangs that were covering the scar of his eye.” A touch, no words, and trust. / pre-chapter 57.

Note: AO3 link. The fic is set right before chapter 57, during the timeskip, and was written before the release of chapter 62.

The window is open.

A carriage drives at a brisk pace and causes someone to hurl half-shouted insults at it, probably due to its close proximity to the sidewalk. A dog barks, terrified, while its owner murmurs reassurances. The cries of children running around and playing games travel from one street to another, clear and innocent.

The wind blows gently against the thin curtains; the weather is nice, a good day to take a walk and enjoy tea outside to relax.

The second chair at the table scrapes on the wooden floor, and Sherlock winces as he lets himself drop into it without grace. He at least had the forethought to put his mug of coffee on the table beforehand; William wouldn’t have cleaned the stains for the third time in as many days.

“It’s too early for chairs to make that much noise,” Sherlock mutters.

“Perhaps yanking on a chair without lifting it from the floor isn’t the right way to sit,” William says, the corner of his lips curling upwards.

Sherlock shrugs, his face giving no hint of a change in behavior in the foreseeable future. William thinks he can manage watching chairs being poorly treated for a while longer, since a month or two are meaningless compared to three years of cohabitation.

“Did you leave the window open all night?” William asks, glancing at the slightly damp ledge that got rained on during the night.

“I smoked too much last night, I figured it wouldn’t be pleasant to walk into the living room with that stench in the morning.”

It tugs at William’s heart, a gentle grip that can turn forceful any time. No matter how long he spends observing Sherlock, no matter what truths and secrets they’ve told each other, one way or another William finds himself always, always surprised at small gestures and reasonings that make up Sherlock’s strange character. He’s grown over these past three years—they both have, though not everyone would be satisfied with whom they’ve become, most likely. But they are the only judges of themselves, uncaring of the opinion of others.

But it is unlike Sherlock to forget something as basic as opening the window when he smokes. William stares at him, searching for a sign of discomfort or doubt that wasn’t apparent the night before. There is a small crease between Sherlock’s brows, pinching his face into an expression of both focus and concern that hardly belongs on these cocky features allowing nobody to think he’s hesitant.

William brings his cup of tea to his lips, carefully, biding his time.

“I was under the impression your habits have improved, and that you have been smoking less in the last few months,” William says. “Did you get enough sleep this week? We could re-institute our nightly games of chess, if it helps you relax.”

Sherlock, mirroring William in a deliberate and casual gesture, sips his coffee and stays silent. His gaze never leaves William’s, assessing and critical, like he’s expecting to be teared open from the inside out if he lets too many emotions slip through his fake calmness. William smiles at the thought behind his cup.

"Of course, I don't believe that losing to me every night would give you the desired effect. Your brilliant mind needs rest, too."

"You have a way with words that makes me wonder if I should be amazed or frustrated, Liam."

Sherlock puts down his mug and sighs deeply, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling. William places his cup on its saucer, and gets up. He pushes back his chair like he's handling something precious, his gaze focused on where his feet are and what his hands are gripping to avoid stumbling, then he makes his way around the table to stand next to Sherlock. Sherlock cuts a glance at him, half-sprawled on his chair and half-stiff with unnecessary worry.

"I'm not saying this lightly, when I suggest you should let your mind rest," William says in a low voice. "You are filling your head with cumbersome thoughts that have no reason to exist in the first place."

William doesn’t understand why the air is so heavy with doubt this morning, so stifling when they’ve agreed on the plan a long time ago already. Being overwhelmed with the panicked need to back down at the last second before the act is not an option permitted in the life they’ve chosen to live; they go through with their decisions and succeed. Failure is rarely brought onto the table, because they can’t afford to fail.

Sherlock’s body relaxes ever the slightest upon hearing William’s words.

“You’re right,” Sherlock whispers. “I just have to act like I always do.”

William smiles. “I’m sure three years aren’t long enough for you to forget how to act around your brother and the MI6. You’re still the same.”

Wild, unpredictable and straightforward Sherlock Holmes—a person that slips through people’s fingers when they think they have him in their palms, someone that uses flamboyant methods to get out of unpleasant situations. His words are sharp and awkward in their honesty, grazing at skins without the intention of hurting, but he’s too earnest. William is nothing like Sherlock at all, from their opposite dressing styles to their obvious different way of thinking, and yet.

And yet, William shares half of his mind with Sherlock, and Sherlock listens to him.

William slides a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, feathery-like touch leaving behind trails of phantom strokes. He smoothes a wrinkle here, dusts off a spot there, then pulls lightly on the shirt’s collar, prying it open easily without a tie holding it together. The underlying message doesn't go unnoticed, judging by Sherlock's soft laugh. When he looks at Sherlock’s face, William finds hawk eyes watching him with rapt attention, scrutinizing him like he’s harboring all the unresolved wonders of the world.

“Well, mostly the same,” Sherlock points out with a grin. “My tie’s in the bedroom. I’ll get it later.”

“You will make a lasting impression, I’m sure.”

“Yes, reappearing three years later with a tie strangling me will do that.”

A laugh escapes William’s throat, and Sherlock keeps looking at him like he will never tire of watching the blooming of roses. Sherlock shouldn't make this kind of expression; he should know better than to let such naked feelings dance on his face and in his eyes, hiding none of the bizarre, fiery affection he's nurtured over the years for William. It's a dangerous train of thought that William lets fester in a corner of his mind without doing much about it—maybe when it fully takes root and can't be plucked off anymore, then William will acknowledge it and will no longer run away.

Sherlock wrenches his gaze away and glances at the table. William follows his movements and watches him pick up the abandoned black eyepatch next to the tea pot, pinching it gently by the thin strap.

There are no words exchanged. William withdraws his hand from Sherlock's collar, and Sherlock rises on his feet with a smile. His soft and long fingers don't shake in the slightest when he touches William's hair, brushing aside uneven bangs that were covering the scar of his eye. The scar is an ugly thing, a mess of tissue and discolored skin surrounding the hole where his eye should be, but they've never been one to flinch at the physical manifestations of the cruel trials of life. There is warmth oozing from this gesture, as quick as it is intense. The two of them are not people who are used to the touch of others, preferring the cold and grounding sensation of a weapon held in their hands. In spite of it, William closes his good eye.

It's permission as much as it is curiosity. How long will they keep doing this, allowing small acts of service and reveling in the peace they bring, without ever addressing the meaning behind them? William isn't one to let anyone stand so close to him, at a distance where any threat is invisible and any counter-attack is ill-timed. Sherlock could grab him by the sides of his head and hurt him, and William wouldn't be able to stop him. In another world, where their shared future is written in stone, it could have happened. They could have been facing each other like this, silent as a tomb, following the script of a justice punishing all criminals equally, one of them delivering it and the other accepting it.

But it isn't that harsh and implacable reality. In the world they live in, William feels the eyepatch placed over his eye, the two ends of the strap traveling behind his head to be tied together. Never once does he stop sensing the warmth of Sherlock and his hands. They are close enough they can hear each other's heartbeat; one second passes, then two, and then three, and Sherlock's fingers are still in William's hair. A careful and tender pressure, a steady touch he savors.

"I could do this with my eyes closed," Sherlock says quietly.

He slowly, slowly extracts his fingers from William's hair and lets one hand linger on his cheek. William opens his eye, already knowing what he'd find staring back at him. Sherlock has always been unable to hide his emotions, even in his touch.

"That's good to know," William replies just as calmly. "You can be my two eyes, as well."

"I'm anything you want me to be, anyway."

Sometimes, Sherlock's words are so honest they are hard to parse. Abrasive, frank and sincere—how did such a man end up with someone like William? He caught him, and he's not letting go.

"You are too trusting," William settles on saying.

Sherlock grins. "I trust you as much as you trust me, Liam. Don't forget that."

"That is assuming you know how far my trust in you extends."

"That's because I do know. You haven't left yet."

William chuckles. Bold words coming from a shameless person.

"I suppose I haven't, no," William agrees.

William lifts a hand, and in turn, he cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair, much longer than it was when they first met. He makes it more presentable, less wild, smoothly. Sherlock's eyes are locked on his, like he has nowhere else to look.

Small acts of service that punctuate their shared life, charged with significance they cherish without uttering a word.

"Finish breakfast and go retrieve your tie, Sherly. It's almost time for you to go," William tells him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll do that. You should get ready too."

They came back to England and are continuing their fight. It leaves no room for hesitation.

William drops his hand. Sherlock does too and smiles at him, and if it were yet another universe, where he isn't a coward, William would have kissed him.

But not yet—this isn't the right time yet. The way they look after each other is enough, for now, and William will protect it, until they are ready.

[you-cant-spell-subtext-without]

what would you say is your best method to beat writer's block? i've been writing this fic for weeks but i get blocked very often :(

okay so a few things I do:

1. don't write the fic! write when it feels fun. (this is hard, however so also when you are practicing this one, do the below:)

2. write something else! anything that does feel fun and easy. a poem, a diff fic, a drabble. a description of a blade of grass in a text to misha. whatever, etc.

3. do something creative that's not writing. draw. sing. color. cook. watch the bees. make up a dance that a butterfly would do.

4. listen to music. music ALWAYS helps me; it's why I have a playlist for every chap of my WIP. think ab songs that would be on a soundtrack for your fic. then think about songs that would be on a soundtrack for the next parts you're writing. I swear then the story will write itself.

5. watch the show. whatever mood you're trying to evoke - watch an episode w it. for ex: my chapter for Angels this week was a very Dean-centered one, so I watched: Skin, Dream a Little Dream of Me, Despair, and Inherit the Earth (I know but I had to for a scene). if you dont have time to watch an ep - read the transcript/script.

6. watch a show NOT related to your fic (Lucifer has been giving me lots of inspo lately)

7. read something. I find this lubes the brain. even a chapter of a book (or fan fic if it works for you, personally I find non-fan-fic reading is better for me when writing) or a short poem (Mary Oliver never misses, Mish ain't wrong ab her) does wonders.

8. go for a walk or a run outside. listen to music (see no. 4)

9. text misha and ask him to send you good vibes.

10. drop me an ask and ask me to send you good vibes.

11. re read the bits before. esp the ones you like. remember why you like them, and how excited you were when you started this.

12. ask the fandom for inspo!

13. close your eyes. breathe. count to 10. tell the universe you are going to write this, and its going to be fucking GREAT. repeat until you remember that you can.

bumps dont stop us, send me an ask!

[kettle-on]

(Oh woops, this is a lot longer than it was supposed to be, but I got carried away. Still not super happy with it, but I figured I'd post it sooner than later, before I changed my mind completely!)

Monty Python and the Barbados Fic

Eric x Michael x OFC

Chapter 4

attn: @jessm78 @coincidence-ithinknots-blog

Evenings at Heron Bay were lively, silly, rowdy, and populous. The Pythons had decided they would have guests to dinner every night, and surprisingly this proved not too difficult. Apparently Barbados was hopping with friendly famous faces at this time of year.

Mick Jagger continued his regular visits with Jerry on his arm, and one or two pairs of glamorous mystery Misters and Misses. It was revealed through many rounds of Charades that the Rolling Stone had an extraordinary talent for both miming and deciphering interpretive dance. His rendition of “the eruption of Mt Vesuvius” was met with roaring applause, and his “Sex Pistols” brought the evening to an un-toppable peak.

Things would take a turn, however, when an entirely sober Graham introduced a favourite game of his called “Poor Pussy” in which the chosen “pussy” approaches guests and, through meowing and distinctly feline behaviour, must make the guest laugh whilst they attempt to pet pussy’s head and say with a straight face three times: “poor pussy.” When one does laugh, they become the new “pussy.” This last rule changed quickly when it arose that multiple “pussies” had taken over the room, and hardly a word could be spoken from the guests through their laughter.

Perhaps the most uncommon news, however, came from casual chat. A visiting Keith Moon explained his plans for a new house in Malibu, anxious for acres of privacy and leaving behind his celebrity neighbours. Jagger the Charades king told of all-night New York City parties, to which Graham countered: “At least in London, one has the good sense to wrap up before sitting down to breakfast.”

Y/N was sure that, had she been keeping a list, she’d have been privy to the business of every star in modern comedy and rock and roll.

The next morning came too early once again, but Y/N was this time drawn to the bedroom window. From here she could see the team of gardeners hired to keep Heron Bay looking lush and groomed. She couldn’t help but feel that with each day that passed she was floating further and further away from what she remembered normal life to be like.

Not wanting to disturb a sleeping Eric, she made her way to the morning room that looked out to the curved courtyard. At one end of the room was a large painted screen of columns in some beautiful ancient scene. Each table surface in this room was topped with a floral arrangement, antique candlesticks, and photographs of visitors and houseguests. Decades of beautiful faces and elegant dresses, men in uniform, and posed portraits looked back at her from their frames.

What was this world? she had long wondered. Painted screens, stone pediments, beaches, house staff, tennis courts, and private ponds. Marriages, affairs, and cover-ups. Churchill, the Duke of Edinburgh, Lord and Lady Something of Somewhere Unpronounceable, and movie stars and rock n roll gods. And who was she in all of this?

From the near distance, she heard puffs of exertion and approaching steps. Michael had committed himself to continuing his disciplined daily morning jog and here he was returning.

“Ah,” he panted, “Morning.”

“Good morning. Nice run?”

“Well,” puff, “it’s not Holloway, but it’ll do.”

When he caught his breath, he noticed her uneasiness. With a smiling face and a tone he’d learned from his mother, he suggested:

“Tea?” --

It was much later that night that Y/N found herself again wandering the corridors alone. The afternoon had passed with a visit from Eric’s friend Ricky Fataar with whom he’d made The Rutles the previous year, and his wife, Heron Bay’s proprietress Penelope Tree. The couple had dropped in for what they called a “business luncheon,” and extended an invitation to the Python household out for a “business dinner.” The two Terrys and Eric accepted, (the Terrys hoping they might throw in a bit of “money talk” regarding their upcoming film budget) and by the time the day’s activities had come to a close, the outward dinner guests had yet to return.

In the rare quiet of the late-night, Y/N knocked on the door to the room where Michael was staying, and a friendly hum invited her into the room. A single lamp lit up the walls and floor, and a Michael in repose who was making edits to his well-kept journal.

“Do I recall correctly you said you’d brought a small library with you?” asked Y/N from the door.

“I did, indeed!” he responded, setting his journal on one of the nightstands next to the bed. “What’s the matter – can’t sleep?”

Y/N shook her head with an apologetic smirk.

“I see, and what sort of thing are you after?”

“Something, uh... gentle, I suppose. Something to escape.”

“Escape? From here? A tropical island and you’d like to escape – now that’s puzzling.” He drew back the thin blanket that covered his lower half, and swung his mostly bare legs over the side of the mattress.

“No, no,” she started, “Just something to, y’know, get out of my head for a bit.”

“Mm, is there something troubling you?” Michael eyed the three stacks of books casually adorning a side table, and inspected the choices of titles.

“Just feeling a little…” Y/N searched for a believable excuse, “homesick.”

He was not convinced. Putting his book task on pause he raised his eyebrows, requesting her further explanation. Y/N both appreciated and hated this look. Michael, though the gentlest and kindest of the troupe, would not let anything go unexplained or hidden for long, and his generosity and patience invited her to open up.

“I’m not really sure what I’m doing here,” she confessed. “I feel like I’m just getting in the way, y’know? You’re all working hard on what I’m certain will be a brilliant film, and what am I here for?”

“You’re on holiday,” he declared with what he hoped was an assuring smile.

“A holiday from what? What do I even do?” She felt the agitation rising in her voice. “It’s like I just exist day in and day out with no purpose or point. No goals and no…”

Michael’s stare was intense and he waited for her to continue.

“…future.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper when she noticed she’d drawn his undivided attention. A quiet Michael was a rare thing, and the silence stilled the air between them.

“So, I thought... maybe a… a book might help,” she attempted, but Michael was already smoothing down the bedspread, offering a space beside him which she gratefully filled.

“Is this what it’s like being famous?” she asked heavily, taking a seat. “Always surrounded by extremely talented, important people, and constantly comparing your own worth and accomplishments?”

“I suppose it is, yes. Sometimes.” Michael was usually very good at telling the truth in a palatable way.

Nevertheless, this acknowledgement only supported her anxiety. Her face fell and she closed her eyes, sensing exhaustion was on its way. She silently prayed for one of Michael’s rambling speeches, and he intuitively delivered.

“But it doesn’t have to be,” he began. “None of this comes with the expectation that you’ve earned your right to enjoy things. You don’t need to have won a Nobel Prize or sold a million records to deserve fine cutlery. But when you’re well-known, everybody wants to know you and bring you lovely things, whether or not you think you deserve them. When that happens, I think what helps is to recognize what’s there for you, and appreciate that there are all these things you can access if you’d like to. What’s important to remember is that you have options, and lots of good ones, too.

“And as far as goals and a future, well… I can’t tell you that. All I can tell you is that you’re already building a future just by living. And learning, and asking questions, and thinking, and wondering, and loving, and caring.”

Y/N had stayed quiet. The past few weeks of indulgence, creativity, and celebrity drama had left her feeling in a way excluded, and far away from herself. It wasn’t something she found she could explain to Eric without seeming ungrateful.

Michael continued:

“So right now, you’re on holiday somewhere you’ve never been, and learning how the other half lives. And what am I doing? Well at the moment I’m enjoying a few weeks on a beautiful island, with marvelous weather, with my wonderful friends. Together, we’re finishing up a script for a film which, if all goes well, we’ll be making later this year. That’s my job, and it keeps me working, but I’ve got the rest of my hours and days, too, and that’s when I’m living. That’s when life happens, you see, in the in-between time.

Y/N had secured a point of focus on the floor, and found it fitting that Michael’s was one of the few rooms in the building with wooden floorboards instead of the palatial stone. In this room she could be almost anywhere in the world, and at this moment she was happy to be somewhere closer to home.

“There’s no rush,” Michael added, noting her half-daze. “Life is short, but... there’s so much of it. You can stop and start and chop and change as many times as you like. It’s all life,” he slowed his pace, carefully observing her softened expression, “and it’s all yours.”

Y/N leaned back onto her elbows and contemplated her bare knees.

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one before,” she mused. “Hm. I’ve got a lot of time to fill, haven’t I?”

Michael gave a warm hum of agreement and joined her sideways, propping his head on an elbow, attentive as ever.

“And what are you going to fill it with first?” he asked.

This prospect was suddenly overwhelming, and it showed in her eyes. She took a breath and decided to choose levity for a change.

“I could work on this tan, I guess,” she playfully suggested, kicking a leg up and indicating her knees, “What do you think?”

“Very nice,” he approved. In fact, he had long admired her knees, and was grateful to the January Barbados weather for getting them out of trousers and wool tights. The previous summer at many a pub garden evening, he’d envied Eric’s long fingers resting atop Y/N’s knees, giving an occasional squeeze, and more than once catching sight of a slow glide up a thigh, disappearing under a skirt hem.

“Looks like you’re off to a good start there,” he said, allowing himself an extra-long, fully permissible eyeing up of her legs.

“And you?” she asked, “What’s next in the in-between time?”

“Well, I thought I might see what life by the ocean is like. I don’t see it very often. They’ve got waterskiing down at the bay - I might give that a go. I doubt I’ll be any good, but at least then I can say I’ve done it. Obviously a very valuable skill in London. I can see it: there I am, shooting across the lakes of Hampstead Heath. Or better still, an aquatic commute! I could start off from Blackfriars in the morning, and be in Molesey by tea-time, how’s that?”

Y/N laughed, tired from the day but grateful for Michael’s silliness. She liked this. Why couldn’t Mike be around more often? Or could she have a mini-Mike to keep in her purse and take out for impromptu pep-talks and compliments, please?

“I wonder,” he said carefully when her laughter died down. “Rather than in the way, do you think perhaps you might be feeling a bit overlooked?”

This caught her off guard. Overlooked? She never felt ignored or unappreciated. On the contrary, Eric’s attention and gestures of love came in spades. But what was it for? What really did she have to offer? She hardly expected to stand out next to her accomplished and celebrated partner and his career, nor did she wish to dull his accomplishments or stifle him. Stability would be very nice, but so too would making a name for herself be. So what did she want – life or recognition?

“Maybe,” she finally said in a small voice, too tired now to analyze any further.

How fragile she now seemed to Michael. She had opened her heart to him, and the sense of duty and the care with which he held it felt so natural. He wished he could hold it for a little longer.

Stroking kind fingers down her forearm, he took her hand, willing her out of her trance. With a closed-eyed focus on her hand, he drew her knuckles to his lips.

“So I’ve got options,” Y/N re-stated.

“Mhmm,” sounded Michael, whose lips were still appreciating her fingers.

“And I’m building a life every day,” she continued.

"Every day,” he repeated, his thumb now taking over addressing her knuckles.

“And mine is no less important than anyone else’s?”

She knew the answer, but the question brought their eyes to meet, and he held her gaze with tenderness.

“I think anyone who meets you feels lucky that they did. I know I do.”

Y/N felt whatever was left of her distress dissolve with a heavy breath. She had been heard, and she knew with certainty that her cares were safe with him.

Slowly, she wrapped her arms around his torso, and he enveloped her shoulders with a tight grip. His voice was low in her ear:

“You know, if it was a book you were after, I rather thought you’d have asked Terry.”

Y/N wasn’t going to bother mustering the energy to protest or to come up with a nonsense reason why she’d chosen to see Michael. She was here now, and she was perfectly content with it.

“I’m very glad you didn’t,” he confessed, and having exhausted all words, he began a slow exploration of her neck, starting with nuzzling the delicate space beneath her ear. Sensing no resistance, and hearing her approving sigh, he continued down to her shoulder, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses as he went.

He was kind and patient and open, Y/N remembered as she felt herself giving over to the moment’s tenderness, her curiosity duelling with her fatigue.

With restrained eagerness, he moved along the underside of her jaw before,

“Stop stop,” she hushed.

She was fighting with her enjoyment, but this was not a good time to discover feelings. All she wanted now was comfort and sleep. She looked at her kindred Michael half-apologetically, and he shifted aside, making a space for her to lie down and sleep. He reached over to switch off the bedside lamp, and gently pulled the sheet up to cover their spooning bodies.

Out on the patio under the moonlight, Eric lay on a lounge chair, gazing into the sky and contemplating several things: Ricky and Penelope’s marriage, Mick and Jerry’s affair, and the concept of unfaithfulness. And the very nature of frivolity, and luxury, and everything he learned from the swinging sixties of liberation and self-indulgence. And, unexpectedly, Michael.

He wriggled in his spot, unable to relax. I need to write this, he thought. He worked most things out through writing, and now he would turn to his typewriter, get his musings out on paper, and try to make some sort of sense of his brain soup.

[spooks-and-tea]

Entangled (Spencer Reid x femReader)

Summary: You don’t know how it happened. One moment you were watching Criminal Minds, and the next moment you were literally in the show. Can Spencer be the key to helping you find your way back home?

Warnings: minor character death, mentions of su*cide, bad explanations of quantum mechanics, sexual situations, the usual criminal minds-type content

A/N: wow I’ve been on this site for ages, nearly as long as Criminal Minds was on air, lol, but this is my first fic posted here. I plan to make this one into a few parts if people like it. If this has any relation to other fics it’s not intended. Literally just an idea that popped in my brain. I’ll also eventually add it to my wattpad .@ kittentastic

Word Count: 3,119

Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4. Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7. Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.

It was an average, lonely, autumn night. Halloween was nearing and you didn't have anywhere to be. Long estranged from the people you once called family, and friends, you were starting a new life in L.A.

Yeah, you were one of those small-town girls with big-city dreams. You wanted to be an actress, a dream your father had once encouraged. When he suddenly died, you had nothing left but a new step-mother who discouraged your dreams and was more than happy to disown you when you reached 18 years of age; a classic Cinderella story.

It had taken a while, getting yourself through university and saving up enough money to move out to L.A. Now you were 27 and living your dreams...partly. You worked at a coffee shop in Hollywood; a great way to meet people that could potentially cast you in a big production, but that plan had yet to come to fruition. Every audition would have someone else in mind for the part.

Today, you had finished yet another round of auditions for everything from small commercial bits to tv shows. You poured yourself a glass of red wine after finishing your microwavable meal-for-one dinner. Wine would always be your go-to drink after your dissappointing days, it was great at helping you sleep. You clicked on the tv and sipped your drink from your criss-crossed sitting position and soon found a Criminal Minds marathon that was just starting. It almost seemed like fate as tomorrow you had an audition lined up for the very same show.

You smiled as the bright, happy, Penelope Garcia came into the shot, followed by the rest of the BAU. You absentmindedly bit your lip as Dr. Spencer Reid came into frame.

Like a large percentage of the show's viewership, you found the handsome genius slipping into one or two of your fantasies. You may have daydreamed about the Dr. being a real person and walking into your workplace to order coffee and whisk you off your feet. You may have also woken up from a few dreams involving the handcuffs he was currently restraining an unsub with.

You wondered if you would get the part. Would it be odd having to pretend this dream-man was real? You'd hope you could contain your blushing around Matthew at least.

You finished your drink and stretched out on the couch, already feeling your eyes growing heavy. You found your mind wandering as you grew more and more tired, hardly paying attention to the episode. The last thought you had before you drifted off was, "what if Spencer Reid was a real person?"

Bright lights of assorted colors and shapes danced behind your tired eyes. You felt a tugging sensation that seemed to pull you from your core. It felt warm and safe, like it wanted to protect you. A hum grew louder and louder in your ear canal, followed by a crackling wind. It was like an electric storm. The smell of coffee and a woodsy vanilla filled whatever place you were in. It was odd, you knew this, but you weren't scared. Something told you this was right. Your body began to rise higher and higher until a loud snap echoed around you, shattering your surroundings.

"Whoa, sleeping on the job now Y/N? Did someone tire you out last night?" A woman's voice broke through the fog as your mind caught up with you.

Wait, am I still dreaming? That voice...it sounds like...

"Pretty Boy, you wanna check her for a pulse?"

And that is definitely...

"I-I don't think that's necessary."

You slowly lifted your head and opened your eyes wide. Your blurred vision slowly grew used to the bright indoor lighting. Your eyes widened as you saw none other than JJ, Morgan, and Reid. Yes, the fictional characters were standing in front of you.

How was this even possible? You had to be dreaming, or maybe you were forgetting and you were at a very strange audition. Yes, that had to be it, logically.

"Good morning Sleeping Beauty. Rough night? I didn't think Reid's Doctor Who nights were that wild, I might have to tag along and chaperone you two next time." Morgan greeted with a teasing smirk.

"How late did you two go for last night?" JJ asked, leaning against the desk that you had been sleeping on, and sipping her coffee.

She directed the question to you, but you didn't remember this dialogue in the audition script. When you didn't answer, Spencer spoke up.

"She texted me when she got home safe at 9:43pm. I made sure she left early as the rain was starting up. Now, of course, she could have stayed up longer, but we continued to exchange texts until she texted me goodnight at 10:15pm."

"Goodnight texts? Remind me and JJ here why you two aren't dating again?" Morgan crossed his arms looking between you and Spencer.

You blinked, taking a chance to finally look around. There were no cameras in sight. Above you was a tiled ceiling with office lighting. No directors or normal-looking crew members were around.

"Matthew?" You asked, directing your question to a stuttering, red-faced Reid.

Everyone turned their attention back to you. Reid, or Matthew, raised his eyebrow at you. And turned to look if anyone was standing behind him that you could be talking to.

"Who is Matthew, Y/N?" He asks, cautiously.

Oh my god. I must be dreaming.

You stood up and slowly reached out to Reid, who was standing closest to you. You gently poked his cheek. He looked almost afraid at your actions.

"Spencer?" You lower your shaky hand. He felt real, he was standing in front of you. You could smell his morning coffee.

"Yeah?"

"Pinch me."

"What? Why?"

"So I know that I'm not dreaming." You could feel his eyes prodding you, profiling.

"Maybe we should get you to a doctor-"

You grabbed his wrist and placed his hand on your upper arm.

"Pinch me. Hard."

Spencer winced as he did what you asked of him. He obviously did not want to hurt you. You felt your nerves fire off in pulses of pain where he pinched. You sharply inhaled and he immediately dropped his hand.

"Oh my god," you stammered, "ohmygodohmygodohmygod."

This is real. Spencer Reid is real.

You slid back down in your chair and looked at an open mouthed JJ and Morgan, staring at you in shock.

"What kind of kinky shit are you two into?" Morgan narrowed his eyes at Reid.

"This is no time for teasing Derek. I think she's suffering from a concussion." JJ reached out, concerned, feeling your forehead for a fever.

"She doesn't have any visible signs of bruising. Y/N do you remember hitting your head on anything, or experiencing whiplash today?" Reid, growing serious turned your chair towards him, raking his fingers through your hair to check your scalp for any tender spots.

For a moment you had to stop yourself from sighing, it just felt nice, and it was Spencer.

"No I'm-I'm fine, my head feels fine." You answered.

"What's the last thing you remember doing?"

You bit your lip, should you answer him truthfully? How would you even explain something so illogical.

"I-I remember. I fell asleep on the couch watching tv." In a different reality.

"Do you think it's possible you rolled off of the couch in your sleep?"

You frowned to yourself.

"It's possible."

It's never happened before, but you suppose it would explain things. This was definitely a hallucination. Maybe it was one of those Spencer-centric dreams.

"Spence, I think you should take Y/N to the hospital. I'll cover for you with Hotch." JJ suggested.

Spencer nodded in agreement while Morgan looked worriedly at you. JJ got up from the desk to seek out Hotch in his office.

"Do you have your keys?" Spencer asked, still looking you over.

"Um-" you checked your pockets and sure enough found a ring of keys in your pants pocket. You dropped them into Spencer's outstretched hand.

"Can you walk?" Spencer's voice went softer.

You shivered as you did whenever you heard that tone on the show. He could make a living doing ASMR with that voice.

You stood with Spencer's unneeded, but much appreciated, help. He seemed to have no problem holding your hands to help you, something you considered to be out of character for the germaphobic Dr. Reid. Then again, the show did not go this long without it's occasional inconsistencies. Was your subconscious hallucination really thinking these things out?

You followed him to the elevator with ease, taking in your surroundings as you went. As the elevator doors closed, Spencer frowned at you once again.

"Your pupils have been dilated since you woke up." He spoke.

Yeah probably because the attractive genius I've been dreaming of for years is vividly realistic and talking to me.

"Is that a sign of head trauma?"

"Actually yes, you could be experiencing a sensitivity to light as a result of your head trauma. If that's the case, then you're in luck because it's been raining all day."

You followed Spencer out to your car, or at least you thought it was your car. You didn't exactly own one before dropping into this hallucination world. You were saving up for one, but didn't really need it as you lived close to your job and took public transit when you needed to go further distances. This car was nice, you supposed the dream BAU job payed well.

Spencer drove you to the hospital and waited in the waiting room as you received a full check up and MRI. You hoped he wasn't too bored waiting. As the doctor returned with your results you asked if Spencer could come in to hear the diagnosis. The doctor asked if he was family and you lied saying he was your fiancé. The doctor really didn't seem to care and Spencer was allowed in. He looked confident, prepared to discuss anything scientific that you may not understand yourself.

"Well Y/N, after reviewing your MRI scans and testing results, I can confidently assure you that you are perfectly healthy. We can order some blood tests for you if you wish, but from the concussion symptoms you thought you had, and from the results I have in front of me, I don't believe they are necessary." The doctor said with a smile, probably just happy to be delivering some good news.

"That can't be right." You shook your head and frowned.

"Y/N was clearly exhibiting fatigue, light sensitivity, memory loss, and confusion at work. If she's not concussed, what is wrong with her?" Spencer asked.

"I'd say your fiancé is simply experiencing the effects of exhaustion and a lack of sleep. My advice? Take her home and let her rest."

Spencer firmly shut his mouth as the doctor said "fiancé."

The doctor turned to you. "If you'd like, I can perscribe you a sleeping sedative."

You shook your head "no." You couldn't believe it; you'd slept at a reasonable hour, and you didn't feel fatigued.

Everything was starting to feel so real. The warmth of Spencer sitting so close to you felt real. The rain that fell on your skin felt real. The medicinal scent of the hospital made your feel sick. You could only think of one final way to try to wake up.

"Spencer can you stop somewhere for me?" You asked as he drove you home.

"Sure."

"Is there a lake near by?"

"Yeah...you don't remember? You've jogged on the trails near it with JJ and Morgan."

"Can you take me there? There's something I need to do."

You were beginning to grow used to the worried look on his face. The way his eyes softened reminded you of a puppy.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to you. If this was a dream concocted by your brain, wouldn't Spencer be a bit more romantic? In your dreams he could range from a hardcore, post-prison, genius, bad boy to a nerdy romantic, but he was always, obviously, interested in you right away. This Spencer seemed to be your friend, just your friend. By now he would've usually confessed his undying love and maybe taken you in the back seat of your car. Yeah, you weren't the most creative person. What kind of dream was this?

You felt a blush coming on as Spencer side-eyed you. Your brain would never torture you with a long-con, would it?

Spencer took you to the lake, walking beside you without a word, most likely thinking you were going crazy and in need of sleep. You walked to the edge of the trail and looked down at the lake. It was a ways down, the point you were standing was more like a cliff. You determined that the water must have been about a 6 second drop down for someone your size

"Y/N, why did you want me to take you out here?" Spencer asked as he eyed the waters below.

You stayed silent as you took a few steps back. You took a deep breath, and before you could second-guess yourself, you ran to the edge of the cliff and jumped.

"Y/N!" Was the last, panicked thing you heard before the body of water came rushing towards you.

Your body submerged in the icy cold water and sunk deep down from the speed at which you fell. All you could hear was the echoing pressure of the water against your eardrums. This was your last resort. You knew if anything could wake you up, it would be this, your biggest fear.

Your father had drowned, he worked on a fisherman's boat and a storm had overturned the ship far out in the ocean. All that had been recovered was assorted pieces of the ship's wreckage. You'd never even had the chance to learn how to swim as the fear had already settled in before your step-mother could arrange lessons.

If you could drown in this confusing dream-world, maybe you would wake up in time for your Criminal Minds audition.

Your lungs protested as you let yourself sink. You closed your eyes and let your muscles relax. Your head screamed at you, telling you that you absolutely should not be doing this. Fear prickled at your skin. Why did this feel like you were actually dying?

A heartbeat later, you heard the water's surface explode above you, but you didn't have the strength to look up. Your brain processed something wrapping around you and tugging you up, but you could not open your eyes to see what it was. You held on to your last bit of consciousness as you breeched the surface of the water and felt the chilly air assault your skin.

Arms pulled you somewhere. Your body was dragged up something solid, the backs of your legs scraped against rocks. It must have been land. Hands applied pressure, pushing like a heartbeat against your center, you could hardly feel it. A hand held your mouth open while another pinched your nose closed. Lips pushed, rushed, against your own as air was forced back into you. The hand left your mouth and returned to pumping.

"Come on. Come back to me Y/N. Please." Pleading followed by more air.

The strange entity repeated the process once more before you felt everything come up, forcing you back to reality.

You coughed and choked up water and bile; the rain washed it all away. Your lungs were aching and your skin was ice cold. The only warmth was what lingered from the person's lips. A hand pat and rubbed your back, helping you cough up everything. When it was all over your whole body was shivering. Your muscles gave out and a pair of arms wrapped around you, holding you up.

"Y/N."

You weakly turned your head.

Spencer. He's still here. He's really here.

He was soaked, hair ringlets stuck to his face, and his eyes were rimmed red. He looked like an angel, hand carved by Michelangelo himself.

Your brain was trying to catch up with his words.

"Y/N, I need to get you back to the car before we both go into hypothermia. Can you walk?" He asked through chattering teeth.

Your throat was killing you, so you opted for just shaking your head "no" in response.

"I'll have to carry you then, okay?"

You nodded, doubtful he could, especially in his weakened state.

He stood, grabbing his bearings before scooping you up. You weakly held his neck and lay your head on his shoulder. Your pain was numbed, you knew, from the biting cold.

Spencer managed to carry you all the way back to the car, placing you gently in the backseat and turning the heat all the way up. He climbed in the backseat with you and began to remove his jacket and tie.

"We have to remove our clothes, they're soaking wet and we have to warm up. Do you need me to help you undress?" There was no hint of teasing or slyness in Spencer's voice. He was completely serious and you knew he was right.

"I-I can't. Everything is numb." You managed to croak out, wincing at the pain it brought your throat.

"Alright, um- I'll only remove your shirt and pants."

You nodded, weakly.

Spencer removed his own shirt before carefully lifting yours over your head. He made sure to keep his eyes on your face as much as possible and not linger his gaze anywhere else. Next he removed your shoes, socks, and peeled your pants down your legs. You managed to arch your back slightly to help him. Lastly, he removed his own pants and threw all the clothes in a pile on the floor of you car.

"I'm going to hold you now, if that's alright. We need each other's body heat." Spencer looked less confident now. You managed to nod a "yes."

If you weren't so close to death, you knew your brain would be shorting out at the thought of being held by a half-naked, and very real, Spencer Reid.

He helped you lay down across the seats and settled in next to you. He wrapped his arms around you and rubbed his hands along your shoulders and back in an effort to warm you and massage your tensed muscles.

A few minutes of this went by before you could finally move. You wrapped your arms around Spencer, holding him close as his body warmed your own, and you cried against his chest.

One thought repeated over and over again in your head.

This is real.

You worked for the BAU and Spencer Reid had just saved your life. 

Next Chapter

[queenbirbs]

surrender | Edward Mortemer x f!MC

Pairing: Edward Mortemer x Elena McTavish

Word count: 7.5k+

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: N*FW

AN: In the words of Kacey Musgraves: I’m alright with a slow burn. But when you want to speed it up a little, that’s what fics are for, right? Takes place pre-chapter nine and also kind of skirts around the very end of chapter eight.

**Re-post due to my dumb ass trying to edit the original on mobile and it wiped the whole damn thing. Cool. Cool cool cool. 

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“Good evening, Miss McTavish?”

The words aren’t so much of a greeting as a question. It’s silly, then, that her breath catches a little. She hides it with a stretch, raising her arm above her head and letting out a throaty noise of content when her spine lengthens. Dropping back onto her heels, she watches Edward finish his ascent up to the crow’s nest where she stands watch.

“Nothing but sea and sky,” Elena replies.

“Aye, should be more of the same on through ‘til morning.”

He settles at his preferred spot, just a few feet from her. She wouldn’t be surprised if his boots have worn divots into the wood from the amount of time he spends up here.

“I’m no Al Roker, but I’d say the nice weather will continue. The sunset was as gorgeous as ever.” She tips her head to the side and bites down on her lip, trying to pull a script line from her memory. “What’s that saying, ‘red sky at night, sailor’s delight’?”

“Al Roker?” he repeats the name, his brow furrowed.

“He’s... a person who predicts the weather. Sort of.”

Edward’s gaze flickers from the sea to her, and then back again, huffing out a short laugh.

“It seems that you speak another language, sometimes.”

“Comes with the territory, I suppose.” Elena shrugs. “What with being a twenty-first century transplant and all.”

She doesn’t miss the quick search he does of the ship below, looking out for any wayward pirates with curious ears, but she knows, just as well as he does, that most everyone is tucked away in the galley below deck. The only other soul around is Maggie back at the helm, who makes a show of feigning interest towards the starboard to give them more privacy.

“I hope you don’t find me rude, that I still don’t know what to make of your… claims.”

“No offense taken,” she assures with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “I thought about what I would do if someone suddenly appeared in my house, claiming they were from your time.”

“And what would you do?”

“Call the cops and then threaten to sick my dog on them.”

“The dog wearing the life preserver?” he lifts a single eyebrow at her, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “Aye, a truly terrifying sight to be sure.”

“Was that a joke?” she asks, her eyes wide as she makes a show of looking him over.

“You didn’t care for the one about falling in battle, so I thought I’d try out another.”

“Not bad. But I wouldn’t give up your day job quite yet.”

Edward hums his agreement and turns his sights on the ocean before them. Elena understands why he enjoys being up here -- she likens him to a king, high in his tower, or a lion, perched atop his rock; all the world is an oyster from such a height.

Tipping her head up, she takes in the night sky’s view. With little to no light pollution, especially this far out at sea, the stars come out in droves. The Milky Way is a cloudy, violet river that commandeers the horizon. It’s almost dizzying, the amount of stars visible, layers upon layers of them blooming across the sky. Elena’s never seen anything like it. Even when she and her sister would skip their Friday classes, drive up to the nearby state park, and spend the weekend up there, pretending they knew how to camp.

She thinks of the text on her phone from Gabby and the plans they were in the process of making for her to come visit Elena in Los Angeles. When she dropped out of college to follow her dream, the few family she remained in contact with ceased their feeble attempts at communication. When she made it to LA (or, rather, to the one-room hovel she could barely afford), Gabby was the only person on the other end of the line, trying her best to cheer her up. The pang of loss strikes her hard, somewhere behind her ribs. Other than her sudden departure from the set, Gabby might be one of the only people that notices her disappearance -- which is kind of sad, when Elena thinks about it, given that her sister still lives back in Austin.

That thought launches a thousand others. How long has she been gone? Is time moving at the same speed in the future? Is she even going to make it back home?

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Edward’s voice jolts her from her thoughts.

“Yeah,” she agrees, clearing her throat of the emotions that clog it. The railing is steady below her hands; she clings to it, trying to ground herself as best she can.

“Tis... not the same, where you’re from?”

“Where I live, it’s hard to see this many. I feel like if I could get a little bit higher, I could almost touch them.”

Edward looks back to the east, where the moon hangs low in the sky.  

“I don’t see why not,” he murmurs, making a show of leaning close to continue, “if what you say about the moon is true.”

“The stars are a lot farther. And the moon isn’t exactly suitable to live on. At least, not right now. Or,” she pauses, her lips twisting into a grimace, “well, not in my time, it’s not.”

“I’m glad, then, that I’ve made the sea my home.”

If his words are tinged with melancholy, Elena doesn’t mention it. Though she could encourage him to elaborate, she doesn’t want to ruin this peaceful moment. The thought brings with it the memory of their afternoon swim: of his arm wrapped tight around her waist, of the hungry look in his eyes as he took his fill, of the ache in her chest when their moment was broken by the need to surface.

The crystal-clear, turquoise water of the cove brought its own reminder of the summer before her sophomore year of college. It was Gabby’s idea to use their open water diving certifications for something other than taking up space in their wallets. Having spent so much time after her gender affirming surgery entertaining herself with shipwreck documentaries, she booked the trip to the Florida Keys, flights and all, before informing Elena -- in typical Gabby fashion.

“I would never get tired of the views, that’s for sure,” Elena sighs. “Or the constant opportunity to explore whatever island I sailed upon. Like that tiny island we stopped at, I would love to dive there, spend some time exploring underwater.”

Glancing over, she spots Edward’s furrowed brow; she sifts through what little historical knowledge she has of diving. Have those weird, space-age looking suits even been invented yet?

“Sometimes, Miss McTavish, I wonder if I have not happened upon a selkie, with the things you claim.”

“Selkie?” she repeats, rolling the word around in her head, but recognition never comes.

“Aye, a creature of myth, though some people believe they do exist. My mother used to tell me stories when I was little, of the women who came from the sea. Once they reach dry land, they shed their seal skin and transform into a human.”

“So... kinda like a mermaid?”

Edward tips his head in consideration. “In a way. But selkies are usually considered to be gentler. Unless their seal skin is stolen, they favor their time spent among humans. And, when they tire of us, they return to their skin and resume their life under the sea.”

“That sounds sad, in a way. But I promise I went down in a diving suit, not a seal skin.”

“I’ve heard rumors coming out of England, of a man who salvaged sunken ships by trapping himself inside of a barrel. I assume that is not what ye mean, though.”  

“No, not in a barrel,” she grins, pulling her phone from her pocket. “I can show you, though, if you’d like to see.”

“Ah, the black box of witchery.”

He moves closer as he speaks, though, clearly interested in taking another look at it. If he was truly frightened of it, she supposes, he could just lob it into the sea. Her grip tightens on the phone at the thought.

Navigating to her photos, she taps at the folder (embarrassingly titled we’re in miami bitch!!) and turns the phone so the images can expand into greater detail.

“Some of these I took with a disposable camera, so they aren’t the best,” she laments, swiping her thumb across the screen every few seconds. “But my sister -- she has this fancy underwater housing, so her pictures are nice and clear. I would message her for more, but I don’t think Verizon has that great of service.”

She can’t help but chuckle at her own bad joke. Edward, it seems, couldn’t care less -- entranced as he is by the colorful images of the coral reefs and the sponges sprouting from the USS Spiegel Grove’s rusted frame.

“These paintings are exquisite.”

“Pictures,” she corrects.

“You say that as if I’m to know what it means,” he counters.

She swipes to a selfie her sister had taken, the image capturing little else but their masks and the blue world around them. The next photo is better: a full-body shot of Elena in her wetsuit and gear, a cloud of bubbles floating above her head. “I suppose this explains you being such a strong swimmer, when you jumped in after Ginny.”

She shrugs at the veiled compliment and returns the phone to her pocket, avoiding his intense look that she can feel burning into the side of her head.

“Well, swimming in thirty-foot waves is a bit different from the calm waters of Key Largo, but thanks.”

Edward reaches down and skims two fingers under her chin. He tips her head up to meet his gaze, his dark eyes flashing with certainty.

“Make no mistake, though: I am to see that you do not perform such a stunt again.”    

Elena knocks his hand away; irritation bubbles up inside her, heating her cheeks and neck.

“I wasn’t performing. I’m not the Wonder Twins. And I’d do it again, if Ginny or anyone else went overboard. Even for you.”

His expression sharpens, his mouth twisting into a frown. She crosses her arms across her chest and serves him a look right back. Whatever he’s about to say, she cuts off as she continues, “Just because I haven’t been sailing the high seas or… or crossed swords with some real buccaneers as long as you all have been doesn’t mean I’m not capable. I fought Robert and won -- I even got his fancy-schmancy sword -- and I sailed our ship through a storm, didn’t I? You need to learn to trust me and-- and… why are you smiling?”

The irritation fades from his face in one fell swoop, there and then gone, replaced by a soft smile that he seems to reserve only for her.

“Something you said, Miss McTavish.”

“I said a lot of things,” she points out. Despite the opening she leaves dangling for him, he doesn’t elaborate. She’s not sure why she expected him to; the man is stubborn to a fault. “Okay, fine. You can keep your charming and mysterious act. You certainly have it down pat.”

“As you do with your… turns of phrase.”

The tension between them cools, aided by the winds that blow towards them from the north. Elena settles at his side once more, the railing at her back. He gives a cursory glance over the horizon.

“You know,” she says, “I realized today that I never said thank you.”

“For what?” he returns his sights to her, curiosity warming his eyes.

“For getting me the hell off the Admiral��s ship. I knew he wasn’t a stand-up guy when he shot one of his own men, but knowing what I know now, I’m especially grateful.” She reaches out to touch his wrist, squeezing it for a long beat. Edward brings his other hand up and covers hers. “I know you took a risk, not knowing if I was a navy spy, but you brought me aboard anyway.”

“Even when we made you stand trial to prove such innocence?”

“Do you think I would’ve been given such a chance on his ship?” she asks, her tone thick with sarcasm.

“No, I do not.” Edward’s face darkens for a moment. “A man capable of such depravities would have treated you… terribly, no doubt.”

“Hey, like I said: white dude of high rank in the eighteenth century? He’s got about a two percent chance of not being an awful person.”

“You--” Edward pauses, lowering his voice as he continues, “are things… different, in your time?”

Elena bites at her lip, wondering how much she should divulge about the twenty-first century. Hope works much better if the outcome is still uncertain, and she doesn’t want to dash any he has for his own future.

“Different, sure, but also very much the same. There’s a famous expression: ‘those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.’ It’s -- let’s just say it’s been accurate more than once or twice.”

“I’ve never heard of such a phrase, but I understand its meaning rather well.”

“And, hey, that’s the second time now that you’ve referred to my ‘situation,’” she marks the term with air quotes. “Does that mean you believe me?”

Edward makes a show of heaving out a sigh. “I am making a valiant effort to do so. Your box certainly helps your case. It -- all of it -- ‘tis still rather wonderful and strange, though.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Edward, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“You’ve read Hamlet?”

“I’m an actor by trade. Of course I’ve read it. And by read it, I mean that Shakespeare’s works were forced on me in every English class in school.”

That gets an exasperated chuckle out of him. She can’t help the smile that forms; she really enjoys the sound of his laughter. For as much as he tries to play up the stoic, unfeeling pirate captain, he seems to lose the battle whenever she’s around. “It’s all right, you know, if you don’t believe me. I know this is kinda crazy.”

The humor on his face is there one second and then gone the next.

“’Tis… not that.”

“Then what is it?”

No answer comes.

“Charlie was right,” she teases, knocking her elbow into his. “You’re really not great at changing the subject.”

That gets her a snort of amusement, but nothing more. Before she can prod, a cold gust of wind sings through the rigging, whipping up past them and sending her hair into disarray. Despite the residual heat of the sun-warmed railing, Elena can’t help but shiver, and hugs herself to conserve what little heat she can. Edward wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close, his hand running up and down her back with gentle strokes. Her heartbeat quickens at the gesture, now familiar since he helped pull her up out of the raging waters.

“I apologize, Miss McTavish. I shouldn’t have kept you up here so long. You should go down to the galley -- you missed dinner, after all, while on watch. Can’t have you on a chameleon diet. And you’ll be much warmer down there.”

Elena shakes her head and reaches up, placing a hand on the warm plane of his chest where his shirt parts. His breath catches under her palm.

“No, I’m alright. I’m glad you were the next on lookout duty, actually. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Ask away.”

“Do you really think the Admiral cares about getting his property back?” Edward’s body tenses under her touch; she shoves down the wiry ball of nerves in her stomach at the movement. “That lieutenant I ran into, he didn’t mention anything about--”

“Need I remind you of what I promised on our walk from the mayor’s estate?” he interrupts.

Confusion sweeps through her. Elena quirks her head to the side, trying to connect the dots between that conversation and her current fears. “You are no man’s property,” he spits, his voice gone rough from obvious fury. “And for as long as you are here, you are under my protection.”  

The wave of realization hits her.

“I was, uh, talking about the compass.”

“Ah.” He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. The hard line of his shoulders softens. “I… see.”

“But it was interesting, to say the least, to see you puff up like that. I’m sure it would make any other lass swoon. I mean,” she lifts her hand from his chest and holds her thumb and pointer finger inches apart, “I was this close.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Aye, I’d pay top coin to see you swoon.”

“I can think of a few things you could do to make that happen,” she teases.

Edward takes her hand in his and drops a kiss to her knuckles. Before that familiar swell of longing in her chest can rise, though, he shakes his head.  

“I will not risk it.”

“You would sail your ship into every storm across the Caribbean, but this,” Elena glances down to their entwined hands, “you won’t take a chance on?”

“That should tell you how serious I am.”

“I can’t follow your line of thinking, Edward. Do you think the Admiral will suddenly know? That he’s some omniscient god, overseeing all that goes on?”

“People are fond of gossip.”

“Who? What people? Because if it’s the crew, I trust them with my life, just like you do, and I don’t--”

“Not them. But anywhere we’d go, we’d have eyes on us -- eyes that could report back to the Admiral. And if we were -- there would be no world where I wouldn’t want to have you by my side.”

“But we--”

“Jealousy is a hideous trait to have, but I’m afraid I would not be able to stop it from affecting my actions. I’ve seen the people at port, the way they flirt with you.” Edward frowns at the dark sea ahead. “You don’t think I wouldn’t challenge anyone who tried to -- to woo you? I would not be able to stand idle while--”

Elena barks out the short laugh she’s been holding in. “What is so humorous?”

“Because you already do all that.”  

Self-awareness rushes in like the tide, flooding his brain. His jaw goes slack, as does his hand in hers, before he collects himself. Elena feels pinned under those eyes of his. She watches them drop down to her lips before returning to her gaze.

“May I?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Aye, of course.”

He starts to say more -- probably a long-winded explanation about his gentlemanly values -- but she’s waited too long for this to be delayed another second. Elena leans up and silences him with a kiss. He doesn’t turn and flee, like she expects; when he breaks the kiss for air, she gets but a second to collect her own breath before his lips return to hers. She hums her encouragement when he lets go of her hand to sink his fingers into the loose wave of her hair.

His lips, cold from the ocean breeze, warm under hers. Elena finds that his kisses are exactly like him: brash, and quick, and intoxicating, with the slightest hint of steel. When she draws her tongue against him, she can taste spiced rum and saltwater. He growls from the deep well of his throat when she bites down on his heavy, bottom lip. His arm cinches tight around her waist and hauls her against him; their bodies meet in a delicious roll of pressure.

“Miss -- Miss McTavish--”

“Elena,” she corrects, her hand skating up his back, searching for purchase so she can drag him closer.  

“Elena.”

His breath is hot against her skin where his lips trace the line of her jaw. The world dips and sways suddenly, the railing digging into her back. She clings to him when the sensation of weightlessness shoots up her spine.

It takes her a moment to register that it's only the ship underneath them, crossing over a rough wave. Concerned that she’ll end up pitching over to the deck eighty feet below, he picks her up and spins until her back meets the mast. Elena reaches for the lapels of his coat, but he’s faster, and snatches her hands in one of his and pins them above her head.  

“I have dreamed of this,” he murmurs, skimming the pads of his callused fingers along her throat, his mouth trailing behind with fervent, open-mouthed kisses.

She swallows back the moan that wants to form. A shiver dances under her skin, now damp from his attention.

“I have too,” she admits with a sigh. “Except mine deserve an NC-17 rating.”

“You know I don’t understand what that--”

“I certainly fuckin’ can!” someone shouts from below.

The wonderful spell they’ve found themselves under shatters. The voice might as well have been a gunshot, with the way Edward leaps back from her. Elena mourns the loss of his mouth on her as she adjusts her waistcoat and smooths down her hair.

Flipping and tumbling their way across the deck, Ada and Ax continue their argument about who can reach the top of the main mast first. Charlie, Jonas, and Ginny trail behind them, wagering their bets. Maggie’s thick accent carries across the ship, telling them off for circusing about, and ordering them to stay away from the rigging.

It’s not as if their tryst could have continued much longer, Elena considers, given that the crow’s nest wasn’t exactly a secluded spot. The twins make a good show of pouting, but eventually head for their quarters, Ginny giggling as Ax twirls her round.

“Maggie deserves a raise,” Elena tells him.

“Because she knows how dangerous ‘tis for them to be climbing about with no light?”

“Because she knows they would’ve caught us up here, making out like a pair of horny teenagers.”

“Ah. You--” his hand lifts in an aborted move towards her before he redirects it through his tousled hair. “--you should get down to the galley. I’m sure Henry is waiting on you, by now.”    

“Okay,” she says, because it’s the only thing to say. Swinging down onto the rope ladder, Elena starts to descend but pauses, peeking over the railing to catch his eye. “But don’t think this conversation between us is over.”

“Aye.” A wry grin flickers across his face. “I know much better than to assume that.”

+

Edward is right -- about the food, at least.

When she makes it down to the galley, Henry sits her down with a covered plate. Well, as covered as it can be with the dirty rag he’s thrown over it. She’s learned not to make a fuss, though, especially to the man cooking the food.

“Thanks for keeping it warm for me.”

“Took ye long enough,” Henry huffs, but makes a show of looking over his shoulder at her. His face, streaked with ash that he sifts with a makeshift poker, makes it easier to spot his sly grin. “Find somethin’ interestin’ up there, hmm?”

“I was distracted by the view.” Which is the truth, although she doesn’t include that Edward’s lips were part of said view.

“Nothin’ beats a clear night at sea, to be sure.” Swinging the stove door shut with a satisfied grunt, he jerks his chin towards a small barrel on the nearby shelf. “Charlie made some punch, if ye want more’n water to wash yer food down.”

She shakes her head; she’d made the mistake once of drinking their ‘punch.’ It put the jungle juice she drank back at college parties to shame. Charlie now called it Caribbean moonshine, thanks to Elena and her fiery round of swearing after taking a sip.

With the comforting noise of Henry’s humming as he cleans up, she takes a seat on the tin-lined floor and eats her dinner. Not for the first time, she notes Maggie’s touch in the confined space. Fitted across the shelves are iron bars to keep the contents from taking a tumble in rough waters. Tied round the necks of bottles with twine, scraps of parchment label each oil and spice in her spidery handwriting.

“I worked up a new dessert for ye to try, if ye’d like.” He produces a bowl of something that might come out the other end of her garbage disposal back home. Elena inspects the concoction with interest. “I boiled some hard tack in a little bit o’ rum and brown sugar, and then boiled mangoes with some sugar to mix in with it.”

“Ooh, like a compote?”

“Aye, sorta.”

In another world, three hundred some-odd years in the future, she could easily imagine Henry with a cafe or food truck, selling ‘deconstructed desserts’ and other kitschy items. Scooping up a sample, she’s surprised at the delicious flavor of it. The enjoyment on her face must be obvious, because a grin appears behind the ash. “Good, init?”

“Really good! Except, and this is going to sound weird, but maybe add a pinch of lime juice? I think it would really bring out the sweetness of the mango more.”

“Yer right, lass. That might do. And then maybe I can finally get the others to try it.”

“I’ll vouch for you,” she promises after sampling another portion. “Unless I die of food-poisoning tonight, and then you’re shit outta luck.”

Henry shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. “Edward’d have my head first.”  

“Did he at least try it?”

“I doubt he would’ve, if he’d come down for dinner at all. Too busy broodin’ in his cabin, I suspect.”

Elena hands off her empty plate when he motions for it. Curiosity, instead of hunger, gnaws at her insides.

“Can I take this with me?” she gestures to the bowl in her hands.

“Aye, have the rest of it -- and see if ye can convince the cap’n to get in a few bites, hmm?”

She doesn’t bother asking him how he knows where she’s going; the rest of the crew isn’t as blind as Edward claims them to be. “But if ye break it, yer buyin’ me a new one.”

“Deal. Thanks, Henry!”

+

Elena climbs up to the deck carrying her pilfered bowl.

From where she’s manning the wheel, Charlie throws her a two-fingered salute from the bridge. High overhead, Jonas wishes her goodnight from his post in the crow’s nest. Grateful that she won’t have to try holding onto the bowl while climbing up the rope ladder, she continues on towards the stern.

“What can I do for you, Miss McTavish?” Edward asks before his door is fully open.

“How’d you know it was me?”

He shoots her a deadpan look. Moving aside to allow her entry, he shuts the door behind her.

“No one else would dare bother a captain’s sleep, lest there was an emergency.”

“Henry told me you skipped dinner, so I brought you something to eat.” Elena gestures to the bowl in her hand. Stepping close to give it a thorough once-over, Edward grimaces.

“I will take my chances with starvation.”

“Hey,” she scolds, “it isn’t that bad.”

He does a double-take between her and the food. “You ate it?”

“In college, I once ate stale Wheat Thins drizzled with an expired bottle of honey mustard. And before you say anything,” she holds up a hand to stop the statement she knows is coming, “I know you don’t know what either of those are, but trust me: it was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“And this bowl of slop is better than that?”

“If it weren’t, would I be forcing you to eat it?”

He mutters something under his breath, too faint for her to catch, but seems to concede. After a brief hesitation, he takes the bowl and spoon she offers him and shovels in a mouthful of the mixture. His eyebrows pinch down at the initial taste, and then lift in bewilderment.

“Not bad, right?”

“Not… horrible, no.” He sounds just as surprised as he looks. “This is one dessert of Henry’s that I may live to tell the tale of.”

“Good. But that’s not the only reason I came.”

“Aye, would it have anything to do with continuing our conversation from earlier?”

“All that time, Robert was accusing me of being a witch, but here you are, able to read minds.”

Edward gives a soft snort at that, collapsing into his chair. The desk in front of him is littered with maps and parchments and various trinkets. Elena crosses the room and comes round the side of the desk, taking in the starry view from the windows. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the spoon swirl round and round in the gruel as he assesses her.

“Ye would’ve been a good jester, Miss McTavish, in a previous life.”

“It’s just us,” she murmurs. “You can drop the surname.”

“No, I can’t.” The grief in his voice is as clear as a bell. “In another life, yes, but here--”

“--here,” she interrupts, turning at the waist to study him, “in your cabin, alone. Not even then?”

Edward sets the bowl down onto the desk and glares at the floorboards. “We can’t let our emotions cloud our judgement.”

Folding her arms across her chest, she lifts a single brow at his attempt to backtrack.

“Says the man hell-bent on playing cat-and-mouse with an enemy to exact revenge on him for something he clearly feels guilty about? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

His gaze shoots up to her, those dark eyes of his flashing in the candlelight. “That phrase I indeed do know.”

“Then you should know that you can’t kiss me like the world is ending, and then shoe-horn me back into a neat, little box, Captain Mortemer.” Elena doesn’t see it coming, she’ll admit that. She’s too busy ranting at the starry night, too pissed off with the man beside her, too afraid she’ll lose the runaway train of her thoughts if she focuses on him and sees all the emotions he claims to be above, all that longing and heartache and desire, painted across his face. “Since you’re so insistent on using surnames to avoid--”

In the second it takes her to draw a breath, Edward surges out of his chair and crosses to her. In the next, his lips are on hers. That passion she saw the mere beginnings of up in the crow’s nest roars with intensity. He cups her cheek and tilts her head just so, deepening the kiss; she can taste the mango’s sweetness on his tongue.

All at once, he pulls away. She mourns the loss of him with a quiet moan.

“My -- my apologies. I’m--”

Before he can worry himself into the ground with another fit of propriety, Elena holds up a finger to his lips.

“Stop being so polite and kiss me again.”

That familiar grin breaks free, lighting up his face with a naked delight that sends her heart racing.

“As you command.”

His mouth claims hers again. A muscled arm circles her waist, one hand splaying wide across her back to pull her close. She comes easily, readily into his embrace. His shirt twists in her hand where she holds on for dear life, parting for a quick breath of air, before diving back in. His other hand strokes a molten path up from her waist, brushing over the beaded point of her nipple. The moan she releases is louder this time, wanting more than anything for him to do it again.

For all his faults, he’s no fool. Sure, he takes his sweet time with it, dragging his fingertips along her collarbone and up into her hair to push the blonde curtain back, but he eventually makes his way back down. Cupping her breast, his thumb rubs circles against her -- even through the layers of lace and cotton, Elena’s breath catches at the immediate flare of pleasure.

Emboldened by her response, Edward backs her up against the cool, glass panes, his mouth leaving hers to suckle at her throat. Elena tips her head back, her lips parting as his stubble prickles against her skin. His thumb works steadily over her and she’s dizzy with the primal need to have him.

Braced by the window behind her, she hooks a leg up and around his ass. He needs no more encouragement to invade the space she’s created, his hips rocking tentatively against hers. Frustrated with the buffer of all her layers, Edward retreats to the buckle at her waist, his eyes searching hers.

“May I?”

Elena swallows to free the words from her throat, but they won’t come; instead, she nods her permission. The belt hits the floor with a thwack. Her waistcoat comes next, which she tosses off with a flourish. Edward captures her hands and tugs off her gloves. Spotting the gleam in his eye, Elena distracts him with a roll of her hips and frees her hands, chuckling when he mutters a curse at her.

“You’re a cunning lass.”

“I can’t wait around for you to strip me of my garments.” Her fingers making quick work of the corset’s laces. “Besides,” she drawls, “between the two of us, I’m probably the one with more experience taking off a lady’s corset.”

His eyebrow raises in response to her claim. The image of her and another tangled together plagues him; his jaw clenches tight at the thought.  

“That may be so,” he growls, reaching down for his own shirt and tearing it off, “but it won’t be their names you’ll be calling soon enough.”

Her blood flash boils at the promise. She grabs the hem of her blouse and yanks it up over her head.

“Jealousy is a good look on you,” she teases, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingernail.

Seizing her hand, he laces their fingers together and presses a kiss to her wrist. Goosebumps raise across her skin as his mouth trails from the tendons in her forearm to the curve of her shoulder. Nudging her bra strap down, Edward continues his trek to the rosy flush blooming across her chest.

Not one to play the passive participant, Elena cards a hand through his shoulder-length locks and nudges him down. He takes the cue and moves further south; she whimpers at the wet heat of his mouth closing over the lace of her bra.

“God, stop teasing and--” her gasp echoes across the cabin at the sharp bite of his teeth closing around her nipple. His tongue darts out, soothing any hurt, and turns to lave at her other breast.

Once she regains motor control, Elena unlatches her bra and flings it to what might possibly be the furthest reaches of the universe -- she doesn’t care, as long as Edward will keep doing wondrous things to her with that mouth of his.

“Miss McTavish,” he rumbles, tilting his head to run his stubble along her naked flesh, enjoying the ragged, little noises she makes. “You are well on your way to looking thoroughly ravished.”

Her wandering hand smooths over the tight curve of his ass and grabs hold. She smirks as he bucks up into her.

“Then get on with it, Captain.”  

Deft fingers pop the button on her pants and dip down below the waistband. Elena stretches up and rests her bare shoulders against the glass, tipping her hips up to encourage his exploration. She cries out when he slides two fingers inside of her. He gives her a moment to adjust to the intrusion, nuzzling the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

“I’ve long wondered,” he murmurs, his tongue skimming across the salty sweat of her skin, “what you taste like.”

At the sudden loss of his hand, Elena opens her eyes to tell him off for his teasing -- but her throat goes dry when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. It’s a long moment before her world centers on its axis once more for her to ask.

“How do I taste?”

“Decadent,” he growls.

Crowding against her, he props himself up with one hand spread wide against the window above her head, while his other draws a wet trail down her belly. A short grunt of pleasure sounds from both of them when he slips back inside her.

Elena reaches a shaky hand up to hook around his arm, her nails digging into the muscles there. Arousal clogs her veins like molasses -- slow and syrupy and sinfully sweet. The movement of her hips turns clumsy and erratic. Sweat beads across her forehead as his fingers work her open, the heel of his hand circling her with delicious pressure.

“Edward -- fuck, I--” she cries out.

“Will you come for me?” he asks, his gaze snapping to hers. Desire clouds his eyes, the brown irises eclipsed by the black of his pupils.  

“Please--” he cuts off her begging with a kiss.

“Will you?”

“Yes,” she answers with a gasp.

Covering his hand with her own to guide him exactly where she likes, she stretches up for another kiss and grinds down against his hand. The heat inside of her reaches its critical point, flaring to life and scorching through her bloodstream. Clenching tight around him, her hips convulse as she rides out the quake of her orgasm.

Edward slides his fingers out, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head when she whines with oversensitivity. He brings her into his arms, smoothing a hand over her hair as her body shudders with the last of its tremors.

“Fuck,” she sighs, a delirious sort of giggle bubbling up. “Well, how do I look now?”

“Exquisite.”

Leaning down, he captures her lips with a kiss. She blames the blush from her recent orgasm.

“I think it’s my turn, then, to ravish you.”

“We don’t have to--”

Elena silences his gallant protest with a heady kiss, raking one hand through his hair. Her other runs along his side, where she hooks two fingers into his waistband and yanks him closer. Continuing down, she runs the flat of her palm against the obvious sign of his arousal. Edward groans into her mouth; he ropes an arm around her waist and carries her to the desk. With a wide sweep of his arm, he knocks documents and equipment to the floor before depositing her atop it.

“Careful!”

He jerks back at her yelp, casting a worried eye over her form. “Have I harmed you?”

“No, no -- I promised Henry I wouldn’t break his bowl.”

Edward rolls his eyes and grabs the dinnerware before she can reach for it, then tosses it to the floor.

“I will buy him a new one when we stop at the next-- why are you laughing?”

Elena shakes her head at him, avoiding any explanation by dragging his mouth back onto hers. It’s a rather effective technique, as she’s finding out tonight. Their remaining clothes join the messy pile on the floor. Edward huffs a laugh at her threat of injury if he rips her underwear, but seems to heed her words and takes care to drop them onto the desk. Moving into the space between her thighs, he grabs two handfuls of her ass and drags her closer. The soft giggle that sounds from her delights him; he leans down and savors the taste of it on her lips.

Elena’s hand wanders over his stomach and down the trail of coarse hair to take hold of him. He thrusts into her touch with a grunt, choking on an inhale when she twists her wrist on the next upstroke.

“May I have you?” he manages to rasp.

“You may,” she purrs, and guides him to her entrance.

With a surge of his hips, he plunges into the slick heat of her. At her gasp of encouragement, he slips out and then back inside, grinding his teeth against the clench of her. Pleasure is a ripple on the surface, building into a wave that banks higher and higher as they move together. The world outside slips from its perch, losing what little control it has over the confines of the cabin. There is only the two of them, lost in the frantic rocking of their bodies.

A shameless staccato of moans falls from her lips as he fucks her. Edward wraps a fist around a length of hair and pulls her head back, exposing the long line of her throat; he nips at her pulse point and then at her bottom lip, swallowing her cries of pleasure.

“If you shout any louder, the whole ocean’ll hear you,” he playfully scolds.

Spotting her opening, Elena tightens her legs around his hips and digs her heels into his lower back. Retaliation sings its sweet tune as she jerks him forward on top of her, the both of them crashing back onto the desk.

“Don���t underestimate me.”

“Nay, I would never.”

Edward props himself up with one hand next to her head, his other clamped firmly around her thigh as he drives into her, the angle somehow that much sweeter. “God, but yer a pretty sight, spread underneath me.”

It’s impossible -- that she’s here, that the desk underneath her is scattered with papers that would be considered treasure in her time, would be framed in a museum and ogled by historians. A quill digs into her spine and she’s certain they’ve spilled a pot of ink, but Elena can’t find it in herself to care. If she’s lost in time, then at least she has Edward to guide her through it; her beacon of light, keeping her adrift, illuminating her way through the confusing, treacherous world she’s been transported to.

“Elena,” he gasps, his chest gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. “Elena.”

His hold slips from her thigh and down to where they’re joined, rubbing quick circles against her bundle of nerves. Whatever he’s asking of her, she gladly surrenders. The wave of her climax rushes over her, flooding her veins and drowning her with euphoria.

The sight of her lost in the throes of pleasure is an anchor; he sinks.

Edward curses with his release, collapsing beside her onto the desk. Their sweat-slick bodies heave as they catch their breath. Something catches flame in Elena’s chest and simmers there when he folds her into his embrace, his palm cradling her head against his chest. His heart thunders against her temple.

She sees no better time than now, lying naked in his arms.

“I have a question.”

He hums with what little strength he can gather for her to continue.  

“When we were up in the crow’s nest, after discussing our love of Shakespeare--”

“--as I recall,” he interjects, “I am the only one who willingly read his works.”

Elena makes a waving motion with her hand, which would prove more effective if his fingers weren’t laced with hers.

“Whatever. What I want to know is, when I said that it was okay if you didn’t believe me, why that made you…?”

“Disquieted?” he finishes for her.

“Yeah.”

She can feel the weight of the sigh that empties out of him.

“Because I do believe you. Your mannerisms, your accent, your magic box with its…?”

“Pictures.”

“Pictures, aye. Everything about you should not fit here. But it does, you do. You’ve adapted remarkably well, given what’s happened to you. You are a strong woman, Elena.”

“I would blush, but I’m too tired from our activities.”

He brushes a kiss against the crown of her head and huffs out a laugh.

“Yet, despite how well you’ve adapted, I know that this is not your home. Your true home, that is. I promise you, once we stop the Admiral, I will do everything in my power to send you back home. But, I confess, I will be… terribly upset to see you go.”

Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes; she shuts them against the fading candlelight.

“Me too.”

His palm skims up and down the soft skin of her back, marred here and there by the cuts and scrapes from life aboard his ship.

“Stay.”

For a terrifying moment, Elena isn’t sure what he means -- and is terrified all the more that she isn’t sure if she wants to return home, at least not so soon. Realizing that he’s probably (hopefully) meaning for the night, she musters up a reply.  

“The crew will talk.”

Edward scoffs. “They do little else.”

Her shoulders shake from her smothered laughter.

“Is this what passes for pillow talk in the eighteenth century?” she wonders aloud, making a show of stretching and enjoying the noise of interest he makes. “But yeah, okay, I’ll stay. I might even make it worth your while.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

+

+

+

References: an LMFAO song (it was between theirs or Will Smith’s “Miami,” but MC skews younger to me, so I went with the former), a line from Peter Pan, the ‘those who forget history are doomed to repeat it’ is actually a misquote, but I consider it enough of a ref to list it here. There’s a few slang terms from 17th/18th century and various pirate research sprinkled throughout. The USS Spiegel Grove is a real artificial reef, located off the shore of Key Largo. You can dive it with an OWD certification, though it’s recommended to have an AOWD to properly explore it. ~~the more you know~~

Thanks for reading!

[jamielea81]

Just a Simple Lie

Chapter 5

Description: Having worked on small independent films for the better part of a decade, your friend tells you about an opening for a script supervisor with a large studio. Wanting to advance your career, you apply and get an interview. The only downside, they prefer to hire crew who are married. It’s just a simple lie, right?

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warnings: Maybe some cursing, talk of drinking

A/N:  Surprise! Coming back a day earlier than planned. This fic is simply for fun. I know nothing about the personal lives of the two actors in this series and mean no harm. I am also totally guessing regarding the studio talk. Comments, reblogs, and likes are always welcome.

Catch up with Chapter 4

**

Oh boy were you hungover. After you finished that fifth beer, David brought you back to your hotel where you promptly passed out on your bed, makeup and all. The fact that you were so drunk, kind of helped you with the embarrassment of the slipped comment about your lack of a sex life. From what you remembered, it seemed like your quick reply had done the trick. At least you hoped it had. You remembered Monica chucking a pillow at you at some point in the middle of the night. She mumbled something about you snoring like a chainsaw. You were drunk and it could not be helped. There would be no more drinking for you.

Call time to set was three in the afternoon and you took advantage of the precious hours by sleeping until noon. After a shower and all-day breakfast from McDonald's, you felt human again.

Outdoor shooting would start tonight once it got dark, which this time of year meant another hour or two at the most.

**

You made your way to the studio via the studio shuttle. It was empty this time of day which you appreciated. You dressed in a sweater, jeans, and jacket. You had on a pair of winter boots, but brought a bag that held your trusty sneakers to wear when inside.

The one thing you weren’t a fan of with the new office set up was the lack of an enclosed room. The volume in the building was loud. Not school gymnasium loud, but loud enough for that you were finding it hard to concentrate. Everyone was excited. New location, outdoor shoots, whatever it was, no one wanted to be quiet about it. Even though the sleeping in and shower helped, you were still a tad hungover so you just wanted everyone to either move to a new location or go to their cubical and shut up. That wasn’t happening.

Monica came barging into your cube about an hour later. Okay, she didn’t barge in, technically. There’s no door. Kind of hard not to barge in.

“Can you believe this place? I’m going to hit my ten thousand steps within three hours each day. Way bigger than Cali,” she said taking a seat on the edge of the desk.

She was right of course. It was a series of massive warehouses where they shot a lot of action-packed movies and television shows. Those films often required a lot of space with massive sets. This movie wasn’t that and your team would not need all of the space, but it didn’t mean you didn’t have to trudge your way from one warehouse to another.

“You need better shoes,” you said motioning your hand to her pointy slip-ons. While they were cute, you would be crying at the end of the day wearing those. “Those aren’t going to work with this place. Unless of course, you hide out in your cubical all day.” A small smile peeked out from behind your lips.

“I would normally agree with you, but if I have to wear boots whenever we are outside, I’m wearing my cute shoes where I can,” Monica said, sending a wink your way.

**

The sun had set and you found yourself back on the shuttle with Monica and about ten others. Only Keanu and Chris were filming tonight and as far as you knew, they were being driven in a separate vehicle to the location.

“Are you still hungover?” Monica asked. She sat directly across the aisle from you on the shuttle. Since there weren’t many people on the bus, you each got your own row.

“Not drinking with you people again. I can tell you that,” you said with a shake of your head.

“Even if Chris is there? That’s some eye candy if I ever saw some,” she said wiggling her eyebrows. “Wonder if he’s single?”

“You’re horrible,” you giggle out.

“Hey! Not all of us have a fiancé. Not like it matters anyway.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Maggie thinks he’s hot and have you seen that girl? I stand no chance. Keanu has a girlfriend,” she said with a shrug.

Interesting. So, Maggie thinks Chris is hot. But really, who doesn’t think that man is hot.

“I’m pretty sure it’s frowned upon to date the actors anyway.”

“Who said anything about dating?” she replied with a wink.

“You are horrible. I stand by that.”

**

The temperature had dropped by about twenty degrees and you were feeling like such a rookie. You grew up in the Northern Midwest for goodness sake and you failed to bring a hat or gloves with you. This was not ideal for outdoor filming where you needed to hold on to a script and pen for hours. Apparently, you were doing so with bare hands.  

Much of the first hour was spent helping with stage setup. You didn’t have to help unload the props, but it was certainly aiding you with the keeping warm factor. You eagerly carried box after box and then helped coordinate stage design.

Keanu and Chris arrived about twenty minutes later in separate vehicles which you found odd. They were filming together tonight and seemed to get a long as far as you could tell all through the shoot in Los Angeles. Chris and you were friends, but you didn’t feel comfortable enough to pry into that quite yet.

**

There’s a log cabin façade set up in a heavily wooded area made to look like a two-story cabin built in the 1950s. Once you open the door, it’s nothing more than plywood sides that only go back maybe 20 feet. Just the entryway or what can be seen by the camera is designed to look like a house. All internal shots of the “cabin” were shot back at the studio. Unfortunately, the “cabin” wasn’t any warmer than the outside temperature. Your plans to hide in the house between shots was crushed within minutes.

As the guys filmed their first take, you stood next to Hugh, the director with Monica on your other side as your backup since none of the actors she was working with were filming tonight. The first take was cut with Hugh calling for a reset. You spent the next ten minutes jogging in place to keep warm. The script was dropped to the ground with your hands burrowed into your coat’s pockets. Chris gave you an amused look as his face was being powdered by his makeup artist. You sent him a wink and continued on your jog to nowhere.

Take two and three were called and by this point you could no longer stand still. Not wanting to make a lot of noise while the film is rolling, you opted to dance in place. Billie Eilish’s All the Good Girls Go to Hell is playing in your head. You wiggle to the beat, careful not to let your feet shuffle. It helps, but just a little.

“Let’s just get one more and we’ll move on,” Hugh calls out.

“Can someone tell Y/N to stop dancin’ over there? It’s mighty distracting,” Chris yelled.

If you weren’t already frozen solid, you’re pretty sure your face would resemble fire at this point.

Keanu turns around to face you and gives you a bit of a smirk.

“I’m cold!” you said loud enough for everyone near you to hear. “You don’t like my dance moves?”

“You’re distracting. Hugh, tell her she’s distracting,” Chris responded with a chuckle.

“Y/N, stop distracting Chris,” Hugh repeated nonchalantly.

“Aren’t you from Minnesota? Why aren’t you dressed warmly?” Chris asked, coming to stand next to you.

“I lost my mind this afternoon,” you said with a shrug.

**

After one more take, Hugh called it and ordered the next scene to be set up. You and Monica made your way to the food tent that conveniently had heaters blowing inside.

“This is like heaven. Who needs the sandy beaches of Aruba when we’ve got this wonderful tent in paradise?” You plop your butt down at a table ignoring the food and lean back in the chair, arms hanging like dead weight at your sides. “Go on without me. You can have Keanu and Chris. I’m just going to stay here forever where it’s warm,” you sighed happily.

“So dramatic,” Monica replied, grabbing two cups of coffee and depositing one on the table in front of you. “Two sugars and two creams?”

“One stevia or Splenda, whichever is there. Three creams.” You slip off your coat figuring you’ll only be colder once you leave the tent if you leave it on.

Monica drops the containers and packet in front of you, taking a seat next to you stirring in her own add ins.

“How much time do you think we have? I’d like to defrost a bit longer if we can.”

“Probably another ten. Drink up,” she replied holding up her own paper cup.

Downing your hot beverage that did little to warm you up. You got up and put your coat back on, zipping it up as far as it would go. Something warm and heavy was placed over your shoulders suddenly. Looking down, you could see it was a dark brown wool coat. You spun around to see Chris standing there, soft grin on his face.

“Keep it. Just make sure you give it back to wardrobe before we leave.”

“Don’t you need it for the next scene?” you asked furrowing your brow.

Chris shook his head no. “Next scene has me in that denim jacket with the white wool lining. It’ll be my turn to freeze.”

You gave him a thankful smile while buttoning up the coat over your own. “Thank you. Really. Didn’t realize you hated my dancing this much, but I do appreciate it.”

“Didn’t say I hated it. Said you were a distraction.” He runs his hands up and down your coat covered arms in his attempt to warm you up. The goosebumps that erupt are luckily hidden by the layers, but you can’t help but pray he doesn’t hear the increased beat of your heart. “You’re gonna get sick if you don’t layer up.”

You can’t seem to speak so you just hum in response.

**

Somewhere between the second or third take, your helping with costuming. The Polaroid pictures from the interior shoot aren’t agreeing with the way Keanu’s hair is now. It could be the way his hat is hanging, but you grab his stylist to assist.

“Yeah, that’s so much better,” you said after his hair is moved behind his ear no more than an inch.

“You certainly are particular,” Keanu said with a chuckle.

“S’always a pet peeve of mine when watching a movie if it doesn’t match exactly. Call it over kill if you will, but I call it doing my job,” you replied with a smirk.

“Warm enough over there Frosty?” Chris asked from a chair while he waited for you to be done.

“Yes! Thanks to you,” you responded back.

“This Chris’ coat?” Keanu asked.

“Yeah. Well, technically William’s coat.”

Keanu hummed in response before turning away to stand on his mark.

**

After filming wrapped for the night, you made your way to the wardrobe tent, catching Chris as he was leaving.

“Returning William’s coat?”

“Yep. Told you I would.”

“Here. I’ll take it in. M’sure you want to get back to the hotel,” he said, holding out his hand.

Quickly unbuttoning it, you pulled it off missing the warmth immediately. Chris took it, holding it over his chest with his arms crossed over it.

“Damn, did I miss this coat over the last two hours.” He ducked his head down for a second and then looked back at you. “Smells good.”

You let out a cross between a gasp and a laugh. “Did you just smell the coat?”

He bit at his lip and looked away. “Wasn’t trying to. Caught a whiff of it and had to investigate further. Just smells nice is all.”

“Okay Evans,” you said slowly. “Have a good night. Gotta catch that shuttle before they leave me.”

“Ye-yeah. Alright. See you tomorrow Y/N.”

“Night, Chris.”

**

You were positive it wasn’t half a night in the freezing cold that did you in. It was probably the travel, along with the stress of being away. No matter how you spun it, you were sick. Head congested, sore throat, the occasional chill while you were indoors. Yeah, you were sick. Monica turned out to be a germaphobe and you hadn’t seen that coming. It started as soon as you two were awake. She noticed the change in your voice.

“It’s just dry in here. Stupid winter. I just need some water,” you played it off not willing to accept your fate as well.

“Yeah okay. I know I saw a few water bottles in the mini fridge,” she replied.

You grabbed one and brought it into the bathroom with you. Taking a few chugs from the bottle, you set it on the counter then hopped into the shower hoping the hot steam would kick you into gear. It didn’t.

Maggie was shooting tonight along with Joe and Daisy. Chris and Keanu had the night off although you thought they maybe had some dialogue they were re-recording this afternoon. You were set to be Maggie’s backup tonight but really you wanted to do was go back to bed.

The two of you made your way to conference room B for the breakfast buffet they set up for your group each morning. It wasn’t much, but it was free and available from seven to ten each morning and you managed to wake up early enough to check it out. Grabbing a plate and filling it with a muffin, scrambled eggs, and two sausage thinks, you joined Monica at a table with a couple of other crew members.

Your throat started to tickle just a bit after your first bite of eggs. Taking a sip of orange juice did nothing to ease that feeling. You coughed into your napkin much to Monica’s horror.

“Too much pepper,” you replied.

She rolled her eyes but carried on eating her own breakfast until you coughed again. She stood up and moved a seat a few chairs away.

“Just a precaution,” she said with a shrug.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Reaching back into your pocket you quickly pulled it out.

Chris: You de-thaw yet?

Y/N: My shoes are soaked from the melted ice

Y/N: I slept great. That cold took a lot out of me. Thanks again for coming to my rescue.

Chris: 😎

Chris: No big deal

Y/N: Well, I appreciate it and will be better prepared tonight.

Chris: Captain’s orders

You shook your head at his comment.

Y/N: Wow. He went there.

Chris: Yeah. Yeah. Let me know if you have time to grab food later. Little harder for me to grab desserts here and bring them to your office.

Y/N: I’ll let you know.

The tickle was back and you couldn’t help but cough to clear it. Getting up from your seat, you averted Monica’s eyes as you dumped your plate and opened the door to leave.

“Better not be sick, Y/L/N!” she called out just as you stepped through the door.

I’m not sick. There’s no way. It’s just in my head.

Making a quick stop at the hotel gift shop, you paid double the amount you would pay at Target for vitamin C drops and Cold Eeze. These were for in case you were coming down with something. Not that you were or anything.

Back in your room, you applied moisturizer and light makeup. You hoped that trying to go on  with your day as normal would make you feel normal. By the time you got to the bathroom to do your hair, Monica came back to the room.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” you replied putting the final touches on your hair.

“Just okay? That sounds specious.”

You let out a quick chuckle. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m just getting my bag. Maybe open a window. Let some of the germs out,” she said sticking her tongue out at you.

“I’ll see you there in a bit,” you said as she opened the door.

Except you didn’t. Somewhere between digging out your mittens, hat, and scarf that you apparently put back in your suitcase, along with returning a few missed calls from your family, you were tired. Deciding to lay down for just twenty minutes, turned into a couple of hours. The sound of pounding on your door was what woke you. Bolting up right in bed, you reached for your phone, seeing that it was already one in the afternoon. You had two missed calls from Chris along with a few text messages from him, Monica, and David.

“Coming,” your voice coming out hoarse. Your hand gently touched your neck as you swallowed, noticing it was slightly swollen and tender.

Swinging open the door, Chris stood in front of it, tired look on his face. His hands immediately going to his waist.

“Okay. You’re alive,” he said, bobbing his head as he said it. You giving a confused look in response. Chris nodded his head again, turned and started to walk away.

Keeping the door propped because you didn’t have on shoes or your room key on hand, you leaned out the door. “Chris! Come back! Please don’t make me yell.”

He stopped walking and turned back to face you. The same tired look was still on his face as he made his way back to you, stopping once he was in front of the door once again.

“I was--we were worried about you,” he sighed out. “When you didn’t respond to my text or call, I stopped by your cube and you weren’t there. Monica said you should have been there no later than eleven because you were on your way shortly after she was.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Then when you didn’t respond to Monica or David, we got concerned.”

“I’m sorry. I was just really tired and fell asleep too long,” you said softly, stepping back into the room and motioning for him to come in. “I didn’t mean to make you guys worry.”

Chris followed into the room, flicking on a light before taking a seat on Monica’s bed.

“It’s fine,” he sighed again. “Just didn’t know if something happened since you didn’t show up at the studio or answer your phone.”

“Don’t tell Monica, but I’m sick. I think that’s why I slept longer than I intended to. I’m sorry you came all the way out here,” you said, taking a seat next to him.

“I’m sorry you’re sick. That sucks.”

“It does,” you said getting up. “Should probably keep my distance. Don’t need the talent getting sick,” you said, giving him a wink.

“Good one. I’ll let it slide since you’re sick.” You grabbed your bag, checking to see that your worn script was still in it. “Where are you going? You’re sick, missy.”

“Missy? Really? It’s called life doesn’t pause just because of me,” you said slipping on your coat and putting your hat on.

Chris gabbed his phone from his pocket, clicking it a few times and bringing it to his ear.

“Hey,” he said. “Yeah, I found her. She’s sick and was sleeping when I got here. Trying to convince her to rest up… Yeah, she’s stubborn… What? No. No. I’ll take care of it. You don’t need to do that… I’m sure. I’ll get it sorted…Yeah, I’ll see you later… I’ll tell her… Bye Monica.”

“What are you telling me?” you asked as soon as he dropped his phone to the bed.

“You have the night off.” You were about to protest but Chris put his hand up. “Not my choice. She said she can handle it tonight and rather not have you breathing on her,” he chuckled prompting you to roll your eyes. “She said to rest up.” You nodded and started to unzip your coat. “Keep your coat on! You’re not staying here tonight.”

“Chris, I’m not hospital sick. I can stay in my own room,” you protested, hands instantly going to your hips.

He shook his head. “Monica was going to bunk up with someone else, but I told her I’d find you somewhere else to stay since she wouldn’t be back until late. You’re coming with me.” He stood up, grabbing your scarf from the desk and wrapping it around your neck.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“You’re staying with me and before you say anything, it’s fine.”

“Chris…”

“Y/N…” he responded in the same tired tone. “It’s a three-bedroom condo. I have the room and no you won’t be in my way.”

“Okay…Let me just grab some things.”

Chris sat back down on Monica’s bed while you grabbed your carry-on, throwing in some pajamas, a change of clothes for tomorrow, your hairbrush, and makeup bag from the bathroom.

“Alright. Let’s go see how the other half lives,” you said with a smirk.

“Such a smaht-ass,” Chris said with a shake of his head.

“And that’s why we’re…”

“…we’re friends,” he cut you off. “Yeah. Yeah. Let’s get a move on sicko. Cahs waitin’ downstairs.”

This is totally normal. Doesn’t look inappropriate at all. What the studio doesn’t know won’t hurt anyone.

**

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[all1e23]

Astrophile [Pt.14]

Chapter:  Aquila

Summary: Lunch dates and art shows 

Warnings:  It’s kind of a sad chapter which is so unusual for Astrophile and I feel bad about it, okay??? Ends happily, though.  Or the promise of happiness. 

A/N:   That much closer to the end lovelies. 3 more chapters to go!  Send me love because I’m needy, okay??

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are welcomed! Thanks!**

Y/n has been in a funk since that day. 

That terrible, awful day she never wants to speak about. The day she realized Bucky really is only her friend and all the handholding at the zoo was merely friendly, and the flirting was only playful banter she mistakenly took for flirty teasing. She’s aware how laughable the thought of forgetting the entire day is and just how foolish it was for her to think they were anything other than friends.  It’s not as if he has changed the way he has treated her; his actions towards her have stayed the same since they met. Maybe he’s a little more comfortable and a bit more sure of himself around her, but nothing has changed between them. 

In the three months, two week and five days they have known each other, nothing has changed to make her think that his heart was longing for hers the way her heart wanted to belong to him.  

Though she supposes the more significant issue, Bucky’s been dating someone else and never bothered to mention the woman to Y/n.  She thought they were closer than that. She believed he would at least subtly drop a hint that he had started talking to another woman. All those nights they spent talking on the phone he never once brought it up and now grabbing his hand the way she did felt incredibly inappropriate. But she could have sworn that night on the phone when she was drifting off he called her babydoll. It must have been the sleepy twilight playing tricks on her. 

Natasha told her as much. She said there was no way Bucky was seeing someone else and she didn’t know about it, more importantly, there was no way he was seeing someone and let her into Ori’s life. Someone was playing a trick on her. Natasha told her, you’re the only woman he would allow in Ori’s life like that. He keeps his dating life separate from her. It was nice to hear, but it didn’t mean all that much in the end. Ori’s the brightest little girl Y/n has ever met; she wouldn’t put it past her to have figured it out regardless of Bucky’s intentions. 

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you and Barnes?” Tony asks as his arm drops behind her on the back of the dark blue couch in her office. After having refused to meet Tony for lunch for the third time this week, he came by with tacos from her favorite place and flipped the open sign to closed. After he purchased the books of all her customers that were currently waiting and politely asked them all to leave. 

And added on their way out, the owner is actually very nice, and I promise not to kick you out when you come back, and you all better come back. 

Y/n narrows her eyes in suspicion as his question tumbles around her head. Tony shouldn’t know anything happened between her and Bucky. The only person she mentioned it to was Natasha so Tony shouldn’t be giving her that know-it-all smirk right now. Tony sighs through her silence and points to her calendar on the wall behind them.

“You erased movie night with Bucky from Thursday. We’ve been talking for two hours now, and your phone hasn’t gone off once. He called you more when we were dating. So what happened?” 

Her eyes lingered on the faded pencil, and little pieces of pink rubbed off eraser; she learned long ago to never write anything down in permanent ink.

Long ago, when the books she read still had pictures on every page, and she was just beginning to learn of the stars, black ink and curly script taught her nothing should be written in ink. It was a conference. Just a simple lecture. It was only supposed to be four days, and then they would be home. Her parents had promised five years old her they would be back in four short days, but they never made it to the conference, and they never came home. The ink on the calendar in the kitchen wouldn’t come off no matter how hard she tried. 

It’s been pencil from that moment on.

“I don’t know,” Y/n says with a shrug and pushes her plate away from her, leaning in to Tony’s side. She couldn’t force herself to eat another bite. She doesn’t have the stomach to eat a plate full of anything right. Tacos or not.

“I thought maybe…” Y/n let her voice trail off and the conversation still, she didn’t want to admit what she thought.   

“You thought what?” Tony urges, bumping their knees together in an encouraging nudge. She looks up from where she’s leaning on him and gives a small shrug, “I thought maybe he was asking me out on a date, so I was excited. It was dumb.” 

Tony shakes his head and presses a kiss to her forehead, “I’ll tell you one thing, the two of you are made for each other, you know that?” 

She slowly sits up and pulls her legs under her, confusing yet curious gleam in her eyes. “What does that mean?“ 

He chuckles and pulls her plate towards him, stealing a bite of one of her untouched tacos as he casually suggests, "Bring him to my wedding." 

Y/n blinks and blinks again. She clearly didn’t hear that right. She shakes the fog away and swiftly drags the plate away from him before being her interrogation, "I’m sorry your what?"

Tony reaches for the dish, but she deliberately keeps it just out of his reach. Tony huffs in defeat and abandons the tacos. 

"Did I not mention I told Pepper…Well, I actually blurted it out in an argument, but I told her that I might be absolutely, unequivocally, in love with her, at least I think so. Never been in love with anyone but her so I don’t have a lot to compare it to and for some reason I can’t figure out she said she loved me too. Happy? Can I have the tacos now?” 

She snorts and passes the plate back over so it’s within his reach once again. It did seem a little fast, but it’s Tony so part of her wasn’t all that surprised. 

"And that means getting married right away? You don’t want to just date and see where it goes?” 

Tony sets her plate back on the table and wraps both of her hands in his. 

"Y/n, I’ve loved her for half my life. When you wait as long as I have, you really don’t want to wait anymore. Though Pepper does want to wait. A year. She’s actually in charge. I pretend it’s me. Don’t tell anyone I said that. She settled on next July.  Bring Barnes with you and maybe by the end of the night, one of you will finally admit how you feel.” 

Y/n couldn’t help but smile at how giddy Tony sounded. Perhaps waiting wasn’t the right choice every time. She has always waited until she was one hundred percent sure the decision she was making was the right choice, ensuring she wasn’t making any mistakes, double-checking, and triple-checking. Maybe she waited too long and checked those little boxes too many times. She should have said something the moment she knew she felt something for Bucky. On the balcony with the peach-colored sky in front of her and delicate whispers in her ear because pinky promises weren’t the only thing exchanged that night. 

There’s no point in dwelling on all that now. Whatever they had was over, if they ever had anything at all.

"I’ll be there. Not sure if Bucky will come with me. Things are weird now. I tried to talk to him, but I felt funny knowing he has someone else. Plus, his girlfriend might not like the idea of him going to someone’s wedding as my date, Tony.” 

Tony furrows his brows and shakes his head, a look of thorough disbelief written on his face.

“Good grief,” Tony sighs dramatically. 

“Just ask him, will you? He will go if you ask him. I don’t think anyone could keep him from being your date and I am pretty sure this fake girlfriend you’re talking about doesn’t stand a chance next to you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and I’m never wrong. It’s a curse really.” 

Fake girlfriend? Yeah, okay. Y/n wants to tell Tony he is about to be wrong for the first time in his life and can join Natasha on the losers bench. He didn’t see the look on Ori’s face when she asked for that book. Whoever the woman is, she’s important to Bucky and to Ori. Just because he has a girlfriend, doesn’t mean they can’t be friends though. They were friends when she dated Tony, so why should this be any different? Bucky held her heart then too, she only couldn’t see it at the time.  

If Y/n asked him to go to Tony’s wedding as a friend it didn’t have to mean more than that. Friends do favors for friends all the time, and this was just that. A simple favor because it could never be more than that. They would probably never be more than friends, and she would have to be okay with that. She drops her head back onto the headrest of the couch in her office and spots the clouds through her small window and she can’t help but wonder what Bucky is doing right now. 

--------

“You grumpy because she canceled on you?” 

Bucky sighed and tipped his head back on the deck chair and looked up at the clouds. Too early for stars, but he wonders where Y/n is and if she’s looking up at the same clouds. Was he grumpy because Y/n cancelled on him? Sam usually didn’t ask questions he doesn’t already know the answer to, but Bucky isn’t so sure he knows the answer to this question. No. No, he’s not– Okay, maybe a little. In truth, he just misses her. He misses talking to her until she falls asleep and their video chats and her laugh and lemon pancakes. 

Yeah, they still talk every day, but it’s different, strange. She’s distant and off, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. So if he is grumpy at all, which he isn’t, that’s why. He doesn’t know how to get them back, and he has no idea how to fix this.

“Nope,” Bucky finally answered, faint but curt. 

“Man… you’re in love with her. Can we just cut the crap and figure out where you went wrong so we can make a plan to fix whatever you did,” Steve nudges Sam’s arm and shakes his head, silently telling him to go easy on the teasing. He’s known Bucky his entire life, and he’s never once seen him this tore up because of a woman he likes. 

“No, I’m not,” Bucky counters.  “Besides, even if I was, I don’t want to bring some woman into Ori’s life just so she can bolt on her.” 

Steve puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder to stop him, but Sam shrugs it off. Now, he’s pissed and he’s done with whatever game Bucky is playing. 

“First of all,  she is not just some woman. You’re upset and hurting so you’re saying some dumb shit right now. I’ll let it slide. Second, Y/n didn’t bolt on Ori. She’s still spending time with her. You just said Nat took her to the bookstore yesterday. Y/n is spending just as much time with Ori as she was before, and peanut has no idea what’s going on. You’re mad she’s not spending time with you.”

Bucky has nothing to say to that because Sam is right. He’s jealous and sad and misses her more than he wants to admit to anyone – himself included. If he doesn’t admit it, if he doesn’t say it out loud then it’s not real, and he still has time.There’s still the illusion he has time with her. 

“Have you tried talking to her and asking what happened?” Steve asks, much gentler than his other half. 

“Yeah, I text her. ‘Bout twenty times, and her replies are weird and stiff. You think I just stopped talking to her completely? I tried, okay?”

Sam rolls his eyes and grumbles under his breath, “For the love of…” He sits up and meets Bucky’s eyes speaking slow and clear, “Have you talked to her in person? Spelled it all out?  Because I swear the two of you need it in a flashing neon sign written out plainly for you both to see.” 

Bucky shifts in his chair and looks down at the empty bottle of water in his hand. Of course, Bucky has thought about driving to the bookstore. He thought about asking her if he did something, or said something to make her drop their night together. He’s thought about it at least a hundred times since she cancelled and every time he’s made it to the front door he stops himself because if he went there only to have her tell him to leave he doesn’t think his heart could take it. 

“She cancelled our date,” Bucky is quick to remind them. “I’m not going to just show up at her bookstore and be a creep when she obviously doesn’t want to be alone with me.” 

 “Your what?” Sam asks, a bit too eager. “She cancel;ed your what?” 

Bucky looks up to find Sam and Steve grinning at him and being set on fire would be a less painful death than this. He chucks his empty bottle of water at the couple who separate long enough to avoid the harmless plastic.

“Shut up. I hate you both,” Bucky stands up checking his phone before slipping it back into his pocket. No new messages. No missed calls. No replies. Not that he expected any. “Alright,” He cleared his throat of any lingering emotions. “Ori has that art show tonight. She’s submitting her fireworks in a jar and parents are supposed to put in their votes for the best artist so I’ll catch you jerks later.” 

“You bringing Ori over after her thing tonight? Just because you’re missing out on your date doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get to see our niece!” Sam shouts after him. Bucky doesn’t bother turning around, simply raises his hand and lets it drop back by his side.

“Yeah, Yeah. Be here around eight.”

Because a night alone was just what Bucky was hoping for. 

-----

Bucky stood next to Ori’s spot at the table her class was assigned to. Apparently, their classes were given animal mascots and her class was the Panda Class. Her table had a big Panda drawn on the bulletin board paper lining the tiny table. Bucky was helping her set up until about ten minutes when he was told by a certain curly-haired little girl that he was, truthfully, doing it all wrong and he should wait there to make sure everyone finds her spot. He has no idea what she is talking about. Bucky thought he put the poster board in the right spot and he’s the only one coming, so Bucky’s not entirely sure who he is supposed to help get to the table. 

Probably best he doesn’t ask, she gets her stress management from her Uncle Steve.

He spins around to check out their competition while Ori works, and there are a few pretty impressive displays. There are several pieces of artwork with bubblegum wrappers and another with melted candy turned into glass and Bucky’s a little worried about their changes. Not that fireworks in a jar aren’t the coolest, most original projects in the room but the parents had to vote (and yeah, Bucky thought that was pretty fucked up when they sent the flyer home) and Bucky knows adults aren’t always fair.

Now, Bucky isn’t proud of this, but for a brief moment, he thought about taking Natasha up on her offer to make sure Ori wins. He wasn’t sure what that would entail but knowing Natasha someone’s pigtails would be clipped by the end of the night. The idea of his bright-eyed girl leaving in tears had his hackles raised, but that wouldn’t be the best way to teach Ori about the real world, losing and earning your wins– Or that’s what Steve said anyway. 

“Daddy!” Ori squealed. “She’s here! She’s here!”

Bucky frowns as Ori rushes by him heading for the front doors of the cafeteria turned art gallery. Who the hell is Ori talking about? Bucky turns around in time to see Y/n hugging Ori against her, beaming like she does anytime she sees Ori. Y/n let Ori take her hand and leads her through the crowd, heading right for him. She looks anxious, maybe, or it could be the crowds. Y/n doesn’t like big crowds. Bucky’s not sure if he’s the reason behind her nerves, but she definitely looks nervous and so damn beautiful. 

Y/n stops in front of him letting Ori run back to the spot with her nametag written in glitter, leaving the two alone for the first time in far, far too long. Bucky catches a whiff of her lemon lotion, and that almond body spray she uses and his heart stutters back to life as if he hasn’t been living without a single beat since he lost her.

“Hey, December.”

Bucky grins for the first time in five days.

“Hey, Beck.”

Previous // Next 

[artificialqueens]

The Damned, Chapter 1/14 (Branjie) - Freyja

a/n: hello! i’m back, and with a new pet project! i’m a little bit into the next chapter, but i can’t promise anyone any sort of a date. i promise to work diligently on it, though - i just need a little encouragement to do so ;) i hope y'all love it as much as i do. special thanks to @freykitten for betaing!! i love you! and if you’re interested, here it is on AO3 - and a playlist to go with it.

fic summary: Vanessa is a renowned pirate framed for stealing the Cup of Light by the goddess of Chaos, Willam, to whom she owes a debt. Princess Yvie, her best friend since childhood, offers to take Vanessa’s place on death row in order to give her a chance to go and retrieve the Cup to prove her innocence.

Vanessa’s plan is to just flee to Fiji and away from her problems, but she soon finds she has a stowaway: Brooke Lynn Hytes, Yvie’s betrothed. She’s here to make sure Vanessa keeps her promise. She’s not here to fall in love with her, but we can’t always get what we want, now can we?

-

The envelope is heavy in Vanessa’s hands.

The paper is thick, scented with lavender, and completely foreign to touch. It’s smoother than the thin parchment she’s used to, the only imperfection a small dent from how far it must have traveled. It certainly hadn’t come from anywhere near Providence Island.

From the moment she’d touched it, she’d known this letter had come from a place of wealth. The sight of the royal seal tells her that she’d been more than right.

She’s tempted to fling it overboard.

She’s done it with every royal arrest warrant she’s gotten before: recieve it, slide it out the window at the back of her cabin once she’s back on the ship, and blacklist the port that had given it to her. She shouldn’t be hesitating like she is - she knows the patchwork quilt of The Damned’s sails acts like a target painted on the back of her head, so changing ports and tossing letters has become second nature. What’s catching her off guard, however, is that this one is addressed to ‘Vanjie’.

She hasn’t been called Vanjie in years.

The handwriting is shaky, the loop of the ‘j’ almost pointed, the hand that wrote it unsure and pressing too hard as a result. Yvie never could get the hang of calligraphy, never as light and delicate as her mother wanted her to be. Vanessa’s breath catches at the memory, bursting into her mind without warning.

Vanessa hasn’t seen Yvie in twelve years. She hasn’t spoken to her for longer. A familiar, dull ache blooms in the center of her chest as she traces the loop with her fingers, her breathing shaky and her heart beating so hard she can feel it in her fingertips.

She can’t say she regrets leaving, but if there’s one thing she would have done differently, it would have been to take Yvie with her.

God, she misses her.

She sits down heavily at her desk, pressing her fingers to her temple as she stares at the seal. Yvie probably isn’t the same person Vanessa remembers. She’s had over a decade to be educated as wealthy, as royalty, from history to diplomacy to how to wear her dress so that it just brushes the floor like so. Vanessa had even heard news of an engagement just last year, to a kingdom further north, and she remembers thinking that Yvie was now just that much further from her reach.

Vanessa knows Yvie was already making her way towards that person when she’d left, her usually bright grins fading into polite smiles, and she feels another pinch of regret and loss.

She almost doesn’t want to open it, but the chance that it’s a letter, a real attempt to reach out, is too great not to.

She pops the seal. Her hands shake as she unfolds the papers, and she reads eagerly, her heart in her throat with anticipation.

It takes her a moment to register exactly what it is, half of her convinced that it isn’t real, even as she holds the paper in her hands. She has to read it three times before she finally accepts what it says, the small, black script sending a small shock through her.

BY COMMAND OF HIS MAJESTY THE KING

Vanessa Mateo, friend of the royal family, is hereby cordially invited to attend the Coronation of Princess Yvette, soon to be Queen of Syracuse, on the date of June 28th, 1716. Guests are req–

Vanessa laughs.

It’s all she can even think to do, the absurdity of the situation hard to wrap her mind around. Not five minutes ago she was making plans to change ports, all in an effort to avoid getting a ‘P’ branded on her cheek and probably hanged afterwards. She’s been skirting around the Royal Navy for years. Now, she’s been invited personally by their new ruler to dance the waltz with them.

It could be a good way to fuck with them. To show up at the castle gates and flash the invitation before they can arrest her, royal seal and all. The idea is tempting - Vanessa’s never been one to deny herself a chance to gloat. She could see Yvie and try to heal the old wounds that she’s stupidly reopened. But the idea of seeing Yvie fills her with more nerves than hopes, and she thinks that perhaps going isn’t such a good idea after all.

It could be a trap. A way to lure her in, get her defenceless. She doubts they’d let her take in her crew, so it would just be her and maybe one other against the entire Royal Guard. She’d be fucked. Her friendship with Yvie has done the opposite of casting her in favor with the kingdom - her betrayal is considered one of the kingdom’s worst. It doesn’t matter that the friendship had been fading for two years before, or that she’d been seen more as Yvie’s pet than her friend. The Guard would tear into her and no one would stop them.

She looks back at the invitation, where she’d tossed it on her desk with a snort. She wonders if Yvie really had addressed it to Vanessa, if she would be disappointed if Vanessa never showed up. She wonders if seeing her in the crowd would make the crown heavier on Yvie’s head, if the act of swearing in as Vanessa’s enemy holds any weight at all.

She can’t do this.

She can’t meet Yvie’s fiance. She can’t stand in a room full of people who think she’s the worst thing to happen to Syracuse since the Black Death, and she definitely can’t look Yvie in the eye when she knows she’ll be the figurehead behind the greatest threat to her life. She feels a small spark of anger, and she grabs onto it, willing it to flare brighter.

It does.

She left for a reason. And Yvie - Yvie had been part of that.

She grabs the letter and crushes it into a ball, her newfound anger behind the sheer force of it. She hurls it across the room, not even bothering to watch where it lands, whirling around to sit at her desk properly, grabbing a quill and the ledger, and bending over it with the intent to update the numbers and forget about the letter sitting six feet behind her.

She takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the way the ship rocks with the waves even at anchor, and puts the tip of the quill to the paper. She can hardly concentrate. Scarlet is usually the person who fills out the ledger, her ability to keep track of money something like that of a tax collector, and Vanessa usually only reviews it. Even still - she should be able to fill it out, to do simple addition, but her mind refuses to cooperate.

She feels like she’s making a mistake. She feels like she’s throwing something away, missing something important. It’s bothering her, an itch at the back of her mind, and before she can stop herself, she’s reviewing the entire situation again.

It could be a trap, or it could be an olive branch. The cons definitely outweigh the pros of going. The outcome will either be a reconnection she doesn’t even know if she wants, or it will be certain death. Besides, it being a real invitation sounds more and more unlikely, especially with the current king on the verge of death already. They wouldn’t allow a potential threat to come so close to their last hope.

Vanessa has everything to lose by going, and nothing to gain. Nothing to make risking her ass worth it, except–

Shocked realization drops like a weight into her stomach.

Nothing would make it worth it, except for The Cup of Peace. Syracuse’s pride and joy. The source of its wealth, of its success, of its life. It’s priceless. It’s the greatest treasure in the world. The man who yields it is the man with everything.

Vanessa could steal it. Easily.

An event like this will have the guards spread thin. She knows the ins and outs of that castle like the back of her hand. She has years of using the secret passages under her belt, always encouraged to use them in order to prevent ambassadors and diplomats from seeing such an unseemly thing as a servant. She can pay off her debt. She can finally free herself completely, finally cut from all ties. Cut from her.

She can’t deny that she also thinks showing up to the coronation with an invitation would be a great way to fuck with the kingdom that’s given her so much pain.

If hurting the kingdom that chewed her up and spit her back out is the only way she can earn her freedom, then she is all too happy to take that deal.

…

Vanessa has never used the main gates before.

She’d hardly left the castle when she was a kid, work and home wrapped in one, but when she had, she’d always used the servant’s door at the side of the building. They’d been forbidden from the main entrance, relegated to the longer, dustier backways.

Now, every eye is on Vanessa as she strolls through the gates, bypassing the dwindling line of sparkling ball gowns and silk waistcoats in boots she hasn’t bothered to wash in at least a year.

She’s never been more pleased with herself.

No one tries to stop her when she cuts to the front of the line, eyeing the sword she has slung across her back, the handle catching the light of the setting sun. She tips her hat at them all, not quite able to keep a smirk off of her face.

Before, she would have been nothing. A piece of the background. A hand to help with coats and furs. Now, she’s something to be feared.

She’s beginning to think that this was a good idea, after all.

She steps up to the doorman confidently, smirking at the alarm that makes his eyebrows arch almost comically. He doesn’t turn to the guard standing beside him, though - the staff must have been alerted to her potential arrival. It kind of takes some of the fun out of slapping the invitation onto his chest, but the disgust on his face when she does so makes it more than worth it.

“There you go!” she says cheerfully, giving him a grin. “By special order of the king himself!”

He sneers at her, but his hand comes up to hold the letter in place against his uniform, allowing her to draw her hand back. “I was beginning to hope that you weren’t going to show up,” he says, revealing a haughty accent that makes Vanessa want to punch him in the teeth.

“Well,” Vanessa says, twisting her lips. “I’m here now. You gonna let me in, or what?”

“I have to stamp this, first,” he says. The words apparently taste like lemons, because his face puckers up as he says them. “And, uh, those,” he waves a delicate hand towards Vanessa’s sword, and the pistols resting at her hips. Luckily, he can’t see the knife hidden in her boot. “They have to go.”

Vanessa scowls at him as he proceeds to unfold her invitation, bending over to inspect it like the possibility that she’s somehow orchestrated the whole thing still exists, and that a forged letter is what’s going to bring her down.

“You’re not takin’ my weapons,” she tells him, and he looks up at her from beneath a raised eyebrow.

“If you want to get even an inch inside of this castle, ma’am,” he spits it out like she’s unworthy of the term (and she probably is), “then yes, we are.”

Irritation and anxiety ball up in her chest as the guard next to them steps a little closer, making his intent to follow through with the doorman’s threat clear. She wishes she had Scarlet with her. Or A’keria. A’keria would know how to sweet talk them into leading her straight to the Cup, no tomfoolery required.

Unfortunately, Vanessa has not been allowed a plus one. How surprising.

“Fine,” she says stiffly. At least she’ll still have her lucky knife, the pearl handle just barely visible when looking straight down into her boot. They won’t spot it. “But you’re gonna take good care of ‘em.”

“That’s assuming we’re going to let you have them back,” the doorman says primly, and a flash of red-hot anger strikes Vanessa like lightning. The fucking nerve–

“That’s assumin’ you’re gonna get them at all, you motherfucker, considerin’ I’m the only one standing here with a gu–”

“Jesus Christ, what did you say to her?”

Vanessa feels the world dip underneath her, shock making her flinch like a gun’s just been fired.

She didn’t expect–

Her entire body freezes in place, her heart the only exception, beating so hard that she can feel it in her throat. All she can do is stare at the woman who’s just appeared behind the doorman, her maroon velvet gown just barely touching the floor and her dark hair pulled into an elegant twist.

Yvie looks different than she had at sixteen, obviously. She’s still gangly, on the edge of too skinny, but she’s grown into it. Her eyebrows are still sharp, as well as her eyes, but something about her face has softened. She looks settled into herself. She looks like a queen.

Vanessa briefly feels the urge to straighten her jacket, to tie up her shirt, and try to comb out her hair. She feels inferior to Yvie, and she hates it. Even when she’d been Yvie’s handmaiden, even when she’d helped the other girl dress and bathe and eat, she’d never felt like they were anything but equals.

The thought makes resentment harden in her chest.

“What did I say? She’s the pirate!” the doorman says, voice loud with affront, and Vanessa tears her eyes away from Yvie, glaring at the doorman and hardening herself against the torrent of emotions swirling around in her gut. She’s come face to face with the Kraken - she can handle a stranger from the past.

Even if that stranger used to be her best friend.

“She’s only here to trick us,” the doorman continues, sneering. “You’d be a fool not to suspect her. My lady,” he tacks on hastily, his face turning a cherry red. Luckily for him, Yvie doesn’t seem to mind the lack of formality.

“She’s a guest,” Yvie says sharply, and her tone makes a bolt of familiarity strike Vanessa like lightning. “With a personal fucking invitation. Your nose should be touching the fucking floor when you greet her.”

There’s a brief moment of shocked silence.

“Language, my lady,” the doorman eventually says, voice weak. Yvie raises an eyebrow.

“Are you questioning me?” she asks, frowning severely even as her cheeks take on a dusky pink. Vanessa snorts despite herself.

She watches as the doorman stammers out an apology, affection rising in her throat. She feels fourteen years old again, watching Yvie bite into the Head Servant for yelling at Vanjie just a little too loudly.

Maybe Yvie hasn’t changed as much as she thought.

“You’re lucky she ain’t the queen yet,” Vanessa points out, eager to pile on. “Otherwise…” she draws a line across her throat with her thumb, and the doorman’s nostrils flare with annoyance. Yvie just laughs, loud amongst the quiet titters of the guests still waiting to be let in, growing restless now that the sun is almost completely set.

“I missed you, V,” Yvie says, still grinning, and Vanessa’s heart aches. Part of her believes it.

“Can’t say the same to you,” she jokes, but her voice comes out a little softer than she wants it to. She can tell Yvie understands, even if Vanessa can’t get out the words she wants to say - I missed you too, so much - and Vanessa doesn’t know if she resents the fact that Yvie can still read her like a book, or if she finds it comforting.

“Pardon me. I forgot - you’re a big, bad pirate now,” Yvie says, rolling her eyes, and then, with no regard for the pistols still strapped to Vanessa’s hips or the sword strung across her back, she grabs Vanessa’s hand and pulls her gently into the castle.

Vanessa lets her.

The halls are as long and winding as Vanessa remembers, the portraits just as looming, and cold, painted eyes follow them as they make their way to the ballroom. The chandeliers have been lit, casting everything in a warm light, dark shadows yawning across the hardwood, and Vanessa can just barely hear the noises of a celebration. She allows Yvie to tug her along for part of the way, the cold fingers of being back in this place creeping down her spine and Yvie’s a weak sort of comfort.

Being back after over a decade of freedom feels stifling, and she has to push down the growing urge to run. Has to remind herself that they’d sooner kill her than try to put her back in the servant’s quarters.

She isn’t a servant anymore. She’s independent - a captain. No one controls her except for herself, at least not like that.

In that way, she’s even safer than Yvie.

“So,” Vanessa starts loudly, tearing her eyes away from the paintings on the walls. She shakes her wrist out of Yvie’s grip, jogging a little to catch up to Yvie’s long strides. “What were you doin’ out there?”

Yvie frowns at her, slowing her pace seemingly subconsciously. Vanessa pretends like she doesn’t notice, although she’s grateful to not have to stretch her legs to their limits. “What?”

“You know,” Vanessa says, rolling her eyes. “Ain’t you the guest of honor? Shouldn’t you be in there, talkin’ to other princesses and shit?”

Yvie snorts at her. “It’s like you’ve forgotten who I am,” she says, and it’s clearly a joke, but Vanessa feels it like a punch to her gut.

“No,” she says, after a beat. She thinks she does a good job of sounding unphased. “I just thought all that training might have actually gotten through that big head of yours.”

Yvie tries to gasp with offense, but she ends up ruining it with a loud cackle. “Don’t forget that I can have you hanged,” she says, and Vanessa should be running cold with fear. Instead, she just laughs. She’s missed this.

“Damn,” she says, widening her eyes sarcastically. “Is that really the last straw? Tellin’ the truth?”

“It’s the worst thing you’ve ever done,” Yvie says haughtily, and Vanessa laughs.

“Worse than robbin’ Captain What’s-His-Face last year?”

Yvie raises her eyebrows. “Worse than stealing my mother’s rubies, even,” she says, and Vanessa sucks in a breath. She’d forgotten about that.

She laughs weakly, guilt curling deep into her belly. “Damn,” she says, and she can’t think of anything else to say, surprise making her mind blank.

“I know,” Yvie teases, “so watch your mouth.”

She sounds like she couldn’t care less about it, but Vanessa knows that can’t be true. Yvie’s mother has been dead for a long time, and Vanessa had taken those rubies from her nightstand with the intent of hurting her. She can’t imagine that Yvie had just shrugged it off when she found them missing.

She’d used the rubies to pay her way onto the merchant ship that had taken her away, a final ‘fuck you’ to the kingdom that had never cared about her. Even still, regret pinches sharply in her chest. She tries not to think about the fact that she’s here now to do the exact same thing.

She takes a deep breath in an attempt to assuage the guilt curdling in her chest. She has to do this. If Vanessa wants to be free again–

She has no choice.

“Remember what we used to do at things like this?” Yvie asks, and it startles Vanessa out of her reverie. She glances at Yvie, trying to gauge how she’s feeling. She doesn’t look bitter, nothing but excitement and naked hope in her expression. She quickly glances away again.

“You mean when we stole all the tarts from the kitchens?” she asks, and Yvie’s laugh makes a smile curl up at the corners of her mouth. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“I always ate way too many,” Yvie sighs. “I always threw up afterwards. You, though, you’ve got a stomach made of iron.”

Vanessa slaps her stomach, giving Yvie a shit-eating grin. “What? Jealous?”

“Of that?” Yvie raises a skeptical eyebrow, chuckling. Yvie still remains the only woman Vanessa has heard honest-to-god chortle. “No. It’s probably for the best that the Queen doesn’t need to eat five servings before she’s actually full.”

Vanessa lets out a little shriek, giving Yvie a light shove. “That was just because I was in the middle of a growth spurt!”

“What growth spurt? You’ve been the same size since you were like, eight.”

Vanessa gasps. “I’ve killed people for less, Miss Yvette, don’t even try–”

“Ooooo, the big, bad pirate is going to get me! Whatever shall I do?”

“There ain’t even any guards in here, stupid, so I’d watch that sarcasm real good.”

“Oh, and have you been keeping track of the guards? Aiming to steal that portrait of my uncle?”

Vanessa freezes for a split second. Well. Is it the most precious artifact on the continent?

She almost wants to laugh at how comically close Yvie is to guessing the truth.

“No,” she manages to get out without too much time passing. “No one would buy his ugly face.”

“I was thinking it could be for your captain’s cabin,” Yvie says, stopping briefly to narrow her eyes and frame her hands in front of her face, like she can see Vanessa’s cabin in her mind’s eye. Vanessa glances at the open doors to the ballroom, just a few steps away. “Right above the bed.”

“Ha,” Vanessa says, and she keeps walking. She hears Yvie jog to catch up. “You’re right. I came here to steal some new decorations.”

“I knew it,” Yvie says, and there’s a brief pause. “But actually - why did you come?”

Vanessa’s breath catches. She’s been dreading this question. She’s always been a terrible liar - she can’t possibly look Yvie in the eye and tell her anything but the truth without her knowing. “What?”

“Why did you–”

Desperate to avoid the question, Vanessa speeds the rest of the way into the ballroom, the noise of the celebration washing out the rest of Yvie’s sentence. Large hoop skirts press against her from all sides, leaving barely any room for Yvie to follow, but the guests make sure to clear a path for her when she follows Vanessa in, grabbing her wrist once again.

“See why I came out to join you?” she asks, face close in order to be heard, and Vanessa snorts at her.

“No!” she says, shaking her head, and Yvie rolls her eyes fondly. Vanessa has always loved parties, loved to be around people and booze and fun, but Yvie’s always preferred to be alone in her room, either with Vanessa or with a book. Stealing the tarts had been a compromise between them, an idea of Vanessa’s invention. There was the thrill for her in stealing them, and the quiet for Yvie in eating them afterwards, giggling quietly in her room.

She remembers the secretive giggles they used to share, mouths stained with berries as they hid behind some curtain or plant, and a feeling she can’t identify wells up in her chest. She almost wants to stomp her foot with frustration, tired of looking at everything and being hit with some memory, some hard emotion that she can’t shake.

Returning here is starting to feel less and less like a good idea.

“Come on!” Yvie says loudly over the noise, jerking Vanessa’s attention back to her. “There’s someone I want you to meet!”

Vanessa nods, and she allows Yvie to lead her through the crowd, most of it parting in the presence of their soon-to-be queen and a known pirate with blood on her hands. It makes Vanessa smirk, a little, and she starts scanning the crowd for guards with a little more confidence. She’s here for one reason, and that reason isn’t reconnecting with Yvie.

No matter how much it’s starting to feel like it.

The soldiers seem to be all lining the walls, stoic faces watching the crowd closely. She grins as she counts, realizing that the majority of the king’s guard have been placed in the ballroom, likely ordered to protect the royal family from assassination. Judging by the number she’d seen outside, the rest have been assigned weapons duty. She hadn’t seen any in the hallways, and she can’t quite decide if the king is so hubristic that he thinks no one would dare to try anything, or if he’s too foolish to even think about the possibility.

Either way, it seems as though her luck hasn’t run out just yet.

Yvie drags her all the way across the ballroom, near the set of thrones that she’s intended to be crowned at. But instead of ascending the steps towards her father, perched on the left seat, she takes a sharp right, towards one of the servant’s exits. Near it waits a tall woman, alone with a glass of champagne, wearing a dress that shifts like silver pieces in the moonlight.

As they approach, Vanessa realizes two things.

One: this woman is the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen, with curled blonde hair and dark, severe eyebrows. Her blue eyes are hooded and piercing, her lips a dark ruby color that split to reveal pearly white teeth when she smiles at them. Just looking at her makes Vanessa’s heart flip around in her chest, and all thoughts of guards and Cups and treasure drop out of her head as she stares.

Two: this is definitely Yvie’s fiance.

“Yvette,” she greets, the name still not-quite-familiar in her pronunciation. She gives them a smile that Vanessa has seen on hundreds of other diplomats, and the butterflies in her stomach fade a little in the face of it. “Who is this?”

Yvie beams. “This,” she proudly announces, dragging Vanessa up to stand by her side, “is Vanessa Mateo. Vanessa, this is Brooke Lynn Hytes, my betrothed.”

Brooke’s eyes sear into her as they give her a once-over, and Vanessa tries not to shift under her gaze, making sure to meet her eyes when they come back up to rest on her face. “A pleasure to meet you,” Brooke says stiffly, and she gives her a small, barely there nod. Vanessa can tell she doesn’t even want to do that much. “Miss Mateo.”

Vanessa can practically feel the disdain dripping off of her words, and she grins to prove that she doesn’t care. She’ll be damned before she lets someone think they’re better than her. “Miss Hytes,” she greets, and she does a mocking curtsey of her own. Brooke’s eyebrow twitches up, betraying her surprise, and Vanessa is once again struck by her beauty.

“How are you enjoying your visit, Miss Mateo?”

Brooke’s tone makes it clear that she thinks the ‘miss’ should be dropped off of Vanessa’s name entirely, and Vanessa doesn’t disagree with her. The glance Brooke shoots at Yvie, though, makes it clear that the ‘miss’ will be staying. Vanessa smirks.

Brooke doesn’t want to make Yvie upset.

Vanessa has no such qualms.

“Please,” Vanessa says, waving a dismissive hand. She almost knocks Brooke’s champagne flute out of her hand, and Brooke jerks it back, spilling a little. Vanessa has to swallow back a laugh at the glare she receives as a result. Jesus, woman. Relax. “It’s just Vanessa. And as for my visit - it’s nice to be off the ship for a night.”

Interest flickers in Brooke’s eyes, and Vanessa frowns at the sight of it. She’d expected Brooke to sneer at the mention of what she is, not - not this. “You mean The Damned?”

“You heard of it?” Vanessa laughs, but she tucks that interest into the back of her mind, trying not to let her eyes linger too curiously. “She ain’t as pretty right now. We still need to fix the paint job after a run in with Thunder. That whore put fuckin’ spikes on her sides! Who does that?”

Brooke’s eyes are almost gleaming with interest, but her expression remains flat. Vanessa is intrigued by it - is she going to ask something? Is there some hidden part of her that Vanessa hasn’t sussed out? - up until Brooke actually opens her mouth to say something.

“I’ve heard of it,” she says lightly, smiling like she’s joking even as her eyes remain perfectly serious, “I have a pretty good idea what it’s like on there as well, with you talking like that.”

“Like what,” Vanessa asks flatly, expression dropping and irritation already creeping its way through her chest. Brooke’s eyebrows arch like she’s surprised Vanessa’s asking.

“Harshly,” she says smoothly, but Vanessa understands that she wants to say uncivilized. Understood even before she’d asked. It makes anger flare in her chest, and she sets her mouth in a straight line as she meets Brooke’s judgemental gaze.

“I’m a harsh woman,” she says, and there’s that interest again. She decides she doesn’t care anymore.

“And what do you thin–”

“Enough about me,” Vanessa interrupts, because why bother following the rules when no one expects it of you? “How’d you two meet? Was it mutually arranged or is someone desperate for money?”

Brooke’s eyes widen, her brow furrowing, but before she can snap back, Yvie steps in with a sharp “Vanessa.”

It hurts more than it should, and Vanessa avoids Yvie’s gaze as she rolls her lips between her teeth, swallowing the emotion that wants to well up in her throat. She keeps a glare firmly on Brooke. “Sorry,” she says, after a beat of silence, and she risks a glance at Yvie. She knows she doesn’t sound genuine, but Yvie still looks appeased, perhaps a little relieved.

Had she thought Vanessa would make a scene? Draw her sword and threaten Yvie for a stern look?

A feeling that Vanessa doesn’t recognize balls up in her chest at the thought, and she decides it’s anger. Anger is always easiest.

“It’s alright,” Yvie says, and her eyes dart towards Brooke. “No big deal.”

They stand in awkward silence for what feels like ages, none of them quite knowing how to break the tension that’s fallen over them like a thick blanket. Vanessa takes the opportunity to scope the hallway they’re standing near for guards, resolve hardening in her chest. She reminds herself that she’s here for the Cup. Nothing else.

The minute she can get away from Yvie, she’ll–

“Princess!” a voice calls, and relief breaks over the three of them as they spot an older woman hurrying towards them, an urgent expression on her face. Her pink ball gown is so wide at the hips that it looks like she could fit two full grown men underneath either side, and her graying hair is piled on top of her hand in a towering mess of curls and flowers. Vanessa recognizes her as a duchess that comes to visit around once a month, a dear friend of Yvie’s mother that stuck around even after her death.

“Come! Come!” she calls, waving a beckoning hand at Yvie. “We haven’t seen you in ages. My husband - he wants to meet you and that beautiful fiance of yours!”

“Of course!” Yvie calls back, and she looks at Vanessa, an invitation in her eyes. Vanessa shakes her head before she can even start speaking - she knows an opening when she sees one. Besides, the last thing she wants to do is tag along with the happy couple to meet more people who will look down their noses at her.

“I gotta go p– uh, powder my nose,” Vanessa says, stumbling over more crass language and immediately cursing herself for it. Why does she care what they think of her? “I’ll see you in a bit, alright?”

Yvie looks hesitant, but she nods. Vanessa tries not to stick her tongue out at the way Brooke presses her lips together. “Have some food and have fun, okay?” Yvie says, and Vanessa is still nodding when the duchess finally just grabs Yvie’s arm and yanks her back towards where her husband must be waiting, Brooke following reluctantly.

Vanessa waits until Brooke’s silvery gown disappears into the crowd, and then she looks for any other onlookers. Once she determines that everyone else is either occupied or drunk, she slips into the hallway, Yvie’s wary face still burned into her memory.

She’s a pirate. If Yvie can’t forgive it, then why even bother feeling guilty?

…

The halls are relatively empty, with everyone and their mother dancing to celebrate their new queen, but Vanessa sticks to the servants’ passages just to be safe. She darts in and out of them, depending on which is making the most amount of noise, the thrill of nearly being caught each time only encouraging her more.

The quickest way to the tower is through the courtyard, so after weaving her way back to the center of the castle, Vanessa ducks out into the garden. The moon is shining brightly, illuminating the flower beds almost as well as the sun itself, and she slips behind one of the hedges lining the perimeter to get her bearings.

With the lack of anything taller than her shoulder and the moonlight lighting everything as if the courtyard were a stage, it’s nearly impossible to sneak through to the other side. Vanessa can’t see past her hedge well enough to check for anyone, nervous despite the eerie silence. Silence doesn’t erase the risk of stoic guards at position, nor of guests trying to find somewhere private to fuck around.

She sucks in a deep breath, craning her neck around to see past the leaves as far as she dares.

Nothing.

She spends what feels like years watching the wind gently move the flowers, allowing her body to settle as she waits for whoever might be out there to tip her off. She’s on a time limit - the faster she gets in and out of that tower, the less time anyone has to notice her absence - but she won’t even have that if she gets caught before she’s even in the right section of the castle.

She waits for a little while longer, holding her breath. She counts to sixty for the fifth time.

Nothing.

She has to move now, if she wants even a chance at getting the Cup.

Deciding that the best move is to make her way across the courtyard as quickly as possible, reducing the amount of time she could get spotted, she darts out from behind the hedges and begins making her way through the garden at a brisk walk. She could run, but on the off chance that someone sees her, she still wants to retain at least a hint of an excuse. Running doesn’t provide very many.

She winds her way through the flowerbeds, her eyes fixed firmly on the archways on the other side. She’s almost–

She nearly collides with another woman, moving so quickly that Vanessa misses her face entirely, only the flash of blonde hair making any sort of impression. That, and the way she’d almost been gliding with the speed of her pace.

The movement reminds Vanessa of her, and a bolt of fear spikes through her at the thought as she spins around to look behind her, still moving. What was she doing here? Vanessa’s holding up her end of the deal, why would she–

The woman is gone.

There’s no sign that anyone had passed her, no trace of anyone having ever been in the garden, and Vanessa is still trying to come up with an explanation for it when she does actually crash into someone.

She nearly falls over with the force of their collision, the person she’s practically run into head first surprisingly sturdy. She makes an undignified yelp as she leaps back, desperately trying to regain her footing and schooling her expression into something that isn’t the panic currently crawling through her limbs like ants. Hands suddenly grip her biceps, effectively pinning her in place, and Vanessa’s stomach drops down to somewhere around her ankles. Only a guard could possibly have a hold this strong, and one guard always means more to come.

“I knew it,” someone hisses, and Vanessa’s heart rate spikes dramatically. Fuck. She’s completely screwed, and she hasn’t even made it to the right side of the castle yet.

She’s starting to think that she never will.

“No,” she says automatically, struggling, but the guard only squeezes tighter. Vanessa tries to slow her breathing in a vain effort to not look like she’s been caught with her hand in the goddamn cookie jar, and she stills, raising her eyes up to meet the guard’s coolly and calmly, an explanation on the tip of her tongue.

Relief floods through her veins the moment her eyes meet cool blue, however, and it severs her excuse at the root, her voice bubbling up in a relieved laugh instead.

“Miss Brooke,” she says, unable to keep the relief out of her tone. “I thought you was a guard.”

Brooke raises a cool eyebrow, her expression hard. “A guard?” her tone is suspicious, and Vanessa raises her eyebrows at her, plastering an innocent expression over her face, like she doesn’t quite understand what Brooke is getting at.

“Who else would be grabbin’ me?” she asks. “Besides you, apparently.”

She glances pointedly at where Brooke is still holding her, her eyes flickering back up to Brooke’s for her response. She’s suddenly all too aware of how close they are, close enough that Vanessa can smell the rose perfume on Brooke’s skin, see the way the moonlight shines through her blue eyes like glass. Her breath catches, and Brooke’s stutters and she’s suddenly releasing Vanessa like she’s just been burned, taking several steps back. Vanessa can only watch her, her heart pounding like she’s just run a marathon.

“Worried about being caught?” Brooke asks, and her voice only wavers slightly. Vanessa barks a laugh. She’s normally good under pressure, but she’s sweating like a man on death row. What the fuck is happening to her?

“Doing what?” she asks, looking at Brooke like she’s stupid, even if she’s clearly the opposite. “Lookin’ at the roses?”

“Yvie doesn’t keep roses,” Brooke says flatly. “She thinks they’re tacky.”

Vanessa should have known that. She does know that. It just hasn’t been important for years. “Tulips, then. Does it matter?”

“It matters that you don’t seem to know what you’ve been looking at for the past fifteen minutes.”

Vanessa blinks. “I’ve been gone that long?” It had felt more like ten.

“Give or take.”

“Well. The garden’s bigger than I thought.”

Brooke’s eyebrow twitches imperceptibly. “The garden, or the castle?”

Vanessa meets her stare easily. “The garden.”

Brooke breathes in through her nose. Her expression is unmoving, but she’s still giving off the impression that she’s about to snap. “I don’t trust you.”

Vanessa huffs disbelievingly, her laugh so soft it’s barely a puff of air. “Yvie trusts me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Anger suddenly balloons in Vanessa’s chest, the truth of the comment wedging between her ribs like a knife. Yvie does trust her, and both she and Brooke know it. They also both know that trust is going to be broken. Vanessa resents her for it.

“Yvie knows me,” she hisses. “Since we were kids. Shouldn’t you trust her?”

“It’s been twelve years,” Brooke says flatly. “Something tells me you’ve changed a little.”

A lot.

“Not so much that I can’t be trusted,” Vanessa says, and Brooke just looks at her. Vanessa steels herself against her stare, holding her head high and stubbornly refusing to look behind her, to check if she isn’t still there.

A sudden bolt of panic lights up within her at the reminder, and her eyes flick to the doorway just behind Brooke’s shoulder. She’s running out of time.

She racks her brain for solutions, turning back to Brooke and holding her stare. There’s no way Brooke is letting her continue on her own. She’s paranoid to a fault - not that it’s a fault, in this case. Vanessa needs to shake her, somehow, scrape her off of her like gum off of a shoe.

“I need to use the ladies room,” she says, and Brooke looks a little startled. She’d clearly expected more of a fight. “Can you lead me to one?”

“Again?” Brooke asks suspiciously. Vanessa shakes her head.

“I got lost trying to find it,” she explains. “Can’t do that again with a guide, though.”

Brooke takes a moment to think about it, and Vanessa uses the time to admire her as she stands in the moonlight, her hair nearly white where the light shines off of it. She’s tall and broad, with strong shoulders and a collarbone on full display in her sleeveless gown. Her arms are well-toned - she’s clearly been trained in combat. Vanessa wonders what sort of kingdom she comes from, if they train her in that. It’s attractive. She wants to run her fingers over that collarbone, wants Brooke to pick her up with those arms and just–

“Fine,” Brooke says shortly, and Vanessa knows she jolts like she’s just been electrocuted, but she can’t help it. Brooke frowns at her. “Follow me.”

She turns, and Vanessa lets out a relieved breath as she leads her towards the doorway behind her, her dress almost ethereal in the silver light of the moon. Vanessa wonders if she looks just as beautiful, despite her yellowed shirt and scuffed boots. Maybe she looks dead, like the songs say the cursed look when the moon shines on them.

It’s just a myth, obviously, but sometimes Vanessa does feel dead, like her entire life has been signed away.

If you get this Cup, she tells herself, it won’t be.

Once inside, Brooke leads her up the hall and to the left, just a few turns away from the tower housing the Cup of Peace. She gestures towards an old oak door, her gaze slightly softened from what it had been in the garden. Vanessa feels like she could look at her for hours.

“Thanks,” she says, and she opens the door. Brooke catches her arm as she starts to slip inside, making a thousand tiny lightning bolts spark across her skin.

“Five minutes,” she says sternly. “Then we’re going back to the party.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vanessa says, only a little sarcastically. She salutes Brooke with her free hand, and then she’s stepping inside of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her and locking it with a snick.

She takes a moment to calm herself down, leaning back against the door and staring at the mirror across the room. She looks out of place against the white of the walls, her dark hair in knots and random braids, and the kohl she’d smeared across her eyes yesterday smudged to absolute fuck.

She thinks that the softer look in Brooke’s eyes might have been trust. The thought makes something in her stomach pang, and she ruthlessly smothers it down, guilt threatening to bubble up to the surface. She hadn’t been expecting to break the trust of two people.

She sucks in a deep breath. Her freedom is worth more than Yvie’s feelings, much less Brooke’s. She’d made that decision twelve years ago, and she’ll gladly make it again.

She straightens, adjusting her jacket and admiring herself in the mirror. She tilts her hat, allowing the blood red of her bandana a little bit of spotlight. She’s a pirate. She steals. She’s good at it. She just needs to remember that.

She gives herself one last nod in the mirror, and she steps towards the wall to her right, pressing her hand to the shelf there. The wall swings open, revealing a dim passageway lit by flickering torches. She knows it will curve back around, leading right to the staircase leading up towards the top of the tower.

Brooke had led her right where she’d wanted to go, and with less hassle than if she’d snuck here alone.

She’ll have to remember to send her a thank you note.

[maximumninjavoid]

Mining for Unobtanium Chapter 28

Oh ho......... Why yes, I am.  And here’s some more for you thirsty wenches. The twenty Eight installment of my fic. I know, right? I just can’t stop.

Un Beta’s, we die like chocolate in a child’s pocket.

The usual warnings, I suppose18 AND OVER, nsfw,  BDSM and all that,

Dinner was lovely. The roast turned out perfectly, precisely mid rare, and while Henry wasn't looking someone must have given Kal  trimmings. I have no idea who that could have been. Oh. I imagine you're wondering about whether or not we talked about ethical ownership over dinner. We didn't. Someone was still butt hurt  that the whole cock warming  thing didn't go the way he had read about it. When there's no friction, even as randy of a buck as he is, one's member won't stay throbbing and tumescent. And if I'm not supposed to move, well, then, that's less friction. So,it sounded good in theory, but it was not as fun as he thought, having me kind of in his way and not really getting any benefit. I could sort of sense that it wasn't entirely what he had planned, and so, good girl that I was being, I got up, apologizing profusely for OBVIOUSLY doing something incorrectly, and laying myself face down over his lap for *correction*. We're always at least three steps ahead of you. Don't kid yourselves. He place one hand between my shoulder blades and told me to count and that other hand came down on my ass like a big meaty brick. "One, Sir". He smacked my ass again. "Two, Sir" I could feel him getting hard now, so I squirmed and wiggled, because, friction. He slipped his hand between my cheeks and commented about how this was getting me wet, and smacked my ass again and then fingered my cunt. "Three, Sir, I'm sorry" and I can feel my walls gripping his fingers, and I'm thinking maybe he's not thinking about spanking me anymore. As sure as God made little green apples, he grabs a fist full of my hair, right at the base, oh GOD THAT FEELS so good, I moaned and he practically tosses me over the arm of the sofa and jams that huge dick all the way home, one stroke. I gasped. Ok, maybe I screamed. But, not in a bad way, and he had one hand at my waist the other in my hair and I was definitely going to be walking differently Every snap of his hips shoved his cock to my cervix, and threatened to split me in two. And I kept trying to push back for more. "Oh God Daddy, please..." "Please, what?" Please let me cum all over your cock, Daddy" "You're forgiven darling, cum for Daddy." And I came apart, Shuddering, tears, unglued. And he roared like some animal, and I felt him pulsing ropes of his seed into me, and he collapsed on top of me like a weighted blanket with hair.  This was heaven, surely. Consciousness returned. He got up, I moved to get something to clean up with, I brought him a drink and a damp towel, because, service. I asked permission to check on dinner and popped out for a few drags off a cigarette. I plated and served dinner and returned to tell him that his dinner was ready. There was only his place set at the table. He gave me that eyebrow thing again. "Assumptions, remember? It may not be my place to dine with you. What if you were having guests? What if you preferred I sit at your feet and eat only what you feed me from your hand? " "If I have guests?" "Sir. If you wished it, I would cook for guests. And serve." "Wearing what you're wearing now?" "That would be your choice, and I'm not wearing anything now. I could wear only what you allow, choose or what you tell me." It was a bit to process. He bade me get a plate and eat with him, and we talked about the scripts, and the music I had picked and he didn't appear to want to talk about heavier things. So we had a delightful dinner, filled with small talk. It was comfortable and I enjoyed every minute I spent in his company. He was so well versed, about so many topics. I tried to tempt him with dessert. I should have known he would refuse. I sent him off to relax and do whatever and I did the washing up, tidied up the kitchen and asked if he wanted tea or coffee. He asked me to come sit with him, and I did. Happily. We watched a movie, cuddled on the couch, heaven. I asked to get up for a moment, he nodded. I got upstairs before he did and turned down the bed. I fluffed his pillows and smoothed the duvet, and went back down to tell him that all was ready for him to retire, unless there was anything else. Did he want a bath? A massage?  He looked at me and took my hand and said " Come darling, let's go to bed" I followed him, with my hand in his, We got to the bed and I asked his permission.  "What?"   " Well, you didn't say that this is where I sleep. If you'd prefer, I could sleep at the foot of the bed, or, if I had not earned it, then I should sleep on the floor. One never assumes. Privileges are gifts." " You really ARE a good girl, aren't you? I'm never going to get to spank you again " " Not for disobeying, no. But I am yours to do with as you see fit. If you desire to spank me, or flog me, or what have you, you don't need a reason." "Well there's my plan for tomorrow then" and he pulled me into his arms and kissed me thoroughly.  We got into bed all wrapped up in each other, Kal making room for himself and safe and happy I drifted off to sleep. I awoke the next morning melting. Between the blast furnace that was Henry and the baby bear known as Kal I swear, I was going to melt. I had to figure out how to get out from between them, one of them tightened their grip and the other one made a growly noise. I pried his arm loose and inelegantly slid out of the bottom of the bed. I headed for the shower and my morning routine, and managed not to wake either bear. I tiptoe downstairs, made coffee and brought a cup for him and set it on the nightstand. I couldn't help myself. I just stood there and looked at him. Committed it to memory. Tried to burn it into my brain. I thought about waking him up with a blow job, but figured Kal needed to go out . I tossed on a hoodie and jeans and took the puppy for his morning ritual. When I got back, I took off my clothes, put them away and brought fresh coffee for His Lordship.  He was in the shower, so I stepped in to wash his back. "Good morning ! Did you sleep well?" "Mmm yes, I did but it was odd waking up in the bed by myself" "Oh, do tell? Hot and cold running starlets Sir?" He laughed."No, I was referring to Kal. And you, of course." "Oh, I melted. You both throw off a great deal of heat. " He turned and kissed me. I put my arms around his neck, and came in closer, loving the feel of his chest against mine, the hair on this chest making my nipples hard. I slid down the front of him taking him in my mouth and cupping his balls with my hand . Eagerly I began to slide my mouth up and down his member, loving the feel of him growing as I sucked. He leaned back against the tile and held my face in his hands . I looked up at him and he began to fuck my face. Breathe through your nose, if you don't breathe through your nose on the down stroke you'll gag, and that's NOT sexy. I tried to relax and take him deeper down my throat but the angle wasn't great. I settled for wrapping my other hand around what wouldn't fit and trying to coordinate my movements. He began thrusting faster, and I felt his muscles tense. Protein for breakfast. My favorite! I ducked out of the shower, dried myself and had a towel waiting to hand him, brought his coffee in from the bedroom, kissed his shoulder and asked what he wanted for breakfast and when. " My God, woman, you spoil me so. I could get used to this." After breakfast we started playing with toys. We went through a bunch of impact toys, floggers of various weights and feels, stingy, thuddy, canes, paddles, from neck to knees I was quite marked. We did a bit with different kinds of restraint, but I admit, I'm not that great of a teacher. Bondage and restraint has never been my thing. In between toys, or implements, Henry was very sweet and caring, telling me how good I did and being very affectionate. It was loads of fun, really. I don't bottom that often, he's a very apt pupil, I was so incredibly turned on. My thighs were shiny with arousal, I swear, if he'd have so much as looked at me right, I would have cum without him touching me. My cunt was throbbing and it was all I could do not to try and squeeze one off. There were a couple of bumps, I suppose. I mean, I expected them, really. Henry really liked caning. I don't know if it's cultural, or a boarding school thing, but he really liked it. He probably would have loved it more if he got to push my skirt up over my hips and yank down my knickers, but he was SO enthusiastic, that I wound up with some really nasty ugly bruises a day or two later. Remember, canes, that's deep tissue bruising, hard to see immediate results.  Luckily I'm an indestructible old beast, and the wince when I sat just made me wet. Henry felt terrible, poor dear. That wasn't the bad one. The bad one was my four foot signal whip. It had been hand made for me, always behaved like an extension of my arm. But while I call it a toy, that's a weapon. I mean, I have other weapons in my toy bag. Knives, scalpels, needles, but Henry was really drawn to this whip. We negotiated. I walked him through its use, we discussed where not to strike, we talked about how that crack is the end of the whip breaking the sound barrier, and I put a brand new cracker on it, in case he broke skin. Because, no blood transfer. We aren't fluid bonded in that way. He was doing really well, and I was really enjoying that fiery kiss of each strike. I knew I'd have some lovely marks, too.  But then Gigantor leaned into one. Doesn't really know his own strength. It's not his fault. But the whip did what the whip does, and opened up a three inch slice on my hip, and you could see meat. That was going to leave a Mark. Henry dropped the whip and rushed to me, taking me down from the frame we had fashioned. I was according to him a bit pale. He scooped me up and carried me to the bathroom and cleaned up the wound. I bit my lip and didn't scream, but I knew he was going to have difficulties moving forward. I'm on bloodthinners. And I knew it wasn't going to stop easily. He applied pressure and I told him why it wasn't working properly and where the steri strips were in my things. He's got great hands. He really does. Handles himself well in a crisis. Very solid. So I'm all put back together and now he's fussing. He's taking care of me, while I should still be taking care of him. Haven't let me get up, much less do anything, and he's really being way too hard on himself for something that frankly could have happened to anyone. "Henry. HENRY. Darling boy, STOP." And with that tone of voice ,he stopped, and the control was once again not his. " Come here, please, love" Henry came and sat next to me. "I'm sorry. I apologize for 'pulling rank' but I couldn't get you to stop fussing. Please, love. I'm fine. I promise. I won't ever lie to you. This is not that kind of a relationship. In fact, I've quite fallen for you, and that is going to hurt worse than this oops ever could. Why you've stolen my heart Cavill. And every minute that I have with you is a precious gift. Please, STOP berating yourself. Everyone, and I mean everyone had a story like this to tell. Now you have yours. It's a rite of initiation I  guess. If you meet someone down the road and they say they're one of us, ask them for their oops story. If they don't have one, they've never played." " Now if I were a horrid human, I'd pout and say you should take pity on me and feed me, and then make love to me to make it all better, but ill settle for help me up so I can go to the bathroom and freshen up?"

@fishcustardandclintbarton @indigosaurus @whyyoudothistomecavill @michellemybelles-world @henrythickcavill @angryschnauzer @littlefreya

[ahh-fxck]

Warrior’s Blues Chapter 9: Mockingbird

Hello, my lovelies! Here is the next chapter of Warrior’s Blues! In it we feature nervous Jaskier making comfort food while Yennefer finally lets him in on the big secret with her marriage to Geralt. Yennefer lives her best life making the poor bastard nervous again, and Geralt getting his feet a little more under him. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!

A huge thank you to @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog​ who is the co-creator and beta of this fic. Your patience and hard work are SO appreciated you don’t even know <3 <3 <3

Ao3 link here

Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the tag list!! This fic updates roughly every two weeks.

@astouract​ @smolpoe​ @yes-im-the-violin-girl​ @ladyknight-keladry​

“Are you telling me that you’re not here to kill me? I admit I was a little worried when you showed up without Geralt.” He flashes her a lopsided little grin, trying to ease the tension of the situation.

“Afraid not. I would happily murder you, but Geralt would get upset…” she sighs, then smirks. “Step out of line and you die, but keep me happy and play your cards right? Then as far as I’m concerned, you’re free to pursue him. If you want him.” She takes another sip of her coffee.

Jaskier blinks, caught so off guard that he finds himself actually panicking a little. Wife not killing him? This is not in the usual script. Possibly still being able to see the unbelievably hot husband? Mind broken. He pulls his coffee in close against his chest for the warmth, trying to restart his brain. In the background of his mind is a steady stream of whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck repeating in circles.  

Yennefer laughs, watching his face journey through a number of stages of confusion. Eventually, she takes pity on him. “Breathe,” she quips. He sucks in a breath and looks at her, blue eyes wide and startled, and she gives him an amused grin. “So. Are you going to let me grill you, or should I just leave now?” she asks with a teasing twist of her lips.

Jaskier puffs, then sputters, “Grilling? Grilling’s fine.” Still looking like he’s been hit between the eyes, he turns away and sets his coffee cup down on the counter near the stove, then opens the fridge and begins nervously pulling fruit out and setting it on the counter. When strawberries and blueberries have been pulled out, he walks across the kitchen to hanging baskets and pulls down an apple and a banana. If he was going to be interrogated, he was damn well going to have some comfort food while it was happening.

Yennefer watches with amusement, sipping her coffee. “You crossed some lines by jumping into bed with Geralt so quickly, why don’t you start there?” she says sweetly, enjoying the way he winces.

Chapter 9: Mockingbird

The road outside the bar was quiet. She pulled her black blazer up around her shoulders, neatening her outfit in a storefront window. Then she eyed her reflection critically. When she was satisfied, she approached the door of the bar. From the outside, the place looked like a dive, but when she pushed inside she saw that it was actually a neat, well-appointed little space. The floor was wooden, and brass fixtures winked in the dimness. There was a subtle, pervasive odor of cumin lingering in the air, a memory of good cooking mixing with the more typical bar smells of spilled beer and cigarettes. Sitting in the far corner was a pale, broad-shouldered young man with ice blond hair shorn in a military cut. He was dressed in a plain tan shirt and khaki pants.

He raised his head when he heard the door. The place was almost deserted. Despite this, there was a cozy, well-lived feeling to the neat seating and lovingly polished tables. When he saw her, his face lit up. Yennefer had been running a little late, and his anxiety had been starting to get the best of him. 

“Yennefer,” he rose to his feet to greet her as she crossed the room. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” 

“I’m the one who asked you for a drink, Geralt, why wouldn’t I come?” She gave him an irritated look. She slung her purse off of her shoulder and hung it on the chair, putting herself bodily between the young man and his attempt to pull the chair out for her. Her violet eyes flashed as she fixed him with a look that very clearly said, ‘don’t touch.’ 

His eyes widened, and he gingerly took one step back, then another, waiting until her expression softened before he stilled again. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, then gestured vaguely towards the bar. “What can I get you?” Despite her sharp temper and sharper tongue, or perhaps because of it, Geralt had become fascinated with her as they worked together. She was whip-smart, merciless, and graceful in equal measures, and he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame even though she didn’t seem to like him very much. It had made his week when she’d grudgingly asked him out for a drink to get to know him better, but he hadn’t been certain she liked him enough to actually follow through. 

She eyed him impatiently as she considered. She found herself wishing he would stop looking at her like a nervous puppy, and she stared at him in vaguely concealed irritation. If anything though, the stare made it worse. She came to a decision and pulled the chair out neatly, seating herself at the table. “Arak, please. On the rocks.” 

“Chalav shel Ariot,” he said with a quick little smile. “Sure, I’ll be back.” 

She cocked her head at him, eyeing him curiously as he turned to leave. Milk of Lions, another name for the liquor arak. It was a common enough term among the locals, but she didn’t think she’d heard anyone else on base use it. 

As he returned a moment later, she sat back skeptically and took her glass from him. He sat down across from her with a beer and a shot glass full of clear undiluted arak. Her own was white, the sugars transformed by contact with the water from the ice. She drew her fingers along the cool sides of her glass, noticing that he didn’t seem to be making eye contact. Instead he watched her fingers trace beads of moisture. 

“Is this what you do all day? When you’re not being a pain in my ass?” She asked, observing the softness of his face up close. He usually had a stern expression. It was easy to miss how handsome he actually was, with wide topaz eyes and a cupid’s bow lip. To her surprise, he smiled crookedly and looked up at the ceiling fixtures, taking in the brass on the lights and dark iron brackets. 

“Yeah. This is where I spend a lot of my time. Coën likes it here too.” 

“He mentioned,” she replied dryly. “More than once.” She took a slow sip of the arak, the sharp burn of the aniseed flavored liquor pleasant across her tongue. 

“What brings you to this part of the world?” He asked quietly, now studying the table. His big hands were wrapped around his beer mug, but they gave the impression of nervousness stilled, like he would normally be in motion but was concealing it. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Yennefer had a keen eye for body language. Though she wouldn’t have readily admitted it, she’d been observing him closely for some time now. They had spent a lot of time together, both in and out of the field, and it had given her time to catalogue his tells.  She crossed her legs and considered his question, examining her glass. 

“I was assigned back here after college because I speak a couple of the local languages,” she said. “I grew up Ashdod, down the coast from here.” 

He licked his lips, nodded, then assayed a reply in Hebrew. <<Where did you go to college?>>

She frowned, putting her glass down and leaning towards him. <<What did you just say?>>

<<You said you came back after college. Where did you attend school?>> he tried again, shooting her a hopeful look over the edge of his mug. 

Surprised, she sat back. <<University of London. Why?>> She’d known from their field work that he knew at least a little of the local languages, enough to get by, but she had apparently underestimated how fluent he actually was.

<<I was wondering where your accent came from. You have an Israeli accent but you don’t sound quite like the locals. I thought the UK maybe..>> He took a long swallow of his beer. <<I graduated from Lexington Military College.>>

<<I know,>> she said wryly. <<I did a little digging after you got pinned to my ass by your CO.>> 

He shook his head and flashed another crooked grin, chuckling. <<Sorry about that. I don’t think he likes me very much.>>

<<Yes, well, I don’t like you very much either,” She replied, without any real heat. 

He tilted his glass at her ironically, then took a drink. <<Why the invitation, then?>> he inquired, lifting his gaze and catching her eyes with his own for the first time this whole conversation. A small shock ran through both of them, and she held his gaze for only a moment before looking off to the side, feeling oddly off balance. 

<<Coën kept insisting that I should get to know you, since we’re stuck working together so often.>>

He smiled at the table top. <<Coën’s a good guy. I like him.>> 

<<He is.>> She admitted, taking another swallow of arak. The burn was pleasant, smoother now that the ice had begun to melt into the alcohol. Rolling liquor on her tongue, she considered him with renewed intensity. <<How did you learn Hebrew?>>

Golden eyes came up and played briefly across her face, then dropped off to the side to study a nail in the floor. <<When I heard I was being assigned out here I picked up some books. And…>> he shrugged, taking a long swallow of his beer. <<I listen to the locals. I try to talk with them. David corrects me a lot.>> With a jerk of his head, he indicated the bartender quietly puttering around behind the bar across the room from them. 

She frowned, leaning towards him again. <<How much time did you have? That doesn’t seem right.>> 

<<Uhm… A year? Less? Not long.>> He replied, shrugging. <<I got more serious about it after I was assigned to you. I know people enjoy hearing their own language. I thought you might like it.>> His lips quirk as he feels her gaze on him, feeling put on the spot. 

Despite herself, she found the corners of her lips tugging with a smile. <<That’s insane,>> she said. <<I don’t believe you.>>

He shrugged, tossing back the last of his beer. <<Believe what you want.>> He chased it with the shot of arak, then shook his head to clear his burning sinuses. 

She leaned back, taking her glass with her and cradling it close to her chest.  <<Do you just speak, or do you read, too?>>

Licking his lips, he nodded. When he spoke again, she stared in astonishment. 

<<Not the peace of a cease-fire,

not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,

but rather

as in the heart when the excitement is over

and you can talk only about a great weariness.

I know that I know how to kill,

that makes me an adult.

And my son plays with a toy gun that knows

how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.

A peace

without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,

without words, without

the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be

light, floating, like lazy white foam.

A little rest for the wounds—

who speaks of healing?

(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation

to the next, as in a relay race:

the baton never falls.)

Let it come

like wildflowers,

suddenly, because the field

must have it: wildpeace.>> 

<<Where on earth did you learn that?>> She asked after a long, shocked silence. 

He shrugged awkwardly.. <<I saw the book in a pile of your things while you were working. Yehuda Amichai, Not For the Sake of Remembering. Uh. I got my hands on a copy of it. I thought you might like that one. I like it.>>

<<It’s my favorite from that whole book,>> she replied, taken aback. Not even her cameraman Coën, her closest friend, knew that. She tossed back the rest of her glass, taking the time to gather her suddenly scattered thoughts.  

<<Why are you a soldier? With a mind like that, you’re wasted in the army.>>

The smile he gave the table, brief though it was, was like sunlight flashing across still water. 

<<Thanks, I think?>> He toyed idly with his empty glass. <<I’m uh, in the army because my old man’s a Colonel and he raised me to follow his footsteps. Ran the base out in Powidz, Poland until they forced him to retire. I guess I always was headed here.>> Shrugging, he stood. <<Want another round?>>

<<Please,>> she said, offering her empty glass. He nodded and took it, returning a moment later with new glasses of beer and arak. Placing the milky glass of liquor in front of her, he sat back down. 

<<Why are you a journalist? Especially writing about what you do… interviewing who you do? It’s fucking dangerous.>> He leaned back in his chair, holding his beer against his chest and eyeing her curiously. The tension in his body was starting to fade, and he looked both kinder and younger as a result. 

She felt a curious warmth, looking at him. It was similar to the burn of the alcohol, but it tingled in her hands, in her chest. Taking a long swallow of liquor, she considered his question. They eyed each other curiously. <<I think I did it because I hate people lying.>> She waved her hand as she took another sip, explaining, <<Which, granted, makes what I do for a living ironic.>> He nodded and chuckled, taking a swallow from his mug while he listened. 

<<Um… I think I do it because I get to write everything down. Even if what I publish is… what it is, what I do to get paid, I know that somewhere there is a true and real account of what happened. What was said. Who was saying it and why. I know it’s written down somewhere, impossible to erase. And every now and then I get to really destroy someone awful, which makes some of the bullshit worth it.>>

<<Good answer,>> he said, eyebrows going up. <<Not sure what I was expecting, but I like that. You’re ferocious. I love watching you scare the shit out of people around here.>>

She laughed, genuinely and openly. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh like that, and he liked it. He never wanted her to stop. 

The road is wide and quiet, shaded by drooping, dusty trees. They are big, old, their gnarled branches weaving together to create a dim canopy that covers the early morning road and sidewalks in flickering shadows. The houses lining the street are old Victorian and Craftsman style homes with white gables. 

Yennefer drives slowly along it, violet eyes intent as she studies the neighborhood. The hum of the rental car’s engine is quiet as she rolls past house after house, scanning for the proper number. The first thing she spots even before that is Geralt’s battered old truck. It sits in the driveway of a simple blue house with a white wooden staircase spiraling up the outside. Next to it is a small white car with black songbirds printed on the trunk, done in pen-and-ink style art. They carry flowers, small splashes of color against the plain background. Yellow buttercups, blue cornflowers, red poppies, even blue forget-me-nots are carried in their beaks. 

Flicking on the turn signal, she waits for a green van to slowly pass going the other way before she pulls up in the driveway behind Geralt’s truck. Pulling the parking brake, she leans back in her seat to rest and gather herself. It had been a long, emotional night and she was still jet lagging terribly. Still, she thought that getting out while Geralt was still asleep was probably for the best, so she had risen early to take care of things.

When she gets out of the car a wall of sticky, humid air hits her immediately. With a brief expression of displeasure she eyes the sky, then turns around and retrieves her purse from the car. She pauses to flick open her compact, checking over her appearance. Despite her exhaustion, she is impeccably appointed as always, black pinstripe suit pressed, white blouse spotless, makeup crisp even in the soggy heat. She tucks a hair back into place, snaps the compact closed, and locks up the car. 

Striding up the driveway, she follows the concrete path around the side of the house to the front door. As she goes, she curiously studies the place that Geralt has been living. The walkway is plain, lined on either side with a leafy, ill-kept rock garden that has seen better days. Many of the rocks are painted, little friendly blobs of swirled color intermixing with odd little symbols and tiny hand-painted fairies from children’s movies randomly amongst the plain stones. The door itself is wooden, with a rectangular stained glass panel in the middle containing a simple diamond and square motif typical of the town during the era that the house was constructed. She rings the bell. 

“Just a moment!” She hears a voice call from the depths of the house. The door opens a beat later, revealing Jaskier. He gives her an uncertain look, hesitates, then opens the door wide so that he can face her directly.  

He is wearing long blue shorts that look like they belonged to a suit before someone shortened them and took to them with a bedazzler. There is a swirling pattern of rhinestones up each leg, with little hearts winking on each of his hips amidst the swirls. His big loose button down shirt is white, with splashes of blue watercolor style flowers all over it. Near the breast of the shirt on the left is a silk screened mockingbird in black and white, with a little curl of rhinestones coming from its beak like it is exhaling them in song. He looks tired, with shadows smudged under his eyes, and his hair is damp from the shower. 

“Can I help you?” He queries, wary. It had been a long, shitty night full of self-recrimination for him that had left him feeling like the middle of him had been scooped out, leaving him empty and sore. He’d been expecting to see Yennefer today, but he didn’t think anything could prepare him for dealing with her again. He was a grown adult, though, and if he had to face the music, he would do it with as much dignity as he could muster.

She looks him up and down, considering him. Of all the types of men she’d expected Geralt to go in for, someone as colorful as this wasn’t even on the list. It’s oddly sweet that her quiet, withdrawn husband would be attracted to someone so different than himself. Too bad he picked an idiot. “I’m here to talk,” she announces, her eyes flashing. It is hard to resist intimidating him just a little more, especially since she isn’t entirely sure she likes him yet.  

He presses his lips together, a flash of pain and worry going through his eyes before vanishing behind a carefully constructed neutral expression. “Of course,” he says, and steps back to gesture her inside with a broad motion of his arm towards the kitchen. “Please come in. I just made a pot of coffee, would you like some?” 

“Please,” she replies, stepping past him into the house. The inside is gleaming, practically spotless, and smells like orange oil. Spotting the rack of neatly stacked shoes next to the door, she toes off her black pumps next to it. Then she strolls across the house to the kitchen island and seats herself confidently on one of the tall stools. 

Jaskier follows her with rounded shoulders, giving her a respectfully wide berth and watching her every move. He serves them both a cup of coffee, then brings out the little buttercup dishes full of sugar and cream and sets them on the counter near her. She smiles but otherwise ignores them, taking a sip of the black coffee. It’s good coffee, complex and almost sweet at its finish. As she rolls the beverage on her tongue, she looks Jaskier up and down again.

He has come to rest with his back up against the fridge, one foot up on it, knee bent, sleepily sipping his coffee. His expression is still wary as he waits for her to begin talking, cautious of her temper after yesterday’s encounter. When the silence stretches out a little too long, he stirs. “Look, if this is about his stuff, I can take you upstairs to get it…”

She shakes her head, waving this statement away. “Not necessary. Not right now, anyway.” She smiles around her cup as he frowns, as if he’s not sure he heard her correctly.

“What?” 

“I said that won’t be necessary yet. Hence,” she says, cocking her head and locking eyes with him, “why we need to talk.”

Jaskier gives her a long look of puzzlement. Pushing off of the fridge, he pours some sugar and a generous splash of cream into his coffee. “I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” he admits, a worried note entering his voice. She didn’t want the boxes, so what did she want? Was he in trouble or not? 

Yennefer smiles again, leaning back with her cup of coffee held close. “Did Geralt talk about me at all while he was here?” Jaskier cautiously shakes his head no, taking a sip of his coffee. He goes to say something but she gently cuts him off. “Fine. Geralt should tell you most of this, but nothing is going to make sense unless I throw you a bone first,” she smirks. 

Jaskier nods, mystified but listening. Normally, this was the part where the spouse started demanding blood, not throwing proverbial bones. Drawing his mug in close against his chest, he leans against the counter. 

“I’m asexual.” Yennefer explains bluntly. “He and I don’t have a sexual relationship. We married for our daughter’s sake, but we’ve never been,” she gropes for the right phrase, “physically in love. We’re as close as two people can be…” She pauses and takes a sip of coffee, giving Jaskier a direct look over the edge of her mug. “But our relationship is unusual.” 

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up, but he has the good sense for once to remain quiet, allowing her to continue. Daughter? With a wife Geralt didn’t have sex with? This conversation had taken a hard left turn, and he felt like he was mentally scrambling to catch up. He had so many questions. Instead of letting his nervous tongue get away from him though, he takes a long swallow of his drink.

Yennefer lowers her mug, enjoying Jaskier’s obvious puzzlement. The pleasure she feels is bittersweet, though. Sex or no, Geralt had been hers for a long time. Her heart ached a little to think that she might have to share him with the tall, elfin man in front of her. Deep down though, she had always hoped he might find someone. She draws her fingers along the side of the mug, hesitating, but finally she says, “I always hoped he was going to find someone special… eventually.” Eyeing Jaskier, she flashes him a sly look. “Maybe someone like you.” 

The way Yennefer looks at Jaskier makes his stomach flip. What the hell is she saying? He thought she was here to terrorize him again and collect Geralt’s stuff. Now it is starting to sound like she is implying he still has a chance with Geralt. He feels caught somewhere between a sudden weird hope and the gnawing guilt of knowing he’s crossed lines he can’t uncross with this woman, mysterious marriage arrangement or no. He pushes off of the counter and leans forward to spoon more sugar into his coffee, trying to stir his nerves away.  “I don’t think I understand,” he grimaces, shaking off the spoon and setting it aside on a little saucer. 

“No, I would be surprised if you did,” she chuckles and takes a sip of her coffee. “The reason I’m here is because it seems like he’s become very attached to you.”

Jaskier gives a bashful, confused smile. “I… I like him too,” he admits softly. “Quite a bit.”

Yennefer gives him a measuring look, but a smile is slowly creeping up her lovely features. “I should hope so.” Leaning forward onto her elbows, she fixes him with a serious gaze. “When Geralt and I got married, I knew he was going to meet someone someday, and I didn’t want him to feel guilty about it. So we discussed it, and we decided a few things.” She holds up fingers, ticking them off as she goes. “One, that he is free to choose his own lovers. Two, that said lover doesn’t get to meet his family unless he’s serious about them. And three, I get to have a long talk with anyone he does want to bring home.” 

She pauses again, giving Jaskier another measuring look. “While our current apartment being in England makes bringing you home rather difficult, we can still have that long talk. I want to know more about you. If anyone is going to be seeing my husband, I have a right to know who they are.” She pauses, obviously unimpressed as she looks him from head to toe “Especially if they’re foolish enough to jump in bed with someone without asking questions first.” 

Jaskier gapes, at a loss for words. He fiddles the coffee cup nervously, mind reeling. The jab stings, but he knows he deserves it, so he leaves it. Taking a swallow of his sweet creamy coffee grounds him, the sweetness biting through some of his confusion. “Are you telling me that you’re not here to kill me? I admit I was a little worried when you showed up without Geralt.” He flashes her a lopsided little grin, trying to ease the tension of the situation.

“Afraid not. I would happily murder you, but Geralt would get upset…” she sighs, then smirks. “Step out of line and you die, but keep me happy and play your cards right? Then as far as I’m concerned, you’re free to pursue him. If you want him.” She takes another sip of her coffee.

Jaskier blinks, caught so off guard that he finds himself actually panicking a little. Wife not killing him? This is not in the usual script. Possibly still being able to see the unbelievably hot husband? Mind broken. He pulls his coffee in close against his chest for the warmth, trying to restart his brain. In the background of his mind is a steady stream of whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck repeating in circles.  

Yennefer laughs, watching his face journey through a number of stages of confusion. Eventually, she takes pity on him. “Breathe,” she quips. He sucks in a breath and looks at her, blue eyes wide and startled, and she gives him an amused grin. “So. Are you going to let me grill you, or should I just leave now?” she asks with a teasing twist of her lips. 

Jaskier puffs, then sputters, “Grilling? Grilling’s fine.” Still looking like he’s been hit between the eyes, he turns away and sets his coffee cup down on the counter near the stove, then opens the fridge and begins nervously pulling fruit out and setting it on the counter. When strawberries and blueberries have been pulled out, he walks across the kitchen to hanging baskets and pulls down an apple and a banana. If he was going to be interrogated, he was damn well going to have some comfort food while it was happening.

Yennefer watches with amusement, sipping her coffee. “You crossed some lines by jumping into bed with Geralt so quickly, why don’t you start there?” she says sweetly, enjoying the way he winces. 

Jaskier putters nervously with the fruit, setting up a cutting board and knife, then he bends over and pulls a stand mixer out of a cabinet, setting it up on the counter. The movement gives him time to catch up to the conversation. As he fiddles the paddle off of the mixer and goes to hunt for the attachment he is looking for, he says, “I’ve been thinking about that a great deal myself. And you’re absolutely correct,” he tosses his hair out of his eyes and glances across the room, apologetic. “I handled things with Geralt inappropriately. I’m sorry.” His lips thin out as he presses them together, looking tired and angry with himself. “I let my feelings get ahead of me sometimes. It’s not my best trait.”

“Clearly not,” she replies wryly, slightly mollified by his apology but still unimpressed. “So why did you do it?”

"I…" he returns to the stand mixer, fitting a whisk attachment onto the end of it. Then he takes the bowl out and wipes it down with a damp cloth in the sink, nervously scrubbing away miniscule specks of dust.  “That’s complicated. If I answer you honestly right out the gate, I’m worried I’m going to sound crazy to you, which is the last thing I want right now.” His lips quirk in a brief, bitter smile. “I’ve already done quite enough damage, thank you. So...” he pauses and heaves a sigh, trying to gather his thoughts. “I’m going to tell you a little about myself first. Maybe help you understand?” Bright blue eyes meet hers for a moment, giving her an uncertain look. She meets gaze unflinchingly until he drops it to study the bowl in his hands. He shakes his head and returns it to the mixer stand, then goes over to the fridge. 

“Fine,” she replies, taking a slow sip of her coffee. “What do you want me to know?” 

“Well…” he bends over and sticks his head into the refrigerator, chewing his lip. “I’ve been a part of the queer community since I was a teenager. And,” he grimaces, hunting for something, “I was twenty years old when HIV was first identified. There was an outbreak at Fire Island, are you familiar?” Finding the carton of heavy cream hidden at the back of the fridge, he snags it with a satisfied noise and straightens.

“Geralt told me you were there. About your friends.” Yennefer replies quietly. “I’m sorry.” And she genuinely is, no matter how else she might feel about Jaskier. Being at the center of something like that leaves marks on people. She’d been all over the world in her job and seen many types of trauma, and the HIV epidemic had scared her to the bone wherever she encountered it.  

“Right. Well then, I don’t need to tell you the rest. Good.” Returning to the stand mixer, he dumps in cream and flicks the mixer on at a relatively slow speed. “What’s important about it, that I want you to understand, is that, in my experience queers are already not terribly good at staying in one another’s lives after the…” he waves his hand searchingly. “The romantic spark has passed. And the few people that I thought could be constants, slipped through my fingers without recourse.” Turning, he riffles through one of the nearby cabinets and retrieves vanilla, confectioner’s sugar, and bourbon. “So when I say that I don’t expect people to stay around long, I want you to understand what I mean.” 

She frowns, understanding dawning. “You didn’t expect him to stay.”

“No, darling. I’m afraid not. When I met Geralt… Ah. I didn’t expect much to come of it. While I’m not running a fuck-and-release program,” he cuts her a sharp look over his shoulder, “I must say I wasn’t expecting him to be around long. Which is why I didn’t ask nearly as many questions as I should have. I wanted to leave him what little peace he had… I… I felt like prying would have made things worse.” He trails off into a brief silence, measuring vanilla and bourbon and dumping them into the mixer. 

When he looks at her again, his expression is deeply worried. “He looked like he was in a lot of pain.”  

She grimaces at the pointed comment, hiding it with a sip from her coffee mug. Irritated that she’d let him get to her, she schools her face into a carefully neutral expression until he finishes speaking. She remembers Geralt’s distress the night before, and a flash of worry and sadness crosses her face. Pain was the understatement of the century. She’s still not sure she would even be here, but for that. Geralt was in danger, and she would do just about anything to make it better.

Taking a deep breath, he measures sugar and then starts carefully sifting it into the moving mixer with a small sieve. “I thought… why make it worse for him when he’ll have moved on shortly anyway? I thought... “ he shrugs uncomfortably, setting aside the sieve and turning up the speed on the stand mixer by increments. “I thought, he’ll stay for a few weeks, get his first few paychecks, find his own place, and be gone. And not long after that, he’ll probably find a new job, and that will be that. Good deed done.” 

“That’s… questionable, but fine. I’ll leave that alone for now. It still doesn’t explain why you started fucking him within twenty four hours of meeting him,” she points out, unimpressed. 

“No, you’re right.” He replies, shaking his head and pulling a face. “And this… is where I sound a little crazy, and I hope you’ll forgive me.” Once the mixer is at the proper speed, he turns to another cabinet and pulls out a big bowl, which he sets near the cutting board. “Um.” 

His stomach does a double flip as he tries to summon the words, feeling her violet gaze boring into his back. He begins to speak, stutters into silence, and then tries again. “I have… spent a long time ah, vigorously jousting in the lists of love, so to speak,” he observes wryly, starting to top and halve the strawberries, tossing each one into the bowl as he finishes. “Mm. And I’ve known many different kinds of love, as a result. Some, admittedly, deeper than others,” he gives a rueful chuckle. Behind him, Yennefer smirks. 

“But with Geralt…” Jaskier pauses, feeling his throat close up a little bit with sheer nerves. Taking the cutting board to the trash, he sweeps the strawberry heads into the bin and then returns to the counter to start processing the banana, peeling it and chopping it. 

“My life has always felt like a hurricane. Like there is a hurricane blowing around me and I’m just trying not to get swept away with all of the rest of the debris. But- I’m sorry, I know this is insane, oh, I sound like a crazy person. But when I’m around him, it feels like…” he heaves a shaky sigh. “It feels like the center of the hurricane found me. When he’s nearby I feel like the whole world goes silent and still. All the other madness is still whirling around the outside edges, but where he is, there’s this intense quiet… Silence so loud it makes my whole body just ring with it, no matter what he’s doing. It’s the most beautiful feeling. And I’ve never felt that around another human being before. Not a single solitary one. And… it was terribly impulsive of me, and selfish, and I shouldn’t have done it… but I wanted to wrap myself up in that feeling for as long as I could before he vanished, too.” 

He trails off, dumping the chopped banana into the bowl. Then he glances at the stand mixer. The cream is starting to stiffen, but hasn’t reached a proper consistency yet. He turns back to the cutting board, starting to process the apple now. “I know that’s… insanely inappropriate to tell someone about their husband. Ah. And I know I’ve only known him two weeks. I don’t… I’m not saying I’m in love with him. That’s the kind of thing you only find out with trust, and time, and we haven’t had that. That’s not what I’m trying to say. I’m just trying to say that he’s different. And I like him. And I would be very fortunate to have the chance to know him more.” 

He dumps the apple into the bowl, then turns and looks at her. “I hope that answers your question.” His face is tired, and he looks like he doesn’t particularly expect her to be receptive to any of this. He knows he shouldn’t have kissed Geralt when he did, no matter how attracted he was to him. Normally, he would have even had the restraint to wait until things were more above board. But something about the situation had triggered him deeply, and between that and the incredible depth of feeling he experienced around his handsome lover, he had lost his head.  

Yennefer takes all of this in thoughtfully, her face softening. She’d been expecting Jaskier to tell her he’d done it because he was a horny idiot, and while that is partially what he’d said, the rest gave her pause. She didn’t hear people speak like that about anyone very often, much less her taciturn and often unfriendly Geralt. 

“Thank you for your honesty,” she settles on, then takes a swallow from her cooling coffee. “I’m really not impressed by your boundaries, but…”  she sighs, relenting slightly. “It’s nice to see that you like him so much.” 

Jaskier blushes awkwardly at the backhanded compliment, busying himself by stopping the mixer to check the flavor and consistency of the whipped cream. He finds himself feeling thrown for the umpteenth time since he’d met her the day before. “I’m really very sorry I wasn’t more… uh, circumspect,” Jaskier stutters awkwardly. “I’m kind of impulsive sometimes, it’s a problem. I’m sorry.” He sprinkles a little more sugar and another dash of vanilla into the cream, then starts it going again at an even higher speed. 

“Good. You should be.” Yennefer says sharply. He winces and nods. She leans forward, putting her elbows on the counter and twirling her cup in her hand. Her face softens into a look of curiosity. “Let’s talk about your family. Where were you raised? Who raised you?” 

Jaskier tosses some blueberries into the bowl, then returns them and the remaining strawberries to the refrigerator, pulling out lemon juice in their stead. Then he fishes out a bottle of honey from a cabinet and sprinkles it and some lemon juice into the bowl of mixed fruit. He gently tosses it to coat them. Pursing his lips, he ponders where to start. He’s not sure that he wants to share this much with the intimidating stranger sitting at his kitchen island, but on the other hand, he was already in over his head. Chewing his lip, he decides to plunge forth.

“I was born here, in Rhode Island, at the local hospital. I was almost born on a ferry, point of fact.” He smiles, shaking his head and flicking off the stand mixer. “The Pankratz family home is on Martha’s Vineyard, out off the coast. My father thought he could finish one last thing before getting in the car to leave, and my mother has never let him forget it.” Chuckling ruefully, he lowers the mixer’s bowl and retrieves the whisk attachment, shaking it as clean as he can. 

Yennefer snorts softly, thinking that if Geralt had done that to her, he’d probably have suffered permanent injuries. Her pregnancy had been bad, but Geralt had been painfully attentive to her needs. Getting to the hospital hadn’t been the problem; keeping him from jumping onto the ceiling at every minor mishap had been the real issue. “Sounds like a poor choice on his part,” she smiles.

Jaskier casts a brief smile at her. “It was. Even when I was in my teens, it was still favorite material during fights.” He grins lopsidedly as Yennefer laughs.

“I can only imagine. I would have murdered Geralt if he’d done that to me,” Yennefer admits.

“He doesn’t seem like the type,” Jaskier observes as he rinses the whisk in the sink. 

“He wouldn’t have survived my pregnancy if he was,” Yennefer smirks. “He’s a good father.”

“Now that, I believe.” Jaskier replies with a soft smile. “How old is your daughter?”

“She just turned twelve at the end of spring,” Yennefer reveals, clearly proud. She takes another sip of her coffee, then sets her mug down. “That’s neither here nor there, though. Were you raised on Martha’s Vineyard, or…?”

Jaskier nods, placing the dripping whisk on a towel. “Yeah. I was raised on the Vineyard for the most part. Summers in New York, sometimes winter holidays with our grandparents in Warsaw. Well, at least before they passed away. Attended a private school on the island all the way through high school.” He takes the mixing bowl off of its base, setting it near the fruit absently. 

“My parents are… highly motivated people. They own and operate Pankratz Enterprises. It’s the family company, and it’s been passed down for… ugh, generations. I don’t know. My father’s parents passed on before I was born, so he and my mother have been more or less in charge as long as I’ve lived. It very much consumes their time.” He tastes the whipped cream one last time, nods, then tries a piece of fruit. Shaking his head, he drizzles a touch more honey into the bowl and gives it another few stirs.

“I am… the baby of the family. No surprise there,” he gives a breathy little chuckle, shaking his head. “Um. Older brother, fifteen years older than me. He’s the actual heir of the whole… family business monstrosity. Good riddance, he can have it. And a sister, ten years older. She’s uh… I think she’s in London now, working for Sotheby’s last time I checked.” 

Yennefer’s eyebrows go up. “That takes quite a few connections to achieve, last I heard.” 

“Well…” Jaskier shrugs. “That’s my family.” He tastes the fruit again and this time he nods, setting down the bowl. “Anyhow, I came along rather late to the party. I’m ah… Rather the embarrassment of the family. My mother and father hadn’t been in each other’s beds in years by the time I was conceived.” He pauses in the middle of getting two little ceramic bowls down, smirking at Yennefer over his shoulder. “At a swinger’s party. There’s still rather some debate as to whether my father is actually my father.” He gestures at his face. “No one in his family has blue eyes, you see.” A mischievous grin makes his eyes twinkle, and Yennefer finds herself chuckling, shaking her head. He’s charming enough, she’ll give him that. 

“So, what. He just raised you anyway?” she asks wryly, draining the last of her coffee. For the embarrassment of the family, he seemed oddly pleased by his story. 

Jaskier smirks and shrugs. His family had never failed to remind him that he didn’t quite belong, so he felt few qualms about airing their dirty laundry. It was petty, but the story usually made people smile, and knowing that somewhere his parents’ ears would be burning gave him a feeling of satisfaction. “Well, admitting I wasn’t his would have been a far worse scandal, so they never actually bothered to find out who my father was. It didn’t change much… even if I were his, I don’t think either of them would have raised me with any more care than they already did.” 

“That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement,” Yennefer observes, watching as Jaskier sets the bowls on the counter. Using the big spoon, he measures honeyed fruit into each bowl. 

“It wasn’t meant to be, darling. I was mostly raised by a nanny and our cook, if I’m going to be perfectly honest. Anything that took my mother away from work and organizing social events seemed to make her terribly nervous, and my father was worse. I don’t think he knew what the word ‘vacation’ meant.” He puts the big spoon down and grabs the freshly made whipped cream. “Even when he’d actually bother to accompany us someplace, there was always a briefcase with him.”  With a shrug, he measures a dollop of whipped cream onto each bowl. 

“Do you want nutmeg?” He asks, giving her a curious, hopeful look. Yennefer eyes the bowls on the counter with interest. They look tempting. Pursing her lips, she nods. “Sure.” Geralt hadn’t mentioned he was quite the little cook, but if this little display was anything to go by, he’d been fed quite well while he was in Jaskier’s home. Good. At least there was something the idiot had been doing right. 

He smiles and turns back to his spice cabinet, pulling down a grinder with part of a whole nutmeg still in it. He grinds it briefly over both bowls, then sticks a spoon in each of them. Turning, he offers it to her with a flourish. 

She gives him a skeptical look but takes it, setting it on the island in front of her. The flourishes are lost on her, but the food looks good. Privately, she marvels again that this is the kind of man that had her husband so frazzled. There’s no accounting for taste, she supposes. 

“Can I offer you more coffee?” He asks, holding up the carafe. She nods, holding out her cup, and he fills it. Then he picks up his own bowl and spoons the fruit around, covering it in whipped cream. “Where was I?” Taking a nervous bite, he looks at her again.

“You mentioned you were raised by the staff,” she replies with a twist of her lips, as if she finds the word ‘staff’ a bit distasteful.

“Ah. Yes, I rather was.” He nods, giving her an apologetic look. He wasn’t overly fond of having staff in his childhood home either. It had never felt right. “My father preferred to pay to make problems go away, and cooking and childcare were problems for him.” Jabbing a banana with his spoon, he gives it a little moue. 

“When I said nanny, I really mean there were a series of people who got me to school, got me home… hmm, made sure my homework was done. I wasn’t particularly close with any of them. The cook was special, though. Klaudia. She was Polish, we met her through my grandparents… I spent quite a lot of time underfoot in the kitchen, but she never seemed to mind. She’s the one who gave me my name,” he says with a fleeting smile. “Jaskier. I used to bring her flowers from the garden, and sometimes she would put them in salads. Buttercups are poisonous, of course, but I was about five when she told me about the little game of sticking a buttercup under your chin after you speak the name of someone you have a crush on… That your chin will shine yellow if you’ve spoken the name of your true love. Terribly silly, but I adored it when I was small. I became so attached to them that she started calling me Jaskier, and I loved that, too. So I kept it.” Shrugging, he takes another bite of cream covered fruit.

Yennefer smiles, taking a bite of her own fruit. The bourbon in the whipped cream is barely there, but it’s enough to make the strawberry she just bit into sing. Delicious. Apparently Klaudia had been a good teacher. Whatever else he had going on, she could admit that she was impressed by the food.

“After I graduated high school I went to New York for college. I… that was a chaotic time in my life. I’d just left private high school and had an enormous amount of freedom all at once, and I spun out for a little while. Spent a lot of time clubbing and fucking, not nearly as much time studying as I should have.” Jaskier blushes and sets his bowl aside, grabbing his coffee cup and taking a quick swallow to conceal his embarrassment. He’s usually quite unabashed about his love life, but something about this whole conversation is making him feel awkward.

“Studying?” Yennefer inquires. The idea that this man might have fucked his way through New York doesn’t entirely surprise her, but she’s curious what someone like him might have studied. “College?”

“Yes! I was lucky enough to matriculate into Juilliard as a young man. I,” he proclaims, his eyes twinkling, “have a degree as a Master of Music in historical performance. Despite a rather rocky start, I did quite well for myself by the end of my courses. I’m an adjunct professor now at the college up the street! I teach medieval music theory.” Lifting his head, he gestures to the opposite wall in the living room, indicating the different types of lute hung on the wall. “My favorite instrument is the lute.”

“Do you compose?” She asks, allowing herself to be slightly impressed. It took a fairly talented musician to even get into a college like that, much less walk away with a degree. Perhaps he was more intelligent than she had been giving him credit for. She turns to look at the beautiful instruments gleaming softly where they hang. 

“Well… Yes and no,” he says, suddenly uncomfortable. “Mostly right now I recreate ancient pieces. Put them back together and record them, style of thing. Maybe add a little of my own flair, when I’m just playing at home.” He hesitates, temporarily at a loss for words. Yennefer turns back and looks him up and down, curious about why he suddenly seems uncomfortable. 

Fingering his shirt, he gestures to the mockingbird. “The woman who made me this shirt also did the birds on my car,” he reveals quietly. “We dated for a while, after I got out of college. She ah… this is one she gave me right before we broke up. She said, it was fitting for a man who hides behind the music of other people.” Shrugging uncomfortably, he says, “I do compose, but I don’t feel I’ve ever quite gotten my legs under me with it. Maybe someday.” 

Yennefer frowns, then slowly nods. “You must be very angry with yourself to be wearing something like that today,” she observes. 

Jaskier looks up at her over his coffee mug and nods, a little surprised at how perceptive she is. “I am. I slept with your husband without thinking it through, and I feel… Embarrassed. Guilty.” He looks down at his coffee mug, swirling the remains at the bottom of the cup. “He has his own song. I don’t necessarily get to be part of it, and I understand that.” He shrugs, downing the last mouthful of his own coffee. 

Yennefer nods, finding herself reassured as he makes that admission. Good. He didn’t have a right to be any part of Geralt’s life, and she was glad he was aware. Any future access Jaskier might be granted to Geralt would be a privilege, and one he damn well better cherish. It was best he was aware of that now, and thankfully he seemed to be. She purses her lips, studying the shirt again. The little rhinestones wink in the light. It’s far too gaudy for her tastes, but it’s clean, well made, and on Jaskier it has a certain charm. Her eyes run over the delicate ink like feathering of the screen printed mockingbird. As she watches it glitter, another question occurs to her.

 “You date women?” She asks, gesturing to the bird.

Jaskier chuckles ruefully, picking his bowl of fruit back up. “Yes, darling. I’m pansexual. When I said I’d had my share of lovers, I really did mean I’ve run the gamut.”

Yennefer shakes her head and spoons up half of a strawberry, bemused. “I would not have guessed that. You’re very…” 

“Campy? Flamboyant? Yes.” He tosses his hair out of his eyes and gives her a winning smile. “Always have been.” 

Yennefer eyes him curiously. His comfort with himself was unusual, a confidence she rarely saw in queer men. Privately she wonders how he managed to stay so at ease, but files away the question for later. If all went well, there would be time for questions like that another time. 

“So. You pulled your shit together, got through school… then what?”

“Well, then I spent a year or so running myself ragged around New York and the surrounding areas trying to care for my loved ones as the AIDS epidemic worsened. I’d already been doing it during school, but once I got out, it ate up all my free time. And the ah… hospital up the road from here ended up being friendly. So over time, I ended up spending more and more time in this city, ferrying my loved ones to appointments. And eventually I started getting sick and tired myself-” He flips up his hand gently, waving away the unintentional implication. “From stress, I mean. And so I bought this house. It was good… A little spot of bright in all the shit, you know? Something stable.” He spoons up another portion of fruit, shaking his head. “So, that was my life for a while. Um. It’s also sort of what led to the bar.” 

“How so?” Yennefer asks, interest piqued. She takes another bite of fruit as she listens. This was definitely a story she wanted to hear. 

“Well…” He licks his lips and ponders. “A lot of my HIV+ friends ended up experiencing a lot of stigma. People were scared… No one understood yet what was happening. And I started getting more and more people showing up at my house every night.” Laughing, he gestures around. “It’s quiet now, but it used to have a lot more furniture. Wall to wall queers some nights, darling. We’d host art parties and try to keep up the spirits of the sick men I had living with me… It was fun.” 

Yennefer half-smiles, looking around the room behind her, trying to imagine the quiet, elegant space full of rowdy queer people doing art. “Sounds like an adventure,” she muses with a quiet chuckle. “So what then?”

“Then, one of my friends who I was hosting wanted to go to a bar. One last time, sort of thing… And we discovered that the few bars around here didn’t have much in the way of wheelchair access or safety accommodations for someone who was immunocompromised. We worked for months trying to get someplace to do the right thing, and he kept getting worse…” A dark look comes over Jaskier’s face. “At a certain point it became urgent. So,” he shrugs uneasily, “I paid for it myself.” He sets aside his empty bowl and turns around, turning on the kettle. 

“I prefer very much to make my own money and leave my family alone, but some things are worth it. In this case my friend who we were doing all of this for- James- uncovered a secret need in the local scene. There were a lot of queers who wanted a clean space with wheelchair access.” Digging in the cabinet, he pulls out a sachet of loose chamomile flowers, a strainer, and a small teapot. 

“I imagine there were,” Yennefer replies softly, her heart constricting. She looks around the room again, seeing it in a different light now. 

“So… Once I’d gotten everything fitted and set up, I had everyone come in and put up a bunch of the art we’d done while we were at the house. Most of it’s still up in the bar,” he says with a fond smile. “And now, I don’t have nearly as much traffic through here. There’s a safe place for my queers to be, I can still check up on my regulars, and I get some peace and quiet at home.” 

Yennefer nods, then looks down at her bowl to cut apart a strawberry. Then she looks up and fixes Jaskier with an inquisitive look. “You said queers… Is your bar not just for men?” 

“Heavens no,” Jaskier flaps his hand dismissively. “That’s primarily who shows up, but I have different theme nights for different parts of the community every month. Dyke nights, Trans nights, Ace nights… Leather night,” he chuckles, “is usually a blast.” 

Yennefer’s eyebrows go up, not sure how to even start with this. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, as she imagines Geralt in the middle of a leather night at a gay bar. He’d probably be mortified at first, but she has a feeling he would enjoy it more than he’d outwardly let on. She breaks out slowly into a smile, which she hides in her coffee cup. 

“When you said that you check up on your regulars… what did you mean by that?” she queries, studying him carefully. How he answers this question will tell her quite a bit about who he is as a person. Her listening look, already focused, becomes even more intent.  

Jaskier turns to face her, finished fiddling with his tea until the water has boiled. “I mostly have a feel for who is friends with who around here…” he explains. “At least among the people who come to my bar. The city isn’t that large. When someone doesn’t show up, or doesn’t seem to be doing well, I know who to send to check on them.” Blue eyes meet hers seriously, his gaze steady for what feels like the first time since she’s met him. “I don’t like watching people drop on my watch anymore. I’d rather die than let another queer rot or fall into homelessness because there wasn’t a family there to catch them.” 

Yennefer tips her head to the side. While she’s still angry about the potential heartbreak he might have caused Geralt by having shitty boundaries, she’s beginning to understand what drives him to do things like take strangers home. The kind of pain he had experienced did odd things to people, and they each coped in different ways. In his case, it seemed to have come out as a ferocious kindness. 

“Do you find them if they don’t have friends?” She queries, eyeing him speculatively. 

“That… “ he pauses, picking his words carefully, aware of the intensity of her scrutiny. “Depends. I don’t hunt down every stranger who passes through, but if it’s someone who’s been coming long enough to form a personal relationship with me? Maybe, sometimes. We had an older patron, Deirdre. Wonderful old queen from the days before being trans was really a thing. She came every Tuesday night for… oh, six years? Seven? She’d sit by the front door near me out on the sidewalk and smoke cigarette after cigarette, and we’d talk for hours. When she stopped coming, I went to check on her. Found her passed away in her armchair, poor dear, and the neighbors hadn’t bothered to call anyone. Mail was spilling out of her mailbox.” His lip curls with frustration and sorrow. 

“But, that kind of situation is thankfully rare. I can think of only a handful of times when I’ve felt the need to go to someone’s home. I mostly work through the grapevine,” he explains with a wistful smile. “I may be impulsive, but I do have boundaries, believe it or not. I am… very sorry I gave you such a bad impression.” Holding his hand up to forestall her speaking, he says, “Admittedly a well-deserved one. I’m not twenty anymore, I’m old enough to know better. My therapist is going to have a field day.” 

Yennefer smirks, and this time a twinkle reaches her eyes. He may be an idiot, but she is gratified to see that he has at least a glimmer of self-awareness. There’s a therapist, too. Good. He has someone to hold him accountable. It makes her feel better about the prospect of giving the hotel phone number to him. “And how old are you, that you ought to know better?”

“Thirty-four. Had a birthday about a month and a half ago, May 22nd.” He smiles and gives a little flourish. “I’m a Gemini.” 

Yennefer rolls her eyes. Of course he would be into astrology. She was going to have to have a talk with Geralt about his taste in men, again. She finishes her fruit and pushes her bowl aside, feeling satisfied. “Well. I can see that you’re not as thoughtless as I was worried you were, at least.” 

Jaskier puffs and shakes his head, not sure how to respond to that. He settles on a cautious, “Thank you?”

Yennefer snorts softly. “That being said, there’s some things I want you to understand about Geralt before we move forward. The most important is that he’s never let himself date or fall in love. He’s spent his whole adult life in the military, and he’s never given himself the chance. Were you aware?”

Jaskier looks at her, a sad look crossing his face. “He told me he’d spent his life in the service but I hadn’t quite put it together-” He breaks off and starts again. “I wasn’t aware. I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

“You’re right, you should have,” she reproofs sharply, but then her voice softens. “But in this case, I don’t think he would have told you even if you had asked. So I’ll give you a pass,” she quirks a little smile at him. “This time.” 

Jaskier smiles awkwardly, relieved, then turns around and turns off the kettle as it whistles. “Can I get you anything?”

“No thank you,” Yennefer says. Then she shifts and catches Jaskier’s eye. “When I say he’s never had a boyfriend, Jaskier, I mean it.  If you don’t step carefully with him, I will personally end you. He’s likely to get very attached to you if you let him.” She leans forward, her face very serious. “If you cheat on him, it will crush him. I want you to think very carefully about whether or not you can handle a commitment like that. You and I both know he is in a world of pain right now. Aside from my daughter there is no one more precious in the world to me, and I want him to be safe. Please don’t make things worse by being irresponsible with his very fragile heart.” 

Jaskier takes this in quietly, regarding Yennefer with a serious expression of his own. He chews his lip, then nods. Turning slowly aside, he fills the little teapot with hot water, pouring it through the strainer full of flowers. The weight of her words presses on him, making him feel small and inadequate in the face of them. 

“Do you want me to date him?” He asks finally, after a long moment of staring at the dried flowers floating to the top and unfolding in the strainer, not entirely sure he wants the answer. The last day had been a wild ride, and he was starting to get heartsore trying to deal with all of it.

Yennefer pauses, frowning a little and leaning her chin on her hand. “Do I personally want you to date him? Doesn’t matter, since you seem to be an idiot, not a predator. What matters is this: He really seems to like you, and I want him to be happy. He gets to choose you if he wants to. Do you still like him after all the shit he pulled?”

Jaskier flushes, turning away to look back at the teapot. He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot before he answers. “I’m… angry that he wasn’t more forthcoming, but it’s not like I asked, either. I definitely brought it on myself.” Licking his lips, he fiddles with the strainer. “But despite that… can I be honest with you?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want an honest answer,” she gives him an amused look. He chuckles and shakes his head. 

“Forgive me, darling. I’m feeling a little out of my depth right now. I usually don’t have a long conversation with the wife, you know? I’m still trying to wrap my head around… uh, what’s happening here.” 

Yennefer chuckles, her eyes twinkling. “This is only the tip of it. But you haven’t answered my question yet.”

His throat bobs visibly as he swallows, his flush deepening. “Right. Well.” He pulls the strainer out too early, leaving himself with weak tea. Stopping as he realizes this, he sinks it back into the pot with a shake of his head and turns around, forcing himself to leave it be. This puts him facing Yennefer, which isn’t much better, but at least it gives him fewer things to make messes with as he loses his composure. “I ah, very much do like him still. Yes.” 

Yennefer smirks, pleased that she can fluster him. As long as he knew who was boss, then as far as she was concerned, he’d probably do fine. 

“Good. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know that.” She folds her fingers under her chin, contemplating the uneasy looking man before her. “The other thing I want you to know is that I won’t be going anywhere if you decide to date him. You will always have me to deal with; I married him, he is my husband, he is the father of my child. I expect you to respect that.  Are we clear?”

Jaskier feels as if someone has poured ice water down the back of his shirt. He’s been in polyamorous arrangements before, but never with someone so fucking intimidating. “As crystal,” he replies weakly. “I wouldn’t imagine getting between you and him, not for a minute.” After all, he didn’t have a death wish. 

“Well then,” she says, pulling a hotel business card out of her purse and writing a number in a neat hand on the back. “As long as that’s understood, here’s the hotel phone number. Take a few days to think about it. If you really want to see him… That’s up to you. But if you do? Take him out on a date. Treat him the way he should be treated. He deserves that. If you don’t, please remember that I am more than happy to bury your dead body.” She smiles sweetly and extends the card to him. He takes it delicately from her, looks the number over, and then tucks the card into the breast pocket over his heart. 

“He does deserve a real date,” Jaskier agrees nervously, feeling caught between the hope and guilt and confusion all swarming around inside of him. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.” He feels like his face is burning, and he knows from her smile that she can see how uncomfortable he is. 

“Now. The last thing I need for now is his backpack. It has things he needs in it, and I’d like to make sure they’re there for him when he wakes up.” She says with an air of finality, standing. “Can you please get it for me?” 

“Of course,” he says, pushing off of the counter, glad to have something to do to break the tension of the moment. “Just a minute.” He retreats to the bedroom and there is the sound of dragging and rummaging. A moment later he emerges with a set of keys. 

“Come with me?” he offers, gesturing with his head towards the door. She rises and nods, following him out the front door and up the staircase to the loft. He unlocks the door for her and steps aside, allowing her past him into the quiet room. It’s starting to get hot as the mid-morning sunshine radiates through the round window in the eaves, but unlike the outside, the inside hasn’t yet turned unpleasant. 

Yennefer steps carefully into the loft, looking around. It’s a peaceful, neat little space, mostly unruffled except for Geralt’s boxes piled neatly against the back walls. His backpack still sits at the foot of the bed. She retrieves it, brushes her fingers fondly over the box labeled ‘Correspondence’ on her way back, and meets Jaskier at the door. 

“Thank you,” she states, sounding firm but sincere. She, at least, feels more settled now about getting out of Geralt’s way. Some things about the situation still don’t feel right to her, but she’s no longer on red alert. It was enough to be moving on with, at least.

Jaskier nods. “Of course. I’ll see you soon, Yennefer.” He fidgets awkwardly, then says, “Thank you, too. For leveling with me.”

 She smirks. “Get used to it.” She says dryly, then turns and heads down the stairs to her car without further comment. He stands at the top and watches her go, fiddling with the keys between his fingers, at a loss for words. 

The quiet little library near the MWR was almost deserted at this time of day. It never saw heavy traffic at any time, but right after evening mess most men had more interesting things to do than hit the books. Coën pushed his way into the library curiously, looking around from side to side. At first, aside from the librarian, there was no one to be seen. Then, as he rounded one of the stacks, the tan metal shelving opened out into a little seating area with some battered gold and cream yellow velvet plush chairs and a little work table in the middle of the space. Seated in one of the chairs was Geralt, holding a book in one hand, his expression serious as he read it. 

Coën smiled with pleasure. He’d been noticing the big man vanish after evening mess for weeks now, but this was the first time he’d had a good opportunity to follow him and find out what he got up to after hours. Most of the men on base scattered for the MWR or the smoke pit, but he’d never seen him in either of those spots. The only place he’d ever seen Geralt spend much free time was the track; he had a tendency to run when he wasn’t otherwise occupied. He didn’t run after dinner though; cracking where he went was something Coën had been meaning to do. Pleased, he walked out from behind the shelf. 

Geralt oriented to the movement immediately, half-closing his book and switching the intensity of his gaze onto Coën. The force of it hit Coën like a blow to the chest and he stopped, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Aside from being their liaison on base and in the field, Geralt also commanded his own men. Coën had heard he had a fearsome reputation. While he hadn’t yet been able to see why, the look the man was giving him right now gave an inkling of what they might have been talking about. Around Yennefer, the young lieutenant was often awkward and caught on his left foot (although to be fair, most people were; she preferred it that way,) but here alone, he had a quiet, powerful presence that gave Coën pause.

“Hey, man,” he said with a friendly smile, pitching his voice low in the silent library. “Finally found you. How’s it going?”

Geralt gave him a wooden look, then closed his eyes as if summoning strength to deal with this intrusion into his personal space. Coën, usually confident and easygoing, shifted awkwardly. When Geralt opened his eyes again, he marked the book carefully and set it aside. 

“What do you want.” He asked flatly. The full bore of his attention on Coën was vaguely uncomfortable, but Coën wasn’t about to be deterred. He was used to Yennefer, after all.  

“I wanted to talk, man. Get to know you a little. We work together all the time, why not?” He fixed Geralt with a charming, lopsided grin, leaning his shoulder lightly on the shelf next to him. 

Geralt took this in, unimpressed. “Where’s Yennefer?” Of all the things that he wanted to deal with right now, being harassed by both of them on his off hours was not it. He eyed Coën skeptically. 

“Off base doing errands, last I checked.” Coën replied easily. “Want to come out for a run with me?”

“No.”

“A drink then? C’mon. On me.”

Geralt hesitated, then grumbled reluctantly. He didn’t want to socialize, but free booze was hard to turn down. “Fine.” 

He picked the book up and stood, unfolding to his full height with an easy grace. From where he was standing he could see the librarian, whose eye he caught. Geralt gave the librarian a short nod before starting out the door. Coën could have sworn he caught a slight smile between the two of them, so quick he wasn’t entirely sure he saw it, but then Geralt was pushing past him and he was turning to follow. The little moment popped like a soap bubble and faded from Coën’s notice, forgotten, as he followed the big man out the door. 

When they arrived at the bar Geralt walked in without comment, leaving Coën to follow him. At this time of day the space was warm and full of the smell of good food, dotted with patrons chatting over drinks and baskets of falafels. Geralt leaned his elbows on the bar and greeted the owner in Hebrew as Coën came into hearing range. The man shook his head, corrected him, and Geralt tried again, this time holding up two fingers. The dark-haired man smiled and nodded this time, then looked up and waved to Coën as he approached. 

Geralt turned as Coën neared and slapped Coën’s shoulder, just a little too hard to be entirely companionable. “He’s paying.” 

Coën grinned, unperturbed, and slid into the bar seat next to where Geralt was standing. “Give me a basket of those falafels, too. They smell fantastic,” he said. 

“You got it,” the bartender replied, placing a beer and a shot of arak in front of each of them. Coën nodded his thanks and grabbed the arak first, downing it, welcoming the burn. Geralt did the same, tossing it back in one go. The liquor was strong, having the tendency to punch the drinker in the sinuses with a sharp hit of vaporized alcohol and aniseed. They both shook their heads to clear the burn, then took large swallows of beer to wash it back. Blinking their watering eyes, they turned to look at one another, considering one another in the quiet near the front of the bar. 

“Why are you bothering me?” Geralt asked him bluntly. “Don’t you have something better to do on your off hours?”

“I’m buying you food and booze, I’d hardly call that bothering you,” Coën replied dryly. Geralt quirked the tiniest of smiles and turned away, shrugging. His eyes tracked as the bartender brought the falafels back to them. Coën grabbed them and jerked his head. “Let’s grab a table.” 

“Fine.” Geralt said, eyeing his back with a little frown as he followed him across the bar. Coën was a little shorter than Geralt, although he was by no means a small man, with a leanly muscled frame and a confident posture. He wore a brown shirt and fatigues, though his press pass was now stuffed safely away, no longer needed off base. When he turned and sat, Geralt sank into the seat across from him. His face was plain but friendly, with terrible pockmark scarring from some sort of accident or illness. He grew a short beard over it, neatly trimmed, which slightly eased the effect of the scarring. His eyes were a little unsettling, a pale yellow green like a cat’s eyes, the whites riddled with red streaks from some sort of old injury.

“What happened to your face?” Geralt asked, setting his beer on the table.

“Boy, you just jump right to it, don’t you, big guy?” Coën replied affably. “That’s none of your goddamn business. But since you’re asking, it happened while I was over in ‘Nam. Got me a medical discharge out of it, and fuck all else.” He shrugged and waved his hand, indicating Geralt’s body and face. “What’s with the whole… pale, spooky thing?” A grin played over his face as he saw Geralt sit back. The young soldier’s expression changed quickly from offense to understanding as he caught on that he was being mildly rebuffed for his rudeness. 

“It’s genetic,” he explained with a little grimace. “And if you’re about to call me Casper, save your breath. I’ve heard all of it before.”

Coën’s grin widened. He took a big swallow of his beer and then leaned towards Geralt. “I was about to ask if your mother fucked a snowman, but I guess we’ve got that all covered,” he teased. Geralt pulled a face at him, wavering between offense and laughter. Coën popped a falafel into his mouth, still smiling, then pushed the basket towards the middle of the table towards Geralt. 

“So tell me about yourself. What’s with the library thing?”

“What’s with the disturbing my reading thing?” Geralt grumbled back at him, but he took a falafel and bit into it. Coën waited, still unperturbed, and after a moment Geralt said, “I like it because it’s quiet. I get a chance to catch up on my reading after dinner when no one’s there.” 

“What were you reading about?” Coën asked, then drained his beer. “Want another round?” Geralt nodded cautiously, draining his own beer and setting the empty glass aside. Coën nabbed it and brought it back to the bar, returning a moment later with full glasses and another round of arak. 

They pounded the shots back as Coën sat, then Geralt replied. “Hebrew. I’m trying to get fluent.” He gave Coën an uneasy look. “Why?”

“Just curious,” Coën shrugged comfortably. “I prefer fantasy. Love me some Lord of the Rings.” 

“Oh,” Geralt said, sounding a little surprised. He wasn’t used to people actually engaging in conversation with him about books. “Why?”

“I don’t know man,” Coën said, waving his hand. “Swords? Dwarves? Elves? It’s a fun escape, I guess.”

Geralt smiled slightly, nodded, nabbed another falafel. “What do you usually do on your off time?”

“What, when I’m not with Yennefer?” Geralt nodded, and Coën stretched in his chair, pondering. “Physical training. Fuck. Read,” he tipped his beer at Geralt in a friendly gesture, “Play cards, if there’s a game on. Harass people who don’t want to be bothered,” he said with another grin. 

This time Geralt snorted into his beer, nodding. “Ok. Fine. Where are you from?” 

Coën leaned comfortably in his chair and swiped another falafel. “Michigan. You?”

“Poland,” he replied, tossing his beer back. “My parents were stationed out there when I was born.” 

“Poland, huh? How’d you end up back in the States?”

“Military school. It’s a long story.” Geralt shrugged, his face closing off, and he changed the subject. “How’d you meet Yennefer?”

“Mm.” Coën eyed Geralt curiously, but let the subject drop. “I met her when I was over in ‘Nam. Saw her burn through a bunch of my COs like they were cheap paper and I thought, I have to know this woman.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “She wasn’t easy to get to know, but,” he shrugged. “I’m charming.”

Geralt shook his head, smiling slightly as he bit into a falafel. 

“Then… after a series of long stories I’m not gonna get into, she ended up out in the field with my unit, which was fucking insane given what was going on out there. Long story short, she saved my ass. I’m pretty much ride or die now.” 

Geralt nodded thoughtfully, then stood. “I’ll buy this round.”

“Sounds good, man.” 

When he returned, he passed Coën his drinks and sat down. This time, with the drinks, Geralt offered him a smile.

Hours later, when they staggered out of the bar together, their arms were wrapped around one another’s shoulders.

In the parking lot of the mall, Yennefer pulls into the parking space and pulls the emergency break. Now that she is done talking with Jaskier, she wants to check in with Coën, finally update him, make sure that everything is okay with him and Ciri. She pulls out a big, blocky cell phone and dials a number. It only rings twice before someone on the other end picks up. She turns the blowers down as a man’s voice answers the phone. 

“Hello?”

“It’s Yenna, Coën. I found Geralt, he’s safe. How are you and Ciri doing?” Her voice is quiet but carries clearly across the phone line. 

“Yenna,” the man, Coën, replies with relief. “It’s good to hear from you. I actually just got her down for a rest.” Yennefer can hear a small shuffling sound as he shifts the phone to his other ear, then settling sounds. “She had a helluva meltdown a little while ago.”

“Is she sleeping?”

“As far as I know, yes. Last time I looked in on her she was out.” He sounds tired, but his voice is steady, calm. “It was a bad one. She’s not hurt, but I just finished sweeping up the last of her lunch plate off the floor.” 

Yennefer sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose lightly. “Do you know what caused it?”

“I don’t think there was any one thing this time. She misses you, she’s scared about her dad being gone, her routine’s thrown off. This time the thing that kindled it off was the water from her steamed broccoli touching her ketchup, but…” He sighs, and she can hear fabric shifting, probably a shrug. “As you know, that usually doesn’t set her off like this.” She can hear another shuffle as he shifts. 

“She’d been asking about you a lot since you didn't call yesterday morning, even though we both told her you’d be missing a day… which got me thinking it’s more about missing you than the fucking ketchup. She’ll be ok, but I’m glad you called. You said you’ve finally found Geralt?” A note of worry enters his easygoing voice, and she can almost see the look of concern on his pockmarked face. 

“I found him, Coën.” She confirms. “He’s safe in my hotel room right now. I found him with a man.” A frustrated sigh bursts out from her. “I can’t believe him. This is how he got tossed out of the Army, and the second he hits civilian soil he’s in someone else’s pants. This isn’t like him.”

“He what?” On the other end of the line, Coën bursts into laughter. “Oh man, good for him! He deserves a little happy. What the fuck happened to him, anyway? Last I heard you hadn’t been able to get any details about the damn discharge, I’ve been worried sick.”

“We all have. I still am. He’s in a bad way.” And with that, she relates the events of the past day to her friend, filling him in on the details of Geralt’s discharge, how dangerous his depression has become, and the circumstances under which she found him. Coën listens patiently, stopping her only rarely to ask a clarifying question. She winds up by detailing everything she’s learned about Jaskier, ending on an amused note. “So, that situation is totally barmy. Trust Geralt to find the most impulsive man in Rhode Island… I really hope he’s going to be ok. I know I don’t get much say in this, but it worries me.” 

On the other end of the line, she can hear another soft rustle as Coën shifts and re-settles himself while he mulls this over. “I don’t know, Yenna… it sounds like it’s not the worst situation I’ve ever heard of.” 

“Coën-”

“Stop. Listen. I get why you’re upset. The guy sounds like he’s a little fuckin’ foolish, but when has Geralt gone in for anything else?” 

“Coën!” she exclaims, insulted. “Excuse me?”

“Except for you, sweetie. You know I never mean you. But Eskel? He’s never had all his screws tightened down and you know it. At least this guy seems genuinely interested in him.” 

Yennefer sighs and nods. “You’re right. Whatever else is happening, his idiot really does seem to like him,” she admits. 

“That’s good,” Coën chuckles. Then he asks, “Hey, what the fuck is he wearing? All of his stuff is here! Oh… Yenna, don’t tell me he’s in his old clothes from storage…” 

Yennefer slowly grins. “He is. Spares from his twenties, too.” 

On the other end of the line, Coën bursts out in quiet laughter. “Do they even fit?”

“Depends on how you define ‘fit’,” she replies dryly. “They’re a bit tight across the shoulders now.” 

“Oh man, and he’s just walking around wearing that? You’ve got to be kidding me. I ain’t gonna be able to mail his clothes overseas fast enough to rescue that disaster, you have got to get him new clothes.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re not wrong… I’m already on it. I’m actually about to go pick him up a few things, I just thought I'd call you first.” she says, then trails off. The smile falls from her face. 

“Coën, this feels crazy. I know I already agreed that we’d stay and work it out but… Between you and me, I just want him home safe. I don’t know if I’m making the right choice staying here.”

She can hear another rustle, and when he speaks, Coën’s voice is serious and quiet, muffled to avoid waking Ciri. “I get that. I really do. But… What do you honestly think is going to happen if we put him on a plane and force him back to London? He’ll hate you, for a start. We can’t strongarm another bar owner into giving him a job with his special interest, either, and I don’t think he’ll make it if he doesn’t have something to do. Not the way you’re talking about him right now. That scares the shit out of me.” He sighs, and then speaks again, barely audible now. “Besides, Ciri needs her dad to be happy. You know what will happen if we put them together right now before he’s stable.”

Yennefer feels her stomach plunge as Coën points that out, pressing her lips together. Reluctantly, she nods. “You’re not wrong about that. I bloody fucking wish you were, but…” 

Coën hums softly in agreement on the other end of the line. “Listen.” He says, after a long moment of worried silence. “I know you’re nervous, but take the crappy impulse sex out of the picture for a minute and look again. He’s met a man who likes him a lot. He’s so into him that he finally admitted to you that he’s gay. That’s like, moving fucking mountains material. And you know how much he loves mixing drinks, it’s like an illness. I fucking hate when he starts talking about it because he won’t fucking shut up. Don’t get me wrong, it’s sweet, but-”

“It’s fucking exhausting,” she agrees with a laugh. “You’re right, this job offer is right up his alley. If he’d come to it a little more honestly, I’d probably be thrilled for him…” She hesitates, then adds, “About all of it. He really likes Julian. He blushes when he talks about him.”

“Oh ho ho ho!” Coën crows quietly. “You’re kidding me! Mr. My Face is Carved Out of Granite Rivii, blushing? That I have to see for myself.” Yennefer laughs again, feeling deeply held tension in her chest and stomach begin to ease. 

“It’s quite the sight,” she admits with a smile. “It’s nice to see.”

“I bet. So it sounds like you’re not going to be home anytime soon.”

“Probably not.”

“What do you want me to tell Ciri?”

Yennefer sits back in her seat heavily and sighs, then flips down the sun visor so that she can open the mirror on the back of it and inspect her makeup as she thinks. The process grounds her, bringing her back to her center. She carefully sweeps a finger under one eye, corralling a minute smudge of eyeliner before she responds. 

“Tell her that I love her very much, and that I will call her before bed tonight. I will keep up with her morning calls until I figure out what to do… Beyond that, it’s hard to say what next steps should be until I see how this rumpus between Geralt and his idiot takes shape.” She pauses, chewing the inside of her lip.

“What are you thinking about?” Coën asks quietly, voice gentle. 

“I’m thinking about what to do with Ciri. If everything goes well here, I don’t want to just leave Geralt alone and go back to London.” “So move her. We’ve been all over the world, Yenna. Rhode Island isn’t dangerous, what’s the problem?”

She looks up at the ceiling of the car, huffing and studying the velvety fabric above her. “It feels crazy, is the problem.”

“This whole thing is crazy. Our life is crazy. It’s ok, we know how to land on our feet. Maybe start looking into a month-to-month for you two, you don’t know how long Geralt’s going to need you over there. Maybe start scouting for bigger places in case you decide to move us, too? I’ll get a few things wound up over here, just in case, and… we’ll feel it out, ok? No need to make any big decisions yet. Let’s just make sure Geralt is safe first. Ciri’s safe with me, you can handle yourself, everything else is gonna be fine. Ok?”

Her hand comes up to her chest and presses it as she listens to Coën, trying to ease some of the sudden ache in her heart. As she gets wrapped up in the calm safety of his voice, it finally occurs to her just how emotionally exhausted she is. She takes a moment to sit with it, breathing slowly until the worst of the ache has passed and she is thinking clearly again. Coën waits patiently on the other end of the line, his own breath quiet and steady in her ear.

“I still don’t like it.” 

Coën laughs, muffling his chuckle so as not to wake Ciri. “I know, sweetie. You wouldn’t be you if you did. You were never gonna like any boyfriend of Geralt’s, it’s not in your nature... That’s ok. Give it time. Go get ‘im, sweetie, that little twink isn’t gonna know what hit him.”

She breaks out in a sudden laugh at that, pleased. “He already doesn’t. I’ve got that boy properly terrified.”

“Good. Keep the little fucker in line until I can meet him,” Coën says warmly. “I’ll beat him up for both of you if he doesn’t do right by our boy.” 

“Thank you,” she replies with a smile. “I’ll let you know what’s happening as soon as I know. Give Ciri a hug for me?”

“You got it. Anything else before I go?”

She hesitates, then grins mischievously. “The bar has leather nights.” 

“Oh, Geralt is going to die,” Coën giggles quietly, still trying to muffle himself. “Oh lord, thank you for telling me that. That’ll do.”

“You’re welcome. Talk to you soon.”

“Yup. Give Geralt a hug for me when you get back to him.”

“I will,” she promises. “Goodbye.”

“Bye.” 

She ends the call and drops the phone back into her purse, sighing heavily. She feels more grounded now, but the weight of the situation sits heavily on her heart. Like no matter where she turns, something unpredictable looms, out of her control. Closing her eyes and leaning back in her seat, she gives herself a long, slow moment to gather her thoughts. The conversation with Coën was calming, and she feels much clearer now. Once she is gathered, she gets out of the car and shuts the door firmly. Now that was all settled, it was time to get Geralt some clothes. 

~*~

When she arrives back at the hotel room some time later, Geralt is just starting to stir. He is lying there blinking in the dimness of the hotel room, feeling like he is being crushed under a ton of bricks, when he hears the click of the magnetic key card sliding in the lock. Sitting up on his elbow, he watches as Yennefer pushes through the door with a bag on her elbow and his backpack slung over her shoulder. Oh, crap. That’s right, she’d gone shopping for him. Despite the fact that he’s grateful he didn’t have to go to the store himself, he still feels apprehension about the prospect of a whole new set of clothing. Groaning, he flops back against his pillow and scrubs his hand over his stubbly face. 

Yennefer smiles as she watches him do this, setting the bag down on the little round table. “I have more in the car, kochany.” She gestures to the little counter with the mini fridge and coffee maker, where a bag of ground coffee sits waiting for him. “I bought some decent coffee in case I found you. Why don’t you get that started?” Geralt grumps out a muffled noise from behind his hand, not moving.

Then she walks over and deposits the backpack next to his side of the bed. “Got your razor.” Leaning over, she plucks his hand off of his face and kisses his forehead, then his lips, light and sweet, and is rewarded with a little flicker of a smile. 

“Thank you, neshama shelì.” Geralt rumbles softly, his voice still thick with sleep. “How did everything go?”

“Well… I still don’t entirely get what you see in him,” she teases gently, sitting next to him on the bed, forcing him to scoot slightly to the side to make room for her. “But. We had a long talk, and I have a better feel for who he is as a person.” She trails her fingers lightly along his arm, affectionate. 

“And?” Geralt asks, tilting his head and eyeing her with guarded curiosity in the dimness. 

“And,” she sighs and smiles, patting his chest. “I suppose I can see something of what you see in him. He’s a pillock, and he’s too impulsive for my liking, but he’s also… kind. Soft. Generous. More thoughtful than I gave him credit for. So,” she says, turning to smile down at him, “I left him with the hotel room’s number. The ball’s in his court now, kochany. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Geralt looks back up at her, his face unreadable in the dim half-light of the hotel room. He nods, his eyes sliding closed, still groggy and emotionally hungover after the day previous. Yennefer pats his chest gently one last time and then says, “I also talked to Coën. He and Ciri are doing well, and he’s glad that you are okay. He told me to hug you for him.” And with that she leans over, giving him a gentle squeeze. He huffs out a noise of mild protest, but deep down he enjoys the hug. She smirks as she rises. “I’ll be back with the rest of the bags in just a minute. I’ll fill you in about the rest over breakfast.” 

He grunts a sleepy noise of acknowledgement, waiting until she leaves to slowly rise. Every movement causes his body to burn with exhausted pain. All of the raw sadness and grief that he’d been staving off for weeks has collapsed in on him, and he can barely breathe under it. Grumbling softly, he sets up the coffee maker, pulls his shaving things and his dog tags out of his bag, and limps into the bathroom for a shower. 

By the time he is out, he can hear Yennefer moving around in the room outside the door. He uses a towel to swipe the mirror clear. This time he doesn’t even try to meet his own eyes. Instead, he sets about the routine that he’s done nearly every day of his adult life, the same way every time. It is unspeakably grounding to feel the cold pattern of strokes across his skin as the razor cuts away the night’s stubble.

When his skin is finally smooth for the first time in weeks, it feels like a weight has fallen off of him. He sighs deeply in contentment as he washes the remaining soap off of his face and rubs his hand gently over his cheeks. Then, he turns to his dog tags. There on the chain is his wedding band, a plain gold ring. 

Yennefer had put it on him a long time ago, and it is one of his most treasured possessions. It had never felt right to hide it, but he’d been so certain that he didn’t deserve them anymore. That they would reject him. Now that he knew differently, it was a relief to see it again. It had always been an honor to wear.  

Gently, he removes it and puts it back on his ring finger. When he emerges from the bathroom, Yennefer can see the difference in him. Her eyes flicker to the ring and back, and she gives him a little smile. That was a good sign, she knew. It meant he felt connected enough to his family to wear it. 

“Better?” She asks, watching him walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. 

“Better,” he agrees, fingering his chin. 

“Good.” She smiles. “There’s fresh clothes on the bed for you.” With a tip of her head, she indicates the jeans, dark blue button down, undershirt, underwear, belt, and socks that she’s laid out on Geralt’s side of the bed. 

“Thanks,” he squints, eyeing them distrustfully. 

“Just try them, Geralt, they won’t bite,” Yennefer suggests wryly, taking another pair of jeans out of a bag and clipping the tags off of them. “You’ll have to get used to wearing them someday, might as well start now.” 

“Hmm.” He grunts, casting her a look of very mild irritation. She smiles back at him, he rolls his eyes, then capitulates and heads over to inspect the new clothing for himself. It’s simple, sturdy, well-made. When he picks up the shirt, it’s surprisingly soft. He shoots a glance at Yennefer, who gives him a ‘See? Told you to trust me,’ look in return. 

Grumbling softly, caught somewhere between feeling annoyed and loved, he puts the shirt on. He discovers that the underwear is comfortable, too. To his surprise, even the socks are pleasant, dress socks with fine seams that don’t bother his feet when he puts them on. The jeans are a little stiff, but they’re new and that can’t be helped. The clean clothing feels nice, as does the fact that it fits a great deal better than his old clothing did. He walks over to the mirrors paneling the little closet door in the corner of the room and eyes himself uncomfortably. 

“What do you think?” Yennefer asks from across the room, an amused note lilting her voice. 

“I hate it,” Geralt gripes, only half serious. He tugs at the shirt and grimaces at his reflection. The outfit feels surprisingly nice on his skin, and deep down, he knows he’ll get accustomed to it quickly. 

“Liar,” Yen chuckles warmly, setting aside a wine-red shirt in a small pile of other clothing. 

“Hmm.” Geralt hums, walking over to the little counter to get himself a cup of coffee. Then he turns around and leans against it, eyeing Yen and her bags skeptically. 

“I know I need clothes, Yen, but really?” He complains, as he watches her pull out a deep purple shirt and clip its tags, adding to the pile. 

“Really,” she says firmly. “You’ll feel better if you look presentable, Geralt. Especially at that new job of yours, if you decide to take it.” She glances up at him, a twinkle in her eye. Then she gestures at a shirt on top of the pile of work clothing she’s set aside for him.

He gives her a wide-eyed look, then walks over and tentatively picks up the shirt that she’d indicated. It is just a black button down shirt, nothing fancy. But it is more than that, too. It is a silent statement of support from her, and as such, it means the world to him. 

She smiles to herself, setting aside the empty bag in her lap. “Want to go get breakfast somewhere, moj drogì?” She asks. “I saw a few places nearby that looked good.” He glances up from his coffee warily. To be perfectly honest, all he wanted to do was sleep, but he was all slept out, so after a moment of hesitation he nods. 

“Good. Once I’m done here we’ll leave.” 

He nods again, downing his coffee and pouring himself another cup. Then he walks over quietly behind her back and leans down, kissing the top of her head. 

“Thank you for the clothes, Yen.”

“You’re welcome.” She replies warmly, leaning back into his stomach. Her violet eyes peer up from underneath her lashes, a slow smile lighting her face. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He takes a sip of coffee, holding her head and gently savoring her curls with his fingertips. They both close their eyes, soaking up the warmth of being together. It might not be a usual sort of love, but it was theirs, and neither would have traded it for the world.

[dayasbun]

Fame - Angus Cloud (2)

Summary- a luckily timed audition leads to you falling for your new and unexpected co-star.

Warnings- okay HI welcome to my first multi chapter series woah?! this is actually so exciting for me like wow especially since angus doesn't have any fics yet im just really really excited- so warnings! smut for sure, bad words, lotsa fluff, angst- everything in one basically. here comes a ride and I hope you enjoy :)

Part 1

Part 2 {reading now}

-

You didn't do happy dances often, because usually there weren't many things that made you happy enough to dance for. But when you woke up after having the most splendid dream to an email that read:

'Hello Ms. Y/F/N Y/L/N, and thank you for applying for the role as Jess. We have reviewed your audition tape and were quite pleased with what we saw. For the next step in the hiring process, we ask that you come to the same site yet again today at 3 PM for a go through with your possible costar, without the script. If that time isn't good for you, please return this email in its entirety so that we can reschedule, and if the time sounds good we can't wait to see you today. Thank you.'

...a happy dance seemed to be necessary, right?

Your excitement bubbled as you put on a light pink crop and a pair of simple blue jean shorts. The look was overall simple- too simple for you, so you decided to top it off with a few hair-clips, a coat of lip gloss on your lips, and lastly some sweet-smelling lotion on your bare arms and legs.

It seemed as though 3 came quickly, but you made sure you were there by 2:50. 'Better to be early than late', you always told yourself. You always stuck by that.

Walking into the building with your pink jelly wedges clicking against the marble floor you signed in. To your surprise, they called you in at 2:55, earlier than you were expecting.

"Y/N! Punctual and looking gorgeous as usual," said one of the co-producers, Mary, and to your surprise she greeted you with a hug. She was the woman that showed the most hospitality to you through out the time you had been auditioning, a sweet, short little woman that smelled like this mornings coffee.

"Aw thank you, you're so sweet," you smiled letting off of the hug and readjusting the crop.

"So Angus is running a bit late, it happens a lot so feel free to sit over there with the other girls and we'll just see where this takes you guys sound good?"

You wondered how he was running late when it was only 2:57, but you just agreed with a smile and walked over to sit with a small group of girls. All of them glared at you as you sat down, so you decided to weigh out the competition.

You weren't one to judge- or you tried not to be- but god these girls were bland. No hair-clips, no lip gloss- not even a smile. Almost all of them wore the same, a white button up blouse with black slacks, black ballet flats, and kept their hair tied back with a colorful scrunchie. Blonde, with perfectly painted nails and you would bet money they had pedicures to match. There was nothing wrong with them, but they seemed to not know how to have fun from the energy they were giving off, and how boring it must be to have no fun. You honestly almost couldn't help but to feel worried though, was there a dress code in the email that you missed?

More girls began to filter in as the next 10 minutes passed, at least some of them seemed to actually have a personality.

"Okay well imma call you back, I got some business to do- oh you know it you feel me!? Nah wit' the show, like auditioning with all these girls or sum. Yeah okay bet imma call you later anyway, bye."

3:13.

"Angus, you're late." Mary spoke up with a sigh, "I don't want any excuses from you, lets kick this into high gear shall we?"

"Who was giving excuses though like... I just be cancelling my alarm, nobody got time for waking up before 2:45 anyway."

That made you laugh a bit, and apparently louder than you expected, because the whole room, Angus included turned their heads to look at you. Mary shook her head and just looked at the list she held, and you lowered your eyes to look down at the carpeting. "Alright let's start. Girls exit the room, the auditions are one on one with just us, you, and Angus to avoid pressure and judgment."

You all stood up, heading towards the door to pile out.

"Y/N, stay."

Why'd you feel like you were about to get in trouble for laughing or some shit?

You turned around and walked to the center of the room by Angus, but you didn't look up at him. You could feel him watching you and considering you had no idea what he was thinking, you hated it.

"Well you two know what to do, start when you feel comfortable. Y/N has the first line."

You turned your body towards him and looked up, he was a lot taller than you...you felt like a little person.

Before you got too flustered, you let out a shaky breath and started. "But baby, come on you can do so much more, you can- we can travel the world or some corny shit like that, that's what you always wanted to do when we were kids. You don’t have to sell, and we can bring Ash with u-"

"Yeah well we ain't kids no more. Traveling takes money, I put all I got into stuff that's actually useful. I shoulda never gotten attached to you and shit again, damn you always do this."

"Fez..." your voice softened as you remembered this part of the script: 'Jess stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around Fez's neck, pulling him down to her. Fez places his hands on her waist and...'

You did as the script said and he did as well. Feeling his hands on your bare waist you looked into his eyes- they were quite gorgeous- and continued on. "You say you want me but you don't act upon it. How am I supposed to be here if you don't open up to me-"

He let go of you and rolled his eyes, "Girl I got shit to do. So you can leave if you finna do allat."

"For fucks SAKE you're- God you're just frustrating! What do you have to do? Go sell? Go talk to Mouse and risk your goddamn life again because there's a drop of blood on money that you stole?! Its so hard to love you and you don't get that!"

"Its hard to love me? Me? Come on. How hard do you think it is to love a bitch with daddy issues that wants to watch Sailor Moon every night- I hate that shit! But I watch it for you- and you just complain about your dad not loving you and how he never coming back? Well maybe you should realize that shits true and move on from it all you do is-"

Your eyes begin to fill with tears and you immediately turned to walk away but were quickly pulled back into Angus- excuse me, Fez’s chest, your back against him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that shit."

You elbowed him in the chest- softly- causing him to groan and let go "You know you meant it. That's it Fez, I'm done." You walked away slowly ruffling your hair-

"Scene! Holyyyyyy wow that was amazing! The passion- are you guys sure you've never acted together before?"

You turned around jokingly bowing as you wiped your tears from the corners of your eyes. Angus laughed and came over to you shaking your hand. "You're good. I like yo' energy too, I hope to see you around set or sum."

You swallowed thickly, if you got this role you could not be this nervous around him everyday.

"It's not hard when I'm acting with someone so talented." You said softly, letting go of his hand after he shook it. He smiled with a chuckle "Thank you, thank you."

There was a strange tension between you two- why? You didn't know exactly, but you knew it wasn't only on your end. You thanked everyone for their time and they said they'd keep in touch. With one last glance at Angus- who had never stopped looking at you- you gave him a gentle smile and then walked out.

You rushed to the bathroom and into a stall, letting out a breath you didn't even know you had been holding in. You thought everything over, the tension, the feeling of his hands on your waist, the look of approval Mary had on her face when you two finished. You'd surprisingly never felt more confident about a role you'd tried out for, and due to that you couldn't seem to stop smiling.

[stillebesat]

The Interview (4/5)

Sanders Sides: Logan, Patton, Virgil, Roman Blurb: A normal day at StoryTime! Inc. takes an unexpected turn when Logan goes to investigate why his coworkers have made a bet using Crofters as the prize. Fic Type: General, Human!AU Warnings: None

To Catch Up: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 

Virgil froze like a deer in the headlights, barely appearing to breathe. “What?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, his smile becoming more amused. Had Virgil really expected him to say no--of course he had. 

“I said that you’re hired, Virgil.” He stood, carefully keeping the portfolio out of reach so the kid wouldn’t bolt. “Why don’t we head inside to work out the particulars?” Like informing Roman that he had once more overstepped. 

Hopefully this wouldn’t come back to bite him as hard as last time. 

“But.” Virgil shook his head, apparently rooted in place. “This wasn’t a rea inter--” He inhaled sharply, jabbing an accusing finger at Logan’s chest. “You said you weren’t Princey!” 

Logan pushed up his glasses with one finger, fighting a smile. “I said I wasn’t Roman.” He replied easily. “Not that I wasn’t a Prince.” Besides. His brother wasn’t the only one with hiring power in the building. 

Virgil frowned, rubbing his arms. “You’re a Prince? But how--records show--and if you’re not Roma--” He inhaled sharply, eyes growing wide. “Wait.” He took a step closer to Logan. “You’re telling me that you’re--” He dropped his voice, glancing furtively around the plaza. “Logan? Logan Prince?” 

The portfolio nearly slipped from his fingers at the mention of his name. That--that should be impossible! “How--?”  Logan breathed, ignoring the frantic pounding of his heart. 

He could count the number of people that knew his name in the company on one hand. To everyone else, even on official records, he was simply known as ‘Specs.’ 

The nickname didn’t help his cryptid status at all, but did keep everyone from lumping him and Roman together like they were one entity instead of two. It had finally allowed both of them to spread their figurative wings and take their own paths without feeling like they were in each other's shadows.

And now this...this outsider...knew his name?! HOW?!

 Virgil licked his lips, dropping the hand that had been outstretched for his portfolio. “Well...I did say I’ve followed Thomas from the beginning.” He shrugged, a bit of mischief glinting in his mismatched eyes. “I saw a photo of an early script of Princey’s.”

A script? Logan raised his eyebrows. A script--which script? He’d signed off as Specs on his collaborations with his brother for years. They couldn’t have slipped up over something as little as--

“Zooming in on the picture showed both your names on it, though it was hard to make out yours as its smudged with glitter and partially covered by Roman’s hand.” Virgil continued, staring at Logan as if he’d discovered Bigfoot. 

In a way he had. 

“Glitter?” Logan frowned. Roman hadn’t used glitter on screenplays since--oh. OH. “Are you meaning that four hundred page Sherlock inspired screenplay?” He asked, half turning to the building. 

Virgil nodded, drawing closer. “The one where Watson just freaking dies and a new less emotional sidekick takes place? Yes.” 

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. Of all the pieces that would expose him, it had to be that one. “I hadn’t realized he posted images of that.” He said, heading for the entrance, glancing over his shoulder to ensure Virgil was following. “We wrote it together one weekend while we were stranded at an airport.” 

Virgil whistled. “That’s--wow. Four hundred pages in two days? You two are crazy!”

“Bored more like.” They’d been between projects and driving each other mad, it had been something to keep the two of them equally entertained. “And it was written in three and a half days, plus the ten hour flight.” 

Again Virgil whistled, eyes wide. “Impressive.”

Logan shrugged. “Yah...well. That’s my--” he dropped his voice as he grabbed the door, noting the gaggle of people still hovering in the foyer, watching the two of them. “Twin for you.” He returned to speaking to his normal tones as if nothing had happened. “Once Roman gets inspired, it’s hard to get him to stop.” Another reason why it was difficult to keep people in his department. Few people could go as long or as hard as his brother could. 

Virgil stumbled a step, hesitating right outside the doorway. “Twin?” He echoed softly. “I had thought---I had a theory there were Two Princes at StoryTime!, but I didn’t think you two were---HOW has this not gotten out?!” 

Because they didn’t want to be known just as The Twins anymore. That’s why. 

Logan shrugged. “We don’t want it to. So it doesn’t.” Though now that Virgil had connected the dots-- “And I hope you won’t--”

Virgil rubbed his arms, shaking his head as he looked to the people in the lobby. “Dude, don’t worry. I can keep a secret.” 

That would remain to be seen, but Logan appreciated the sentiment. Though he would be more comfortable having this conversation without so many listening ears nearby. After all, he was already drawing them far too much attention because ‘Specs’ wasn’t supposed to be able to leave the building and Virgil was just standing there like a statu--

Maybe he’s a vampire and needs to be invited inside. 

Logan bit back a smile as Reese’s words echoed in his head. “Then come in, Virgil.” he said, holding the door open a little wider. “I promise we don’t bite. Roman’s more bark than anything.”  

Virgil hunched his shoulders, pushing his bangs over his eyes, before drawing in a steadying breath. “Okay.” He whispered, stepping over the threshold onto the marble tiles, looking around with cautious curiosity. 

“This way.” Logan said, ignoring Ellyn and Chris’s glances as he snagged a visitor’s pass from the front desk, tossing it to Virgil. “You’ll need to wear that until you’re coded into the system.”

“When will that be?” Virgil asked, slipping the pass over his head as Logan pressed the button for the elevator. 

He hummed, tapping the portfolio. That was a good question. “It would depend on when you can--”

“SPECS!” A voice boomed overhead from the floor above, echoing around the lobby. “THERE you are!” 

Well...that saved him the trouble of tracking his brother down. “What does he want now?” Logan asked under his breath as he turned towards the figure standing at the top of the steps. Roman could vanish at the worst possible times and turn up in the oddest of places like the air ducts above the cafeteria.

Virgil jerked. “Specs?” His eyes sparked, lighting up like Logan had just told him aliens existed. “Specs...of course!” He breathed as the elevator dinged, the doors sliding open. “It makes so much sense how you kept this--I’d wondered but--” Virgil frowned. “But I thought you never went outside!” 

Clever. Virgil was piecing things together much faster than ninety-eight percent of the company ever would. 

Logan flashed him a smile, putting a finger to his lips, aware of the guards and other associates standing nearby. He was liking this kid more and more every moment. “I usually don’t.” He said, dropping the smile as a man wearing a white jacket and red sash slid down the banister of the staircase like...well a Prince straight from a Disney movie, skidding to a stop in front of the two of them. 

“About time I found you!” His brother cried, barely glancing to Virgil, before laser focusing in on Logan.

“You have perfect timing as always, Roman.” Logan said, placing a hand on Virgil’s elbow, pulling him inside the elevator. “I was just heading back upstairs to find you.” 

Roman blinked. “Find me? What for?” He demanded, following the two of them inside, hitting the button for the ninth floor. “I’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying to track you down and now you want to find me?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Of course you do this to me two minutes before my next interview--”

“For Virgil right?” 

Roman gaped at him, eyes narrowing as the doors slid shut. “How did you--” 

Time to jump into the fire. “I just hired him for your department.” Logan said, gesturing to the third member of their little elevator party.

Roman froze, mouth half open, before his hands clenched. “You. WHAT?!” 

“I hired him--am I not speaking clearly today?” Logan asked looking to Virgil with a raised eyebrow. “You did the same thing when I told you you were hired too.” 

Virgil shook his head, crossing his arms, his hand rubbing the spot Logan had grabbed as Roman gave him the once over. “No. It’s just a statement that not many people will find believable...apparently.” 

“Oh no, it’s believable, if I allowed your interview to be scheduled in the first place, but Specs.” Roman growled, glaring at Logan. “We agreed you wouldn’t interfere--”

“With your hires.” He finished. “I know, but trust me, brother.” Logan said stressing the word as he held out Virgil’s portfolio. If he was right, and he normally was, Roman wouldn’t be mad at him for long. 

Roman froze, hand already outstretched, eyes flicking to Virgil and back. “He?”

“Knows we’re related, thanks to you.” 

“To me! I haven’t said a word--” Roman denied, taking the portfolio and flipping it open as he leaned against the wall.

“Virgil, care to explain?” 

“I…” Virgil flushed under their combined stares, setting his chin stubbornly. “The Sherlock screenplay. I noticed that Logan’s name wasn’t completely covered when you took the picture and dug around a bit--Do people here really not know you’re related?” 

They both shook their heads. “No.”

Virgil scoffed, gesturing between them. “But you two look exactly the same!” 

“Only a handful know.” Logan clarified, pointedly adjusting the frames of his glasses. 

It helped that they weren’t often seen together. Most of their meetups took place in the privacy of their offices.

“Like three people--Spec’s does great as Clark Kent--” Roman jerked his head up from the portfolio. “Don’t tell me you hired him because he’s blackmailing you!?” He demanded, jabbing a finger at Virgil.

Virgil flinched, but took a step forward, eyes blazing. “I wouldn’t do that, Princey.” He growled. 

I’m quite used to being the villain.

“Princey?” Roman repeated, his own eyes darkening. 

Virgil faltered, glancing to Logan. “I--I---uh.” 

Logan gave him a reassuring smile, nodding to Roman “Go on, Virgil. Speak your mind.” He wanted to see if the new hire would actually stand up to his brother as he’d stated outside. 

Virgil set his jaw, taking a breath, staring Roman down. “I’m here because you were willing to give me a chance, sir. No other motive. I want to work here on my own merit. Not through...through blackmail.” He practically spat the word. “My Two Princes theory was just that. A theory until Lo--Specs here confirmed it.” 

Logan winced as Roman side eyed him. Busted.

"Well…color me impressed that you got Dr. Roboto here to confirm anything, kid. Usually he's sealed tighter than a jar of Crofters." Roman snapped the portfolio shut as the elevator doors opened. "Don't count your eggs though. I'm not so easily swayed." 

Logan rolled his eyes. Ah Huh. Yah right. "Page twenty-eight." He said tapping the top of the portfolio as they stepped out onto the landing. "Then you'll understand one of the factors that lead to me hiring Virgil." 

Roman scoffed. "One image led you to hire him over my head? Are you addled?" 

"I would…agree." Virgil said slowly, glancing between the two as he moved down the hallway with them. "Compared to my other works, I don't see how that one-"

Logan glanced to Virgil as he pulled open a door with Roman Prince written in cursive on the glass. He would see soon enough. "I can assure you both that my cognitive function has been unaffected in my decision.” He gestured Virgil to step inside. “Your overall work is beyond noteworthy and while the one drawing is A factor for my decision to hire you, it is not The factor. Your work shows a much larger variety than any others I’ve seen.” 

“The thing weighs a ton, I would hope it would show some range.” Roman said, flipping through the various works much faster than Logan had. 

A pity. His brother wouldn't be able to see the intricacies of each piece doing that, though of course he had encouraged Roman to look at one particular page. 

“I wouldn’t think you’d mind the size, Roman. You are the one interviewing for ‘fresh blood’ are you not or was there another reason you were whining to me just last night about the lack of talent in your department?” 

His brother made a face, not looking up as he kicked the door shut. "A Prince does not whine! I merely bemoan the lack of talent the kids these days ha--WHAT!?" Roman shrieked, loud enough Logan was sure the entire building heard him as he stared dumbfounded at page twenty-eight.

Bingo. Logan smirked, adjusting his glasses as closed the blinds on the windows to keep curious eyes at bay. He could already imagine the bets that Remy would be putting down on why ‘The Prince’ had screamed this time.

Roman whirled to Virgil, practically shoving the picture into the kid’s startled face. "You drew this?!" 

Virgil blinked down at the Sallyized version of Jack Skellington before raising an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Roman's eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas as he set the portfolio down on his desk and pulled out his phone, swiping at the screen before he turned it to them both showing an online art account with the same exact drawing with the same stormcloud signature on the bottom. "You're telling me this is you? That you're--!"

"EmoKnightmare478?" Virgil ran his hand through his hair. “Yah. That's me, Princey, but how--why?" 

“YES!” Roman cried out, grabbing Logan’s his hands as he practically broke into a dance, waltzing them around the room before he switched to jumping up and down like an excited child at Christmas with Logan doing his best to just turn with his brother’s antics so he wouldn’t lose his hands. "YES YES YES YES YES YES!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT, LOGAROO!! YOU FOUND STORMCLOUD! HE APPLIED! HE WANTS TO WORK--!! LOGAN! AHHHHH!!!!" 

“Am I...missing something here?” Virgil asked, resting a hand on his artwork, safely keeping his distance from Roman’s prancing.

“Roman’s been a fan of your account for the past couple of years.” Logan said simply, looking over his shoulder at their new hire. “He looks forward to seeing your bi-montly updates like one looks forward to opening presents at Christmas.”

Virgil went white, his other hand reaching to grab onto the desk as he swayed. “A Fan?” He squeaked. 

"OF COURSE!!” Roman finally freed Logan from his finger-numbing grip to fall down to his knees at Virgil’s feet, arms spread wide.  “Do you know how much I positively adore your twist on a Nightmare Before Christmas series, Emo Knightmare?” He asked eagerly. “Tell me. What would it take to commission you to draw the entire cast Sallyized for me? One large painting to hang there over my desk? Anything's on the table. Name your price." 

“I--I--” Virgil leaned back away from Roman’s onslaught, glancing to his portfolio on the desk. 

At this rate, Virgil would bolt because his brother was acting like a starstruck fangirl. Logan exhaled, grabbing Roman by the shoulder. “Roman, perhaps you should tone down the adoration and stop terrorizing your new hire?”

“He’s--He’s not--” Virgil drew in a shallow breath. 

Logan shook his head. “Well...even if he’s not, I shall assuage your fears anyway. You will still have your job even if you refuse, Virgil. Crofters forbid it doesn’t do Roman any harm to be told no every now and then.” He didn’t need him thinking that his twin wouldn’t hire him if he said no.

“Oh yes, your job isn’t ever in question with this, Stormcloud.” Roman said, slipping out from under Logan’s hand as he pushed to his feet and brushed off his pants. “Specs hired you and from what I’ve seen so far, I second it, but.” His eyes went wide and pleading as he clasped his hands together. “I will be very very very heartbroken and will be giving you super sad puppy dog eyes like this everytime you see me for the next--”

“Three hours?” Logan asked, adjusting his glasses as he pulled his brother back another step to give Virgil space to breathe.

Roman made a face. “I was gonna say a week, but probably.” 

Virgil swallowed, licking his lips. “You...really would…pay me? The Prince? Would...pay me?” 

“Of course! I said--” Roman turned to Logan. “Did I not say that, Lo? Any price. I said that!”

“You did indeed.” Logan nodded, though he could see how Virgil wouldn’t be certain. Despite his flamboyance, Roman was rather covert in buying from up and coming artists. He’d yet to hear any rumors of rumors from anyone that ‘The Prince’ had bought their work. He could see why there would be skepticism at the genuinity of Roman’s offer.

“Great! Here.” Roman took Virgil by the arm, pulling him to a seat at his desk. “Specs will draw up your contract for the position. Wages, hours, so on and so forth. I trust he was quite thorough in whatever interview he gave you right before you found me right? Right. But you and I.” He smiled conspiracaly, pulling up a chair. “Need to talk shop. Come on. Commission. How much?” 

Logan rolled his eyes, but sat behind Roman’s desk, his fingers already flying over the keyboard of his brother’s desktop to pull up the necessary forms to print out. “Of course, leave the boring paperwork to me.” 

“It’s what you’re good at Specs.” Roman waved vaguely in his direction, his full attention on Virgil. “Come on Virge, can I call you Virge? Name your price.” 

“I--I---Okay...uhmmm. Well…” Virgil rubbed the back of his head before dropping his hand to where Roman had touched him. “Were you actually wanting one large painting of everyone together or individual pieces that form a scene if placed side by side? 

Roman’s eyes lit up as he leaned forward. “I was thinking the former, but the latter intrigues me. What would be the difference?” 

“Well…” The corner of Virgil’s mouth twitched as he rested a hand on his portfolio. “You said name my price. Does it have to be just...monetary?” 

Logan shared a knowing look with his brother, identical smiles breaking out on both of their faces. 

Oh, their new hire was going to fit in rather well here if he was already thinking like that.

“No, no it does not.” Roman sat back placing his fingers together. “What were you thinking instead? A higher wage? A better position?”

Logan tensed. Why had Roman brought that up?! It was--

Virgil’s mismatched eyes darkened as he shook his head. “I told you, Princey, I’m not here because of blackmail or bribing. Personal commissions are and will always be considered separate from my job here. I won’t argue for things that I haven’t yet proven that I deserve.” 

That was--that was good. Logan slowly let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his fingers frozen on the keys. 

“Alright...but if your asking price doesn’t include money, power, or position.” Roman raised an eyebrow. “What then are you wanting me to pay in?”

Virgil visibly swallowed. “Well, I would charge per character of course, and for Jack.” He placed a trembling hand on his portfolio. “My price--” He licked his lips, but didn’t break eye contact. “My price would be that I can wear my hoodie to work.” 

Logan blinked. A...hoodie?

He again shared a look with Roman. It was an interesting choice, especially after his talk of not interfering with work, but then again, it was just an article of clothing. One that may put Virgil more at ease here than the ill fitting suit he currently wore. 

Logan returned his attention to the laptop. “You are aware that our dress code is--” 

“Business casual, yes.” Virgil said, pulling at the collar of his shirt, his fingers trailing down his tie. “And I can,” the corner of his mouth twitched in distaste. “follow that to a T, if this particular option doesn’t work for you, I promise. You just said--”

“Name any price.” Roman nodded, pulling out a pen and paper, quickly listing down a dozen characters from the movie. “For Jack.” He said circling the name and writing wear hoodie at work next to it. “I would allow the hoodie--but only at your desk. Any meetings, presentations, or red carpet events you’ll need to nix it.” 

Virgil let out a breath, relaxing as he gave them a large genuine smile. “Deal.”

To Be Continued Chapter 5

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