#like take me to church already you handsome bastard

[ladyantiheroine]

Someone Better To Love

Summary: Love is a gift. And Renfield finds someone more deserving of it than his old master.

Pairing: Renfield x fem!reader

Requested by @kpopgirlbtssvt

“I’m just really worried about her.”

Maya sniffled and dabbed her eyes with a napkin. She and Renfield were standing by the refreshments tables during the support group break. The styrofoam cup had grown lukewarm in Renfield’s hand, but he was too enthralled to care.

“How long has it been since you last saw her?” he asked his friend.

“At least a week,” Maya said. She took a moment to compose herself. “Y/N always texts me back, and every time I went to her apartment, no one answered. If something was wrong, she would have told me. But she’s gone radio silent and…”

Tears gushed from Maya’s cheek. Renfield offered her his napkin to dry her face.

“I don’t want to assume the worst, but…” she swallowed. “I’m scared that…someone might have taken her.”

Renfield’s ears perked up.

“Taken her?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

Maya glanced around at the other support group members. They were scattered about the church gymnasium sipping coffee and nibbling on donut while their group leader was in the bathroom.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this,” she said. “But Y/N has this ex-boyfriend and…he’s not a good guy. Ran with some scary people. And he didn’t take her dumping him very well. I’m worried that maybe he…”

Maya was visibly shaking. She couldn’t even speak what she imagining. But she didn’t need to. Renfield knew what she meant.

Renfield placed a gentle hand on Maya’s shoulder.

“I understand,” he said. “I’m sorry about your friend, Maya. I’m sure she’ll show up soon. Maybe there was an emergency. Maybe her phone broke.”

Maya pursed her lips and nodded.

“I hope you’re right,” she said.

“Just out of curiosity…could you tell me this ex-boyfriend’s name?”

Maya bit her lips before answering.

“Jeremy Ruth,” she said. “His friends call him ‘Ruthless.’”

At that moment, the group was called back to their seats for the rest of the meeting. Renfield turned Maya’s words around in his head. Even though he no longer worked for Dracula, his ears still peeled when he heard these stories. He didn’t like killing people, but he couldn’t bring himself to just stand back when he knew some innocent person was trapped by a bunch of brutes.

Renfield had stayed out of trouble since Dracula’s death. He had a good life now. A decent job. A nice apartment. Did he really want to jeopardize all of it for some woman he didn’t even know?

But he already knew the answer. He knew it after the meeting ended and he didn’t go straight home.

~

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whimpered. You long gave up trying to break the ropes that bound your wrists and ankles. The tile floor of your ex-boyfriend’s kitchen was cold and hard beneath you.

Jeremy was standing at the counter cutting an apple with a knife. He pointed the blade down at you.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “But I can’t have you running out, can I?”

You clenched your teeth to weather, trying to stop the swell of tears. To think, there was a time you actually thought that Jeremy was charming. You had no idea the monster he was under the handsome face.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked. “There’s lots of girls out there. Why go to all this trouble for me?”

Jeremy turned his steely gaze to you. He walked over to where you were trembling on the floor, kneeled down, and pressed the tip of the knife to your chin.

“Because when I decide something is mine,” he said. “I don’t want it running away.”

You froze under the icy touch of the blade. You wanted to sob and beg for forgiveness. You wanted to spit on his face and call him a bastard.

But before you could do either, you heard a metallic sound of a breaking lock and a the front door kicked open.

“What the fuck!?” Jeremy hissed.

It all happened so quickly that you barely had time to register it. Some stranger—a thin, pale gentleman—bust into the kitchen and yanked Jeremy back by his neck, sending him flying to the opposite wall.

The knife slipped from your ex-boyfriend’s hand and the stranger plucked it from the floor. He pointed it at Jeremy as if brandishing a sword.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jeremy gnarled.

You could ask the same question. The stranger didn’t look like a police officer. No blue uniform, no shiny badge. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who could throw a man across the room. He was slender, dressed in a purple sweater and blue jeans, nothing to suggest he was some rescue agent.

“I should as you that,” the stranger said. British accent. Posh, like something from an old black-and-white movie. “What kind of ghastly gentleman thinks it’s acceptable to hold a lady anywhere against her will?”

“The bitch is my girlfriend,” Jeremy growled.

“The bitch is not!” you snapped.

Jeremy grabbed a flower pot off the window sill and lifted it above his head to throw it. But this stranger—whoever the hell he was—was impossibly fast. He kicked Jeremy in the chest, sending him shattering through the window. Jeremy screamed as he fell several stories to the ground below.

You screamed as you watched the window glass shatter to the ground. The stranger rushed over to the window and glanced down. His back was to you, so you couldn’t see his reaction, see if Jeremy had survive the fall or been reduced to a red puddle of bones.

The stranger turned back to face you and you froze. You shivered on the floor as he approached you.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you said.

The stranger kneeled down before you. His face was nothing like you expected from someone who just sent a man flying out the window. His face was gentle and concerned, his blue eyes looking at you like you were a wounded bird.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. He gently wiped a smudge of dirt from your face. “Your name is Y/N, right?”

Your name in his mouth made your heart unexpectedly titter.

“Yeah,” you said. “How do you know my name?”

The stranger paused and licked his lips.

“I’m a friend of Maya’s,” he said. 

Your eyes widened.

“Maya sent you?” you said.

“Well, not technically,” the stranger said. His eyes flicked down to your ankles. He gently cupped a hand under your feet and held the knife in his other. “I’m going to cut these bonds, okay?”

You swallowed. Your boyfriend had kept you tied up for days, ever since he knocked you out and dragged you from your apartment.

“Okay,” you said. “Be careful.”

“Of course.”

The stranger brought the blade to the ropes and slowly began cutting through them.

“Maya told me you’d been missing for days,” he said. “I’m in her support group.”

Right. You forgot that Maya went to a survivors support group after she left her ex. Her ex was a raging narcissist, but at least he never tried to kidnap her.

“I guess my friends and I don’t have the best taste in guys,” you said. You dropped your head down. “I’m so stupid.”

A sob crawled up your throat, but then two fingers lifted your chin up. The stranger held your gaze.

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You had a lapse in judgment. Happens to the very best of us. But it does not mean you deserve to be mistreated. Especially not like this.”

He let go of your chin and turned back to the ropes. With a few more saws from the blade, the ropes spilled onto the floor. He undid the ropes next before helping you to your feet.

“Thank you,” you said. Then, you saw the glass glinting on the floor. “What happened to Jeremy? Is he alive?”

You rushed over to the window and dropped your eyes down to the sidewalk below. Before your eyes even registered the sight, your nose filled with the stench of fresh blood. Jeremy looked small from this height, but you could see where his skull cracked on the ground below, spilling brain matter on the concrete.

“Oh my go—“

You stumbled away from the window. God, even from a distance, the smell of overwhelming. You couldn’t shake the bloody image from your head.

“Y/N,” the stranger said. “Are you—“

His voice, and your vision, faded to black as you collapsed in his arms.

~

It was warm wherever you woke up. You could still feel the bruised burn from the ropes, but the cold tile floor had been replaced by a plush mattress and knitted blanket.

Your eyes fluttered open and you squinted against the sunlight peeping through the window blinds.

You sat up in bed and looked around. You expected a hospital room, or even your own apartment. Instead, you were greeted with bright orange walls covered in posters. They were all sunsets and eagles with words like “Aim high!” and “Live Laugh Love.” Even the blanket on your lap was yellow and sprinkled with flowers.

There was a knock at the door.

“Miss Y/N?” an familiar English voice called from the other side.

The doorknob turned and your rescuer��s head meekly poked inside.

“Good to see you’re awake,” he said. He stepped inside, carrying a glass of ice water. “I was worried for you after you fainted.”

He offers a small, meek smile as he brought you the water. You took the glass, your fingertips brushing his, and then brought it to your lips. You gulped the whole thing down, the icy cold renewing energy into your body.

“Where am I?” you asked, handing the stranger the glass.

“My apartment,” he said. He lifted his hands. “This isn’t a kidnapping, I promise.”

He explained what happened after you fainted: Jeremy’s friends showed up, and Renfield had to rush you out of the building to avoid more trouble. Last time he checked, the authorities had arrived to deal with the aftermath. He brought you to his apartment to treat your wounds urgently.

“I don’t mean to scare you by bringing you here,” he said. “I just…wanted to help you as quickly as possible. You’re free to leave if you’re uncomfortable.”

Despite the circumstance,s nothing about this man seemed suspicious to you. Your eyes glanced around the brightly-colored room before landing on him.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

The stranger’s eyes widened.

“Pardon me, miss, how rude of me,” he said. He straightened his back and offered his hand. “My name is Robert Montague Renfield. But you may call me Robert.”

You took his hand and shook it. Despite his snowy white skin, his touch was oddly warm.

“Thanks for your help, Robert,” you said.

“Of course,” he said. “I also called Maya and told her I found you. So, you’re no longer a missing person.”

“I guess I should thank her when I can,” you said. You tried to sit up further, but a shot of pain ran through your body. The way the ropes bound you, the pain that Jeremy inflicted, still echoed through your body.

“Are you okay?” Robert said, rushing to your side.

“I’m fine,” you lied. “I just…I don’t think I can leave yet. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Robert assured you. “You can stay here as long as you need. It’s no trouble.”

You pursed your lips. You weren’t used to having someone be this accommodating to you. Certainly, Jeremy would never have done this. He would have asked for a favor in return, if he allowed it at all.

“I can leave tomorrow,” you said.

~

You did not leave tomorrow. You stayed with Robert for several days, even after you were well enough to stand up and walk. During this time, Robert didn’t pull his attention from you. Cooking you meals, filling the bathtub, redressing wounds. This man you only just met became your full-time caretaker.

It felt strange for the first little while. You couldn’t recall the last time someone attended to you with such frequency. Checking on wounds, applying bandages, buying bags of food and sebring them to you on a tray.

And even more strangely, it seemed Robert was new to this too.

One evening, he brought you dinner in the form of a hot bowl of soup to you, along with a side of garlic breadsticks and a drink. As he lifted the spoon to your lips, you noticed a red mark on his pale wrist.

“What happened there?” you asked.

Robert glanced at his wrist.

“Oh,” he said. “Burned myself a little on the stove. You don’t wnat to actually see me in the kitchen, I’m a bit of a clutz in there.”

He was chuckling it off, but you gently took his hand in yours.

“Well, that’s not good,” you said. You reached over to the other end table by the bed and plucked the box of bandages that Robert had left there. 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Y/N,” he said. “It’s just a little mark, I didn’t lose the hand.”

“You’ve patched me up,” you said. “Let me patch you up.”

Robert watched as you carefully slid a bandage over the burn. Something about the look on his face…puzzled you. It was just a small burn, but he was looking at you as if were sewing an open wound shut. Had no one ever given him a bandaid before?

Once you finished, you plucked a breadstick from your palte.

“Here,” you said. “I’m full from the soup, and you’ve been cooking all day. Have one.”

You playfulyl lifted the breadstick to his mouth. Robert’s eyes flicked between you and the breadstick, like he forgot how to eat for a second.

Then, a small smile sprouted on his face, and he took a bite.

Once the tray was bare, Robert took the empty soup bowl to the kitchen to clean. The spot on the bed where he sat just a second ago felt suddenly cold, and you realized for the first time that your health and wellbeing was not the only reason you wanted to stay that apartment.

~

Robert had forgotten how nice it was to care for someone. The last person he’d devoted so much time to another person was his old master, and that had only brought him centuries of misery. But this new friend, this Y/N, was awakening some long dormant desire in him: The desire to be needed. The desire to care for. It was something that came naturally to him.

He thought Dracula had beaten it out of him. Turns out, he was simply wasting those skills on the wrong person.

One evening, Robert and Y/N were sitting on the bed together watching a movie. You made the grave decision of watching a horror movie, which resulted in you cowering under the covers. Robert put a comforting arm aorudn your shoulder.

“Fear not, my lady,” he said in a jokingly posh voice. “I shall protect you from the chainsaw-wielding freak!”

You giggled.

“You’re not afraid of this stuff, are you?” you asked.

You were teasing, but you saw something pass over Robert’s eyes.

“Let’s just say I’m not a stranger to unsettling things,” he said.

You didn’t speak for the rest of the movie, but his words did snuggle into your brain. You tried to distract yourself by focusing on the movie, but eventually your mind wandered to his arm on your shoulder. He was warm and cozy, the kind of man your could bury yourself inside.

When the movie finished, Robert shut his laptop and stood up from the bed.

“It’s late,” he said. “I won’t deprive you of anymore sleep.” He gave you a smile. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Something twisted in your chest, even as he said “Goodnight” in response.

Robert started heading towards the bedroom door. Before he could leave, your lips parted and you spoke.

“Robert,” you said.

Robert stopped at the doorway and turned around.

“Yes?” he said.

You nibbled your bottom lip, unsure how to ask the question.

“You’ve been staying on the couch this whole time,” you said. “Do you want to…sleep in here tonight?”

Robert starred at your for a moment, and you worried to stepped over a line. But then, that sweet smile that made your heart twist bloomed on his face.

“That movie really scare you?” he asked.

You nodded. Sure, that was it.

“Well, what kind of gentleman leaves a frightened lady scared and alone?” he said.

He saughtered over and you lifted the blanket for him to slip inside. He flicked off the lap on the end table, and in the dark you felt his arm spoon you from behind.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Despite the pitch black dark, you nodded.

“Yes,” you said.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you slept without a single bad dream.

~

The bed was empty when you woke up, but the smell of syrup and the sizzling sound of bacon in the air told you that your host was in the kitchen.

You rubbed your eyes as you sauntered into the kitchen. Robert was in his frilly pink apron and moving the bacon onto two plates next to stacks of pancakes. He greeted you with a beaming smile.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he said. “Just in time for breakfast.”

You smiled and sat down at the table as Robert served you your stack with extra syrup and strawberries. The two of you ate in comfortable silence the morning sun beamed golden streaks through the window.

When you finished, Robert moved your dishes into the sink. The temperature in the room suddenly shifted. He sighed and turned to face you.

“Y/N,” he said. “I feel like I need to speak you about something.”

Your stomach tightened. “Yeah?” you said.

He paused to inhale deeply through his nose and let out a slow breath.

“I know it’s only been two weeks,” he said. “But…I like you. And I suspect my feelings are not unrequited.”

Your breath hitched for a moment. Your cheeks flushed hot. The feelings that had been swirling inside you were spoken out loud, and their realness hit with a vengeance.

“Yes,” you said. You stood up from the tabe and approached him. “Yes, I do.”

Your heart was racing in your chest, but Robert was not meeting you with the same intensity. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Something was holding him back.

“So, what’s wrong?” you asked.

Robert bit his lip so hard it turned white.

“If we’re going to…try this…” he said. “There’s some things about me you should know.”

~

By the time he finished, it was late into the afternoon. You spent the whole time listening in rapt silence, your eyes widening with each reveal and revelation.

“Wow,” you said. “Like…actual Dracula?”

Robert pursed his lips and nodded.

“Yes,” he said. 

The story was impossible to believe. Vampires, mobsters, powers from eating bugs. But despite the outrageousness of the story, the thing that stuck with you was Dracula’s treatment of Robert. It sent a flare of anger in you. You wante resurrect the vampiric bastard just so you could kill him again.

“That’s awful, Robert,” you said.

“It was,” he said. He reached over and placed a hand on yours. “But you know what, Y/N? I used to think of him all the time. Even after his death. But ever since I met you…I don’t think I’ve really thought of him until now.”

He smiled and clasped your hand in both of his.

“I like being of service,” he said. “I like caring for others. It’s why I still go the support group. And…you’re the first person I’ve served without it feeling like a burden.” He bit his lower lip. “You’ve retaught me love, Y/N.”

His words sent a shimmer through your heart and soul. You looked at this man, this man as sweet as sugar and as gentle as lace, his handsome face an dhis kind eyes…

And you leaned forward to kiss him.

When your lips came apart, he was wide-eyed.

“You’re not the only one who has changed,” you told him. “I haven’t felt safe in a long time. Jeremy…he made me feel like I didn’t deserve it. That love just meant putting up with whatever whim your partner had, no matter how violent. You’ve taught me to feel safe again, Robby.”

Robert stared at you for a whole minute. A smile wavered onto his face and you swore you saw tears well in his eyes.

“Maybe we can fix each other,” he said.

You grinned and pressed your forward to his.

“Maybe we can.”

[electronicgrowth]

Can’t Get Enough Part 5

Billie has lost her virginity! Where is this relationship headed? 

This has just been chilling in drafts... I forgot I was a person there for a moment. I apologize.

Summary: The two most stubborn people in Knockemstiff, Ohio have eyes for only each other. Lee Bodecker is determined to become the town’s next sheriff. He knows that image is everything. Billie Dechswaan doesn’t care about her image at all. All she wants is to leave Knockemstiff and never come back. But Lee has other plans for her. Both are far too stubborn to give up their own plans. What happens when they can’t get enough of each other?

Word Count: 2.3k

After losing her virginity, Billie can’t get enough of Lee. When he’s inside her, she promises him all the things he wants. But they fight about her wanting leave. She’s still adamant about moving away, despite her attack. Lee tries desperately to reason with her. But she won’t hear it. Lee feels his time running out as the days in June and July come and go. He makes the decision for them one day. He pokes holes in every single condom. He feels slightly guilty, but Bille needs to realizes how much she needs him. 

All the arguing comes to a head one night in mid-August. Billie snuck out like she did most nights and met up with Lee. She quickly slide into the car and kissed him. It was a Wednesday night and they hadn’t seen each other since the church service on Sunday. Billie had spent most of the time between services chatting with Lee, instead of helping to serve luncheon, and this behavior was not missed by the church ladies. 

Rumors were flying. Everyone was wondering when Lee would finally make Billie his wife. Many were saying that it was bound to happen before the next election. She’d be sherif’s wife by Christmas, the gossip said. Edna, the police station secretary made the mistake of asking Lee and relaying all the gossip. It got him thinking. He was going to broach the idea with Billie. He had to. He already had a ring anyway. 

Before Lee could even start the car and drive away. Billie was kissing his neck. 

“Did you miss me, baby?” He teased. Pulling her closer to him. 

“I always miss you,” she scoffed, straddling his hips. 

“I missed you too,” he murmured against her lips. She ran her tongue against his. 

“You know,” he began, pulling back from the kiss, “You don’t have to miss me.” 

“What do you mean?” Billie giggled, staring at him, “I always miss you when you’re not around.” 

“I mean, you could miss me less,” Lee said. Billie’s smile dropped a bit. 

“What are talking about, honey?” She asked. 

“If we live together, we would see each other everyday. Wake up together, go to bed together,” he hummed, kissing her neck between each phrase. 

“Lee,” she scolded, pulling away from him. 

“Come on baby,” he huffed, “Be mine. Be mine forever. And don’t give me that whole song and dance about leaving. You want to be with me and I want to be with you. I could give you everything. Just let me.” 

“We’ve talked about this, I want to be independent for a while,” Billie grumbled. 

“Billie, come on. We’ve been together practically everyday for months. Why do you have to independent? You want to get married and have kids right?” He asked. 

“Of course, I do. But—“

“No. No buts. If you’re planning to have kids, you won’t be working that long anyway. So, pick the right man to have kids with. Pick me, baby,” Lee implored. Billie stared at him and slipped off his lap. 

“I was up front with you Lee. I told you I was going to leave and go to college. You knew that going in. I should go,” she whispered. Climbing out of the car. Lee ground his teeth before he got out of the car. 

“Billie,” he yelled, “get back here.” He stalked after her angrily. 

“Lee,” she sighed, turning to face him, “I can’t do this tonight. I can’t have this argument again.”

He gripped the tops of her arms, “What is it? Why won’t you marry me? Is there something I’m not doing? Are you embarrassed of me?”

“What?” She spat, “Of course not. You’re everything I want—“

“Then what is it? I love you, dammit,” he shouted. 

“Look, let’s just take a pause. We can talk tomorrow. We’re both upset,” she placated. 

“Fine,” he huffed, stalking back to his car and driving off before Billie had even reached the woods. Wheels spitting gravel, engine revving loudly as he drove away. Billie felt empty. What had she done? 

The next day the county fair started. It was the event of the summer. Everyone was there. And Billie was avoiding Lee after their fight the day before. But he spots her. She evades him all night. He finally corners her outside one of the livestock barns. 

“What is with you? You said we’d talk today and you’re fucking ignoring me,” He spat, shoving her against the barn and caging her in. Billie refuses to meet his gaze. Tears quickly well up and spill down her cheeks. 

“Baby,” he hums gently, “What’s wrong.” His hands move up to cup her face and his thumbs wipe the tears away. 

“Not here,” she shakes her head, “Let’s go for a drive.” 

“Alright,” Lee murmured. They walk silently to the cruiser and Lee drove a couple of miles down the road before he pulls off onto a side road. It’s not really a road, more like a trail in the woods that farmers use in the spring and summer as a short cut. 

Billie has tears running down her face. 

“Talk to me,” he begged. 

“I’m late,” she sobbed. It took Lee a few moments to catch on.

“Your period?”

“Yeah, I’m three weeks late. I thought it was just stress or something,” she cried, her voice breaking. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he soothed, “I’ll take care of ya.” Lee’s heart is beating out of his chest with excitement, but he schools his features and voice to one of concern and anxiousness in order not to tip Billie off. 

“What are we gonna do?” She’s fully panicked now. Lee can hear that she’s nearly hyperventilating. 

“Shh, baby. You need to breathe, okay?” He said as he grabbed her face and forced her to look at him. She nodded slowly, breathing in and out steadily before Lee spoke again. 

“We have to tell your parents,” he began. Billie’s eyes grew comically large, she started to protest but Lee cut her off. 

“We’ll tell your parents. We’ll get married and no one will be the wiser. It’s okay,” he soothed, “I’ll be with you when you tell your parents. I promise I’ll take care of you.” His eyes shone with sincerity. 

“What… what if I’m not ready?” 

“You are. You’re perfect. Gonna take such good care of me and our baby,” Lee hummed as he kissed her. 

“Lee,” she protested. 

“Come on, sugar. You’ll be my good little housewife. I can’t wait to see you get round with my baby. You’re gonna look so sexy,” Lee groaned, he kissed from her lips to her neck as he spoke, “You’re all mine.” 

“Did you— did you plan this?” Billie asked, shoving him away. Lee narrowed his eyes at her. 

“It doesn’t matter how it happened. What’s done is done and you need me Billie,” he growled. Billie opened her mouth but no words came out. She was stunned. She shook her head back and forth, as she searched for the words. 

“You’re a bastard, Lee.” His jaw clicked from side to side when she said that. Without saying anything he started the car and drove. Billie didn’t question him on where they’re going. She knew she was in deep shit. It’s only when she sees the farmhouse come into view that she starts to panic. 

“No.”

“We’re telling your parents tonight.” 

“Lee, please don’t do this,” she begged. But he didn’t listen. 

“I wanted to be nice. I wanted to wait until after we got married. But you. You just couldn’t accept the nice future I had planned out for ya. So, if you want me to be the bastard, I will be. I’ll get you pregnant. Make you marry me.” He cut the engine and walked up to the house. Billie trudged behind him, she had no other choice. 

Lee knocked at the before Billie even reached him. Joy answered. 

“Deputy Bodecker,” she smiled, “To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

“Billie and I have something to tell you,” he said happily. What a master of disguise he was. He made Billie believe, really believe that he loved her and cared for her. But he showed his true colors the second she stopped listening to him. And now he’s wooing her mother. Making her believe he’s a nice, stand-up guy. Joy’s smile faltered when she realized the Billie was with Lee, but she let them both in all the same. Lee marched to the living room as if he owned the place. 

“John,” Joy called, “Lee and Billie want to talk to us.” John huffed, but turned the tv off. He gestured for Lee to sit. 

“Clara, why don’t you go upstairs,” Joy suggested. Clara was the only one of the children home. All the others were still at the fair. She nodded and walked away. Joy sat down, but Billie didn’t. 

“Honey,” Lee chuckled, “Come sit down.” She slowly went and sat by Lee. He was quick to wrap an arm around her. 

“She’s nervous,” he said, smile glued to his handsome face. 

“What’s going on?” John growled at Lee. 

“Billie is pregnant,” Lee responded. Joy gasped. John looked like a deer caught in headlights. Billie started crying again, and leaned forward to hide her face in her hands. Lee patted her back. 

“But, I don’t want ya’ll to worry,” Lee continued, “I’ll do right by her. I care for your daughter very much. We’re going to get married.” 

John harrumphed, “You can take her down to the courthouse tomorrow for all I care. I thought you knew better than to open your legs, girl. I know you’re mama taught you better than that.” 

“John,” Joy attempted to placate, “Let’s not be unkind. Lee is going to make this right.” 

“I don’t care if he can make it right. Your daughter is out there acting like a whore,” John roared standing up from his armchair. He crossed the room and slapped Billie across the face. 

“You have one week to get her out of my house,” John said to Lee, who looked up John and scowled. Billie couldn’t take one more minute, she jumped up and ran upstairs just as Sylvia walked through the door. If Sylvia was one thing, it was perceptive. She took one look at her father and Lee and chased after her sister. 

“Now get out of my house, Bodecker,” Lee narrowed his eyes, but obliged. He would make John pay for hitting Billie. 

Sylvia found Billie crying in a little ball on the floor. 

“What happened?” She asked her sister. 

“Lee g-got me pregnant and n-now I have to get married and I’m going to be stuck here in this stupid town forever,” Billie sobbed. 

“Shit,” Sylvia sighed. Clara crawled off of her bed to join her sisters on the floor, she squeezed Billie’s hand. She wasn’t one for talking, she wasn’t good at it. 

“I thought he loved me. But he manipulated me. I think he did it on purpose,” Billie choked through tears. 

Sylvia stood up and started pacing. 

“How much money you got?” She asked. 

“About $250,” Billie answered. 

“I got about $50 left over from babysitting. And I want you to take that,” Sylvia ordered. 

“I can’t take your money, Sylvie.” 

“Yes you can. Take it. Run away. Start over.” 

“I—I—I h—have t-t-ten dollars for you, Billie,” Clara spoke. 

“Take our money and go,” Sylvia said, “Consider it a thank you for all the years you took care of us.” 

“Are you sure?” Billie looked between her two sisters. Both nodded. 

“You have to go tonight. Go to the bus station and get out now,” Sylvia started to scheme. The girls helped Billie pack two bags that night. They rounded up and pooled their money. And at eleven that night, Billie snuck out and walked the three miles to the bus station. She waited until five in the morning and bought the first bus out to Cincinnati. But she didn’t stop there. From there she took another bus to New York. She figured she could disappear into the crowd there. She could say that her husband died and that she had no family left. She could get a job waitressing. Or maybe she could train as a secretary. It didn’t matter because she felt free. 

After two weeks in the city, she wrote her family and Lee a letter. She claimed that she wasn’t pregnant. That the stress from telling them and leaving town caused her to miscarry. She said that she couldn’t face any of them now. But that it didn’t diminish her love. She refused to come home. Billie did not include a return of address. She secretly sent Sylvia another letter at her boyfriends house. It included her phone number. Sylvia would call her once a month from a payphone and then from the phone at the local grocery store she worked at. The girls stayed in touch that way. Sylvia secretly relayed the information to Clara and when Joy got suspicious, to her too. 

Lee was distraught. He’d lost the love of his life and his baby in a matter of moments. He shouldn’t have made her tell her parents like that. But he couldn’t focus on it too long, because he was soon elected sheriff. He was married to the job. Then he started getting into business with the wrong people. Those terrible men he worked with gave him an idea. An awful idea. He wanted revenge against John and he would get it. 

@greeneyedblondie44

@bxnnywriting

[almightyellie]

p.s. i love you

in which your best friend gets sent to war, and for the first time, you begin to wonder if he’s just your best friend.

word count: 16.4k

a/n: full disclosure: i know absolutely nothing about ww2 and i did not care enough to do my research, but this is not about historical accuracy, it’s about VIBES. I’ve read this so many times that i don’t really know whats going on with it anymore but heres this

title song: p.s. i love you // billie holiday

Childhood best friends.

Of course, it looks—from the outside—that you two are meant for one another. That’s because no one knows the ins and outs of your years-long friendship. It looks like you’re made for one another because you had spent all your life mentally jotting down every last detail of Gwilym Lee. You weren’t meant for one another, though you fit together like two puzzle pieces. No higher power has made sure of that. No, you fit together because you had spent years melding yourselves into one another’s sides, listening and learning and laughing. You were not made soulmates, but you had chosen one another, and in some ways, that made it more special.

You had never been without him. It’s what makes his departure such a flurry of emotions. Between the proud smiles of the old ladies in your church (“What’ll you do without him, Y/N?” They’d always tease; you weren’t proud to admit that you weren’t sure) and the tears of your mothers and filling every single day you have left together with one of his relentless plans, you almost forget that you’re losing him, too. Not just your mothers or the women from the church or the man who works behind the counter at the soda shop. You. You are losing your best friend, and it hardly hits you until the two of you are standing in front of his stoop, bags in the boot and the car running at the curb.

You’ve been light-hearted about it since the letter came, almost as though nothing was going to change, but when his parents leave you two alone for a moment, and you finally get a good look at him before you in his uniform, the tears in your eyes almost appear on their own.

“Oh, no. You’ve held out so long, now you’ve got to go crying?” He teases, and over the fence, you can hear the ladies from the church cooing at the two of you, but you’re too busy blubbering to care.

“Gwilym,” you sob, collapsing into his chest. He laughs softly, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright. “You can’t leave me, I won’t let you.”

“I think the Marines might have something to say about that, love,” he retorts, shooting for a laugh from you and landing a pitiful, ragged sob instead. “Hey, you’re okay. I’m the one risking my life.”

“You sick bastard!” You cry, pulling away to punch him in the arm. He laughs loudly and you grunt. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Just trying to stop your tears,” he reasons, still chuckling. There’s a moment, long and silent, where you just take one another in. Your face softens as you stare back at him. You hate to admit it to anyone but his mother, but he does look handsome in his uniform, contrasting perfectly against his tanned skin. How something that stands for such ugliness could look so beautiful, you aren’t sure, but you think it may have just been Gwil.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you say, voice trembling, and his lips quirk up in a smile.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you jab at his chest with a pointed finger. “Swear on it?”

“On my soul,” he nods.

Across the yard, one of the women swirling a drink in her hand heckles, “Kiss her already!”

You spin around. “Oh, buzz off, you nosy old hens!”

Even from the curb, you can hear Gwilym’s parents laughing and you huff, turning back to him with warm cheeks and embarrassment churning your stomach as the rest of the women cackled, Gwil’s own warm laughter soothing you. “I can already see staying out of trouble without me will be a breeze.”

You roll your eyes, shifting on your feet and looking up at him sadly. “Don’t be smug.”

With a soft sigh, he gives a noncommittal shrug. “We may as well give them a show, then, don’t you agree?”

You splutter, shoving his chest lightly. “What?”

“Wouldn’t you be chuffed knowing you were the last girl I kissed?” He raises a brow. “Think of it as a farewell gift.”

Your cheeks are only warmer now and you laugh nervously, playing with your own fingers as you say, “C’mon, Gwil, you’ve got to get going soon, so don’t be silly.” After all, the idea definitely feels silly. He always had been one to tease you in that way, always was the one to chase you around the schoolyard making kissy faces or to hold your hand in class just to see you get flustered. But Gwilym is your best friend. You had never taken him seriously, and he had never been on a mission to be taken seriously. Until now, it seems.

He smiles good-naturedly. “Not even a small one?”

Pursing your lips, you consider his words. You certainly would be pleased knowing you’d been his last kiss before he’d been shipped out, and you’d be in good company. Aside from that, how good he looks before you almost makes you woozy, so you sigh, straightening your posture. “I suppose.”

“Gee, Y/N, you sound so excited,” he teases, and you pout.

“You better kiss me before I change my mind, Private Lee.”

He grins at the title, tentatively reaching for you. Almost awkwardly, knowing not only your neighbors but his parents—and likely yours, from the window—were watching, you shuffle forward, allowing him to wrap an arm around your waist. Feeling him so close makes your whole body warm, and your eyes nearly flutter shut at the feeling, but you force yourself to look at him, at those bright blue eyes searching yours.

His nose brushes yours as he leans in, a delicate breath leaving your lips as he kisses you softly, his palm warming your back as his other hand reaches to cup your face. You melt into him, clutching at his biceps, heart racing at his gentle, content hum. You had never kissed Gwilym—never even thought about it—but now you wonder why. The way you fit against him, how easy it is to kiss him back, it all feels so right that when he pulls away, you don’t even realize that you’re chasing after his lips.

A goofy smile takes over his face and he chances one more quick peck before he’s releasing you, breath bated.

Your brain feels foggy but you shake your head to clear it, blinking once before you breathe, “Well, I hope that will tide you over.”

Another loud laugh and he’s wrapping you in a crushing hug. “I’m going to miss you,” he says, voice tight, and you squeezed him back, resting your head on his chest.

“Gwilym, we need to go!” His mother yells from the car, and you sniffle, pulling away from him and clenching your teeth to keep from shedding more tears.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said gently.

Smiling, you nod. “See you then.”

You take a dejected seat on his steps as he makes his way down the walkway. Over his shoulder, he sends you one last look before he’s ducking into the backseat of his parent’s car.

“Darling, it’s a good thing you’ve got him because you won’t find another husband with that temper,” one of your neighbors quips, a cheap attempt to make you smile. You afford them a watery chuckle, wiping your eyes as you watch them drive down the street.

August 14, 1943

Dear Y/N,

You know I’m as humble as they come, but I really think I’ve found where I belong in boot camp. I’m meeting lots of new people, the food isn’t half-bad, and the training I practiced at home is really coming in handy now. All to say, I’m doing really well! I’m even used to being yelled at all the time after Mrs. Aarons taught us together in Sunday school. In fact, I think my drill instructor might even be less strict than she was, and he probably makes better cakes, too.

My mum said you came by last week to help her cook dinner. I know she was worried about not seeing you around much anymore now that I’m gone, so she was really thrilled about that. She also said that the whole church is talking about our goodbye kiss, as they well should be. I like to think we gave them a rather long-anticipated show, and I would hate to have wasted your time, so I sure hope they’re talking about it.

I hope they haven’t given you too much trouble since I left. I know how they can be, but I think you said it best when you called them ‘nosy old hens.’ Such a way with words, you have.

I know it’s not much, but not much has happened! I hope to have many more stories to tell you soon. Tell me what sort of crazy adventures you’ve been going on without me there.

Love, Gwilym

P.S. What are they saying about the kiss? I didn’t have much time, but I’d say I gave you a hell of a few seconds. Also, send me a picture. I lied and said I had a girl, and no one believes me because I don’t have a photo of her, and I figure if anyone would be considered my girl, it would probably be you.

The letter is dropped on the bed with a knowing smirk by your father and you’re too excited to hear from Gwil that you can hardly be bothered by your dad. In true Gwilym fashion, you laugh the whole way through, feeling your heart yearn for him. Your whole family had heard you lament relentlessly about it, but it was the deepest longing you had ever felt. As long as you can remember, it had been you and Gwilym, stuck together at the hip like you couldn’t get along without the other. It’s the longest you’ve been apart, and though it had only taken him a week and a half to write you a letter, it felt as though it had been twice that without him at your side.

But something has felt out of place since he left. Since you kissed. It was all just a bit off-kilter. Of course, you miss him, but it ran deeper. You feel a pull to Gwilym, one you had never felt before, least of all to him. Your heart aches at just the thought of him, which is what makes this letter so sweet. You can practically feel him on the paper, through his excited, hurried handwriting, and you feel better just after reading it, after hearing he was okay. You read it over and over, pretending that your cheeks don’t burn at the thought of him telling his friends that you were his girl, and you hope the fluttering of your heart is just excitement to hear from your best friend.

August 22, 1943

Dear Gwilym,

I’m glad to hear that you’re staying modest. I hope some of your new friends are keeping your inflated ego in check now that I’m not there to do it. Mrs. Aarons! She’s softened a bit, I think she was just tough on us, which was well deserved. We put her through quite a lot, but it was all for the best because look at you now! I’m really pleased to hear that you’re doing well, we’ve been rather worried about you and I haven’t called around to your parents in a few days, so I’ve been in the dark for a while. Don’t you worry me like that; you promised you’d write as often as you could.

I did go around to your parents a few days after you left to help with your dad’s birthday; it was a really lovely night. Your mum knows I adore her—and the rest of your family—if anything, I’ll be going over more now that you’re gone. You’re practically my only friend, so I’ll be sticking to my routine of going to your house all the time. Who knows? Maybe by the time you get home, your mum will have replaced you as my best friend.

Ah, who cares about what the congregation says? But yes, we’ve been the talk of the group. They’ve not said anything to me about it, though. They’ve been going pretty easy on your family and me since you left. Tyler McGaskill ships out in a few weeks, so I’m praying they all forget about it by then. Once they’ve got someone else to sympathize for, you know they’ll hound me with questions.

Ha, adventures! Not a chance, not without you. I’ve spent more days alone at my house since you left than I have since I was born. It’s not an adventure if you’re not there, so I fear I just don’t have the heart to even try. And anyway, you know none of my friends want to do things like that. I’m playing by different rules now, Gwil.

Tell me about your friends! What do you guys do when you’re not training? Are you nervous to finish training?

Love, Y/N

P.S. Don’t flatter yourself, Private Lee. It certainly was a hell of a few seconds, but not because you blew my socks off. Also, no! I won’t send you a picture so you can be dishonest, you filthy bastard. I won’t have you sullying my image to men I don’t know by pretending that I would date you. I miss you tons, Gwil. Stay safe.

“That from your girl?” Ben nods at Gwil, and the brunette grins, nodding as he runs a finger over your letter.

You had never been afraid of prodding Gwilym back, and it’s especially prominent in your letter, which he appreciates. He likes the sense of normalcy, and he knows that’s why you’re trying to stay so upbeat in your letters. It’s for him, and his heart practically pounds at the thought. He leans back in his cot, still holding your letter and grinning like a fool, and Ben laughs brightly.

“Christ, Gwil, what’s the deal with this girl? She send you a photo?” Ben waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Gwil chortles, shaking his head easily.

“No,” he says, the tail of his laughter breaking up his sentences. “She just...makes me laugh.”

“What’s her name again?” The blonde asks, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeats, nodding once. “She pretty?”

Gwil’s eyes close, holding the letter against his stomach. “Beautiful,” he affirms.

Ben smiles over at his friend, though it goes unnoticed. “How long you two been together?”

Gwilym snorts, his shoulders digging into the mattress in a lazy shrug. “We’ve been best friends since we were born. We were practically together even before we were,” he says, peering at his friend through a cracked eye. It’s not entirely a lie; Gwilym meant what he said in his letter: if anyone were to be considered his girl, it would be you. Whether or not those feelings were reciprocated, well, that’s none of Ben’s business.

Ben hums, sitting on the cot beside Gwilym. “You love her?”

“More than anything,” Gwil admits, looking back down at the letter.

“You gonna marry her?”

“Jesus Christ, Jones,” someone else laughs, clapping the blonde on the shoulder. “What’s with the questions?”

“I don’t have a girl!” Ben defends, throwing his hands up. “I need to get my fill somewhere else.” He grins when he turns back to Gwilym, taking a long drag of his cigarette before pulling it from his lips. “So, are you?”

Gwil laughs softly. “I’m certainly going to try.”

Over the months, things with Gwilym begin to shift.

You suppose it must be that you can’t see one another in person, that it’s all on paper, but it feels as though he makes it his mission to make you flush. You know things aren’t easy for him. In fact, things are worse now than they have been since he shipped out, and if it makes him feel better to flirt with you, you’ll do that for him.

It doesn’t help the slow-building adoration in the pit of your stomach, the silly little crush you’ve been harboring since he left. Really, it only makes it worse. It makes you think. Did he think these things when he was home, or was this all coming on because he was lonely?

Shamelessly, you don’t mind the answer.

January 31, 1944

Dearest Y/N,

We’ve been moving a lot lately; I haven’t been sleeping much, but it’s okay. It hasn’t been raining much anymore, which has made travel easier. I’m proud to be here, to be fighting for my country, but I’m tired. I miss my life, and I miss my family and God, I miss you. So much.

My dad says your family came over for dinner a few days ago, and that your luck is finally turning around with gin rummy! He was really pleased that you beat him, and I was glad to hear it. You know I adore you, but I’ve truly never met a worse card player in my life. I’m glad to hear you’ve been practicing in all your free time without me.

Ben’s been complaining about how you send me so many letters and he doesn’t get any from anyone but his mum. He’s requesting letters from you, but I fear that will create a complicated tangle in our relationship. How’s my best mate supposed to write to my girl? I just don’t like it.

Speaking of, what’s been going on with you? I want to know all about what’s going on at home, what you’re doing. I miss that. How are your friends? Are you still running around with those girls from school? I think you’d do well with having some friends that are close to you. At least, until I come home. Then you’re all mine. But I wouldn’t feel betrayed if someone took my place for a few months.

Yours, Gwil

P.S. You’re just being mean by not sending me a photograph at this point. I swear, I won’t even show it to my mates, I just wanna see you. Be a good friend, won’t you? My life is of limited pleasure anymore, it’s just like my selfish friend to hold out on the one thing that would bring me joy. You giving all your pictures to other boys? That might just break my heart, doll.

It makes you smile, how he writes his letters. Always so sentimental. He always saves that sweetness for the post-script, something you had teased him for relentlessly but actually adored. How wonderful, to put the best part of the letter right at the end. You always read with bated breath, waiting to see what sort of affection he’s saved for you this time. It makes you ache for him.

Your friends have finally come to understand the priority that Gwilym holds. And, even before you had, they had come to understand why he holds it. You’d much rather spend a night in, re-reading Gwil’s letters and writing him new ones than go out with them and dance all night. Of course, they had always teased you about it, about how you and Gwilym were meant to be. Even still, you brush them off with a blithe laugh and a shake of your head. Silly crush or not, you wouldn’t allow your mind—or theirs—to run too wild.

And for a while, they let it go, holding on to the thoughts but never sharing them with you. But one night, all piled into your bedroom, Eva finds the shoebox full of his letters.

There’s no convincing them after that.

“‘P.S. mum tells me you’ve been going out with that fathead Jack McClaren,’” she giggles out, clutching Gwil’s letter to her chest and speaking in a silly impersonation of him. You flush, pressing your hands to your cheeks. “‘What a waste of your time, doll! But I suppose it’s best that you spend all your time with a dud until I get home. I wouldn’t want you marrying some other guy while I’m out.’”

Grace squeals, grabbing another letter from the box while you laughed softly, shaking your head. “He says stuff like this all the time?”

Shrugging, you say, “He’s always said stuff like that. He likes to tease me.”

“‘P.S.,’” Leona grins, “‘After months of you denying me, I’ve finally won: my mum sent me a photo of you, one she took at the new years party. I don’t know if you saw it before it got sent, but you look great in it.’”

Grace pulls it from Leona’s hands and you make a sound of disdain. “Hey, be careful with them!”

Your friend ignores you and continues what Leona had started, “‘Everyone’s been asking me what my girl looks like since I got here, and I have to say that you haven’t disappointed. You’ve certainly lived up to how I’ve described you. You really do look beautiful. I miss that smile.’”

Yeah, you were particularly fond of that one. Your cheeks warm even further and you can’t hide your smile, pulling at the hem of your dress with a dopey grin on your face. “Look at her!” Eva chortles, folding up the letter she holds and reaching for another. “Y/N, whether you’ll admit it or not, you are smitten.”

“It’s Gwil!” You laugh, shaking your head and reaching for a letter on your own. “He doesn’t mean it like that.”

Grace shot you an uncharacteristically cold look. “Y/N, we may not know Gwil as well as you know him, but we’ve known him almost as long. We all know what he’s like when he fancies a girl.”

You hadn’t thought of that. Your heart begins to pound. Gwil had always been a sweet talker, but never to you. You’d watched your best friend chase girls all throughout your lives, and as you think of his letters, things begin to make sense. The confusion, the off-kilter feeling your friendship had taken on, it seems to align.

As your friends continue to read, you blink stupidly. Gwilym Lee had been flirting with you.

March 24, 1944

Dear Gwil,

Your mum is a traitor; she told me she sent you another picture. Where she got it, I have no idea, but I hope you find it sufficient.

I can’t imagine why you keep asking what I’m up to. Life is still boring here, of course. Everything is boring when you’re not here. Things have gotten a little crazy, though. Grace asked me to help plan her wedding, so it’s been something to fill up my days. We’re really sad that you aren’t going to be there! Ed says we’re going to use a scarecrow in place of the best man since you won’t be there. I think it’s only fair; at least the scarecrow won’t subject us to terrible jokes in his speech.

I miss those silly jokes. I love being with the girls, but it’s not the same. Don’t let your head get big, but I never realized how difficult it was going to be without you.

I’m sorry I don’t have much to say. I’ve been working extra hard lately, and I feel as though I’m permanently tired these days. I’m tired of a lot of things, like working so much or the constant fear. Mostly, I’m just tired of things not being the way they used to be. I’m tired of the war and I’m tired of you not being here. I usually try not to get too down in these letters, I know that’s not what you need right now, but it’s been a tough few days. Hope you’re doing well, and I greatly look forward to hearing from you.

Yours, Y/N

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot. I’m beginning to fear the women at church were right about us.

The letter paints a much-needed smile on his face, the pictures of you his mother had sent tucked safely in the pocket above his chest. His heart races for an entirely different reason than it has in months. Is that a confession? In the barest possible way, yes. He knows you better than he knows himself—he doesn’t need to think hard to guess what you’re implying. It makes his pulse thrum, his stomach tilt, and his mind race.

However, he hates to hear that you’ve been feeling down, and he fishes a photo of you out of his pocket, the edges already beginning to curl up from how often he’s turned to it. A thumb runs over the printed page, eyes tracing over your bright smile and ignoring Ben’s intrusive stare. He knew them as well as Gwil did by now with how often he looked over his friend’s shoulder to look at them. Gwilym didn’t mind anymore. Not like he had the first time. In such a bleak life, he couldn’t steal from his friend the simplest pleasure of seeing you.

It’s one of the few things that brings him comfort anymore, the way you slyly smile back at him, standing in a busy crowd in his living room. He sighs, shifting on the hard ground, taking one last look as he prepares to put it back in his pocket, but in a second, a hand reaches around his shoulder and pulls the photograph from between his fingertips.

“Hey!” He huffs, spinning around to reach for their wrist.

Samuel grins at Gwil, holding the picture of you. “Who’s this?” He asks, turning his attention to the photo with a low whistle.

From Gwil’s side, Ben murmurs, “Y/N.”

Gwilym glares at him, but Sam doesn’t notice them, eyes still turned down. He drops to sit beside Gwil, a heavy sigh falling from his lips as he passes the photo back. The exhaustion is palpable between the three of them, silence settling over them. After a moment, Sam reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a photo, handing it to Gwilym tentatively. Ben leans over, the two of them staring down at the picture of a woman, Sam’s arm wrapped around her waist.

“Ruby,” he smiles. Reaching over, he taps the photo of you. “They look like they’d be friends.”

Gwil laughs softly, nodding as he hands back Sam’s photo. He looks at his own photo wistfully, a smile pulling over his face. For a second, he’s only focused on you, transported to a time in which you were smiling at him like that, not some camera. He’s not thinking about the sun beating down on him or the hard ground beneath him, but then someone’s yelling, and he’s brought back to his real life.

Your heart races at the sight of the letter in your mum’s hand, your fingers jittery as you reach for it.

It’s late. Much later than they usually come. In fact, it’s been nearly a month since you had heard from Gwil and after the first week, you had assumed he wasn’t going to answer at all. It wasn’t a bomb that should have been dropped in a letter, but it’s easier to say when you don’t have to see him, you find. You had always been too loose with your feelings when it came to your best friend, especially when you were already upset. The melancholy of the overcast days you had lived had left you feeling almost perpetually down when you had written the letter, and what little words you had to offer had flown out of you almost without thought. The confession had been nothing but an endless train of thought that had plagued you for months.

To the untrained eye, to someone who didn’t know you, it would have meant nothing. It could have been something simple, a throwaway thought or a sentence you just threw in to pad the conversation. But it’s weighted to the two of you. ‘The women at church were right about us’ may as well have meant ‘I think we’re meant to be, I think we should get married and have five children only to force them to go to the same congregation we were forced to go to, and while we’re at it, we may as well just die together.’

But maybe that’s just you overthinking.

Maybe the line just made Gwil laugh, and maybe he hasn’t written because he’s been too busy. But you can’t find out right away, because your mother holds the envelope just out of your reach with a knowing look.

You’re exhausted, really. After a long day at work, your friends dragged you out to go dancing with them for the first time in months. All you want is to lay in your bed and read Gwilym’s letter before you fall asleep, but she doesn’t relent when you reach for it, only pulling it further out of your reach.

“Mum,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead. “I’ve had a really long day.”

“And instead of going straight to sleep, you want Gwil’s letter?”

You laugh quietly, shrugging. “How is that different from any other day?” But your mother doesn’t laugh. Instead, she raises a curious brow, waiting. Any other day, you’d have no problem indulging her, but now, you just huff. “Yes?”

“How is he?” She finally breaks.

“At war, mum, so he’s certainly not his best,” you murmur, looking at her with sleep-hooded eyes. “Really, I’m exhausted. Can I have my letter?” She frowns, reaching to soothe over your bicep. You can tell that aside from her interest in Gwil, she’s genuinely concerned, so you breathe out sharply, smiling tiredly at her. It’s not fair for you to take out your long days on her. “We can have this conversation tomorrow, I promise.”

She gives you one last knowing look but hands you the letter. Sighing in relief, you smile again and take it from her, turning on your heel to retreat to your room.

April 19, 1944

Dearest Y/N,

So sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. You can only imagine the last few weeks we’ve had here, but all’s well! No need to worry about your picture being sufficient. It’s beautiful, of course. I think I must have the prettiest girl of all the guys in the group.

I’m crushed to miss the wedding! I know you’ll all have loads of fun, though. Don’t worry about missing out on my jokes, I’ll send a whole page of them for you to read in my place. Take pictures, alright? Make sure to send me a couple. When’s it scheduled? You know I’m nothing if not humble; I’m offended you’d suggest I could be anything but.

I’m sorry you haven’t been doing well. I hate to hear that, but I’m glad you said something. I want to stay updated on what’s going on with you, even the bad bits. What you really need is a new job, something less physical. I’m sure my dad has some clerical work you could do for the firm. We can’t have you run to the ground, can we? Get feeling better, doll. I miss you reams; I wish there was anything I could do to make you feel better.

Yours, Gwil

P.S. Well, it took you long enough to realize that, didn’t it? Think I must have picked up that there was some truth to that when we were 14, and I’ve kind of been waiting for you to come around since. It’s not such a bad thought, though. There are much worse things than the thought of you and I. Can’t think of much that’s any better.

You sleep better tonight than you have in weeks.

His own shrouded confession paired with yours changes your relationship. Not as much as it would if the two of you had come out and said what you were both thinking, or if you two were together.

Your friends refuse to let it go, which you don’t mind so much. It had done nothing but get on your nerves before, but everything feels a little lighter now. There have been no real confessions, nor could you expect there to be, not when he was still so far away, not when the two of you weren’t really discussing the state of your relationship. Even so, you can’t help but feel a little giddy about it all. You still feel as though you’re running yourself ragged between work and trying to act like your life is normal, but you’re feeling more positive throughout your days.

Gwil, however, feels like he's trudging through life. Every next day is gloomier than the last, and it begins to feel like his only refuge are the letters he’s receiving, updates about his family’s lives and the jokes you’re writing to him and the photos you’ve finally given in and sent. His letters seem to stay the same length, but they’re much less about his life; he feels that the only thing that can make him feel right anymore is to just read your rambling, to ask you questions and picture you, bright and smiling, living your life. He’s much more wistful, and if he wasn’t so hazy from the exhaustion, from how cold and tired he is, he’d be a little embarrassed at how overly-affectionate he is.

It doesn’t matter to you. In fact, it makes your heart ache for him. His actual letters get shorter and his post scripts get longer, sweeter, softer. It makes you wonder how you had spent your whole life with Gwil by your side and never once thought of him as anything other than your best friend. More importantly, how could Gwilym Lee have hid from you how adorably softhearted he is? You always knew how sentimental he could get, but never toward another person. That information was for the girls he had dated exclusively. Now that you’re privy to his sweetness, it makes you long for all the years you had missed of it.

May 30, 1944

Dearest Y/N,

Dad says you found yourself a job at Mr. Wright’s office, how has that been? Anything must be better than what you were doing before, but I hope they’ve been treating you well. How’s your family? You’ve not mentioned them in quite a while.

Ben’s been whinging much more than usual. He’s not quite what I’m used to when it comes to having someone at my side, but he’s not so bad. He insists on meeting you when this is all over and I think it’s one of the only good ideas he’s ever had. The two of you would get along, I think. I said that to him once and he’s never let it go; he’s got this crazy idea in his head that he’s going to steal you from me. I think he’s gone silly, but maybe he has a point. Maybe not meeting him would be better, yeah?

Yours, Gwil

P.S. Of course, McClaren can’t get over you! I could have predicted that one from a thousand miles away. In fact, I think I may have warned you about him. It just goes to prove that you ought to heed my warnings. You may think you’ve got it all figured out, but I know how that meatball works. He’s been the same since we were kids. I won’t say I told you so, only to save myself some grief the next time I’m wrong about something. You can tell him to buzz off. Tell him you’ve got a real man, one who’s at war and everything.

You couldn’t possibly imagine how much I miss you, but if you feel so inclined, I’d encourage you to use your imagination. Mum says I should stop teasing you so much; says you’re real sensitive and all, but I’d like to imagine that I’m keeping some normalcy in our relationship by busting your chops. Someone has to do it, or your head will get all fat. That’s the real problem with girls who know they’re pretty…

Truth be told, you don’t mind so much that he likes to tease you. He’s right. It wouldn’t feel like you were talking to Gwil if he didn’t prod you a bit, and it only feels right to poke at one another through your letters since you can’t do it in person.

You’re so caught up in him telling you you’re pretty that you almost forget that he’s called himself your man, and you think that’s a title you don’t mind letting him carry for a while.

June 10th, 1944

Gwilym,

I know you can’t tell me all your plans, but a little warning would have been nice. Lord knows there were plenty of ways you could have told me without giving anything away. I’m so angry at you. I knew the risks when you left, of course, but I didn’t realize how horrific it was going to be, knowing that you’re out there, every single day, risking your life. Knowing that everyday, I run the risk of losing my best friend and you run the risk of dying. It’s too hard to bear anymore, Gwil. I don’t know how you do it.

But I know you don’t want to talk about that. I know that these letters are to take your mind off of what you’re going through. It’s just hard to stay so positive all the time. Things here are getting bleaker by the day. Usually, I would turn to you when I can’t handle it all, but you’re gone. I just need you.

P.S. McClaren already thinks I won’t go out with him again because of you, so I suppose it isn’t entirely unbelievable. At the very least, you’re a great excuse for not wanting to see any of these boys again. Not that I’m seeing any boys right now, mind you. Don’t go getting yourself in a tizzy like you always used to about those other girls. Poor Jack didn’t know what he was getting into when we went out. I suppose I didn’t, either.

Don’t you worry about me getting a big head. I think you’ve forgotten all those years you teased me relentlessly. You were a mean-spirited kid, Gwilym Lee, and you’ve got lots of years to make up for when you get home. Thinking of it now, I truly don’t know why I stuck by your side. Probably because your dad bought me ice cream every time you made me cry. I’m just getting nostalgic now, but I’ve been thinking about you even more than usual this week.

I miss you. Be safe for me, okay?

You can’t lie, especially not to Gwilym. Life is getting bleak. Especially with the news of the storm in Normandy. Anymore, it feels like all you do is work and write letters and worry. And now, you’ve got him on your mind even more than usual, as if that’s even possible. You know things must be crazy over there, too crazy for him to sit down and write you a silly love letter.

No, you can’t blame him for not writing to you. But it doesn’t calm the storm deep in your gut, the constant churning of your stomach when you think of him. June, you expect. The letters sometimes take a while to get to you. That’s normal. At the latest, you expect his letter only a few weeks after you write yours. But June comes and goes without a letter, to either you or his family.

You try not to wind up his mother too much. You’re over often, more often nowadays than when he first got drafted, to help with things around the house or to play rummy with his dad. The lot of you talk about his letters often, comparing them to try to get a better idea of how he’s doing out there, since he refuses to go into much detail. In all honesty, you’re just happy to have someone to commiserate with. She’s just as worried as you are—more so—and you hate to make her worry. You spend most nights reassuring her only to go home and worry on your own. If Gwil was around, he would be consoling you, but he isn’t. So you hold it all in, praying and crying and waiting for a letter.

Of course, it’s always been a possibility that he wouldn’t come home to you. You thought you had come to terms with that, but now every moment of every day is spent feeling like you can’t breathe. More than ever, he’s all you think about.

It feels like your days, which pass like weeks anyway, drag on. By the time mid-July rolls around, you’re running yourself ragged; you’re doing everything you can to distract yourself from the fact that your best friend is missing in action. You’re working overtime every day, going out with your friends every night, and spending nearly all of your spare time with your family, who work just as hard to keep your mind off him.

Being around Gwilym’s family begins to feel suffocating. They had been a second family to you since you were born; you felt just as much at home with them as you did with your own family. However, now it’s just too much. You already spend too much time wondering where he is, what he’s doing, if he’s okay, why he isn’t writing to you. As real as it is for you, it’s infinitely worse for them. Understandably, it’s all they can think about. They spend every waking moment agonizing about their son, their brother, their family. A place that used to be your escape was now the home of the very conversation you were trying to avoid: where is Gwilym?

They haven’t sent anyone to notify his family yet. It might be the only thing giving you hope anymore. Until they send someone with that dreaded letter, you’re safe. He’s safe, at least as safe as he can be. For now, you wait. For a letter, a messenger, the end of the war. You can’t decide which.

Gwilym is miserable. Truly, deeply, down to his very soul, he’s bored out of his mind.

At the very least, he thought recovering from a near-fatal shot would give him enough time to write letters to you, to let someone know that he’s okay, but they aren’t running anyone out of Normandy, that he knows of, least of all someone to take mail. No one is even getting off the beach, unless they’re dead, and stationary quickly became a rare commodity, one that he couldn’t convince the nurses to score for him. “Focus on healing,” they would say. “Don’t wear yourself out with writing.”

He can’t really focus on anything with the constant influx of new patients, and they way his shoulder and chest ache constantly. The infirmary isn’t getting nearly enough painkillers and subsequently, neither is Gwil. It’s better that he hurts than he’s drowsy, he figures, but he won’t act like he’s enjoying his time, either.

Your pictures are a constant fixture on his bedside tray and he knows you must be worrying himself sick. Between you and his mother, most of his days are spent thinking about home, about how stressed you and his family must be after not hearing from him for so long. They had managed to get your last letter to him, and though you truly do sound miserable—and he knows you’re angry—he reads it multiple times a day. He just likes to read what you’ve written, even if he knows you’re not happy.

He’s going to be fine, for the moment. That, at least, he knows for sure. Part of him had hoped that they’d discharge him while he healed, but they’re desperate to keep as many people as they can. Gwil will be back practically back to himself in only a few days, hopefully. He’d really rather be out doing something, fighting for his country, than lying in an overcrowded infirmary, spending every day staring at a wall.

Aside from the soreness in the chest, the late summer humidity makes it almost unbearable to breathe, especially in poorly ventilated building they’ve all been packed in. Gwil is miserable, and he makes sure everyone knows it. The nurses, though, all adore him, of course. He’s charming, even when he’s complaining, and of course, it’s nice to get attention from someone who isn’t Ben, but it only further emphasizes an already gaping hole in his chest.

Yeah, he likes to make the nurses laugh and he likes it when they read to him and he likes that they always give him extra pudding, but it doesn’t feel right. He isn’t flirting—honestly, he isn’t sure he even knows how to do that anymore—but he knows they are and it makes his stomach churn. It doesn’t feel right to give that idea to anyone but you. You’re the only one he wants to make laugh, or flush, or say his name in that little laugh you do.

They all know about you, though. You’re all he talks about, pretty much, and they’ve all seen the photographs of you he keeps in his sight at all times. It’s cute, they think. None of them are really trying to move on Gwilym, not when he harps on about you all day long, but it’s easy to tease him a little bit.

When he moves, he can’t help but groan, the tightness of his chest forcing a dull ache to settle over his upper body. Beside his bed, a nurse with shifting eyes cracks a little smile. “Still sore?” She asks, careful of your photos when she picks up his lunch from his bedside tray. He smiles smally in her direction. “You’re healing well, though. You’ll be sore for a few more days but you’re on the mend.”

“Thank God,” he breathes. “I’m sick of this.”

“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed our company so much,” she laughs, sitting on the edge of his bed.

He rolls his eyes and nudges her with his leg. “I’d enjoy it more if you gave me anything to do.”

The nurse raises a brow and smooths out her skirt. “We’re giving you time to think, which—if you forgot—is not something you often get out there.” She motions to the door.

She’s not wrong, but he feels like he’s thought himself into a hole by now. He’s definitely healed up—his bandages are coming off clean now, which is a new development—and he’s ready to get back out there. They’ve already been in Normandy for two months, which means it’s been two months since he’s written to his family, two months that you’ve all been worrying about him, no doubt. He’s only one person, this he knows, but he can’t help but think he can be doing more. He wants to get himself off this godforsaken island, or at least get himself somewhere he can write to you, or be with someone he actually knows. He’ll never admit it, but he even misses Ben and his incessant whining.

“I don’t need to think anymore,” he sighs, head lolling. “I need to do something.”

She pats his shin and stands up. “Any day now, Private.”

Again, he’s left alone with his thoughts and he tries to force down the irritability bubbling in his chest. Closing his eyes, he releases a sharp breath. He could do well with more rest, but as he tries to fall asleep, his subconscious is fervently drafting a letter to you.

Another day without an officer was as good a day as any. At the very least, they have to know where he is if they haven’t sent a letter with bad news yet, which puts you at ease if only a little.

Both your families sit around the Lee’s table, your parents laughing easily along with a story your best friend’s father shares. You try to smile along, really, but you still haven’t gotten used to him not sitting across from you, flicking his mum’s mushy peas at you until you were kicking him. It always got under your skin, something he was most exceptional at, but now, you long for that. You hate whatever this is now, without him, both families pretending everything is okay when he’s not here getting you in trouble. It’s too quiet.

Without making much of a fuss, you excuse yourself quietly from the table. Before Gwilym was gone, you never would have gotten away with leaving in the middle of a meal, but the rules have all changed since he left. Like no one was denying anyone anymore. Part of you reveled in it, almost a sense of freedom, but more than that, it was just a reminder that things were different now, that they probably wouldn’t be the same again.

The air is thick when you slip out onto the stoop. It feels more humid this summer, especially when it was later in the day, but the air is still nice. The wireframe chairs Gwil’s mother had set up had come in handy many times, but none more than the past few months. When you need a break.

To your right, the familiar creak of the front door echoes through the night air and the spicy cologne is homely enough to make you relax. In the chair beside yours, Mr. Lee sits with a quiet grunt.

For a few minutes, the two of you sit in silence. There are a lot of things you both want to say, but maybe not to each other, and maybe not right now, so you take in the quiet sounds of the suburb and look up at the stars, neither of you acknowledging the other for a few moments.

“My dear,” he sighs, not glancing over at you. “Such poor table manners.”

You snort a laugh. “My greatest apologies.”

For a long moment, neither of you say anything, but you know you must have the same train of thought. Though you’ve spent the night joking, sharing wry looks with one another, it’s obvious to both of you that you’re not joking anymore. The air feels heavier and you chance a look over at him, taking in his likeness to your best friend as you wait for him to say something. Finally, he shakes his head. “Goddamn war,” he mutters, looking over at you. “Doesn’t do anything but tear families apart.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“He’s a good kid.” Mr. Lee nods. “I trust him to keep himself safe.”

It isn’t that simple and you both know it, but you don’t say anything, turning your attention back to the stars. Inside, your family and his wife have quieted down, the laughter of the night now silent, and you listen to the crickets, your breathing steady. A whole year since he had left and things still feel offbeat. You suppose that a year apart can be harder to get used to than a lifetime together.

When a few minutes pass and the laughter inside begins again, Mr. Lee leans a little to his side and reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket. From it, he produces a deck of cards and sets it gently on the matching wireframe table between the chairs, smiling slyly.

“Another game of rummy before those fuddies finish dinner?”

He always had reminded you so greatly of Gwilym. With a grin, you swipe the deck from the table and begin to shuffle in the low light streaming from the window.

It’s good news. God knows you need good news right now.

With the battle in Normandy ending in your favor, things feel lighter around town. The congregation sings a little louder, smiles a little brighter, and talks a little longer. All around you, people step lighter. It is not a victory, but it is an upper hand. One your people take with great pride. Even you, you must admit, are feeling better.

You hope that, if Gwilym is still fighting, he’ll find a way to write to you. Selfish, of course, but so true, it consumes you. It’s been too long, but a piece of you knows he’s still out there, ready to come home. Ready to come back to you. You can only pray he does so soon.

At the very least, the letter in your mailbox will do.

You could scream at the sight of his scribbled handwriting, but instead, you rip it from the box and run into the house, ducking under your father’s arm as you make your way to your bedroom.

“Y/N!” Your mom cries after you.

You don’t answer, slamming your door closed behind you as you ripped open the envelope. It almost feels like coming home, seeing those familiar words on the page. Your hands shake, your heart pounds, and your breathing is shaky as you sit on the edge of your bed.

September 9, 1944

My dearest,

Too long I’ve imagined what I would write to you once I finally had the chance, and now it seems to have escaped me. God, I missed you. Deeply, with great intensity.

You should know that since I’ve last spoken to you, I thought of you endlessly, every single day. The nurses got to know you well. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you that we were going to Normandy, but I often think it’s better that you don’t know many things about life here. I hate to let you worry. You can only imagine the climate. It was absolute madness. There was hardly a moment to rest and barely any supplies. It’s why I didn’t write, though you have to know that I bribed the nurses quite a lot to give up their personal stationary, to no avail.

Tell me about what’s been happening with you! I’d love to be caught up on the happenings of your life. How’s the wedding planning? Have you started classes yet? Are you still working at the firm? Tell me all about it. I fear that life is very much the same as always here. I’ve missed the escapism your letters bring to me. It’s easier to pretend I’m still part of the team when you’re the one telling me all about the fun you’re having without me, ha! I want to hear everything—even if it’s just how angry you are with me.

You still beating my dad at rummy? I’d love to hear that, he’s getting too cocky. I’m hoping you knock him down enough that by the time I get home, I’ll be able to swoop in for a win.

I had a lot of time to think while I was healing in the infirmary. I think it’s time we talk about what’s going on with us. However, I pray it’s as simple as I would assume it is; I know how I feel, and I hope you know how you feel. If we’re on the same page, isn’t there only one step to take? Write back soon.

Yours, Gwil

P.S. I love you. Another thing I had time to think of in the infirmary. I suppose it’s best to tell you in writing so you can’t reject me outright, yeah?

If you thought your heart was racing before, this must be what a heart attack feels like. Simultaneously, it feels like you’re light as air and have a thousand pounds on your shoulders. You fall on your back, clutching the letter to your chest. He loves you. Your own best friend.

Maybe you knew, subconsciously. Neither of you had ever said it outright, but you weren’t sure if you needed to. It had been pretty clear, you assumed. The two of you had always been good at conveying a message without coming right out and saying it; you had spent years doing it around other people, but never when it was just you two. You suppose this is new territory for you.

You furrow your brows, a gleeful grin on your face. Outside your room, you can hear your parents talking—likely about you—but you hardly care. All you think about right now is Gwilym, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel anxious about him. You feel right.

The thought of going to sleep without writing him back makes your stomach lurch and your hands itch to reach for your pen. They’re still shaking as you set up your stationary on your desk, sit at your seat, and begin your response.

September 16th, 1944

My dear Gwilym,

Don’t you dare think I’ll let this one go. I’m almost embarrassed to admit how low I allowed myself to get while I was waiting for you to write. You can’t leave me like that again, you understand? Also, don’t you dare think you’re getting out of telling me about how you got to know the nurses, and how they got to know me.

The wedding is nearly planned, all that’s left is to just do the damn thing. Grace is slowly but surely losing her mind but I think Ed is ready, which is nice. It’s almost annoying to watch them, especially now; they’re more affectionate than ever and being alone around them is pretty unbearable. I’m biding my time until you get home and we become the most annoying pair of the lot again.

I started classes a couple of weeks ago, so I cut down my hours at the firm, which has been nice. I really like my classes, but I wish you were here to help me with them. You always were better with schoolwork, and I greatly miss the nights spent with you tutoring me. They’re a need right now.

I’m not angry with you; I have no right to be, do I? God, I’m just happy to hear from you. You can only imagine how I felt when I thought I lost the only person who knows me. I hope you’re healing well. Knowing you’re okay, that you’re out there and still thinking of me, it quells any anger I could possibly feel toward you.

I won’t ask you what it’s like. I know you don’t like to talk about it, and I’m not sure I could handle hearing about it. Thinking about you there, it just breaks my heart. Any details might completely derail me. However, yes, I have been beating your dad at rummy. He’s not even a sore loser about it, I think he’s just pleased to have at least a little bit of a challenge during the games. I’m sure he’s letting me win—or not cheating when he deals anymore—but I’ll take what I can get.

We have been doing this dance for quite a while, haven’t we? Before you left, I had never even thought of us as anything other than best friends. I don’t know if it was the kiss, or the letters, or having you so far away, but I know now that you are the only person who understands me in every single way. You’ve always been the only person I want to go to, and I think Mrs. Davens said it best to us when she said a friendship was the strongest foundation for a relationship. If you agree, and if you think that’s something you want, I suppose you can stop lying to your friends about me being your girl.

It will sound infinitely better when it’s true, don’t you think?

Yours, Y/N

P.S. As though I could ever reject you. You would never let me live it down. I love you.

Gwilym feels as though his heart is about to beat out of his chest. Across from him, Sam clutches his own letter from Ruby, and Ben watches Gwil carefully, waiting.

“Well?” He huffs. “How is she?”

“Good,” Gwil breathes, his cheeks pink as he rereads the post script for the fifteenth time. I love you. “Perfect.”

“Sam?”

Their friend beams, hardly looking up from his letter. “God, she’s angry.”

Ben and Gwilym laugh, and the brunet holds the letter tightly to his chest. How long he had waited to hear those words, and even just reading them nearly sends him into a tizzy. You had exchanged those words thousands of times throughout your life, but never with such weight. Never in the way you say them now. Before your letter, he was sure he couldn’t adore you more, but he could be knocked over under the weight of his affection now.

His eyes slip closed, a blissful smile spreading across his face. The way he feels about you had long been something he held close to his chest, something he refused to expose to anyone else. It was a secret he had always planned to hide forever, but now it’s out there. You know he loves you. Even more importantly, you love him too.

Ben whines, waving the letter from his mum at his friends. “Great! Both of you are in love, who cares? What about me?”

Gwil rolls his eyes and claps the blonde on the shoulder. “Don’t you have bigger things to worry about right now? Maybe the war you’re fighting in?”

Ben glares at Sam when he cackles, a heavy boot kicking at him. “Fuck off. You only say that because you have girls to distract you from this.”

Folding up his letter, Gwil sighs tiredly. “Y/N and I have a friend that you might like. Leona.”

Beside him, Ben raises a brow. “She funny?”

“Yes.”

“Cute?”

“Yes.”

“Good taste?”

“If she’d like you? No,” Sam cuts in.

While Ben sinks down in the dirt, huffing, Gwil and Sam laugh. For the first time in the longest time, Gwilym finally feels like he can breathe a sigh of relief. There’s a newfound fire in him—something to look forward to—and he thinks that all he can do is stay alive to get home to you.

October 6, 1944

My dearest, Gwilym,

Ben does seem like someone Leona would be interested in. Even if he didn’t, I’d want you to bring him around anyway. Sam, too! I have to thank them for getting you through this. It must be hard for them and all, since you’re such a pain in the ass. I can only imagine you’ve gotten worse, so I think they deserve a little recognition. Maybe when you all get discharged, they can come into town for a few days. Sam could bring Ruby! The three of you sound thick as thieves. I’d love to get a chance to run around with you for a few days. I’ll be holding out hope.

Classes are going well! I still haven’t really decided what I’m studying, but I’ve still got time. Mr. Wright says I have a job at the office for as long as I want one, and I’ve really enjoyed my time there. I definitely won’t stay there forever, but I don’t think it’s a job I’d mind holding onto for a little while longer…

I’m really pleased that you’ve healed up well. You nearly gave us all heart attacks here, trying to play off that injury. You can trust that we won’t let that one go. Your mum says that you aren’t getting out of her sight at all once you get home, which will undoubtedly make our dates a little more difficult, but I think it’s a challenge we’ll be able to overcome.

Been thinking of you extra lately. Hope you’re thinking of me, too.

Yours, Y/N

P.S. I’ve been thinking about your birthday coming up; I know they’re expecting us at the soda shop, but it almost feels wrong to go alone. I’d hate to break tradition, though. Maybe I’ll still go. I don’t know; it felt weird without you there last year. I just miss you. I’m waiting for you every day, Gwil. I love you.

He’ll never get used to reading it. He thinks the first time he really hears it from you, he might pass out. It’s just another thing to keep him going through his days. The thought of you, waiting at home for him, loving him, well, he thinks that could get him through a hundred wars.

You thought after Gwil left, things couldn’t get more different. Back when you walked that line between completely platonic and flirting. Now, though, your relationship has almost evolved completely without changing at all. There are ‘I love you’s and talks of dates, but Gwilym is still your best friend. It’s all the excitement of a new relationship and none of the nervousness, because nervousness doesn’t exist between the two of you. It never had.

You had never been the kind of person to let a boy change your mood, but the boys you’d dated had never been Gwilym. Though you never thought of him as anything more than your best friend, things feel right now. Like something had clicked into place that you didn’t even know wasn’t there.

Both sets of parents have to know that something is up, based on the sly smiles they share with one another, but you haven’t mentioned it, and you’re sure Gwil—sweet, private Gwil—hasn’t either. It must be how light you feel. Having him away is still so heavy, weighing on your shoulders every day, but you’re looser with your smiles now, no longer slipping away from dinners or hiding in your bedroom. Still, they say nothing. They graciously allow you to live in your bubble for a bit longer.

It seems the only downside to your new relationship is that you’re proving right all the nosy women from church, who still ask you about Gwilym every time they see you. Even so, you think you can live with that. You can live with being wrong about something if it means you get Gwil in return. It may be the easiest trade you’ve ever made.

Gwil’s birthday flies in almost without you realizing, and you finally decide to go to the soda shop with Eva instead. You and Eva seem to stick together the most nowadays. With Grace newly married and Leona spending all her spare time with the boys she meets at school (“Just until Gwil’s handsome war friend comes home!” She always teases), you settle into an easy pattern with Eva. She reminds you of Gwilym in some ways. She taunts you far less, but she has the same countenance, easy and comforting and ready to listen.

Though your days still feel longer than possible, you become used to your new routine. Not the loneliness, never the loneliness, but work and then school and then home. Sometimes out with your friends, but less so now. Oftentimes, a lot of nights end with you and Eva watching a movie, or playing rummy with Gwil’s dad. Overall, it’s not a bad way to fill your days, for the time being. It isn't forever, which you’re grateful for, but it reminds you of the relationships you’ve forgotten to cultivate while you and Gwilym have spent your whole lives together.

Gwil spends his birthday how he spends most days, deflecting questions about his personal life (not that he really has one anymore) from Ben and Sam. The three of them have eased into the perfect ebb and flow of conversation, where Ben overshares and Sam makes fun of him and Gwil keeps to himself. His life isn’t a secret, not even close, but it almost feels as though he’d be tainting the idealism of his real life by sharing it in such a dark place. He doesn’t want the war, the soldiers, to know about him. That was for him to hold close to his chest. If he met Sam and Ben somewhere else, he decides, they might already know all about him, and maybe when they visit him after the war, he will open up. Until then, he’ll laugh along with their stories and smile wryly when they ask for his, and he’ll keep his life to himself like a daydream he can escape to.

January 12, 1945

My dearest, Y/N,

I heard from my mother that the New Year’s party was quite successful this year, and that you did a wonderful job helping her plan it. She’s just thrilled with how close the two of you have gotten since I’ve left. She has always adored you, but hearing her gush about the two of you planning a party together thrills me to no end. I must be the luckiest guy in the world to have the two of you, and for the two of you to have each other.

Congratulations on finishing your first term of school! Of course, I won’t be there for the one starting now, but I’ll let myself hope I can be there for the next one. I never used to hope, but it’s one of the only things that gets me through my day anymore. That, and you. I don’t have to hope for you anymore.

Ben’s been talking loads about how excited he is to finally meet you. Turns out that bastard caught hold of a couple letters you sent me, and he’s taken quite the liking to you. He says he can’t wait to meet you so the two of you can team up against me. He annoys the piss out of me, really, but I can’t wait either.

My mum had said something about us that made me think she knew. Personally, I don’t mind so much our families knowing. I’m glad they do, I think it’s about time. However, the women from church? That’s what I worry about. Our families will keep quiet about it until I get home, but I’m already dreading all the questions we’re going to have to stave off about our relationship when that happens. Until then, let’s keep it to ourselves. It’s the way it’s meant to be.

Yours, Gwilym

P.S. You don’t know how much I needed that picture you sent me, sweetheart. You looked gorgeous; you always do, but especially at the New Year’s parties. I’m thinking of you every second, desperately wishing for the day this war is over so I can come home to you. I hope you’re doing well, my love.

Ben and Sam practically force Gwil to show them the photograph you send, and, as he expects, it only proves to make them gush about you. Ruby sends one to Sam, too, and the more Gwil thinks about it, what he assumed was a throwaway line in a conversation lingers in his mind. He really thinks the two of you would be friends, especially judging by how eager you are to have Ruby join Sam on his trip to meet the two of you. According to Sam, his girl is equally as excited. The thought makes a mindless smile cross his face. He had grown to love Sam as much as he loved the friends he grew up with, and he could practically see the four of you at a table, you and Ruby ganging up against him and Sam.

Until then, holding your picture close to his heart is enough. He waited his whole life for you. He thinks he can wait until the end of the war.

The winter isn’t nearly as brutal as the one before, but it still bites to the bone when it snows. You’ve convinced your mum to allow you to use the car for the winter, especially since she isn’t going anywhere, which makes your life the slightest bit easier. Still, you hate to drive in the snow, and driving back and forth from work and school and home does run the car a little ragged.

Finally, the days warm a little and the snow turns to rain, and another spring has come in. On the warmer, sunnier days, you and Eva study outside, and even with your final exams coming up, you’re practically bursting with excitement. More than you are anxious, you’re excited to finally have a little bit of free time. Even with your summer work schedule, you’ll have most of your day to do whatever you please.

What free time you have now is either spent with Eva or your or Gwil’s family. If you and Eva aren’t at the movies, you’re cooking dinner with Gwil’s mum or working on helping your mother around the house. It feels good to spend time with them, to laugh and dance around the kitchen and to have someone to lean against. Your family had always been close to Gwil’s—you don’t know that the two of you would be so close if they weren’t—but ever since he left, it feels as though the two families have merged. A lot of dinners are shared, whether you’re all gathering in the same kitchen or you’re shuffling casserole dishes across the street.

Between rummy with Gwil’s dad and spending so much time with his mum, you pray to God that everything works out between you two. You want to live like this for the rest of your life.

“Shit!” Ben cries, whipping his helmet off to the side to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “It’s hot.”

Gwil can’t help but roll his eyes. Of course, it’s hot. It’s nearly always hot anymore, especially in their heavy uniforms, but Ben’s inability to not complain only bothers him, so he doesn’t respond. Summer comes in sweltering, hotter than usual, he thinks. You haven’t mentioned the weather in your letters, likely because unlike him, you have other things to think about, but he wonders what it’s like at home. God, he longs for the day he goes home and remembers how to form thoughts about things other than the weather, or how he wants to hit Ben, or when the mail is coming in.

“Obviously, it’s hot,” Sam says, cutting a glare at Ben. “You’re wearing layers in June. We’re all hot.”

June. The thought could make Gwilym sigh. Only a few months short of two years since he had been drafted, and he’s exhausted. He knew when he left that he would likely be out until the war ended or he died, but he hadn’t quite realized how much longer this war was going to last. He’s sick of the monotony of it all, but he figures the last time he escaped monotony, he had been shot.

Lying in the infirmary sounds like a dream now. A retreat from the sun, and from Ben and Sam’s constant bickering. Gwil wonders what he’d have to do to get sent back there, and the thought makes an amused smile quirk on his lips. Two years ago, he never would have laughed at the thought of his mortality, but a lot can change in only a few weeks in war, let alone years. For a few moments, he manages to tune out Ben and Sam arguing with one another about something inconsequential, and he closes his eyes, leaning back in his cot.

Any day now, he promises himself. Any day and the war will be over. I can go home.

With a sigh, he prays it’s true this time.

Despite the almost unbearable heat, summer doesn’t crawl by in the same way winter does. They’ve got a little more daylight, a little more time to actually relax when they aren’t moving, which he appreciates. He had never been one to just sit down; he wasn’t stagnant, he always had to be doing something. But the constant movement brought out an appreciation for sloth that he had never quite felt before. Now, he relishes in the time he can spend sitting down, his eyes drooped closed or scanning the horizon lazily.

Yes, summers are better even during the war. It’s the simplest of pleasures, one he’ll gladly accept. He finds pleasure in the mundane now. Passing of days—every new day means he was one closer to being home—and fresh water and mail. Especially mail. There’s finally a break from the heat when he receives another of your letters.

August 14, 1945

My dear Gwil,

Classes start soon! It’s been wonderful to have days full of nothingness this summer, and I admit that I’ll greatly miss the late nights drinking tea on the stoop with your mum, I am rather glad to be going back. I’m getting bored of the work at the office, and it’ll be nice to have something to split my days with.

I went to dinner at Ed and Grace’s this week, and let me tell you that I don’t know how much longer I can handle being around them alone. They invite me to make me feel less lonely but once I’m there, it’s like they completely forget about me. I wouldn’t mind it so much if you were here to make fun of them for the way they act together, but I suppose that will have to wait a little while. You have much to make up on.

The bake sale for the church went well! As expected, your mum’s cupcakes sold out within a couple of hours. You can rag on Mrs. Aarons and her cake as much as you want, but I have to admit that she’s improved if only a little bit since we were in Sunday school.

I’m sorry I don’t have much to say. Not much has been going on, really. I’ll try to shake things up around here to give you something interesting to read about in the next letter!

Yours, Y/N

P.S. You’re lucky I’m already in love with you, Gwil, or you’d be booted to the curb in no time. You bullied me enough when we were kids, give me a break now! You’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to me, starting the second you get home.

Two years and a few weeks since he had been drafted. Just a week short of one year since the letter in which he had confessed his love for you. He thinks there’s no better time for the war to end.

The whole group of them buzz with the news, drinks flowing and men yelling and laughter, more laughter than he’s heard since he left home. Gwil still can’t feel anything other than shock. Two years, he’s been away, and now it hits him. He’s going home. After so long, the thought of going home crossed his mind often, but it always felt wishful, like it was something that would never happen.

It isn’t today, and it isn’t tomorrow. Hell, it wasn’t even this month, probably. But Gwilym is going home.

As for his home, well, you nearly miss the news. Of course, it’s impossible to miss something like that, but you miss the announcement. Gwil’s mum always preferred real conversation over the artificial company of the stereo, and while she bakes, you sit at the table, content to listen to her talk.

You hear your mother coming before she’s even in the house, crying your names loudly before she swings the door open. With furrowed brows, Gwil’s mum wipes the flour from her hands and you stand, the two of you rushing to meet your mum in the living room.

“Mum?”

“Did you hear?” She gasps, clutching at her chest. “Did you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Gwil’s mum asks, shaking her head. She grabs your mother’s elbow, steadying her. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s over,” she whispers, looking between you and her friend. “They signed the papers this morning. The war is over.”

Suddenly, you feel dizzy, your head spinning as you look at her. Over? The war had been going on for six years, a constant cloud looming over your life, and now it’s over? And then, as though it’s a punch to the mouth, you realize with a jolt. “Gwil,” you breathe, looking over at his mum. “It’s over. He’s coming home?”

Outside, you hear the women from the church squawking, and you feel like you could be washed away in this feeling, floating and weightless and perfect. He’s coming home.

Three long months of nothing but letters all lead up to one day, one perfect day. Gwil doesn’t have much to do besides write letters, and you’ll often get two or three from him before you’ve even finished replying to one. Each as sweet as the last, they do nothing but thrill you for his return. P.S., he writes in one, I’m taking you to that soda shop the moment I get home. I want to start our forever as soon as possible. How could you ever say no to that?

It’s cold on the platform, but all the people huddled around you warm you up a little bit. Aside from that, the blood rushing in your ears hardly leaves you shivering. In fact, you might be sweating a little under your coat, but you aren’t sure. You can’t find it in yourself to care, anyhow. You’re too excited.

The tell tale rumbling of the ground beneath your feet tells you everything you need to know. They’re almost here.

In the train, Gwil’s cheeks are flush with laughter and excitement, Ben kicking his shin gently under the table. He’s only a minute away from the station, from being able to go home and see his family and you. There’s nothing to do but laugh; the glee he feels practically forces its way out of his body, his laughter light and bright as the station comes into view, crowded with people waiting for their marines. He grins.

The train rolls to a shaky stop, and they both gaze out the window for a moment, waiting for the bustle of the other men grabbing their bags to die down. It’s busy, loud, and Gwil’s happy to just watch people for a moment, up until he sees a familiar face, anxious but still smiling, and he shoots to his feet.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Ben’s green eyes follow him anxiously, glancing back out the window. “What?”

“Y/N is here,” Gwil exclaims, pressing a palm to the glass. You’re on your toes, watching the people filtering out of the train, and Ben searches frantically for you. It’s hard to say whether he’s just been away from you for so long or if you actually look different, but Gwil swears he’s never seen you look so beautiful, even from a distance.

Finally, Ben catches sight of you and breaks into a grin. “Well, go! Go! What are you doing?”

Flustered, Gwil reaches for his bag, only looking over at his friend for a moment. “I’ll write, okay?”

“Sure, fine! Go!”

Gwilym can’t help but laugh, tossing his bag over his shoulder. The train is still emptying, and even when he’s so eager, he isn’t rude, so he bounces as he waits for everyone else to get off the train. It’s slow moving, especially with so many people, and he feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest when he finally ducks under the doorway.

It’s practically slow motion anyway, the way the two of you see each other. You’re looking right at him the moment he’s outside—he’s so hard to miss, tall and handsome as all—and your face splits into a bright grin. It takes everything in him to not run to you, and you to him, but you wait for him to reach you, taking in the sight of him in his uniform with a gentle sigh. Shouldering past unaffected patrons, a smile growing on his face, Gwilym feels his palms sweating, unable to stop his stomach from rolling and his heart from pounding.

He almost seems taller when he stops in front of you, and you can only look at him for a moment, taking him in. Without a thought, one of your hands raises to cup his cheek, thumb running over the dark circle under his eye. “Hello.”

Both of his hands cup your face, keeping your eyes on him, and you release a gentle breath. “You’re here,” he says, like he can’t believe it.

With a quiet laugh, you say, “So are you.”

He doesn’t make a joke about your smart remark. Instead, he leans down, pressing your foreheads together. “You look beautiful.”

Your cheeks flush, palms pressing against his chest. “Stop,” you chuckle. Gwilym beams, his nose brushing yours, and you sigh gently, closing your eyes. It had been far too long since you had been close to him, so long that his calloused hands almost feel foreign against your skin. He’s less polished, even after the accommodations he had after the war ended, but he’s still your Gwil, even with a messy shave and hair that’s just a touch too short from an ill-informed barber. You breathe him in, allowing yourself a moment to commit him to memory. Him, like this, holding you so close, it’s something you never want to forget.

As for your best friend, he can barely contain himself, your noses brushing against one another as you stand together, silent. It wasn’t how you had always imagined your reunion, the intimacy you share on the crowded platform, but you love it all the same, your hand slipping from his cheek to wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. He holds you tightly, an arm wrapped crushingly around your ribcage, and presses his nose into your hair, his eyes closing. Like you had never been apart at all.

He talks the whole way back to his house, his hands waving to exaggerate his points. Mostly, they’re all stories of Ben and Sam, and between the stories and the joy you feel having him back beside you, you can’t help but squeal with laughter, chancing glances over at him when you can. It doesn’t feel, especially not when he teases you about your poor driving, like this is anything more than your best friend, still seventeen and chaffing you about getting your license to drive. It will all hit sometime soon, you’re sure, but this is your Gwil. It feels like it always has, and for that you’re grateful. The snow has made the roads slushy, almost scary to drive on, which you use as an excuse to drive a little slower than normal. He smiles about it; he seems to realize you have an ulterior motive, but he doesn’t mind either. For now, you’re both just happy to be reunited.

After all, it’s the only free time the two of you are likely to get together tonight. A family dinner waits for him at home, after which you’re sure he’ll be up all night spending time with his parents. You don’t mind, really. They deserve the time more than you do, but you’d like to get as much time with him as you can until tomorrow.

Your families whisk him into the house as soon as you pull into the driveway, and you follow quietly. Knowing him, it’s the most he’s talked since he left in the first place, but he doesn’t seem to care based on the little smiles he shares with you across the table. His foot brushes your ankles softly every once in a while, always with a sly smile in your direction. For the first time in a long time, the focus is all on him instead of the relationship between the two of you, something you’re grateful for.

“I’m just glad to be back,” he finally says, once dinner has been finished. His blue eyes stare directly back at you, and you can feel your cheeks warm as you break eye contact, taking a steadying breath.

Your dad smiles, looking between the two of you. With a clap, he suggests, “Time for games?”

It’s a cue, one your parents take less than subtly when Gwil’s mum says, “Will you two clear the table?”

With a quiet snort, you nod and push your chair back, exhaling sharply as you watch them filter into the living room, leaving you and Gwil alone in the kitchen. For a moment, you don’t move, pursing your lips in thought. When you had picked him up from the station, of course, there was some tension, but moreso, you were just filled with a childlike excitement, overthinking the endless possibilities of the kind of adventures the two of you would pick up again. But now, the way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. Neither of you have mentioned the letters, mentioned those three words you had shared countless times, and you were nervous to bring it up first.

So you choose to say nothing. You gather a few of the dishes, shooting him a pointed look when he remains at the table. “Don’t think you’re getting off easy, mister. You’re going to help me clean up.”

“Come sit with me,” he says gently, reaching for your wrist.

Softly, you smile and shake your head. Nodding toward the sink, you suggest, “After I do the dishes.”

He heaves a playful sigh, gathering the rest of the dishes as you walk toward the sink to begin filling it up. It’s hardly a minute before he’s joining you, shedding the jacket of his uniform and rolling up his sleeves as you start the water. Throughout your many years of friendship, you had done the dishes together thousands of times—usually as a punishment for some sort of hijink—and you had never watched his reflection in the window like you do now, your upper arm pressing into his as the two of you stood close. He looks more mature than he did before he left, and you suppose you should have expected it, but it certainly is a welcome change. Still handsome as ever in his uniform, previously neatly coiffed hair now falling. You grin. To say it to him first, you’re still shy, but you didn’t mind admitting it to yourself. You love him. It’s more apparent than ever with him standing next to you, glancing up to meet your eyes in the reflection of the window with a wry smile.

“It’s full,” he teases, reaching forward to turn the water off. “I wash, you dry?”

Of course. How could you forget? “As always,” you grin up at him, bumping him with your shoulder.

With a laugh, he shakes his head. You grab a fresh towel from the cabinet as he begins to wash the dishes, sighing a little in tranquility. For a second, you almost forget that electric tension the two of you have had all night long, waiting for the other to say something, to bring up the letters. The routine is still so familiar that for the first time in months, being in love with Gwilym Lee isn’t on your mind, but as you sidle up beside him again, holding your hand out to take the first plate from him, he breaks the silence.  “We missed our date,” he sighs, glancing up at you.

Your heart pounds. There’s no need for speculation; you know exactly what he’s talking about. After a second, you prop your hip against the counter and dry the dish lazily, glancing up at him with a small shrug. “It can wait a day,” you decide. “It’s certainly taken us years to get here. One more day can’t hurt.”

He just smiles, bumping your hip with his.

The boys must have been a lot closer than you had previously thought. You figure that if you spent every single moment of every day for two years together, you have no choice but to become close. Even so, it surprises you that Ben and Sam are so eager to come visit after only a few weeks of being home.

Gwil’s home bustles with people, friends and family and people from the church eagerly counting down the minutes to midnight. For the last two years, Gwil had gotten a photo of you at the party, but now that he sees you in person, he holds you as close as he always held those photographs, a large hand always holding yours or your hip, the two of you dodging the still-pleased glances from the women from church. You wonder if they will ever grow out of being smug, but it doesn’t bother you so much anymore, not when Gwil is there to make fun of them with you.

Ben rushes in like a hurricane, boisterous and loud and funny, and Sam and Ruby are content to just laugh at him with you. You mostly heard about how Ben complained too much, but the two of you spend more than enough of the night teasing Gwil together, right up until he meets Leona. The two of them hit it off immediately, much to the satisfaction of Gwilym.

As soon as the boys leave the three of you for a moment, she corners the two of you in the kitchen to obsess over him. “Oh, he is cute!” She gushes. You and Ruby both laugh, sharing a knowing look between the two of you. “Really, he’s adorable. And funny, don’t you think?”

“A blast,” Ruby grins, glancing over at you, and you giggle, shaking your head.

“Ah,” she huffs, waving you both off. “I like him. He’s already talking about coming down next month, I’m thinking I can get him to come for Valentine's day, too.”

“Good Lord!” You laugh, nudging your friend. “You’re not wasting a minute, are you?”

Leona narrows her eyes. “I’m the only single one of the group left,” she huffs. “Even the new girl has a man.” She gestures toward Ruby, whose cheeks flush, her ring sparkling under the lights in the kitchen when she brushes her hair from her forehead subconsciously. “So excuse me for swooping in on a handsome marine.”

With a bright laugh, you shake your head and grip her bicep. “Well, good on you!” You exclaim, shaking your head. You’re about to say something else when an arm slithers around your waist, Gwil’s large palm pressing easily against your belly.

“You ladies having fun?” He asks, his nose pressing against your hair. With a grin, you grip his wrist, turning to look at him. Your friends respond, but neither of you really listen, and they can tell. Most days are spent in your own little world with him, and it’s often hard to snap out of that when you’re around other people. Hopefully, they don’t mind, but even if they do, he’s whispering in your ear and you can’t even focus on them. “It’s almost midnight.”

Glancing at the clock, you chuckle. It’s come on in no time, you think, after meeting your new friends and enjoying the last of your year, you have less than fifteen minutes until the end of the night. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Looking up at your friends, Gwil raises a brow. “Mind if I steal my girl for a few minutes? Sam and Ben are in the living room.”

Ruby wiggles her brows at you and Leona scoffs goodnaturedly as they slip past you. “How rude,” you tease.

It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s beaming and tugging you out of the kitchen, down the hall and into his bedroom, away from the crowd. The muffled sounds of the party make you breathe out in relief; you didn’t realize you were becoming overwhelmed until Gwilym whisks you away, and you lean into his side, clutching at his cozy sweater. “I forgot how busy it gets,” he says softly, clutching your hip.

“It gets louder every year,” you agree, slipping from his side to cross the room to the window.

The street is crowded with cars but empty of people, dark and snowy, and Gwil follows you, his hand finding its place on your hip. Silence had become a third companion with the two of you, something you secretly adored. There was a special aspect of silence that you had never thought of before he came home, that you were so perfectly comfortable for one another that you no longer felt the need to fill the quiet around you.

You lean into his side, resting your head on his shoulder with a gentle sigh. Your eyes stay trained out the window, but your mind is on him, as it most often is. It’s your favorite New Year’s party yet, especially after two of them without him. When you were younger, you had spent most of the night hiding in Gwilym’s room, and tonight only reminds you of that, but now he holds you close, thumb stroking your hip through your dress. There’s nothing to feel but adoration, solace, excitement. With him by your side, you think this will be your best year yet.

“Are you happy?” He breaks the silence, not looking down at you.

A smile quirks your lips. “What?”

“Right now, are you happy?”

With an airy breath, you wrap an arm around his waist. “Of course, I am. I’m with you.”

Outside, the crowd begins to count down from ten, and you beam, turning to face him. An affection smile overtakes his face as he looks down at you, hands reaching up to cup your face. You grip his sweater at his waist, grinning up at him as he leans down. The party is only on five, but he can’t wait, pressing his lips to yours, holding your face tightly. Neither of you can keep from smiling, so your teeth knock together awkwardly, but he laughs softly against your lips and tries to power through. With a soft sigh, he draws you closer, teeth catching your lip softly before he pulls away.

Dizzily, you smile, hands moving from his sides to grip his wrists. His eyes are cloudy with affection and you don’t doubt that you look the exact same, smiling up at him softly as your noses brush.

“You still love me?” He asks softly. A question he’s made a habit of asking.

You smile, squeezing his wrists. His naivete makes your heart flutter, his complete lack of awareness for just how head over heels you are for him. As though you could ever be anything but totally, irrevocably in love with Gwilym Lee. “Always.”

[t-o-m-hollands]

Tom x You

Summery: Tom and his brothers have a pub. You, trying to avoid working on your new album, spend most of your time in there. Lots of flirting and bickering ensues.

Themes: Sort of frienemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual attraction but they are both to dumb to realise. General dumbness all around. Idiots in love.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: Drinking and swearing. Smut in future chapters.

PART I of IV

***

At 8 years of age your father hands you a worn guitar and with the patience of a saint teaches you how to make it play the holiest of sounds. Every day you practise, until your fingertips has hardened and they move effortlessly over the strings.  

At 10 years of age you write your first song. It’s a puerile little tune about a sweet boy with hair like honey and an opportunity lost. It’s repetitive and nonsensical but your mother hums the chorus for weeks after hearing it.

At 14 years of age you meet up with a record label and when signing the dotted line on the contract you feel a chill down your spine and your grandmother’s stories about the crossroad demon comes back to you verbatim. With determination you still put your name on the paper in a signature you’ve spent hours practising. Only days later you hear your voice on the radio for the very first time.

At 17 years of age there are headlines in magazines about you, photos of men they claim you’ve dated and interviews with people who claim to be a ‘close source’ to you, even though you’ve never met them, spilling lies on every page. You find out your closest friend has sold information about you to the tabloids for over a year.

At 19 years of age you go on a world tour, though the only parts of the world you see are airports, hotels and playing venues and then later at night: nightclubs. You travel the world, but you learn nothing about it.

At 22 years of age and your boyfriend breaks up with you for an actress. There isn’t a day that year that tabloids don’t ‘report’ on it. He spends most of the time telling the world how much happier he is in his new relationship, and you spend most of your time staring down into a bottle.  

At 24 years of age you feel drained, dog-tired and worn out. On a regular basis there’s photos of you stumbling out of pubs, bars and restaurants all over the internet. Your record label is threatening a lawsuit and you haven’t talked to your manager in weeks. You have no friends and your family doesn’t know what to do with you.  

Okay, so maybe being a successful singer isn’t all that it’s cut out to be. Especially not when the entirety of the internet is making fun of you.  

And yes, maybe you’re in a flunk and haven’t written anything decent in months. And okay, maybe you haven’t even picked up a guitar in weeks. And maybe throwing away your phone in order not to have to face the record label was a bad idea. And maybe, hand on heart, the right solution to your problems is not to waste your days away in a well-hidden pub in a backstreet in London with the cutest pub owner you’ve ever seen, with biceps that makes you want to drool. A pub owner who has no interest in you and finds you annoying beyond belief.  

Yet here you are,  

again.

***

“It’s Tuesday” Tom informs you as he hands you cherry coke and a straw.

So, it goes like this. Tom is obsessed with time. He’s always informing you of either what day of the week it is, or the time of day. As if he’s trying to shame you into realising that 10 am on a Tuesday is not an acceptable time to order a dry martini.  

“So?” You ask, feigning ignorance as you open the can. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that this is a coke and in fact completely free of alcohol. I mean in the good ol’ day they at least had the cutesy to put cocaine in there.”.

“Don’t worry” he says, scrubbing the surface of the already clean counter-top “there’s a shit load of other stuff that’ll destroy your insides in there”.

You try not to roll your eyes, honestly you do. You fail. “Oh no, is it sugar? Please, doctor say it isn’t sugar!” you wail dramatically.

“No, not just sugar” and you can tell he’s also trying not to roll his eyes at your exaggerated play acting. “You know, I saw this documentary once about what they put in coca cola and –”

“No, nope, no, no. Absolutely not” You shake your head vehemently as if that will stop his words. "I would literally rather hear you talk about goddamn golf for an hour than put me of one of life’s few great pleasures”.

This time he doesn’t manage to stop himself from rolling his eyes at you. “Oh, I think we both know you find more pleasures in life than coca cola”.

Before you can answer him something insanely witty the door to the office behind the bar opens and an anxious looking Harrison step out. “Tom, Sam says the fish delivery didn’t show up again so we’re out of cod and therefore fish ‘n chips.”  

Tom rubs his face, looking worried. “Alright, I’ll call him up and see what happened.”  

But Harrison still looks tense. “Also…” he trails off, losing courage.  

“Also, what?” And Tom too sounds tense now.  

“Well, Downey from the bank called, he says the invoice is way over due and he wants a meeting. I told him you’d call today”.  

Tom keeps rubbing his forehead, as if to literally fight of a migraine, and his shoulders tense. “Yeah, yeah I’ll call him this afternoon”. Harrison nods and walks back into the kitchen

“You know, I cou –” but you don’t get to finish your sentence before he interrupts you. “Don’t” he says, voice sharp as a whip.

“But, it would just be a loan, honestly I – ”

“No, and I mean it.” And you judging by the tone of voice he uses and the stern look he gives you you’re well aware that he isn’t joking. It’s like his usually warm and kind eyes are nailing you down into your seat. “I’m not gonna borrow money from a customer, as you well know.”  

The problem is that really wouldn’t be a big deal for you to offer him a loan or give it as a gift really. You love this pub. You love the people working here and the patrons and coming in for a drink or a meal or simply a chat and a laugh. It’s your safe haven. No one ever hardly ever bothers you here. No one asks you for a selfie or asks you about when more music is coming out. No one tugs at your sleeve or try to sneakily take a photo of you. Here, you are normal. And it would devastate you to see the Holland boys lose it all when you know you can help. You have more money than you know what to do with.  

However, you know there’s no arguing with him when he’s got that look on his face so you don’t, just keep sipping on your cherry coke as your foot taps along to the song on the radio. From inside the kitchen you can hear the faint sound of the Holland twin's laughter.  

Tom turns away from you to sort out the whiskey glasses on the counter behind him. But when picking up a glass he fumbles, and it falls out of his hand and lands right on his foot, though it fortunately doesn’t break.

“Ah, fucking bastard!” he shouts, grabbing hold of his injured foot.

“You shouldn’t swear in church, you know” ¨you say, as you finish your coke.

He looks at you indignantly, pouting like a child, “well, lucky for me, this is a pub.”

“You say potato, I say tomato, now make me a real drink.”

“For fucks sake, darlin’, you gotta eat something.”

***

So, it’s either late or early, depending how you look on it. On tube stations all across London early worker are already gathering on the platforms to take their commute to work. Not you. Not Tom either.  

Now, Tom is an early riser and has been since childhood. His nanna used to say that he had energy enough for three children. Despite regular closing shifts at the pub he likes to be up at dawn. Says he likes to get an hour at the gym and a walk with Tessa in before he heads to the pub to make sure everything is in order. After having checked with Sam that everything is stocked for the day, he has his protein loaded breakfast while ordering supplies or read through whatever paper work he need to be on top off before opening up the pub for the day.  

Tom hates having this routine disturbed.

So, it goes like this. Harry had been the bartender most of that night, since Tom had ‘other business to take care of’. Whenever Harry was bartender he’d usually spent more time drinking with you than he did serving up the other costumers. When Tom came back and saw the state of you, he’d sent you home, telling you that you’d had enough for one night and asking Harrison to walk you home. Then he’d giving Harry a proper telling off. You had dutifully walked with Harrison to your apartment, thanked him sweetly, and then as soon as you saw that he had passed the corner walked into another pub just across the street for more. It wasn’t as charming a place as The Hollands and their bartender sure wasn’t as handsome or as fun to annoy as the regular one at Hollands. But in a pinch, anything will do.  

Upon closing hour however, as you made your way home, you’d discovered that your keys were missing. Being absolutely wasted this did not worry you in the slightest. You just strolled back on unsteady legs to The Hollands to see if you’d dropped them there. Tom, who had closed the pub for the night, was still in. From the windows you could see him going through stacks of paperwork in front of him, a frown on his face. Upon hearing you knocking on the window at 2 am he’d jumped out his chair to see what was going on. When seeing you three sheets to the wind, dressed in a thin dress on a cold summer’s night the frown on his face had gotten worse.

Now here you are, in his apartment, in the dead of the night, and he’s offering you a plate of tortellini. Tessa had been overjoyed to see you and after having been allowed to greet you she had then been sent to her place and out of the way of your drunk, stumbling feet.

“But I hate tortellini” you whine.

“Christ sake, Popstar, just eat the damn food”

“No, I hate it, Tom, I hate it so much, it makes me think of- of- ” you hiccup.

“Are you actually crying right now?”

“It makes me think of- of - cheese sauce and -”

“Sorry, but what now?”

“And – I – I – I hate cheese sauce”. You’re full on sobbing and he just stares at you in disbelief.  

Then, somehow the world seems fall the wrong way around. It takes you a second to realize that you’ve slid down on the floor and that you’re staring up at the ceiling. Tom’s strong arm take a hold of you and he guides you to a sitting position, leaned up against the wall. With your face in his hands he stares at you in indignation but there’s something else there too. You’re drunk enough to dare to call it tenderness.  

Suddenly you’re aware that you’re sobbing, but you can’t remember why that is.

“Fuck who knows” he responds and when you give out a sound that’s something halfway between a sob and a laugh he starts laughing too. “If I make you something else to eat, will you eat it then? You’ll feel better in the morning if you do”.

Your head feels heavy, so you lean it against his hand and nod. “No cheese sauce, please”.

He rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing too. “Sure, no cheese sauce for Pop Princess.”

“Oi!” You call out “You promised to never to call me that!” Pop Princess was the title the tabloids had given you early on in your career. He keeps smiling, but it’s a gentle smile, and trace the frown between your eyebrows with his finger, as if he’s trying to erase it.

“Will you please just sit here while I cook?”

You nod again, too tired to say anything. He gets up, and you can hear some pouring water and then he places a glass of water in your hand. “Drink” he orders, then he’s gone again, and you can hear the clattering of pots and pans as he starts cooking. You’re just staring into the wall, trying to make it stop spinning; limbs heavy with sleep and whiskey, a nice buzzing numbness in your head.

Then he’s in front of you again, looking at you with a frown “I thought I told you to drink that” and you look at the full glass clasped in your hands. “Seriously, you’ll feel better if you do”.

You roll your eyes “oh, please, Tommy. Remember who you’re speaking to. I’m the local drunk, there’s no need to lecture me in hangovers”. But you do as you’re told and chug down your drink and hand him the empty glass. “Good girl” he says and gets back to his cooking. Before long the delicious scent of food is spreading through the tiny, cramped kitchen.

You start humming a song you wrote years ago but never released, low enough so you think Tom won’t hear you over the sizzling pan. But he does.  

“What’s that?” he asks, curiosity in his voice.

“Oh” you say, leaning your head back against the wall as you close your eyes in the hope that the world will stop spinning. “Just a song.”

Everything goes quiet for a while and you find yourself wondering if you’ve fallen asleep. But then you hear his voice. “Keep singing, please”.  

It surprises you, the amount of tenderness in his words; such a gentle bequest. So, you do as you’re told. In a voice raspy from the whiskey but sweet from his kindness you sing.

“I’ve been holding my breath, I’ve been counting to ten, 

Over something you said, I’ve been holding back tears 

 While you’re throwing back beers, I’m alone in bed

You know I, I’m afraid of change, Guess that’s why we stay the same, 

So tell me to leave, I’ll pack my bags, get on the road, 

Find someone that loves you better than I do, darling, I know, 

'Cause you remind me every day, I’m not enough, but I still stay”

You trial off and he keeps quiet too and goes silent again. Then he slides down beside you, a plate of pasta carbonara in his hands which he offers you along with a fork. “Eat” he orders gently. You do, and it tastes delicious.

“God, Tom, you could rival Sam in the kitchen”.

He snorts but you persist. “Seriously Tommy, I’d hire you as a private chef if I didn’t know you’d be an insufferable employee”.

He snorts again, but you can tell he’s amused. “Wow, thanks a lot”

“Seriously, you’d always complain about my lack of organization, or the fact that I keep all of my face masks in the refrigerator, or that I never have any food at home or that I don’t eat at regular hours or that I sometimes just forget to eat and just have a Red bull for dinner instead or that I – ”

“Jesus Christ” he interrupts you “who the fuck let you be an adult? What’s wrong with you!?”

You’re wolfing down your food, so it takes you a moment to answer. “Someone said my problem was ‘a mind-boggling lack of general discipline and a staggeringly low ability to organise’” you finally say.

“Who said that? I mean they’re not wrong”.

“You said that” you point out as you finish your plate of carbonara. “Also, this was scrumptious, and also, may I sleep here tonight?”

He looks at you in disbelief “Yeah, duh, I’m not kicking you out? I mean, I thought that was the general idea of this”.

He grabs a hold of your plate and takes your hand in his other as he guides you both up to a standing position. He places the plate among the other dirty pans in the sink and then lead you to his bathroom. Giving you a new toothbrush, he orders you to brush your teeth while he changes his sheets. He hands you a shirt to sleep in and when you’ve changed you argue for a good 10 minutes while about who’s to sleep on the couch before he puts his foot down and say he’ll ban you from his pub unless you take the bed instead of him. So, you do.  

His bed soft and comfortable and smell of his detergent. From the living room you can hear Tessa’s deep breaths and the sound of Tom tossing around on the sofa. You wonder how uncomfortable he is.

“Tommy just come in here instead” you call out, voice drowsy.

“No, I told you, you take the bed”

You snort. As if you were going to give this bed up, no chance. Not now that you know how comfortable it is.  

“Yeah, duh” you answer. “Wasn’t planning on taking the sofa, but the bed’s big enough for the two of us, innit?”

Dead silence from the living room. Even Tessa seems to have been struck silent.

“You sure?”

You sigh. “Yeah, I'm sure, for fuck’s sake Tommy, just come in here”.

You hear the sound of footsteps slowly making their way across the floor, then he’s in the doorway. Clad in a pair of black boxers and a black t-shirt, awkwardly scratching the back of his head as he avoids looking at you.

You pull down the covers and he lay down beside you, keeping his distance in the bed. You have your backs against each other, staring into separate walls and even through the whiskey you can tell this is awkward. You want to ask him to hold you, but you’re scared he doesn’t want it. Scared he doesn’t even want to lay beside you. You are after all just a costumer in his bar. A costumer you know he can’t afford to lose.

You don’t know how long you lay there in silence, his scent surrounding you, the soft sound of his breath lulling you into further relaxation but eventually you drift off to sleep.  

When you wake, he’s gone. A note on his pillow tells you he’s gone to the gym, telling you to take anything you want for breakfast and just leave the keys at the pub later.  

When you close the door behind you you can’t help but feel that something tender happened in there, something important; but you know he doesn’t feel the same.

***

It’s Monday night, as Tom has been so kind to remind you off, and you’re plastered.  

Earlier the pub had been full to rim of football supporters shouting and singing and sharing pints before a big game, filling the entire place with an excited buzz. Now they’ve all gone off to cheer for their heroes on the field and only the patrons remain.  

Harry is bartender tonight, and Tom has placed himself in the back of the pub, a stack of paper in front of him that he keeps leering at. With a drink in your hand and a happy-go-lucky attitude you seat yourself on the opposite side of his table, determent to cheer him up.

“’m gonna write a song about you.” You inform him, voice only somewhat slurry.

“Go on then.” He doesn’t look up at you, just jots something down on the form in front of him. He’s wearing glasses tonight and they make him look so handsome you want to scream in frustration.

“Well, what rhymes with Tom? Rum!”

“Oh, Christ, no. No, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Tom, he serves rum and tequila.” You sing. “Wait, what rhymes with tequila?”

“Please don’t”

“Heliophilia!”

“Okay, ’m literally begging you not to do this.” He’s looking at you now, his caramel eyes filled with both amusement and genuine dread. You don’t listen, no, you sing.

“Tom, he serves Rum and tequila,

he loves the sun, it’s called heliophilia

his pub needs fundin’, he lives in London”

“Wow. That is a hell of a forced rhyme, pop princess.”

“No, no wait!”

“Wait? I will literally pay you to stop”.

But then you start singing for real, in a voice so sultry that it makes him freeze mid motion, hand just about to turn the page over.

“Have you’ve seen my bartender

he’ll serve you whiskey, he’ll pour you rum

so sweet it’ll make you tender

but all the whiskey in Tennessee

couldn’t have that man agree

to ever share a drink with thee

no, all that sweetness’s just for me

cause babe, he’s my bartender

Yes, have you’ve seen my bartender

He’ll hand you wine, he’ll sell you gin

I think it’s a sign when he hands me my wine

When hand’s touching hand, skin touches skin”

Tom seem to be frozen in place when you stop, and over at the bar you hear Harry give a loud whistle. “Fucking hell, popstar” he cheers.

Tom still doesn’t say anything, just observes you, seemingly speechless. And maybe you’re imagining it, but he’s cheeks seem pinker than usual.

"Well, at least I didn’t rhyme rum with cum” you say, trying to get a reaction out of him. And then “I did think about doing it though” and you lift your glass to him as if in a toast before you down it.

He snorts, back to his normal self and stare down at the paper again.

“Now, honestly, Tom. What did that piece of paper ever do to you?”

“Huh?”

“You’re staring at it like you want to set fire to it. You’d like me to do it for you?”

“No thanks, reckon he’d sue”.

“Who is he?” you lean over the table and closer to him and you swear you can practically see him ordering himself not to look down at your cleavage. “Is he god?” you whisper in mock horror. “Cause, I wouldn’t worry too much, Tommy. You see, God can’t sue. Well, someone in America tried to sue Satan once and they couldn’t cause they couldn’t hand him the papers. Turns out Satan hasn’t got an address. Reckon the same goes with God”

He rolls his eyes “oh, this guy definitely has got an address. He lives in Knightsbridge.” And then, in a voice unusually bitter he adds “posh twat”.

“Oy” you warn, jokingly, “those are my neighbourhoods'”.  

A sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh escapes him “Oh please” he laughs “please, you might live in Primrose Hill now, but you’re not Knightsbridge posh. Sorry to disappoint, Pop Princess”.

You glare, but it’s all in good humour. “So, who is this not-God-but-rich-as-God man sending you paper?”

The humour disappears from his face. “Downey, from the bank”.  Then he turns to the bar and shouts, “Harry, hand me a pint, ye?”

“And a whiskey for me, please” you request sweetly.

“No way, Harry, she’s cut off for the night. Tell Sam to make her something to eat” he orders his younger brother who rolls his eyes but obediently begin to head into to the kitchen.

“Not tort -” you begin shouting as an instruction.

“Not tortellini” he shouts at the same time. “And no cheese sauce either” he then adds.

You smile at him and this time you swear he’s blushing.

“Who’s Downey? You ask. And you know you’re prying, but you also know that Tom needs help with something and if there’s anything you can do to help, you will.  

“A bank man who wants me to pay my loans back”. He answers eventually after a long silence, when he figures you’re not going to give up and talk about something else. Harry comes back and hands Tom a pint and then leaves to take care of a costumer at the bar.

“A bank man, who lives in Knightsbridge?” You ask, bemused.

Tom smiles “oh, believe you me, Downey’s not your average bank clerk.” Then, in a serious tone, “look, I know you want to help, but there’s nothing you can do, ye? So drop it”.

“But I-”

“Drop it. Seriously, pop princess, there’s nothing you can do, I’ll figure something out”. He doesn’t sound harsh and the way he looks at you is positively adoring. Then he does something unexcepted. He reaches over the table and pulls a loose string of hair behind your ear. It’s a soft and sweet gesture and you want to reach over and kiss him but before you can he removes his hand and seconds later Harry places a dish of steaming pasta carbonara in front of you. You smile and thank him and he makes his way back to the bar.  

You eat in silence for a while as he continues to read through stashes of papers. You decide to leave the subject, for now at least.

“Yours is better, by the way”. He looks up at you, confused. “Your carbonara” you clarify. “I mean, Sam is an incredible chef and you’re lucky to have him, but yours is my favourite”.  

His cheeks heat up, again.

***

R E A D    P A R T   T W O     H E R E

[hubbytaeil]

hello! can u please do angst #6 from your prompt list for johnny?? maybe some enemies or fake dating ?! thanks <3

Johnny + #6 It’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion

genre: kind of angst, reneissanse!au 

synopsis: an alternative universe in which reader is a Medici and Johnny is a Pazzi in 15th Century Florence. In case you didn’t know, Giovanni is the equivalent of John 

tw: mentions of blood and death

word count: 3k+ 

a/n: there i go again putting together two of my favourite things together aka Johnny and Italy so really this is pure self-indulgence. On top of that, this will be the last post I make. I’ve been thinking a lot, I’ve put two and two together and I understood that I’m about to enter the busiest period/year of my life, but that’s adulting right? Either way, it was fun to be here while it lasted, thank you for your support but I feel like I need to concentrate on getting my life together now. Remember to take care of yourself, nenétte says goodnight <3

It was a perfect night for a celebration; it seemed as though the whole city of Florence had gathered in the presence of the Corsini in their great villa. Music played gayly and the atmosphere was filled with laughter and joy. You knew very well this was all your friend Matilde’s doing, her social gatherings were known to be the most entertaining throughout the republic. The reason of the celebration was unknown but the guests were having a splendid time. When you finally questioned Matilde about it, she just shrugged her shoulders.

“Must a lady always have an excuse for her to wish for good company and a good laugh?” she whispered in your ear so that she would not be heard by her older sisters.

“Oh, most certainly not. Yet, I am still rather perplexed on why the lady in question has to invite the entire city in her home to simply have a laugh.” you responded, holding her hand in a teasing manner.  

“We should enjoy ourselves for as long as we can, y/n. Just like your brothers always say, don’t they?” you nodded at Matilde’s statement, glancing over at your brother Lorenzo engaged in what seemed a heated conversation with one of the guests. You always regarded yourself to have had such a lucky disposition, having been born in one the most influential families of the peninsula. Yet, your true luck laid in the wonderful family members you had been blessed with. A young lady such as yourself could not have hoped for a better environment to grow up in, surrounded by illustrated artists who would always come in and out of your household, the toms of the library of your beloved father, God rest his soul, and, of course, the presence of your ever so outstanding siblings. Lorenzo noticed your gaze towards him and he saw how must’ve been lost inside your numerous thoughts. He shook his head slightly. Divertiti. Have fun, he mouthed. You smiled enthusiastically, remembering what such beautiful lines of wisdom you had found lying on his desk along the piles of scattered papers. You felt the need to share them with Matilde.

“As my dear brother would say, del domani non c’è certezza. Of tomorrow there’s no certainty.”

“And would your other dear brother say, sorella?” Giuliano intruded in your conversation but Matilde was not at all displeased. Giuliano had that effect on every lady (or lord), with his astonishing complexion and rather captivating character that at times could be considered rather bellicose.  

“Well in your case, you would just simply sneak away with the fairest lady here present and leave your younger siblings to watch out for themselves.” you affirmed, of course he couldn’t help but smirk at truthfulness of your words.

“Not this time, y/n. Tonight I’m very determined to protect you from the rapacious gazes of Florentine society. Mother’s orders.” Said Giuliano sternly, locking his arm with yours, leading you to dance and separating you from Matilde.  

“Is that so, Giuliano? Is any of the gentlemen here present organising some sort of coup against my character?” you implied, trying to veil your cheeky smile. As the music initiated, you let your brother guide you in the sea of people, hoping not to get the wrong steps and end up on someone’s feet, just like what happened last time with one of the Albizzi boys.  

“Not that I know of, no. But who knows what are these pompous bastards’ ways to smear our family.” your brother hissed when he got the chance to be close to your ear as he made you turn.

“You’d know better not to utter such profanities, messere.” you muttered, mocking your childhood governess which made Giuliano laugh silently as he positioned you both in line. You continued on dancing and you could feel your brother glaring at every gentleman whose turn was it to dance with you. Much to your determined protector’s surprise, you had never cared much for the company of men, therefore you were sure you could defend yourself in case of uncomfortable or inconvenient situations. You limited yourself to exchange the bare minimum of pleasantries, enough for you to be polite but not enough for them to justify any sort of pursuing. An equilibrium soon to be disrupted by a young man, all dressed in black, who you had never seen before, not at any of Matilde’s parties or in church or even in one your brothers’ company. The gentleman, who most definitely stood out for his imposing height, took your hand and led you forward. You had never felt intimidation in the presence of the opposite sex, as opposed to what all decent ladies are taught, and yet there was something about him that made you both fear and admire him, with his hair long and dark and his serious gaze.  

“Are you enjoying yourself, my lady?” his raucous voice filled your ears as he made you sway past him and back at his side. You tried to compose yourself.

“Most definitely, my lord. I reckon you are as well.”

“I am certainly, though it is rather unfortunate that no other lady can dance as well as you.” whispered the puzzling man, in the corner of your eye you saw a smirk. That must have been the dreaded coup Giuliano was worrying about. You were ashamed to admit that being charmed wasn’t as unpleasant as you had expected. You could’ve even get used to it if it meant looking into the stranger’s beautiful eyes and how they glowed under the candle lights. They irradiated a particular light, making anyone believe that they held some type of knowledge a common person could not aspire to.  

“It is the mere product of practice. Truth to be told, I find books more entertaining at times.” you took a step forward together, hand in hand.

“Is that so? And in what readings have you most interest?” you smirked at his question, holding in a chuckle, resulting in him frowning as he waited for your respond. He pulled you in and then you spun around him.

“I’m afraid if I told you, messere, you wouldn’t want to pay me such honouring compliments anymore.” You showed him your most endearing smile and he gladly reciprocated, staring at you attentively as you draw a circle around him.  

You were doleful to let go of his hand just to give it to another gentleman. Faster than you expected, the dance came to an end you were already anticipating to resume the conversation with your newest acquaintance. You felt silly in not having asked for his name. You spotted his eyes again the crowd and he was svelte to start making his way to you. But before he could reach you, you observed how his eyes shifted from you to something that was behind. His expression had darkened. You turned around to realise how that something was no other than a rather crossed Giuliano. The young man froze where he stood, meanwhile Giuliano was quick to grab you gently by the arm.  

“I most definitely have oppositions about your taste in men, y/n.” your brother grumbled, not taking his flaming eyes off the gentleman dressed in black.  

“I actually found him to be the most agreeable gentleman to dance with me tonight. What could your oppositions be, brother?” you glanced over at him once again, wearing a pleased smile. This time he didn’t even flinch, he had reassumed the initial austere expression. It set off a bitter taste in your mouth.  

“Do you really wish to know the reason of my oppositions?” Giuliano’s tone was strange. You knew he was hiding something from you. You nodded impatiently, only wanting to find out the dynamics of this sudden change of mood.  

Giuliano let your hand rest on his as he made his way to the unknown man with you at his side. Your heart sank in your chest once you were face to face yet again with the handsome stranger. What was your brother trying to do?

“Giuliano de’ Medici.” spoke the tall man. You were not surprised at him knowing who your brother was, but it didn’t explain at all why this was your first time seeing him.

“Giovanni de’ Pazzi.” responded Giuliano. Your throat ran dry at the sound of that name and your head was suddenly heavier.  

It couldn’t be. He was a Pazzi, but how was this possible? You had never seen him around any other person who carried such dreadful surname. All good dispositions towards the man changed in the blink of an eye. And all it took was a bloody name.

“Tell me Giovanni, how was England? It was quite a lengthy stay, wasn’t it?” Giuliano posed his question, but the usual tone of mockery was not trying to be hidden by any means.  

“It was indeed, lengthy enough for me to start calling myself John, like the locals did. But I have missed Florence very much.” John’s tone on the other hand was firm and poised, hard to believe he was a Pazzi if one didn’t notice the deadly spark in his dark eyes, the same spark you had mistaken for a sign of a respectable man.  

“May I present to you my sister, y/n de’ Medici?” the reveal of both of your identities had banished any sort of possible affection between you and John. There you stood face to face, a pernicious look in both of your eyes. You bowed never letting your gaze leave him, not interested in being polite, not to him or any member of his family.

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, madonna. I certainly look forward on having more conversations regarding our favourite lectures.” his devious smirk didn’t look as charming anymore, not when it reminded you of the odious man who was head of his family.

“I certainly do, messer Pazzi.” you responded with not even a drop of sincerity, you made sure the message was clear. You heard an unpleasant voice calling out John’s name. It was Francesco de’ Pazzi.

“If you’ll excuse me, my brother requires my presence.” John bowed elegantly and was swift to leave you and Giuliano alone. You squeezed your brother’s hand as tight as you could after John was far away enough.

“Say, what would you do without me, sorella?” Giuliano was glad in having succeeded in your mother’s plan but you felt deceived and most importantly, you felt uneasy having been so close to someone who despised your family so deeply. Though you were relieved in having been saved from stepping into the lion’s den.

“They should hang these Pazzis’ portraits around town so that decent young ladies don’t make the grave mistake of dancing with them.” you whispered bitterly.  

“You seemed quite glad in the moment; I’ve never seen you look at a man like that.” Giuliano teased you.  

“Do shut your mouth, and don’t mention this to anyone.” you warned him, your voice shaking thinking about John’s hand touching yours, about his eyes piercing through you like an arrow.

“Whatever for? Lorenzo always speaks of ending this rivalry once and for all. Perhaps, he’ll be happy to acquire a Pazzi as a brother-in-law.” Giuliano spoke with poison in his voice, since he clearly didn’t agree with his oldest sibling. Not to mention just weeks prior Francesco de’ Pazzi and Giuliano had been involved in a fight around the market place. Giuliano had a tumultuous character and it didn’t help the devilish rumours the Pazzi would spread about your family. You clang at Giuliano’s arm like you did when you were child.

“I shall never speak to a Pazzi ever again, let alone marry one. Just the mere thought makes my skin crawl.” had you and Giuliano been alone, you would’ve spat on the ground.

“Well, you’re in luck, I’d never let you commit such treason against our family, but must importantly, against me.” you both chuckled softly, hoping not be observed by anyone who would report what you were saying to the people involved.  

“I know you two are up to no good, whatever is going on?” Lorenzo approached you, assuming a concerned look.  

“Absolutely nothing, brother. I was just mentioning how all eyes seem to be on y/n this evening.” confidently answered Giuliano, tapping on the palm of your hand.  

-

The evening was far from being over. Though, unlike your brothers, you required fresh air from time to time during crowded banquets such as these. You asked Matilde to join you on one of the balconies but she kindly refused after Giuliano finally asked her to dance. Therefore, you made your way alone. You rested your palms on the reeling, breathing in and out, looking up at the sky and following the trail of stars.  

“You know, my uncle always says you Medici spend so much time looking up at the clouds that you forget what really matters.” a familiar voice sent a chill through your spine, making you shiver in result. You turned around to see John standing in between the pillars with a smug look on his face. Perhaps he thought he had conducted you into some trap. You pitied him.

“And my dear brother Lorenzo always say that you Pazzi waste all your great potential in going after what is out of your reach.” you replied severely, your back as straight as it could be. John snickered at your comeback. He looked rather dangerous with his face beaconed by the torches hanging on the wall, almost like Lucifer after having fallen from heaven. You had to admit, there was a hint of fear inside of you but shut it out as fast as you could.

“Have you been sent here to antagonise me?” you asked him since he hadn’t spoken.  

“You are a Medici indeed.” John affirmed almost to himself, observing your every feature. “But no, I hadn’t such intentions. Though I could, if you were inclined.” said John, taking a step towards you.

“You’d be wise not to antagonise the wrong person, messere. One may even get hurt.” you warned him, looking at him dead in the eye. You were not used to stepping down to anyone, you were proud and not ashamed of it. Thought you two seemed to share this particular trait. It was a silent quarrel.  

“Well, if that isn’t an inviting prospect.” John grinned, not taking your fervour seriously.

“So, you have come to antagonise me. I guess it runs in the family.” you raised your eyebrows in false surprise. “Did your uncle have to bring you back here all the way from England for this sole purpose?” you laughed in his face but his expression didn’t mutate. Yet his body seemed to tense up.  

“The reasons of my return certainly do not concern you, my lady. Furthermore, I gathered you were enjoying yourself mingling with a Pazzi. Now, that’s not a behaviour worth of a Medici, is it?” John scolded you and rage created a stinging sensation that spread throughout your body. You tightened your fists, to the point where they hurt, anything not to let wrath cloud your judgment.  

“I do not believe you are to be the best individual to judge what is worth of a Medici or not.” you stated as you commenced to circle around him.

“You have just returned to Florence and you are probably following your brother’s orders to please him. In that case, I wouldn’t blame you for your foolish provocative attempts.” you completed the circle as you said this.  

“but I would blame you if such behaviour had been deliberate. Oh, it would’ve been so unfair to me, messer Pazzi.” you affirmed, sarcastically raising the pitch of your voice. You stood once again face to face, far away from the brief moment of propensity that you two had shared hours prior. You weren’t sure if his lively eyes regarded you as a prey or as his equal. John contemplated you, his opponent, before breaking into a smile.  

“And what a pain it would be, y/n” You saw him move his hand preparing to reach for yours until he refrained himself “for you to know that I’ve been unfair to you.” John knew how to play this game very well indeed, whether he had learnt from his brother or anyone else in the family. Did he stop himself because in him there was enough decency left that didn’t make him want to compromise a young lady? Or perhaps did he want to prolong the fun he was having?  

“Your perseverance is admirable, Giovanni” you saw him wince at his real name being pronounced. “though too much of it could lead to dangerous outcomes.” your venomous threat didn’t make John retreat but you could see that he was impressed by it.  

“I certainly hope this fierceness of yours doesn’t get you into trouble, my lady.” he whispered.

“And it is a real shame no one has asked for your opinion in regard of my character, my lord.” you stared into each other's eyes like sword blades colliding. It was a tie.

“Y/n.” you heard Lorenzo calling your name, though it resounded like white noise in your ears. He informed you that it was time to leave. You looked over John’s shoulder and saw him looking rather preoccupied. You were glad that it wasn’t Giuliano or else he would’ve challenged John straight away after seeing you alone with him. You didn’t even bother bowing to John and you simply took heavy steps towards your brother.  

“Are you alright, y/n?” Lorenzo questioned, rubbing one of your shoulders.

“I’m feeling splendid, do not worry about me.” you reassured him. You glanced back at John whose expression was cryptic. You worried if that expression was going to haunt your dreams that night.

“Have a good night, madonna. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of other occasions to talk about Ovid.” John hinted at the conversation you had during the dance and it made you fume with both rage and humiliation. You saw your brother’s expression darken at John’s words but he remained calm, even if the grip he had on you said otherwise. You, on the other hand, were seeing red. It was beyond unfairness; it was absolutely evil. You pushed aside the fear of John spreading vicious rumours about you being promiscuous or loose solely based on that conversation.  

“There’ll be no need.” you affirmed, succeeding in keeping your voice stable. “I believe we have nothing more to say to each other. Have a good night.” and like that you stormed out alongside your brother, utterly infuriated at the state of wrath John had put you in.  

“You and Giuliano are going to be the death of me, you know that?” Lorenzo muttered in your ear after you two had reached the carriage.  

“I’m so sorry, brother.” you lowered your gaze.

“I believe you have done nothing to be sorry or ashamed for.” he made your raise your head and look in his eyes. “Furthermore, at your age I was way more reckless than you are right now.” he made you chuckle which slightly lifted your spirits. It didn’t shake off the feeling that you had made a terrible enemy that night. John eventually came to visit you in the first nightmare you had in years. One in which he was standing victorious over Giuliano’s lifeless body who laid on the altar of the Duomo, the holy cloth covered in his blood.

[arianalilyblack]

Come home to me - Chapter 4

Title: Come home to me 

Chapter no: Chapter 4

Author: @arianalilyblack

Pairing: Harry Wells x Reader x Eobard Thawne/Harrison Wells

Word count: 2269

Summary: The wedding of Barry Allen and Iris West is finally here. You and Harry are caught up with the wedding spirit and start to slowly realize that maybe you developed deeper feelings for each other. Everything is perfect until Nazis bust into the church ruining everything. And alongside Earth X villains guess who shows up? Your ex flame, Eobard Thawne aka the Reverse Flash, complicating everything in your lives.

 At first he felt pleasure as he heard a frustrated Cisco shouting in the next cell. It was fun for a while. But then his thoughts started to drift towards Y/N, and the smug grin disappeared from his face. He cursed himself for leaving her unprotected and alone. Obviously he knew that she could protect herself, but he still felt guilty as hell. He never should have left her side, not before telling her the truth. It was frustrating that he couldn’t talk about his newly experienced feelings for her. That smile at the wedding; that was the moment when all his oppressed feelings got out of their strongly locked cage. It was a simple friendly smile, but to him it shone brighter than the sun. It made his heart beat faster, and now he will never see her again. It all ended before it could really start.

The ball resonated louder and louder throughout the Pipeline, as he became more irritated by this imprisoned state, driving Cisco crazy with every bang. Sadness took a hold on his heart. He placed his head into his hands, horrible pictures flashing before his eyes. The sight of her getting tortured or her dead body lying on the floor was maddening. The ball stopped, hitting him right in the chest.

„For the love of God, finally!” exclaimed Cisco. „Have you calmed down, Harry?”

„Shut up, Ramon” Harry sputtered. He had trouble breathing, tears stung his eyes.

„Harry, are you alright?” asked Cisco, sensing that something was off with the grumpy scientist.

„Peachy” was the short sarcastic answer.

„Don’t worry Harry. She will be fine” Caitlin encouraged him.

„Oooh, so that’s the reason why my head is splitting into million pieces” draw the conclusion the engineer. „Mister Know-it-all finally saw the light” Cisco teased him.

„Ramon!” Harry growled.

„Harry, my friend, don’t you fear for Y/N, she’s tough as a nut.” Cisco tried to raise his hopes up.

„Attention all prisoners; great news, the cavalry has arrived.”

The Legends got the message from Felicity and came to the rescue. All the prisoners were out in no time; almost all of them went to fight with Nate against Metallo, except Harry. He had better things to do. He sprinted towards the workshop, to obtain a weapon prototype he and Cisco developed for similar situation. Right before he could reach the gun, Eobard cut his way.

„Well” Harry caught his breath. „Aren’t you a handsome devil?”

„Pretty popular with the ladies, huh?” Eobard smirked implying his hypothetical relationship with Y/N. Harry was smarter then to give into this pointless mind game. „Wells, you are in real danger now. But I’m going to make you a deal.” His smile grew wider with his every word. „I can spare your life, as a man of your superior intellect has a place in our new world. Of course, with one condition” he raised his index finger. „You have to give up on Y/N. You are a clever man; you already know that she feels what she does for you just because you look just like me. You are constantly reminding her of me and that’s the only thing why she would ever look at you. Her place is by my side. I’m the only one who can satisfy her needs. She has quite a temper, that little minx. She still loves me” His devilish smile was all over his face. It disgusted Harry to the core.

„Thank you… for the offer and information.” Harry nodded in appreciation before he looked up sternly and added „I’d rather die, than to let your liar ass torture her for the rest of her life.”

„Well that…” The speedster’s smile turned into a frown and his hand started vibrating. „That can be arranged.”

„Wait, wait!” Harry raised his arms in defense as the vibrating hand got dangerously close to his heart. „Wait. Think this through. If you kill me, she will never forgive you for that, ever. She will hate you more than she already does. And besides, who knows what consequences could cause the death of your doppelganger from another Earth.”

„You’re right.” He paused. „But there’s only one way to find out” he shook his head as he contemplated his action and advanced his weaponized hand towards Harry’s chest. But instead of coursing through his heart he was shocked by something, hand bouncing back in an instant.

„Yeah, so, I forgot to mention” Harry pointed arrogantly to his chest. „I went and loaded millions of biocompatible miniature robots into my body which were programmed to attack any foreign cells speeding into my system. Just face it, Thawne; you will never get her back.”

Eobard looked anxiously to the gun, then back to Harry’s face. He could easily outrun his shadow, but then he would complicate his mission. Harry winked at the evil speedster, lips curling into a cocky smile, and jumped towards the gun, but he was to slow, Eobard had already vanished.

 ~

 You were dragged away from the girls. You had no metapower left whatsoever to fight back, so you complied. Meanwhile the energy slowly started to rebuild in your system; it just needed some time to fully regenerate. You made a fool of yourself yet again, by thinking Eobard had changed. It was naïve of you to trust his words, because obviously you did believe him when he’d told you that he just wanted to come home to you. Once again you were fooled by his silver tongue, and once again he had thrown you away, like some liability.

„So how does this Nazi job paying you? Is it really worth it?” you asked, teasing the soldier beside you with a small smile, trying to cheer yourself up. No response, no reaction of any kind. „Let me go, little soldier. I promise I won’t rattle you out to the Fuhrer” you flashed your most convincing grin, but all in vain.

The muscles in your body were sore, but you figured that you could still beat the crap out of this disrespectful bastard. A loud bang came from the Cortex that was followed immediately by two another. This was your chance; you pulled your arm out of his grip and kicked him in the guts with all you physical strength. Your hands immediately clasped into his head and banged it against the wall as hard as you could manage. It did the trick so you were able to run away. You just took the right turn when you stumbled into a hard chest. Your body bounced back into a fighting position, just before you met the most beautiful ocean blue eyes you’ve ever seen.

„Y/N” Harry gasped before taking her into his arms. „I thought I’ve lost you.” He pulled you closer to his chest.

„Harry” you whispered his name taken aback by his heartfelt greeting.

It felt like your heart was about to jump out of your body, but at the same time a bitter sorrow filled it. You didn’t muster to look up to his face. Right now it would have been too haunting. Instead you stayed in his protective embrace, hiding your face from him. His body suddenly tensed which startled you. The first thing that crossed your mind was Eobard standing behind you. But then again, you wouldn’t be still standing surrounded by Harry’s warm arms if that was the truth.

„He’s back.” Your heart clenched, and you breathed in sharply. „I won’t let him hurt you.” With his right hand on your back and his left on your head, he hugged you tighter. „Not anymore.”

Finally when you looked up at him with teary eyes, there wasn’t a single thing on his features that reminded you of Eobard. It was simply Harry Wells with such loving glance that you melted into his body.

„Don’t worry, I will be alright” you raised your hand and stroked his faced.

„I will always worry for you” he admitted with a small smile.

„Why?” you urged him. You wanted him to say it out loud, to confirm that you aren’t hallucinating. This novel closeness felt surreal.

„Because I care about you, Y/N, a lot” Harry confessed and gently drew you into a sweet kiss. His lips were so soft and delicate; it made your heart flutter. „I…” his voice trembled. „I love you.”

„It was about time” shouted Cisco proudly, raising his hands as a ‘hallelujah’ motion, scaring you to death.

„Ramon” grunted Harry in annoyance, eyes darting deadly shots towards him.

„Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds, but we kinda got to go. You know, cause there’s a Nazi invasion going on and all that” he motioned a circle above his head.

 ~

 The whole team was reunited on the Waverider’s deck. Flash and the others came back from Earth-X, but they paid a huge price for it. Professor Stein had been severely injured and died shortly after they came back. You wanted to be left alone, to figure out your storming thoughts, so you searched for a quiet and secluded place.

The overwhelming feelings were driving you crazy. You were sure that you will lose your mind soon, if you don’t calm down. Your frustration came out as a loud groan.

„Why is life shitting with me?” you shouted into the thin air and buried your face into your hands.

It should have been one of the best days in your life, after all the two of you finally acknowledged your feelings for each other. Well almost. Because of Cisco’s interruption you totally forgot to say those three words back to him. Life wasn’t going to make it easy for you. Eobard’s return stirred up some suppressed emotions; you’ve missed him so damn much. You hated yourself for letting him under your skin. All you wanted was to be happy with Harry, without feeling constantly guilty about it. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard; you just had to keep in mind all the sadness that the speedster caused you. Remind yourself of all the sorrow and pain he made you endure. You crossed your legs, taking a meditating position and tried to clear him out of your mind and organism.

„Why the long face, darling?” The sudden presence of another human made you jump in your seat.

„Snart! But… how?” Leo smiled at your confused facial expression.

„I’m Leo Snart, from Earth-X.” He reached out with one hand and you shook hands. „Now tell me dear, what is it that’s bothering you so much?”

„Oh, it’s complicated” you let out a big sigh accompanied by a nervous grimace.

„The matters of the heart are always complicated” he looked at you with an odd, sympathetic smile. „Eventually the things fall in their right places, trust me. Now put a smile on that pretty face and let’s kick some Nazi asses.”

„Thanks, Leo” you cracked a smile back, grateful for his encouraging words.

 ~

 Harry was on the control deck with Cisco and the others. They were working on a plan to defeat the enemy but he wasn’t much of a help to them. He kept getting distracted by the earlier conversation with Y/N. He had just confessed his feelings in front of everyone to her, but she didn’t say anything back. Maybe it was because he kissed her out of the blue, or maybe it was because she didn’t felt the same way. And that’s why he couldn’t find her anywhere, because she was probably hiding from him.

Eobard’s words were ringing in his ears; “She still loves me” claimed the evil speedster. The insecurity irritated him, and when he got annoyed he usually threw stuff. He started pounding the wall nearby because of the lack of disposable objects. One thought would persistently come back to haunt him; what if she chooses that monster. “That can’t be possible, she is a rational woman. She would never go back to that bastard.”

„Harry, focus!” ordered Cisco after several minutes of calling him out.

„Not now, Ramon. I have to go” with that he was out of the room. He didn’t hear the end of Cisco’s indignant speech.

Harry was familiar with the tight relationship that was between Y/N and Eobard from the start. He knew that very well and still fell for her kind and gentle nature. Her friendship was a ray of happiness in his somber life. Even if he was just the second best thing; he would be okay with that as long as he could stay with her.

The scientist was roaming the halls, searching for Y/N. He needed to find her, to make sure she’s okay. He could only imagine how hard this could be for her after all she’d been through.

„Hey grumpy” heard a loving voice behind his back. He turned around to face Y/N.

„Who’s grumpy? I’m not grumpy” he shook his head in denial and huffed.

„Yeah, right” she waved her hand giggling.

„I will show you grumpy” he threatened and rushed towards to tickle her with a mischievous grin.

„Okay, okay” she gave herself up. „You win, but only this time” she laughed.

„I always get what I want” he smirked and attracted her into a kiss.

„If he finds out… He’ll kill you” she said in a shaky voice breaking the sugary kiss.

„He already knows. And still, here I am holding you in my arms, caressing your beautiful face and peppering it with little kisses.” He did as he said, her cheeks turning into a burning mess.

„I love you, Harry” she whispered between two kisses.

Part 5

[fairiesherefairiesthere]

Nothing if not an opportunist (Fraxus)

Short summary: Freed gets kidnapped and Laxus picks his ass up, bc being together is what nice boyfriends do uwu

Intro: 

A more than agreeable way to start one's morning would be with a nice cup of coffee and some baked goods of choice. Should the weather be pleasant, this delightful breakfast could've been taken in his garden. The flowerfilled wonder would look and smell heavenly in the soft light of the morning sun. But alas, hypotheticals are merely that and Freed is having a far less enjoyable morning so far.

Rest of the fic under the cut!

It goes without question that a group of people ambushing you on your way home is far from ideal. It only gets worse when they decide to tie you up with magic-blocking handcuffs right after that and throw you in the back of some dinky carriage. Rude.

With a sigh, Freed repositions himself, trying to find a posture that doesn't cut off his blood circulation. Thanks to an ungodly amount of yoga sessions with Bickslow, he quickly achieves his goal but it's still a far cry from his cozy couch. Inspecting the space, he tuts in disapproval. No cushions, no blankets, not even a beanbag. They should really level up their accommodations if they wanted to avoid the wrath of their temporary guests. A shame they didn't keep that in mind, but Freed sure as hell will.

While he's debating what exactly the awful stench invading his nostrils is, he catches the men in the front talking about a certain topic that catches his attention. His ransom note. Briefly, he mentally deducts some points from them for not putting silencing runes in place.

As the men talk in a not at all hushed tone of voice, it quickly becomes clear that there's no interest in him personally. It's Laxus they're after. A bit predictable and consequently, a bit boring. He mentally deducts a few more points. If they keep this up, they'll end up becoming the worst team that kidnapped him in the shortest amount of time.

Because he considers himself a graceful man, raised right as well as raised to be a bastard, he puts his face between the bars separating him and his kidnappers. "Good day gentlemen," he starts politely and in return, one of them spits in his face. Disappointing. He'll keep it in mind. Outwardly unperturbed, he continues. "I have been listening to your attempts at writing a threatening ransom note for the past half hour and quite frankly, I am not at all impressed. Please try to be at least intelligible, we wouldn't want them to get wrong impressions right?"

"Shut up, I'll torture and kill you", one of them growls and Freed nods enthusiastically. "That's it! Clear and to the point. Now please describe exactly how you'll do it and I'll rephrase it for you. I want my ransom note to be up to my standards. I expect both eloquence and elegance. Maybe even a hint of cheekiness if we're feeling up to it." As the man starts a litany of threats and curses, Freed carefully paraphrases everything, which only heats the man up more. As he gets his enjoyment out of harassing the man, he catches his accomplice writing down his more concrete, paraphrased version of the threats.

Although he missed out on a nice, peaceful morning he can't say that he isn't enjoying himself right now. Being a pest is an artform he's fully mastered.

Laxus hasn't seen Freed all day and to be honest, he hadn't really been worried. That is until he's sipping on a beer while Bickslow and Evergreen are making themselves a tad bit too comfortable on his couch. They had thrown him off and are currently engaged in a fight for the sole rights to the leather-worn throne. Seeing how vicious the fight is turning, he's glad that he had already been eliminated from the fight.

A letter is shoved underneath his door and although Laxus is lightning fast, he's unable to catch even a glimpse of the mailman. "A secret love letter!" Bickslow exclaims from his place on the floor and Evergreen rolls her eyes in response. "If that was a love letter, I'd throw it in the trash. Look at the shoddy thing!"

She's right, Laxus realises. The letter looks awful, crumpled and stained with what seems to be blood. Worry increasing, he opens it up and quickly scans the content of the text. His concern reaches a peak when he spots the long lock of green hair attached to the letter and as he holds it up, Evergreen and Bickslow hiss in unison. "Our baby got kidnapped again, didn't he?" Bickslow asks and Laxus nods.

"They've included an address and say I should come weaponless and with magic-blocking cuffs already on. They say they have to settle a score with me and if I don't come within the next 48 hours they'll kill him. With every hour the torture also increases."

Bickslow whistles between his teeth. "Guess ya gotta go huh?" Evergreen frowns. "Do you even have magic blocking cuffs?" she asks and he points at the ceiling. "In my bedroom", he says and while Bickslow cackles, Evergreen's frown only gets deeper. "Why are there magic-blocking handcuffs in your bedroom...?" When Laxus returns with the green, fluffy cuffs, Evergreens' disappointment is palpable. "They've got little lightning bolts on them!" he tries to defend himself and it sounds ridiculous to his own ears.

Trying to desperately change the subject, he asks if they want to come along on the rescue mission. The answer's a firm no. "The aftermath of these situations are never pretty", Evergreen whispers, eyes clouded with a distant emotion. "I don't want to see the violence, the effects of hopelessness", Bickslow adds, swallowing dryly. Laxus understands their sentiment better than anyone. "Then I'll be bringing him back", he promises, although he knows he doesn't have to. They know he does it every time without fail.

Laxus arrives at the castle at twilight, light and dark intertwining as he enters the too quiet place. Normally castles of this size should be alive, the hum of the hustling and bustling of servants forming the core of it's sound. Although he can hear people scurrying about far away, there's still the lingering feeling that it is way too quiet. It's as though the castle is awaiting his arrival with baited breath.

Upon entering the hall, he's greeted by a quivering maid. Unable to look him in the eyes, she asks: "Master Dreyar, I presume?" while directing her gaze at the floor. "Take me where I need to be." He doesn't mean to be so brusque, but he has no time to spare for useless pleasantries.

She quickly guides him to the main room and even before he enters it, he knows that the room will be a show of absolute opulence, meant to intimidate him from the get go. As soon as he enters, his suspicions are confirmed.

The ceiling is as high as the ceiling of most gothic churches and the candles lighting up the room are a mere few. Nevertheless, every grim decoration in the rooms is properly lit. The decorative skulls, the chains, everything is immersed in the same eerie glow. In this faint light, Laxus can make out the servants stationed at the sides of the carpet leading to the throne. Behind them, there are scratches on the walls, destroyed tables and what seems to be... bits and bops of human beings. It's like an Ikea set of human remains.

A cough draws his attention to the throne. The glow of the lights reflects of the crown of the man sitting on it. The light also bounces off the bejeweled cape draped across his shoulders and Laxus can't help but stare. Perched on the throne like a lazy cat who has very much made a place formerly belonging to someone else is his own, is Freed Justine. "Hello Laxus, I was wondering when you'd show up. Did you like my letter?"

As Freed slinks of the throne and walks towards him, with every piece of jewelry that comes to light as he draws closer, jingling softly. The sound matches Freed's natural sound well and the lavish jewelry take his already handsome looks to another level. That and the horns accentuating the crown, the little tinge of red left on his too sharp teeth as well as the glow in his usually hidden eye.

He's not surprised at this situation in the slightest, as this is how Freed's kidnappings usually go. The man is simply too charming, too cunning and too powerful to be contained by a few simple bandits. The only reason Laxus comes to pick him up, is because he knows Freed enjoys being walked home. It's the simple things, like this form of domesticity, that makes their relationship so enjoyable.

"I asked the servants to prepare us a meal before we set off? Would you join me Mister Dreyar?" he asks teasingly. "It is our date night after all." With a smile he agrees. "It is, this is very considerate of you." Freed gives him a chuckle and a wink in return. "I'm nothing if not an opportunist." They toast to that later on.

Once back at the guild, Makarov flags them down, concern evident on his face. "You've got to take better care of him", he hisses at Laxus and before Laxus can tell him that he really doesn't have to, Freed smoothly cuts in. "Please don't worry about it master, he already does such a splendid job of saving me every time. A man can't ask for more than a splendid hero, right?"

Although it's a lie totally dicrediting Freed's own skill, Laxus doesn't correct him, even though he wants to. He knows Freed by now, knows that every lie, every piece of omitted information is probably part of a scheme of a sly mind that never stops working. He knows that the image of a mage depending on Laxus makes him a walking target and Laxus knows that the man enjoys nothing more than a good fight. Maybe there's more to it than Freed's hobby of beating up people, maybe there isn't. Either way, Laxus loves watching Freed's plans unfold, even if it means that he has to hold his tongue sometimes.

[ineffably-effable]

further good omens fic recs

It’s been awhile since my last reclist post so here goes, please enjoy the rewards of my complete lack of self-control when it comes to this ship.

Please reach out if I’ve missed a tumblr tag, or drop a note if you have any recommendations I’ve missed! ( 31 recommendations underneath the cut )

(51k) Acts of Service by seekwill / @jasmine-cottage-uk

After receiving direct instruction from God, village reverend Aziraphale leaves his countryside congregation to serve the underserved and in-need at an urban church in London, a transition made all the more complicated by the mysterious and handsome Crowley, who always seems to appear when Aziraphale least expects him.

mood: pining, denial, secrets, idiots-in-love. 

(Warning: Don’t start reading this one at midnight expecting to put it down. Learn from my mistakes.) 

(44k) Mirror, Mirror by ImprobableDreams900 / @improbabledreams900

Crowley from an evil!au swaps places with our Crowley.

mood: butterfly effect, identity theft, Aziraphale!whump, badass!Aziraphale  

(40k) The Strong Tower by BuggreAlleThis

After the failed executions, a vengeful angel takes it upon herself to neutralise the threat presented by Crowley and Aziraphale.

mood: aziraphale!whump, protective!crowley, hurt/comfort, pining and fantastic world building.

(23k) You Might Think I'm Crazy (All I Want is You)   by soft_october / @soft-october-night​

Since the next shop over closed down, Aziraphale's had a peaceful few months, barring those unpleasant interactions with the men in cheap suits who keep trying to persuade him to sell his shop. But now a (handsome) new owner has taken up residence beside him and, horror of horrors, he wants to open up a coffee shop.

mood: fledgling friendships, obviously-in-love-to-everyone-but-themselves, almost-letting-your-doubts-and-insecurities-ruin-things, if-only-these-dumb-bastards-knew-how-to-communicate

(23k) names in history by lagaudiere

Maybe he’d shown Crowley how to perform a few miracles, but that Crowley had taken to them so well was surely a sign that he wasn’t all bad. And maybe Aziraphale had let himself be called upon to perform a few temptations, but that was just testing the will of the faithful if you looked at it from a different angle.

mood: slow-burn, through-the-ages, beautifully written.

(22k) This Soul Outstreaming by Rend_Herring 

Aziraphale constructs intricate rituals to touch the skin of other men (by “men” I mean Crowley).

mood: slow-burn, through-the-ages, forbidden love, UST, beautifully written. 

(29k) 5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was by charliebrown1234 / @charliebrown1234

What it says on the tin.

mood: Aziraphale!whump through the ages, protective Crowley, hurt/comfort, wonderful characterizations.

(20k) In Pleasure's Clothes by obstinatrix, wishwellingtons

Three Times Aziraphale Stalked Crowley In Gay Clubs And One Time He Moped At Wilde’s Grave.

mood: jealousy, pining, miscommunications, idiots-in-love

(18k) Soft (A Love Story in Three Bites) by mia_ugly / @mia-ugly​

Crowley was an angel, once. Before she fell. Aziraphale was a warrior (she fell too. It just took a little longer.)

mood: ineffable wives thoughtfully done and beautifully written, pining, emotional vulnerability, hurting the ones you love, references to gothic romances that absolutely slay me, switching POVs between Aziraphale and  Crowley.

(18k) On Earth as it is in Heaven by JMA

Aziraphale was at Crowley's trial...the first one.

For six thousand years Aziraphale felt like an angel who has fallen, waiting for Heaven to realise. His fear and doubt has shaped and defined him. Now, with the Armageddon over and Heaven and Hell off their backs it is finally time to come clean.

mood: betrayal, pining, misguided attempts at atonement, miscommunication and forgiveness 

 (15k) Through Every Door by darlingred1 / @darlingred1​

After thwarting the end of the world, Aziraphale begins to avoid Crowley, and Crowley accidentally awakens his own repressed lust.

mood: mutually-pining-idiots, miscommunication,  immortal-beings-taking-turns-with-their-single-brain-cell, surprisingly-Crowley-has-first-dibs

(16k) Least of All by stereobone / @stereobone​

Every so often, Crowley talks to God.

mood: Crowley worrying after Aziraphale through the ages. Beautifully written, fantastic Crowley perspective.

(14k) Wine Fraud and Other Worthy Pursuits by ImprobableDreams900  / @improbabledreams900​

When Aziraphale, rare book dealer and part-time wine collector, encounters a bottle of 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild he suspects isn't all that it claims, he becomes determined to track down the truth.

Unfortunately, the finger of suspicion seems to point at fellow wine collector Anthony J. Crowley, whom Aziraphale is already well on his way to befriending.

mood: suspicious Aziraphale and fledgling friendships  

(12k) Laugh When It Sinks In by Tenoko1 / @tenoko1​

Crowley stopped them in their trek, slipping his arm from Aziraphale’s grasp to face him, hands on his shoulders. “Are you sure you’re alright? A-are you having, like, a mid-life crisis or something now that Heaven’s cut you loose? You’re worrying me. What’s next? Cherry red sports car?”

mood: making a home for yourself and your charmingly oblivious life partner 

(10k) The Original Bar Joke by deathbycoldopen / @deathbycoldopen​

The way Crowley saw things, it was all one big joke, with him as the punchline.

mood: drunk!pining, idiots-in-love, jealous!Crowley, straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back moments, drunk!confessions

(8k) did you open up your heart there? by weatheredlaw / @weatheredlaw​

Aziraphale and Crowley meet over and over and over again. Aziraphale doesn't know what Crowley is, or why their souls can't seem to be parted, but he is a creature of love, and he's not going to argue with that.

mood: ready to have your heart broken over and over and over?

(7k) The Ark by rfsmiley / @redfacesmiley​

We’ve all been assuming that it takes them 6,000 years to figure it out, but what if it takes 6,300?

Or: the ineffable husbands evacuate a dying Earth.

mood: ineffable dystopian sci-fi romance (and yes, I love that this is a mood I can use to describe a good omens fic).

(7k) Where Thou Art by Mottlemoth / @mottlemoth​

A late-night bus to London, a few human comforts, and a long overdue confession... nothing will ever be the same for an angel and his demon.

mood: we-might-be-dead-by-tomorrow-love-confessions

(5k) Love Stories by goodomensblog  / @goodomensblog

Crowley goes too slow, Aziraphale drinks copious amounts of alcohol, and the bookshop is (very nearly) set on fire. Again.

mood: drinking because you’re an idiot in love (or because you’re in love with an idiot), looking after your drunk mate (only he’s not your mate he’s the love of your life and he’s finally starting to get that)

(4k) A Metaphor Of Some Kind by copperbadge / @copperbadge​

After the world doesn't end, Hell gets Crowley and Heaven gets Aziraphale, but not for very long.

mood: witty with great voices, loads of fun

(4k) One Sweet Moment Set Aside For Us by Arej 

Tattoos are like stories you write on your skin, and they'll say things for you if you'll let them. Or perhaps prompt other people to say things.

Or, Crowley is just drunk enough to get bold and let his guard down, and it leads to something he never thought he'd be allowed to have.

mood: pining, touching, reverance, love confessions

(3k) Something To Talk About by iamtheenemy (Steph)

Aziraphale jumps to some very inaccurate conclusions.

mood: pining and misconceptions, let’s see if we can make Crowley have an aneurysm.

Wow! Thanks for scrolling this far! You’ve unlocked the secret  “I’ll be in my bunk” section of the rec list! ;)

(That’s not to say the fics above don’t have their own hot scenes, or that the fic below are only  pwp, but these are the fics where the plot is either focused mostly on sex or the build-up to sex.)

(4k) left with no trace, as if not spoken to by drawlight / @drawlight​

Aziraphale's finger brushes against the edge of Crowley's hand. The theater is packed, it is dark. Everyone is watching the stage (no one is watching them). "Do you - ?" "Yeah, angel."

mood: Shakespeare may not have deserved this, but this reader is glad this exists.

(4k) I Tempt, You Thwart... Right? by AEpixie7 / @knightofthesevenfandoms​

Crowley accidentally-on-purpose roofies Aziraphale and then feels bad about it because Aziraphale is so high that he can't remember how to sober up.

mood: serious wing kink, drug-induced-loss-of-inhibitions

(6k) Appetite by spunknbite / @spunknbite​

Crowley places the macaron against Aziraphale’s lips with more reverence than the angel had thought him capable. “It’s alright, angel. Just take a bite.”

mood: drunk sex, overcoming inhibitions, first time, hand feeding 

(6k) The Better Part of Valour by obstinatrix

Said I, a few weeks ago: "I feel there’s also room for e.g. bedsharing fic where the apocalypse has Not Happened and they’ve fallen into queerplatonic (or so they think) bedsharing and Crowley thinks he’s alone in being driven slowly to distraction by it, so he says nothing. Then one night he wakes when it’s still dark, and at first he doesn’t know why, until he hears Aziraphale’s breathing a little raspier than usual, and feels the very slight trembling of the bed."

mood: bed-sharing-with-serious-insecurities-and-misunderstanding

(7k) a treatise on your fingers in my hair by Nimravidae / @tooeasilyconsidered​

Crowley sleeps for two days, his hair is a mess, and all it takes is a touch. Like a catalyst. Like striking flint, like a matchstick, like touching fire to gunpowder

mood: all that pent up UST has to go somewhere 

(9k) Released by vaguely_concerned / @vaguely-concerned​

After they get together Aziraphale has some lingering Ideas about his brief stint in the Bastille; Crowley is happy to help him explore them. Hijinks, as they say, ensue.

mood: french revolution era role play w/ feelings, fantastic dialogue. 

(17k) One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster)  by Atalan / @seaskystone​

Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone's had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to make him work for it.

mood: flirting and first times

You’re still here? Can’t get enough? Well check out these amazing WIPs!

Slow Show by mia_ugly / @mia-ugly​

The Ineffable Pining Showmance AU that no one asked for.

mood: a more accurate summary would be the: ineffable pining showmance AU that no one knew to ask for, and everyone wanted more of. The characterizations in this are amazing. Crowley as a fallen film star is perfection. 

Shifting Heaven and Earth by BuggreAlleThis

For most of history, since he narrowly avoiding Falling from Heaven with Lucifer, Crowley has been working for the Angelic Corruption Unit. This ended up being far more boring than he hoped it would be, but things change when he is assigned to go undercover on Earth. His mission is to investigate Aziraphale, an infamous angel who has been on Earth since its Creation, and whom Heaven is sure is guilty of corruption or dereliction of duty. 

mood: slow-burn, betrayal, regrets,  aziraphale!whump, bamf!aziraphale

the bucket list by darcylindbergh / @forineffablereasons

If you’re going to go native, you might as well go all the way.

mood: saying the absolutely wrong thing at the wrong time, reaching your breaking point, miscommunication and heart break.

Still here? :)

My previous good omens recs post can be found here [x]

[blacklister214]

Illusions (Chapter 4): Milestone

L.A., 1983

Caleb spun and dipped Delilah, executing the move with perfect precision. Dancing with a partner had, in life, been a bit trying for him, but he had to admit this wasn't as aggravating as he remembered. That was probably due to Delilah. She was nearly as much of a perfectionist as he was and didn't complain about going into overtime if it meant getting a routine right. Just as important, the dancer had no more romantic interest in him than he had in her.

If there was one thing he didn't miss about his old life, it was the constant hetrosexual façade he'd had to maintain. Constantly squiring empty-headed starlets around town had been exhausting. Unfortunately he'd had no choice. The fan magazines needed to report on his "womanizing" ways, or people would wonder why a man as handsome, rich, and charming as Caleb Covington wasn't settled down with a nice wife. A cad was acceptable by Hollywood standards. The truth about Caleb was not.

Attitudes towards those of Caleb's persuasion hadn't completely changed with the times, but within this small group of performers, he didn't feel the need to hide that aspect of himself.

"-I tell you this, and ain't just jive. Though I'm dead, I have never felt so alive." He flipped Delilah high in air and caught her with ease. Yet another benefit of ghosthood.

"I feel like a king with," He and Delilah poofed themselves into the chair they'd set up as the makeshift "throne" on the band platform. He used his scepter to cue to the band.

"When I swing with," This time they landed themselves on the room's chandelier. They rocked it back and forth while the musicians played the accompaniment.

"When I sing, sing, sing, sing, siiiiinnnnngggg" He held out his hand and together they jumped, vanishing in mid-air, only to appear on the main stage, Caleb on one knee before Delilah.

"With you!" The band executed the final notes and there were a few seconds of silence before the whooping started.

"That was the best we ever played!" Caleb stood, keeping his face impassive, but he silently agreed. He only hoped that didn't mean they would fall flat this evening. Ignoring the gushing, he moved over to the table where he kept his notes.

"We are knocking them dead tonight!"

"Or deader as the case may be!" Caleb frowned regretting, not for the first time, his audiences weren't a little more lively. Ghosts would enjoy their talents, but lifers would be awed.

"Silence all! Let's hear from our illustrious leader." Delilah's voice rang out clearly and everyone became mute. He could feel a dozen pairs of eyes drilling into his back. He sighed and turned to them.

"The show starts at 8. I expect everyone back in the green room by 6:30. Don't be late." The musicians seemed to deflate a bit. Good. The last thing Caleb wanted was for the band to feel complacent.

He knew better than anyone that the greatest performance often came when the performer felt they had something to prove. Everyone in this room now had the perfect motivation. They'd play their hearts out just to spite him.

Caleb could tell by the set of Delilah's jaw that she was not amused but she pasted on a smile and turned to the musicians.

"Quick, scurry before he decides to keep us all for more rehearsal." The band popped out one at a time until only his partner remained. Her hands went to her hips, the universal sign for an unhappy woman.

"Yes?" If she needed to scold him, they might as well get it over with before this evening's show.

"It wouldn't kill you to be nicer to them." Caleb cocked an eyebrow at her in a way so many of his fans had adored.

"Nothing would kill me at this point. That is the main perk of being dead." The expression on Delilah's face communicated he wasn't winning her over with his quip.

"Treat them well or they won't stick around. It's not like you're paying them and they need the job." Caleb smiled to himself, remembering all the tongue lashings he'd delivered during his life to castmates and crew members who hadn't been pulling their weight. If Delilah had known him then, she'd realize the kid gloves with which he handled his current band.

"They will stick around for the same reason I tolerate having them around. I am offering them an opportunity to perform again." That was all the carrot he needed to keep drawing them back. Caleb provided a venue, an audience, new music to play, and a star. What more could they possibly want from him?

Delilah stared at him a moment without speaking and then let her arms fall to her sides. She seemed less angry, but more...sad? Disappointed?

"If you keep pushing everyone away, you're going to end up spending eternity alone." Caleb fought the unpleasant roiling of his gut. He didn't care what Delilah thought. He didn't need her good opinion.

"I'm not alone." Warmth flooded him as he thought of Alex, pushing away all of the unpleasantness in the conversation. He smiled to himself, remembering he won't have to wait much longer before his next visit. He'd planned to drop by Alex's room at 5 pm, in a mere three hours.

"How is Alex?" Caleb's mind jerked back into the moment and he saw Delilah's expression had shifted again. She looked almost amused about something, but for the life of him, no pun intended, he couldn't imagine what. How had she guessed at the direction of his thoughts? 

Also, why was she asking him about Alex? She had only met him the one time, and things had been a bit one-sided. Still, Alex was an extremely charming child. Caleb had liked him from their first meeting and he liked almost no one. Naturally she'd be interested in the boy's well-being.

"Fantastic. He's the best student in both of his dance classes. The teacher put him downstage center. A little brat named Kimberly was furious, but cream will rise to the top."

Caleb had been unable to resist peeking in the classes from time to time. He'd wanted to assure himself that Alex was happy and the teacher wasn't completely incompetent. Caleb felt she wasted too much time on the hopeless students, but such was the nature of her profession. His opinion of the woman had greatly risen when she had given Alex his place of honor.

"Is it possible you're privately tutoring him as well?" Caleb frowned, wondering at the purpose of her question. Was she implying Alex didn't deserve to be the star in his class? That Caleb was unfairly giving the boy an advantage?

"I may have given him a few pointers. He has natural ability and the drive to better himself, so why wouldn't I assist him?" It wasn't as though Alex's parents would have been of any help. 

His mother would have to tear herself away from her many community-minded commitments. Heaven knew protests at women's clinics didn't organize themselves. For a woman supposed so committed to children and family she didn’t seem to spend much time with her own.

Alex's father had stopped his bullying ways since Caleb's intervention, but the experience had had an unanticipated side effect. These days Greg seemed a bit leery of Alex. Caleb suspected his threat had made Greg Mercer wonder if his four year old was in communication with a demon.

The man had actually nailed multiple crosses up all over the house, including in Alex's room. The Mercer family was also now attending church every Sunday. Grace was now always said before dinner. Still, it was an improvement over the unceasing criticism and Alex had been allowed his dance lessons. Overall it was a positive outcome.

"Caleb Covington, you are not the bastard everyone thinks you are." Caleb blinked at Delilah's pronouncement. Was she implying he was soft because he happened to spend a little of his time with a delightful child? He couldn't let that stand.

"Take that back." He pointed a finger in her direction in warning. Delilah's smile only grew wider.

"Fine. You're not the COMPLETE bastard everyone thinks you are. See you tonight." She vanished before he could refute her again. He resented the implication that he was in any way weak. He had worked hard to cultivate an air of implacable authority. To be a man both respected and feared throughout Hollywood. Was Alex's influence changing him somehow? Fundamentally altering who he was? 

Caleb closed his eyes, shutting out the world, and thinking only of Alex. Once again the feeling of peace swept over him. He let himself completely surrender to that feeling.

"-IS real!" Caleb's eyes popped open, startled. He swung his head around the empty ballroom. He had been certain that he had heard Alex's voice as clearly as if the boy were right in front of him. Was this another ability manifesting?

He closed his eyes and tried again, finding the place within himself that belonged to Alex.

"Is so!" There! Caleb frowned at the tone Alex had used. Alex sounded angry. Alex was almost never angry.

"Is not!" Interesting, he could hear other voices as well. This one seemed to belong to a young girl.

"Is so!" Not most witty of replies, but Caleb was proud of Alex's refusal to be cowed. It was often difficult for Alex to assert himself. Caleb had been working to help him overcome that fear and apparently those lessons were already paying dividends.

"Is not!" The little girl was practically screeching at this point. Caleb couldn't possibly imagine what could be getting both children so agitated.

"I see Caleb too! I see him right there. You can't because you're a meany-face!" Yet another voice. A boy this time. And what had he said? 'I see Caleb too!'? Caleb was more than a little surprised that he himself had been the cause of the argument. He generally encouraged Alex not to speak of him at all.

"Mommy! Luke called me a-" The girl's voice drifted off until Caleb could no longer hear her. Presumably she'd gotten too far from Alex.

"Luke? Are you sure you see Caleb? Because I don't see him." Alex's voice had gotten softer and Caleb could hear the worry in his voice. Alex had asked Caleb once if he'd still be able to see Alex when he got older. Caleb had assured Alex he would, but the truth was Caleb had no idea. Hearing Alex's voice now made him wonder if the boy had truly believed his comforting claim.

"I pretended." This 'Luke' didn't seem at all ashamed of his lie. An interesting contrast to Alex, who had once confessed to eating a stolen cookie less than a minute after taking his first and only bite. Alex hadn't even been the one to steal the cookie. Caleb had done it on his behalf. An ill-advised gesture as it turned out since Alex couldn't explain how he'd gotten the cookie from the top shelf of the pantry. The poor boy had ended up grounded for the week.

"Why?" Caleb was interested in hearing this answer as well.

"Because Sarah's a meany-face." Even Caleb had to admit that was rather sweet. This 'Luke' sounded as young as Alex, but already he had chosen to be Alex’s champion. Caleb decided he'd like to clap eyes on the child and thank him for his chivalry. It was sooner than he'd intended, but plans changed all the time.

Caleb found himself standing next to a large sandbox. The park. That would explain the voices of the other children.

"Caleb!" Alex yelled excitedly as he almost always did when Caleb appeared. How far they've both come from the day of Alex's 4th birthday when Alex had screamed in terror at the sight of him.

"He's here?!" The boy, "Luke" sounded nearly as excited as Alex did.

"Right there!" Alex pointed and Caleb watched and waited. Judging from the way Luke swiveled his head and squinted, Caleb could tell he was as invisible to the boy as he was to everyone else. After a minute the boy shrugged and waved. Caleb took a step to the left, just to be certain, but Luke's eyes remained on the space where Caleb had been.

"Hi Caleb! I'm Luke." Caleb loosed a small laugh. Though Luke couldn't see him, he still believed Alex that Caleb was there.

"Alex, please tell Luke that I'm very pleased to meet him and that I said thank you for being such a good friend to you." Before Alex could relay the message he was interrupted by the arrival of two women and the wretched child from earlier. The first was clutching the little’s girl’s hand, looking deeply affronted. The second lady, looking no lest incensed stopped before Alex’s defender.  

"Lucas Patterson! Did you call Sarah a 'Meany-face'?" Given the similarity of features, Caleb could only assume this was Luke's mother. Surely she wasn't taken in by the little girl's crocodile tears?

"Yes." Luke sounded no more contrite than he'd had early. The furrowing of the woman's eyebrows told Caleb the boy's mother hadn't missed the lack of repentance either.

"Then you need to apologize to her right this minute!" Luke's face turned positively mulish, making him resemble his mother even more. His arms folded across his chest.

"No! She IS a meany-face. And a tattle tale." Mother and son gazed into each other eyes, forcefully reminding Caleb of an Old West showdown. All that was missing was a tumbleweed rolling through the park. Finally Luke’s mother turned to the other woman. 

"I apologize for my son's rudeness. We are going home." The woman held out her hand to her child. Luke uncrossed his arms, looking as aghast as if she'd raised her hand to spank him.

"But Moooommmm-" Luke was brought up short by a look that even Caleb found somewhat intimidating.

"Say goodbye to Alex." Luke's posture flopped, signally that his mother had won the day.

"Bye Alex." He paused, then deliberately turned to where Caleb had first appeared. "Bye Caleb." Luke quickly stuck out his tongue at the little girl before at last taking his mother's hand. Caleb smiled, admiring the boy's moxie.

"I like him." Caleb turned at Alex's comment and found him staring after Luke. He realized that he could have just witnessed a major milestone for Alex. Alex was generally liked among other children, but he didn't have any one child in particular he was close with.

"Me too." Though he'd only seen the boy for a few minutes, Caleb was already convinced Luke was just the kind of loyal companion Alex deserved. Someone who would watch over him when Caleb couldn't. Someone who would listen to him.

"Caleb?" Caleb looked down and saw Alex was once more biting his lip. He hadn't seen that habit in months and it never boded well.

"Yes Alex?" The boy looked afraid. What question could be so terrifying that he was frightened to even ask it?

"Are you real? Sarah said you're not. She says I made you up." When the words finally came, Caleb realized he should have anticipated them. Of course his argument with the bratty child was upsetting him. Caleb had to consider his answer carefully.

He didn't want to tell Alex he was a ghost. Maybe one day the boy would figure it out on his own, but hopefully by then Alex would be so accustomed to Caleb it wouldn't have much of an impact.

"I am real. I'm just real in a different way than you are. But that's not always a bad thing." Caleb looked around for something to cheer Alex up. His eyes alighted on a portable radio. At present it's owner seemed to be asleep on a blanket. Not very intelligent of them really. They were practically asking for their device to be stolen. Really what he was about to do was a benevolent gesture.

"If I were like you I could do this?" He pointed at the radio and the power moved to the "On" position.

"-And it's magic if the music is groovy," The napper jerked awake and stared at the radio in confusion.

"It makes you feel happy like an old-time movie." Caleb recognized the song. It was one of Alex's favorites. They'd spend an entire afternoon with Alex's parents radio. They'd flipped through stations so Caleb had at least some awareness of what had happened to music in the fifty years he'd been in the dark room. Quite a bit apparently, and in Caleb's view, very little of it good.

"Do You Believe in Magic" had come on and Caleb had decided to add a little spice to the song by demonstrating his developing telekinetic powers to Alex. Alex had been as entranced as Caleb had hoped. As a consequence Alex fairly regularly wheedled Caleb into performing that song over, and over, and over again. It was no surprise when Alex spun to face him, all sad thoughts forgotten.

"Caleb, will you sing?!" Caleb did not know whether to chuckle or groan.

"I don't know Alex. You know it's not really my type of music." This too was part of the routine. Caleb, hemming and hawwing...

"Pleeaassse? You sing it so nice!" Alex begging and flattering...

"Alright, but only if you're my band." And then Caleb finally giving in. "Are we agreed?" Alex nodded eagerly. He held out his sand bucket with one hand and his shovel with the other in a ready position.

Caleb started snapping his fingers in time with the song. Alex obediently started tapping the rhythm in his bucket. When Caleb was sure Alex had the beat he transported himself to the top of the play structure's tower. Caleb sang down as Alex beamed up at him from the ground.

"I'll tell you about the magic, and it'll free your soul, But it's like trying to tell a stranger 'bout a rock 'n' roll."

Caleb swayed with the music, noticing something odd as he did. He would swear that people were looking at him.

"If you believe in magic don't bother to choose, if it's jug band music or rhythm and blues. Just go and listen it'll start with a smile, that won't wipe off your face no matter how hard you try."

They were still looking. A hope bloomed in Caleb's chest. He shouldn't indulge in it. He knew it was impossible and yet….

Caleb spotted a table about twenty feet away with some parents sitting at it. He instantaneously transported himself on top of it. Once Caleb appeared, there was no doubt in his mind that their eyes were locked on him. He soaked up their amazement like they were water and he a sponge. His eyes returned to Alex who faithfully kept tapping on his bucket from a few yards away.

"Your feet start tapping, and you can't seem to find, how you got there, so just blow your mind. If you believe in magic come along with me-"

He jerked his head at Alex to follow him. Disappearing once more, he re-materialized on an empty seesaw. He danced from the low end to the high end as he sang, aware a crowd was slowly converging on him.

It was incredible! The closest he'd ever gotten to the feeling was when he'd consumed five cups of coffee in the course of one hour. His entire being was buzzing.

"We'll dance until morning till there's just you and me. And maybe if the music is right, I'll meet you tomorrow sorta late at night, and we'll go dancing baby, then you'll see how the magic's in the music, and the music's in me." Caleb hopped off the seesaw and with a wave of his hand started it rocking up and down to the music.

"Yeah, do you believe in magic?" He pointed at an empty swing and with a twirled of his finger wound the chains and then released them to spin out. His audience clapped in admiration.

They were crowding him too tightly. He needed space if he didn't want to be revealed as noncorporeal. Caleb vanished and reappeared back in his original perch.

"Yeah, believe in the magic of the young girl's soul,"

The crowd sighted him and followed him like rats behind the Piper Pied of Hamelin.

"Believe in the magic of a rock 'n' roll, believe-"

Suddenly a collective gasp went up and people began buzzing, despite the fact Caleb was still singing.

"-in the magic that can set you free. Ahh, talking 'bout the magic."

"Where did he go? I hear him, but I don't see him!" Caleb waved his hands but no one took notice.

"Do you believe in magic?" He'd gone invisible again. Why? And where was Alex? He scanned the crowd. He'd gotten so caught up in the attention he'd completely lost sight of him. Suddenly he sighted the back of the boy's head. His mother had him at the edge of the grass, dragging him away from Caleb towards their car.

"Did you see that?! That was incredible!"

What possibly could be upsetting the woman? She couldn't have a problem with magicians. She'd hired one for her son's party last year. He'd have to speak with Alex about it later.

"Do you believe, believer?" It seemed at least one mystery was solved. The temporary visibility was connected to Alex. When he got pulled away by his mother, Caleb became invisible again. Interestingly though, he could be heard on his own. It hadn't worked that way with speaking, but singing apparently was another story.

"How did he do that? Mirrors and a speaker?"

"Do you believe in magic?" He'd never been heard rehearsing in the hotel, but that was inside an abandoned building. If Caleb moved his performance outdoors, then he could sing for living audiences again.

"In a park? Unlikely? Do you think we were all hypnotized?"

"Do you believe in magic?" Would it work for his band as well? He wasn't sure how he felt about singing with no accompaniment whatsoever.

"Why do you think he was here? Do you think he's drumming up business for kid's parties?" Caleb had been half-listening to the comments of his audience, but that last sentence got his full attention. He was about to show the man a taste of his "children's party" magic when his companion gave a disbelieving snort.

"A man that talented is not playing children's parties. Mark my words, in a few days we'll hear about him playing a theatre downtown. This was probably a publicity stunt." Caleb smirked to himself. That was more like it. Theatres. Sold out crowds. The adoration of millions. That his reality in life and that was his destiny in death. He'd make sure of it.

[cilliansaccent]

The Peaky Designer - Cillian Fanfic, Chapter 24

Hello, welcome back. Below is the next instalment of my fanfiction!

Leave a like or a comment if you liked it, or if I can do anything better! Please, it would mean the world and to understand if anyone is enjoying my writing. Also, sharing/reblogging would be even better.

PLEASE READ:

I will not be including Cillian’s family as it’s kinda weird since he has children lmao. Just a mention of his parents and a previous lover.

I will indicate in a chapter if there is smut in the beginning and before the actual scene!!

I will add trigger warnings if there is any!!

There is a variety of levels of swearing during a chapter, I will not hold back, everyone swears.

The timestamp for the Fic is now 2016 and onwards!!

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Background: Gabrijela Babic is a Croatian girl from Sydney, Australia. She is born in the year 1991 on the 24th of December. She studies a Fashion degree in a University with a major in Game Design as well. Her teacher in the fashion designer class managed to nail an Internship on the set of Peaky Blinders with the shows very own Costume Designer, Allison McCosh. There, she travels to London for under a year to learn how to be one, working alongside the actors as well the man she admires, Cillian Murphy. But, her platonic feelings for the man begins to grow into something more, and she wonders whether she should pursue them or let him go for fear of her strict parents and her three older brothers…

Characters:

Swantje Paulina as Gabrijela Babic (swalina on Instagram)

Cillian Murphy

Word Count: 5,235

!!Warnings!!: Mention of abortion near the end

Date: February 2017

Chapter Name: Maya’s Wedding Day

Brief Chapter Outline: The pair attend’s Maya’s wedding, it’s all nice and happy until Lucia ruins the surprise for Gabrijela. It ends with the following day after-party at Maya’s parents house. 

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It was an early start for Gabrijela and Cillian. They took another shower, Gab going first since she had to be ready quicker and she took her time when it came to doing her hair and make-up.

"You look fine without all of that on." Cillian mused.

She huffed, "Yes. You've told me many times. But it's only for these special occasions I'll go full out. Or if I'm streaming a game." She was combing her wet hair once she was out of the shower.

"I have yet to see you do a stream," Cillian said.

"Well, I do plan on a stream next weekend. You can watch." She giggled.

"Sounds like a good idea." He nodded and went into the shower.

Gabrijela dried her hair and worked on it. It was a half up half down style with a braid, the loose ends were in soft waves as her hair was like that naturally. She cleaned up her jewellery next, she had found some earrings that could match her necklace, they were simple gold sunbursts with a little opal in the middle. She still had that Claddagh ring on and admired it. She truly loved it. She popped on their shared music playlist as she set on her make-up. She kept it quite natural, when she would come back she would add more to match her evening dress. Her dress for the church was an off the shoulder, white top section with the skirt a rose gold with four big white flowers. She wore flats with a small heel.

Cillian was ready in his suit, he was fixing up his collar as Gabrijela came over and did his tie, "You look dashing, babe." She adjusted his tie and collar and rubbed down his jacket.

"And you look stunning." He held her forearms gently.

"Thank you. Can I take a photo?" She grinned.

"Okay." He chuckled and they posed before the mirror as she snapped a pic. "Oh, we look good."

"We do. A perfect couple." She leaned up and kissed his cheek gently.

They pulled away and she grabbed her bag, checked for anything she was missing and off they went. Her family were finishing up and the kids mucked around near the parking lot. They all greeted each other before they all got into their own cars. Her parents would join in her car, she would lead her family to the church.

Once everyone got to the church, they mingled with the rest of the guests and Gabrijela found her group of friends. They all greeted each other.

"How was the drive?" Elijah asked.

"Good. I'm tired since we left right after I finished work." Gabrijela laughed. "Don't give me that look you kinky asshat. No. I'm not tired because of that." She punched his shoulder.

He grinned, "Sure thing. Hey, I gotta tell you something though."

"Oh? What is it?" Gab asked.

"Before we all knew what Lucia had done to you and the shit she caused us, she is still coming to the wedding. Maya wanted to tell her not to come but she felt way to bad. You know how she is." Elijah said.

Gab sighed heavily, "Thanks for telling me. I'll make sure I keep away from her."

"No problemo. I think she's just coming to the reception so you got time to get yourself ready if she ever tries to face off with you." Elijah patted her shoulder.

"Yeah. Again, thanks." She smiled.

It was time to head into the church and she took Cillian's hand. Together they sat near the front with her family and friends. Ben was standing up at the front with his mates, looking very nervous. Twenty minutes passed before the bride had arrived. The guests all stood as the little flower girls, both Maya's and Ben's, walked down the aisle, throwing flowers along the way but were giggling and kept getting distracted. Then it was the ring boys who were close to the girl's ages, followed by the three bridesmaids. The music began as Maya and her father walked together down the aisle. She had a beautiful lace dress which had a Queen Anne collar and short flowing sleeves. The bodice was hand made and had little crystals sewn in the middle of the flower designs. She looked absolutely stunning and very happy.

The ceremony continued on, it was seriously perfect. Their vows were their own and it brought tears to both their eyes. Gab felt Cillian slip his hand in hers and squeeze gently. She looked up and he smiled at her, she returned it. She looked back when they exchanged rings... She wondered if she was ever going to get married.

Once the ceremony ended, the Croatian band started and played music as they walked out followed by the bridal party then soon after the guests. Everyone gathered in front of the church and took a photo, then a big circle was formed and the bride and groom danced to the music. People clapped and cheered, more photos taken and people congratulated them. The bride and groom eventually left to go have their photos taken, some people headed back to their hotel rooms or straight to the reception that was being held at the Hunter Valley Gardens.

Gab and Cillian headed back to their hotel with her parents in tow. They all relaxed in the garden as it was cooler, Leo had brought drinks and they had some. Gab stuck with her lemon lime and bitters. Music played from the boom box she brought along, the kids asleep, the air warm but not to much to cause you to sweat. Then it was time to get ready, Gabrijela changing into her other dress, Cillian helping with the lace back. She laughed when he gripped her hips and pulled her close, kissing her shoulder then to her neck. She tangled her fingers in his hair, "Don't, babe. You know what will happen."

"Just don't think about it." He said, coming to her jaw.

"Bastard." She was turned around to face him and she planted her hands on his chest. "I. Love. You."

"And I. Love. You. Too." He leaned in and kissed her softly, "You look really beautiful."

"Thank you. You look really handsome." She smiled and fixed his hair.

He took her face in his hands gently and he smiled, "Shall we go?"

"We shall." They kissed and pulled away and headed out and soon left to go to the gardens. It was done outside with a huge marquis that was decked out in a very boho, natural theme. Pretty lightbulbs hung from the beams above (which looked like branches), the poles were designed to look like tree trunks with curling flowering vines. The tables had three types of designs, one had the red wattle, yellow kangaroo paws and the eucalyptus flower with leaves sprinkled on the tables. The bridal table was similar but much more extravagant with flowers draped at the front with fairy lights woven between them and as the backdrop to.

Gabrijela took the stem of rosemary from the basket, it had a red, blue and white ribbon at the end and she pinned it to Cillian's jacket lapel.

"What is this for?" Cillian asked.

"All Croatian weddings have this. Each guest gets it. Tradition says it wards off evil spirits and that guests then give money." She pointed to the box. "Though, you would give a card instead of just dumping it in." She held the card up and grinned before she put it in the box. "I already bought her a gift, a Smeg Toaster that will match her other Smeg items in their new house."

Cillian chuckled, "Nice." He took her hand as they walked to their table. They were seated with her friends, Elijah at her side.

"Please tell me she won't be on our table?" Gab asked Elijah.

"Sadly she will be, but don't you worry. We got you." He hugged her a little and squeezed her shoulder. "Also you look fantastic. You both do."

"Thanks, Eli." Gab smiled a little before she sighed. "Ah fuck." Gab cursed when she saw Lucia walk in what looked like a much older man.

"Now that is a first," Karsyn said with a raised brow, he was seated beside Cillian.

"What the hell." Gab groaned.

"It's going to be okay." Cillian gripped her hand, touching her face, "I love you."

Gab smiled and touched his hand as Lucia beamed, "Hi guys! Good to see you all." She exclaimed.

"Nice to see you too," Elijah said with a tight smile.

Karsyn only ignored her and talked to his fiancee.

"Well, this is David. My boyfriend." She introduced the sketchy looking dude. Lucia told him each of their names before they sat down. The vibe on the table was weird since no one was really talking to Lucia. Gab kept her attention on Cillian, showing him something on her phone.

"So! Gab-gab, how have you been?" Lucia chimed in, beaming.

Gab looked up, "It's Gabrijela. I've been fine." She leaned into Cillian's side, gripping his thigh.

David seemed intrigued but he didn't talk, keeping mostly to himself.

"That's good. You like my handsome boyfriend? He's super sweet. He's also from Ireland to. We both have guys who got in common. Should hang out." Lucia nodded.

Gabrijela bit her bottom lip and took a quick glance at her friends who also seemed like 'WTF'. "Uh, don't know. I'm quite busy."

"I'm sure we will find a day! I'll message you. Did you change your number? Been trying to get back to you." Lucia frowned.

"Uh. Yeah-"

"Oh then please, give it to me. I want to organise a day-" Lucia started.

"No. I will not. I'm busy, Lucia. I have no time to meet up with you." Gabrijela already felt annoyed and she felt embarrassed for her boyfriend who was trying to tell Lucia to stop.

"Why not? I want to see you again." She pouted, tears in her eyes. "I miss you!" She cried. David grabbed her and hushed her, whispering fast to her and she was whimpering.

"Jesus." Gabrijela turned away from her, shaking her head. "I'm already fucking sick of her." Gabrijela felt that second-hand embarrassment.

"It's okay. I'm here for you." Cillian rubbed her arms gently then took her hands and brought them to his lips. He looked at Lucia who was staring at him with clear vile anger. He only looked back to his love and kissed her forehead.

No one talked to Lucia despite she was trying to chat up the ladies on the table. Very light conversation before she finally got the gist of it.

Eventually, the bride and groom had arrived. The bridal party went first in, each couple had their own song they danced to as they entered followed by Ben and Maya. They picked a lovely Croatian song and they danced together in the middle of the dance floor. Then they parted after it was done and took their spots on the table.

Their MC, Maya's cousin, welcomed everyone and complimented the bridal party and the couple before he sneaked in some jokes before he departed. The first-course meal was then brought out soon after, people were chatting, music was playing. There was going to be a live band, she could see it. She loved live Croatian bands, and these guys were good.

Lucia got up to go talk to some people she saw, leaving poor David alone.

"Hey mate." Elijah spoke up, smiling at the man, "I gotta ask, what are you doing with her?"

"With Lucia? Like anyone else, dating her." David sat a little straighter.

"Right. Right." Elijah sat back.

"I'd like to ask why you all gave her such a cold greeting. Are you not her closest friends? Especially you?" David looked at Gab.

"Was. She's no longer our friend." Gabrijela said. She wondered if Lucia had even told David why they never spoke. It looked like he was quite confused.

"That doesn't mean you should give her the cold shoulder." David frowned, "She's proven to be an actual lovely girl."

"Oh? So you know what she did?" Gabrijela asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Yes. She told me she made a mistake with sleeping with your now ex. She truly wants to make it up to you." David replied.

"Yeah. No. She did not make that mistake. She wanted it." Gabrijela scoffed, shaking her head. Cillian gripped her thigh, squeezing to remind her to stay calm.

"Have you ever spoken to her about it? She said you just dropped her." David cocked an eyebrow.

"Of course. I won't be dealing with people who cheat. I've dealt with people like that, don't need it in my life." Gab replied smoothly.

"But you should-" David began.

"Listen, mate. She said she doesn't want to be friends with her. Drop it. Besides, how long have you been dating Lucia?" Elijah cut him off.

"Three months," David said.

"Right. And you understand that she was causing some shit with us, as well?"

"Yes but-"

"No buts here. Just understand that she's cut deep wounds with us all and we aren't the type to just happily oblige her just because she throws a tantrum. You just saw it yourself." Elijah said, his eyes hard.

David frowned and glanced at Gabrijela and her man then sighed and sat back, arms crossed.

Gabrijela looked away and saw Maya looking at them, she gave her a smile of reassurance and a promise they would talk later.

It wasn't long when it came to the first dance. Gabrijela explained to Cillian the meaning behind the song and how much it meant to Maya and Ben. He found it quite romantic as they watched the pair dance. The rest of the bridal party danced until anyone else may come up.

"Shall we?" Gabrijela turned to Cillian.

"Dance?" He asked.

"Yeah. Come on, my love." She said as she stood up and took his hands. They walked to the dance floor and he spun her before he pulled her close. They swayed to the music, her head resting on his chest. She imagined them on their wedding day like this.

"You make me so unbelievably happy, Cillian." She said, her eyes shut.

His lips brushed her forehead, his thumb ran over her knuckles slowly, "I can say the same for you. You are truly a woman I love."

She loved that word in his accent, it made her shiver, "My Cillian." She looked up at him and leaned up to kiss him softly.

He smiled and they pressed foreheads. Maya made an 'aw' sound as they came close.

"You two are so cute!" She beamed and broke away from Ben to hug Gabrijela.

Gab laughed as she hugged her friend back as Cillian shook hands with Ben, "Congrats. You look so good! Ugh!"

"Thanks. Oh my god. I love this dress. It suits you so well!" Maya beamed. The girls gushed over each other before they danced, their men stood off to the side to talk.

"I have something really important to tell you and the gang," Gab said to Maya as they twirled.

"Oh? How important?" Maya asked with a smile.

"Very. After all the formalities are done we all meet under the willow tree." Gab giggled.

"Oooh, secrets. I love secrets." Maya mused.

They parted as the dance ended and they all took their seats once more. It was time to do the speeches, which were very sweet, a lot of tears from both Maya, Ben and Maya's dad and Ben's best man. The speeches really tugged at the heartstrings. Even for Gabrijela. Then it was time to cut the cake, which of course almost turned out into a food fight but Maya wasn't having it. Once the cake was taken away and people calmed down it was time to throw the bouquet and Gabrijela was up on her feet.

"Hey! You aren't single!" Elijah shouted.

"Don't care!" Gab stuck her tongue out as all the girls gathered. Music played as Maya swayed and messed around... Then threw the flowers. The girls cried out and reached for it... Gab caught it as she tittered to the side and fell down as she laughed.

"Woo!" She yelled as Cillian rushed to her side.

"You okay my love?" He asked, eyes wide.

"I am. I am." She giggled and kissed him as he helped her to her feet. "Now it's your turn." She said as Maya came over.

"You good? Holy crap you were determined." Maya laughed.

"Yep! I was!" She nodded as they took a picture together.

"What do you mean it's my turn?" Cillian asked as they pulled away.

"You'll see." Gabbie pulled him back to the table as it was now Ben's turn.

Ben had done a whole 'Magic Mike' kinda dance for Maya who was red as a tomato. He stripped and paraded around her before he got to his knees and went under her skirts. She laughed and giggled as he finally took out the garter.

"Up you go, babe. Go catch it." Gab whispered to him.

"Oh, God." He laughed and stood to join the boys.

"Don't you hurt him!" Gab yelled, pointing at Ben's brothers and cousins.

Ben also did the teasing before he threw it. Gab gasped as the group surged forward... Cillian came out victorious! He laughed as he was bear-hugged by the group and Gabrijela was called up. They took photos together then with the bride and groom before Cillian and Gabrijela began to dance. It was an old tradition that they would do this. They did a bit of a jig together and laughed and mucked around, people cheering and clapping.

It was time to sit down as dessert came out, chocolate fudge cake. Gabrijela groaned as the dish was set before her, Cillian getting some type of ice-cream and some other cake. "Let's share," Gab said and they did, going half and half with their dishes.

Gab waited when Lucia decided to leave and she whispered to Elijah and Karsyn to follow her. They all got up, including the wives as they walked out to the willow tree. Gab waited back as her friends had all gathered there and looked up at Cillian, "You still okay with me telling them?" She asked him. They had discussed on the drive that Gabrijela would tell her friends about her being pregnant. They both agreed they would do it tonight.

"I'm perfectly fine with this. I swear it. Your friends deserve to know and I am more than happy to tell them." He squeezed her hands.

Gabbie beamed and together they went to their group of friends.

"Spill it, girlie." Maya grinned.

"Well..." Gabbie glanced at Cillian then back at her friends. "I'm pregnant!"

There was a moment and Maya was the one who gasped, "Really? Oh my god!"

"Yep! I am!" Gabrijela laughed as she was crushed against her friend's body in a tight hug.

"Congratulations!" Karsyn and Elijah said as they all hugged each other.

"When are you due?" Maya asked.

"Don't know. Maybe October or November if my calculations are right." Gabrijela giggled as Cillian pulled her close.

"Are you excited?" Ben asked Cillian.

"Oh very much so. I can't wait." Cillian grinned and looked down at Gabrijela.

There was excited chatter among her friends, and they eventually found out they were all first to know before her family. That was another obstacle to get across.

"What's all this excitement?" Lucia had wandered over and looked at everyone, "And why was I left out of it?"

Everyone turned to look at her, "None of your business." Elijah smiled.

"Is someone pregnant?" Lucia continued, "Who? C'mon, tell me." She crossed her arms.

"None. Of. Your. Business." Elijah said again, "No one needs to tell you anything."

"I wasn't asking you." She snapped at Elijah. "Ladies? Someone gonna tell me?"

"No." Gabrijela frowned, "Elijah is right. We don't need to tell you shit." She said, "Come on, let's go back inside." Gab said and walked with Cillian, holding his hand.

Everyone followed inside, leaving Lucia alone.

The night continued with more dancing and taking silly photos in the photo booth. Gabrijela and Cillian headed into the garden again where they kissed under a tree for some time where things began to grow hotter until Elijah, Karsyn and Ben ruined the fun. Gab was happy her friends were super supportive of their relationship, the boys loved Cillian, they acted mature but also had heaps of fun.

Gab couldn't get her eyes off Cillian the whole time, and Maya kept teasing her about it.

"Shut up." Gab rolled her eyes, shoving her friend a little.

"Nah. Not when you got googly eyes and drooling all over yourself." Maya laughed.

"Sorry, can't help that my boyfriend is a total snack." Gabbie mused.

"And cheers to that!" Maya beamed and they clinked glasses.

The girls chatted with each other before Gab spotted her parents looking around before their gazes fell on to Gab and wandered over.

"Gab, we need to chat." Her father said with a firm tone. "Alone."

Gabrijela frowned but her friends all got up and left, Maya mouthing 'Come to me if you need it' and turned to go.

"Okay... What's up?" Gab was confused as to why her father looked so grim. And angry.

"Well, is there something you'd like to tell us?" Her father stared at her, his scowl was clear.

"Tell you... What?" Gabrijela seemed more confused than anything.

"Gabrijela, don't play dumb. We know you are pregnant." Her father snapped.

Gab winced and her eyes widened, "What?" She had no words.

"Lucia told us. You told your friends first without consulting with us." Her father continued.

"You should have told us so we can discuss whether you will be keeping it or not." Her mother added.

"Well, I was planning to." Gab restrained her anger, "But I wasn't going to tell you yet. I wanted to make it a surprise. But it seems you both are not happy I am pregnant, am I correct?"

"Of course not. I've never been happy with this relationship either, I do not see a good future with this man at all. Why couldn't you be with someone closer to your age? Why must you waste away your life-"

"First of all," Gab cut her father off, glaring at him, "It is none of your damn business on who I date. I love Cillian, for who he is. Not because he is an older man. I never cared about it, I care about how he treats me and how we are together. You should be happy he makes me happy." She said with a clear, hard voice. No way would she let her parents trample over her like this.

"And does he know about you being pregnant?" Her mother scoffed a little.

"Of course. And we have a plan about when I am due, he will spend the few weeks here with me. Supporting me." Gab straightened her shoulders. She wouldn't let them shit on Cillian either.

Her parents let out a sigh, "And through it? How will he support you here when he isn't here?" Her father asked.

"Of course he can't come with me to the appointments so I have Maya to help me with it. Why does it matter? He is dedicated to me and with this baby, he will do whatever he can to help me." Gabrijela said.

But the next words that came from her mother hurt the most, "Darling, I do not think this is a good idea. How will your child grow up with an old man who won't be able to keep up? I know this is hard but we can talk to a doctor about-"

Gabrijela stood, tears forming in her eyes, "How dare you! Don't you talk to me about aborting my child! Of all the people, I thought you'd be happy or at least kind about this! I cannot believe you'd think I'd choose to rid my child."

"Baby, what's going on?" Cillian had rushed over when he heard her raised voice and had seen the trio interact.

"I just- God! You are unbelievably cruel!" She was crying now, tears streaming down her face.

"Damnit Gabrijela, you are ruining your life! This whole thing is a mistake, why couldn't you just behave yourself?" Her father stood, "I do not accept what you have with this man, or what you are carrying. You are no daughter to me."

The words speared her heart, "I HATE YOU! FUCK YOU!" Gabrijela screamed and turned and ran off.

Cillian turned to her father, having had enough of this, "How could you say that to your own daughter?" Fuck being nice. This was his love and future mother to his child. "What a terrible thing to say, you should be comforting her and aiding her. Not turn her away." He shook his head, "I love her, I love our child. There is nothing you can do about it. I'd like you to reconsider your words to her and make peace if you have the heart to do so." Cillian turned and ran after Gabrijela.

Her parents were in shock but had not said anything else after him.

Gabrijela was in the bathroom, crying in one of the stalls. Maya was there, trying to comfort her and hold her. Cillian didn't care and came in, "Gabbie? My love?" He came to the closed door, he could see Maya's white dress underneath it.

Maya opened the door and let Cillian in, who gathered Gab into his arms.

"I hate them," She cried into his chest, "I can't believe they even had the guts to say such cruel things."

"Shh, I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere." He stroked her hair gently, rocking her a little.

They spent like that for a bit before he managed to walk her out, they headed out of the venue where he cleaned her face up, Maya and the rest of her friends there with her.

Though, Elijah was inside with his fiancée who was trying to calm him down and not go after Lucia who was smirking like a cat. But he didn't need to as Maya came over with her husband and told Lucia to leave.

The girl made a huge deal and a tantrum, her boyfriend super embarrassed as he had to literally lift her and carry her out of the place.  

When Gab seemed to recover, Cillian held her hand as he sat beside her, his jacket around her shoulders. "I love you." He said softly, cupping her cheek and turning to face him.

She smiled a little, "I know. I love you too." She rested her head on his shoulder and he kissed her head.

"Nothing will stop me from loving you. Or our child." His hand slid over her stomach.

"You are perfect, Cillian. You really are." She looked up at him, "My handsome love." She kissed him deeply.

His arms slid around her and they kissed passionately, "When we head home, I'll make you a fantastic bath." He murmured against her lips.

"Yeah? Will you be in there, a bow on your head?" She giggled softly.

"Sure, if we have one." He pecked her lips.

She was feeling a little better but she was still hurting, "Well, long as you are there, that matters most."

"Mmm, yeah." He leaned back in and kissed her again.

"Hey, come on you two. We're going to say good-bye to Maya and Ben." Elijah broke them up.

The pair stood and walked back in, hand in hand. Everyone stood in a circle as the newlywed couple went around to each person to say good-bye. Her brothers had already left earlier because of the kids and they had a long drive home tomorrow.

Eventually, they had left after another dance and the party continued on.

Gab danced with Cillian and her other friends, not meeting her parent's eyes. By midnight the party finished and Maya's remaining family cleaned up, as well as Gab and Cillian and her parents. Once that was over they drove back to the motel in total silence. Cillian took to the wheel despite Gabrijela telling him not to.

Now at the motel, Gabrijela didn't say goodnight to her parents and simply went to her room with Cillian. She undressed as he prepared a bath, cleaned her face and combed her hair before tying it up in a bun.

Cillian had finished with the bath and she wandered over, he was undressing as well and she couldn't help but watch him. "Sexy." She purred.

He laughed, facing her full-on, "That's you. Come on, let's get in." He said and helped her in before he slid behind her. He set up some music for them to listen to as they relaxed in silence. Cillian could feel Gab falling asleep and woke her up before he washed her. He got out with her and dried her and dressed her in one of his shirts and boxers.

Together they slipped into bed, him being the big spoon.

"I love you." She murmured softly.

"I love you too." He replied gently, kissing the back of her neck.

They both eventually fell asleep.

 The Next Day...

 Gab was glad her parents weren't coming in the same car to Maya's after-party at her parent's house. Cillian had agreed as well as they packed the car. Soon they were on the road to the country house where they were able to stay the night as well.

The party was only close friends and family, it was a clear but hot day. It was all outside but undercover thankfully. A Croatian band was playing and a little dance floor was set out.

It was nice, Gab thought. She loved weddings and always dreamed of being married to someone she loved, and she gazed at Cillian once more with that cute, small smile.

"What?" He asked as he looked at her, they were dancing.

"Nothin'. Just admiring you." She said. She wore a short yellow summer dress with white polka dots. She still had his necklace he gave her all those months ago.

"Uh-huh." He said and kissed her softly as they swayed.

The afternoon continued on with plenty of laughter, food, dancing, singing and drinking. The majority had gone home by four, but the party kept going well into the night.

Gab had fallen asleep in the egg chair as her friends chatted around her, and Cillian had come over to pick her up and take her up to the spare bedroom. He undressed her and went back down to say goodnight to everyone before he joined his love in bed.

She had rolled and snuggled close to his side, mumbling something but kept on sleeping.

He stayed awake a little, watching her peaceful state. He let his mind think and wonder, feeling totally blessed to have her with him. Tomorrow, he thought, he needed to go out to the shops and buy a few things before they left to go to their camping trip on Wednesday.

He knew what he had to do and he was nervous about it.

[judgement-free-sideblog]

Blood, tears and sea breeze

Warnings: ANGST, mental health issues, graphic depictions of violence, blood, cursing, mentions of sexual assault, mentions of sex, substance abuse.

Summary: The not so peaceful town of Broadchurch face dead again, while Alec Hardy continues his journey to redemption will this school teacher be the key to solve the mystery or just another victim of the ever watching evilness that seems to reside in the town.

Notes: My OC Derek Ramos is basically Anthony Ramos (Hamilton) I love him, he is cute and sexy and so freaking talented, and I frankly just wanted to write a story about him, but the In the Heights movie won't be happening any time soon, so I settled for this.

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Chapter 16: Inappropriate

Common sense and logical thinking, as Doctor Florence used to say when you were just a kid, whenever you felt ike you were losing control you needed to found the logical thing to do, and that would calm your anxiety before you have an episode, and usually it worked, most of the time anyway.

What was the logical thing to do now? None of the actions you have been taking the last weeks were logical, and common sense was urging you to stand up and run away from him, but the soft touch of his hands on the small of your back and the warm breath of his mouth were proving to be more calming than any rational thinking.

His lips felt soft on yours and maybe also scared, but he had no hesitation and you have seen the quiet need in his eyes, and you could almost cry since this was the first time in weeks since someone had kissed you, and sadly the first time in months since someone had that actual desire and need on his eyes before kissing you, he doubted for a second the moment you start returning the kiss with the hunger and longing for physical contact that had been denied to you; but he kept you close to him enough for you to feel his heart beating hard and fast on his chest, and you were desperate to know how would it feel under his shirt.

His touch became tighter on your waist and your body was moving on it's own trying to climb on his lap obeying some muscular memory on how familiar it felt, not like they were similar in any way, but he gave you the safe feeling He used to provoke on you, and you finally open your eyes... for a moment you were convinced that a pair of playful blue eyes will receive you with a cheeky grin, but instead there were those sad brown eyes darkened with desire, and logical thinking choose the worst possible moment to start working again.

You broke contact immediately, and felt a little hurt that he didn't tried to stop you when you muttered a little "I'm sorry" and run straight to his room closing thee door behind you and finally letting the tears consume you.

Jonathan's memory deserved better than this reckless and selfish behavior, and Detective Hardy deserved a free woman, free from all the horrors in your past, free from a dead fiance whom you still loved deeply, and free from all the problems you tended to cause. Also you were not entirely sure but it seems like he and Detective Miller had a thing going, and you would never get in between two people, it was a harmful and indecent thing to do specially to people who were as nice and considerate as them.

You could hear him pacing on the hallway outside the door and you wanted to get outside and tell him how much you really wanted to kiss him and maybe more, but you were broken at the moment and how bad idea it was, you wanted to tell him desperately how much you enjoyed kissing him, how his lips bring you back to life and how for a moment all the sadness disappeared, and how much you appreciate all the things he have done for you, and how you bring sadness and trouble to anyone around you so you have to walk away from him before you drag him to your darkness and ruin his life.

Because for god sake Y/N! Your mind told you once he stopped and turned off the light of the hallway, you were a fucking witness/ suspect on a murder case, his bloody career will be in the trash if someone knew that he did as much as looking at you as something more.

No, this was better, you could hide there at least until he left for work the next day and after that... well you will figure it out once the sun were up. You sitted on the bed trying to take Jonathan's disappointed and hurt face away from your thoughts, but two hours later when Daze entered the house you were still awake, ot wasn't until after 4:00 am that the fatigue defeated you and finally closed your eyes.

***

Olly Stevens was waiting outside Ashley Langford's La Boheme deli, holding a tray with two cups of coffee, and saw detective Harford approach him in civilian clothes she pointed to an empty table in the terrace and he followed her.

"Detective, you look as gorgeous as usual, may I offer you a coffee" He said again with exaggerate reverence but before the woman could roll her eyes at him a strong hand took the tray off his hand and gave Harford one of the drinks and took the other for him.

"Oh that's really considerate from you sir" a handsome man with short curly hair and sweet and compassionate eyes sitted next to Katie and offered him his hand. "I'm DC Ramos, you can call me Derek"

"Hi Detective, I'm Olly Stevens, I'm the Broadchurch Eco editor, how can I help you?" Harford smile to his inside since Stevens would act professionally now that other man was in the scene, I was completely ridiculous and insulting, but she had to admit that Ramos had potential and she secretly wanted to spend some more time with him.

"Did you found what I asked you?" She said once he put out a couple folders.

"It wasn't easy, I had to promise a janitor a two page story on how unfair their working conditions are" he said giving her what seemed to be photocopies of a C. Langford medical record.

"And they don't have unfair working conditions?" Harford asked.

"They do, but that doesn't sell newspapers" he said and have her a wink that was received by a dead glare. "Anyway here are the old newspapers you asked for" He said giving a voluminous binder that detective Ramos took. "Now what can you tell me about Jonathan Norbury's case, anything interesting?"

"Absolutely nothing, but we appreciate your collaboration, and once we have something that would sell newspapers you'll be the first to know" Detective Ramos said with a bright smile and Olly couldn't hide the disappointment on his face and after some more small talk he left them alone.

"Did you get the old records that I asked you?" She said once they were on her car.

"I did, they are not digital so is a lot of paperwork he said pointing at a voluminous box in the back "Is gonna take us forever Katie"

"Us? They are not paying us for this you know? I mean you don't have to be here" she said and his eyes went sad for a second and she feared he felt unwelcome when she was actually delighted that he wanted to help.

"Well I know that the files came from a shady reporter, I can't leave you alone now" He said hopefully and she put a serious face for a moment.

"Fine, but I can't take work home, my apartment is tiny and they are renovating the ceiling so is a lot of noise"

"Well you can come to my place, I mean if you want to" he said nervously, and she found him endearing.

"Sure, we can order take out if this gets too long" He smiled with that happiness that reach his eyes and gave her the address so they would start search on Charles Langford's past.

***

"I'm going to beat that bastard" Father Coats said loudly causing a few of the penitent in the church to look at the confession booth.

"Seal of confession father" You said and you could guess the way he was brushing his hair to the back of his head as he used to when he was nervous or angry, or in this case both.

"That only works if I didn't knew who you are" He said sarcastically, since he would have recognized your voice in any place.

"Well then pretend you don't, or better yet, talk to me as my friend" you said to him in the stubborn tone you knew drive him insane.

"If this was a talk among friends I could actually have a word with detective Hardy" He said and you rolled your eyes angry because he was right.

"Well then father, tell me if I'm burning in hell for being a loose woman" you said after a while.

"No more than him" He started and you knew he was joking, was that allowed? For him to make jokes in there? "I can only absolve you if you feel repented, but something tells me you don't, and if that is the case I think there is not such thing as a sin, is terribly inappropriate, and I'm sure if you choose to continue with this you would be jeopardizing Jonathan's murder investigation" He said after thinking throughly the situation.

"Well we wouldn't be the only ones misbehaving right?" You said and you could swear you felt the color rising to his face.

"We are not discussing my personal life here, and there is nothing happening there for your information" He said defensive, he finish with the confession and you follow him outside where Daze was helping some children arrange some flowers for the altar.

"It looks amazing Dasy" you said and she smiled, apparently she pretended to become a teacher eventually and she was searching for opportunities to be around children.

"Thanks Y/N my dad is coming to pick us, I text him we were here" she said and your plan to avoid him fall apart.

"DI Hardy" Father Coats said once he got inside the church.

"Paul" he said with a dry tone, he look sadder than usual and you felt guilty for it. "Are you ready?"

"Can I stay longer?"Dasy said and you wish she could read your mind so she won't left you alone with him, although you hope he would say no, but for your surprise he agreed.

You didn't have time to think when you were already walking towards his car, but before you get back to be reclusive in his room yo thought at least you owe him an explanation.

"Alec I..."

"Y/N I'm sorry..." you spoke at the same time and he immediately shut up when he heard his name on your lips, you haven't call him that yet, but he didn't seem mad. "Go ahead" he said and he stop walking next to the car.

"Can I drive?" You said after a moment and for all answer he gave you his keys and you climb on the driver's seat.

The drive was silent, but relaxing somehow, you had a place in mind to go, and you were sure he knew where were you going but he seemed uneasy once you start walking up towards Danny Latimer's cliff, your pants were now damp by the grass but you didn't care.

You finally reached the top and sited on the grass looking at the ocean, he looked at you concerned but eventually he sited next to you.

"What are you sorry for?" You said finally.

"Well my behavior last night was... " He started taking off guard by the question.

"Inappropriate?" You said remembering Paul words "Well is not like I didn't wanted you to kiss me" you said and you could see relief in his face, and suddenly it was clear, he wasn't mad with you for running away but with himself for making advances on you. "He proposed here you know?" You said fighting the tears and trying to search for the right words to explain yourself.

"Did he?" He said with a cautious tone.

"Yeah, he hated being outdoors, city boy you know?" You laughed remembering Jonathan tired face when you reached the top and he finally put down the picking basket on the floor, and the pain start pressuring your chest "He bring me here because he knew I love this place"

"It's quite nice" he said and offered you a handkerchief.

"Thanks" you took it and clean your eyes smearing some lipstick on the fabric. "I keep thinking about how manny weeks are until our wedding day" You said and he looked confused "I keep questioning me if things had been different... I want to believe that if things had been different I would have ask you your name in one of your appointments with Dr. Florence, and maybe... I don't know maybe I would have postponed my wedding because I was not sure anymore..." you said elaborating the childish dreams and ideas that you told yourself to justify your actions.

"I'm sure you wouldn't have postponed it" he said not understanding where you wanted to go with this.

"Or maybe I would have married him anyway and eventually I would have cheated him with you" You said bitterly "Not like what I did was much different"

"You didn't cheat on him" He said vehemently and he didn't need to elaborate because you could imagine that by now he must know more about Jonathan life than you.

"We hadn't have sex in months and I felt like he was repulsed by me in the end... I'm not justifying him, but that's the truth, I thought that it was wedding nerves, but I was to naive apparently, you must know of course if he cheated on me" you said.

"You know I can't discuss deatails of the case..."He said but that was all the confirmation you needed.

"I know that, and if he was it doesn't make right what I did, I was just not ready to have feelings for someone else so soon, and I feel like by having them I somehow love him less... I should be the one apologizing because I wanted you to kiss me and more..."

"You don't have to apologize, I shouldn't have act upon my feelings, but I'm glad you are not offended by them" he said and you gave him a small smile.

"Why would I? You are a handsome wonderful man, and if I'm honest I feel more free next to you than I have in the last five months of my life, I just wish that maybe the timing had been different"

"I would have asked you your name" he said after a while and you nodded, it was so peaceful up there. "Maybe several months after we met, maybe too late for anything to happen"

"Now what?" You asked standing up after him.

"We go back, and we pretend this didn't happen" he said, and you agreed, logical thinking "and maybe when this over..." he started with hope in his eyes.

"Alec, could you be honest with me?" He nodded as a response "Do you think I did it?"

"I don't" he said, it wasn't a emotional declaration, it was just a fact for him, he was completely sure you didn't do it.

You look straight into his eyes and evaluate the situation, he was right that was the logical, rational, and correct thing to do, but...

"I don't want to be too late" You said and you kissed him, waiting that maybe he would be rational and reject you, but he closed his arms around your back and kissed you with the same intensity of the night before or maybe more, both of you knew this was dangerous, reckless, irresponsible and completely inappropriate, but you couldn't care less.

Tag list:

@allonsymexgirl @laciesaito @tf18unipups @dazedkrosupreme @timey-wimey-lovi @coffees-and-constellations @ladyaziraphale @acid-gurkerl

[jenomark]

➔Pairing: Hendery x Reader (Female) ➔Other Members/ Characters: Kun + WinWin ➔Genre: Angst ➔Warnings: Sad, bad life choices ➔Word count: 4,429

➔Summary: Told as if you’re talking to your conscience, it’s a story of two people who, realistically, shouldn’t be together. You’re engaged to Kun, but you’ve always been in love with Hendery. Seeing him again, after two years, is making it difficult for you not to lose your mind.

  Letting go is really hard. I don’t mean letting go of yourself, or maybe someone like you, but really letting go of the things you can’t change, like, fads or, maybe, perhaps time. You can’t take those little hands around the clock and turn it to a new number. Once your number is up, it’s up, and you can’t go back. You just can’t, and I’m sorry. It won’t be the same. I’ve warned you.

“Kun and I met through friends.” you had told Hendery when you and Kun started dating. What you meant to say was: I met this man, and he’s not you. I look at him hoping to see you staring back at me, but he is still not you, and he never will be you. I can’t go back. I can’t hold your massive- uh- hand and turn back the clock. It’s too late for me, for us.

  Marriage. It’s a funny word, isn’t it? What is so funny about it, you ask. Well, I will tell you. It’s funny when it comes from your lips, because you believe you aren’t the type of person who gets married. Proposals certainly don’t come by in the shape of romance, not for someone like you, or, that is the excuse you give yourself. You’re scared, just like anyone would be. All you ever do is look back, but you don’t need me to tell you that. 

“Baby?”  Kun called. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Is everything okay? It’s just that, well, you’ve been in there for twenty minutes and I need to…..pee.”

“I’ll be right out!” you said. “I just need to...”

 To what? What brilliant thing will you come up with?  I think we’re all dying to know. Shame on you for even thinking about him now. Shame on you for thinking about him ever. Hendery is the past, and Kun is the present. It’s time to stop now.

  “You haven’t stopped twirling your engagement ring around your finger,” Kun said. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes!” you said. “Everything is great!”

  Dial back the excitement, dear, he’s going to catch on to you. You sit back in the car and give him the innocent idiot look that made him fall in love with you. This time, it doesn’t work too well. You are not innocent.

“You only do that when you’re worried.” Kun pointed out.

“Oh? I do?”

“Yes.”

  You want to knock your conscience (a.k.a. me) back into your skull. You want to knock me to the ground and, with a kick to my windpipe, force me to stop telling the truth. I’m not the one romanticizing the way he fluffs up his hair, or the way he looks at you like you’re a….a...woman. Deep down, you knew he was in love with you just as much as you were in love with him, but we’re not going to think about him. Not on this day, even if it will be the first time you’ve seen him in two years.

“I’m not worried,” you said. “Everything is fine.”

  Kun is lovely. You repeat it in your head, like a mantra: Kun is lovely. Kun is everything you’ve ever wanted. He’s funny. He treats you better than anyone has in a long time. His family loves you to pieces. He’s good at sex, good at caring for you, at keeping you sane. If you’re the little hand, Kun is the big hand leading you forward. Don’t fuck this up.

“I hope you’ll be very happy.” Hendery had said. Flashbacks are never good. You remember the tone of his voice well, the way he smiled like it was a punctuation end to the conversation. His words, they echo in your head when you least expect them to. You replay them when you miss hearing the sound of his voice. You’re not proud of what you do, and at least that is something, but you’re not unhappy about it either. You say it’s comforting to you, but the nights you remember that tone and that smile are the nights when you can’t sleep. You’re a liar.

I try not to think about him too much.

He doesn’t think of you that way.

No, that isn’t true.

He doesn’t think about you that way, because he doesn’t think about you at all.

“Baby?” Kun called. You’re in another world where you are fighting yourself. Maybe you’re just crazy, plain and simple.

  You feel a tug on your arm and snap out of it. The car has come to a stop, and you’re in front of the church where your two best friends will be married shortly. I see the thoughts you push deep down, feel the strangeness in your chest. You’re next. You’ll put on the gown, walk down the aisle towards...Kun..and all of those unrequited feelings for someone else. You can’t keep going like this.

I can. Just watch me.

“Have you seen Hendery?” WinWin asked.

  The sound of WinWin’s voice makes you jump in your own skin. Nice. No one will ever expect you to have anything to hide. “Me? Why would I know where Hendery is?”

 Is WinWin looking at me weird?

  Absolutely. WinWin is looking at you like you’ve lost your fucking marbles. He doesn’t know, but I expect he has his theories. Get it together. Tuck your bag underneath your arm, put a smile on your face and blame it on the alcohol. Oh, not that smile. That smile is reserved for your dentist when he’s fitting your retainer. Yes, that’s a little more subtle.

“I haven’t seen him.” you said. You make eye contact a little too long. I should have warned you about how big your eyes get when you’re hiding something. “Is something wrong? Is Hendery okay?”

“Are you okay?” WinWin asked.

Oh, shit. He knows.

  He doesn’t know. I promise you. WinWin is looking at you like that because you look terrified. He sees it as pre-wedding jitters. He always found you to be quite an interesting character. Now, if you run into Ten, run the other way. That man knows everything.

“I am decent.” you said. Good. Minimal excitement. 

“It’s her ring,” Kun said. He stops next to you and puts his arm around you. “It’s bothering her.”

“It’s not-” you start to say but decide against it. Maybe I am teaching you well. “Yes, it’s my ring.”

“What’s wrong with it? WinWin asked. You know he doesn’t care. WinWin is a polite man. We’ll have to make a mental note about what his friendship means to us.

“It’s a little itchy.” you said, giving in. 

Also, it’s from the wrong man.

Will you please shut up.

“Anyway,” you said. “Enough about Hendery.”

“No one said anything about Hendery.” WinWin said. Oh, he’s puzzled. Quick, take the ring off and chuck it into the bushes. I’m sure nothing could fuck up this situation any more. 

Say it. You can act normal, for once. Stop being pathetic, go up to him after you eat, and talk to him how a normal human being talks to other normal human beings. Don’t look into those gorgeous brown eyes. Don’t, under any circumstances, smooth out the wrinkles in his jacket, or adjust his cuff links. Don’t tell him he looks handsome, because he already knows and you know what he’s like when you stroke his ego. Don’t tell him that dressed up in a suit is the way you see him in all of your fantasies.  You can talk about the weather, the bride, the groom, or your actual fiance Kun. You remember Kun, don’t you? 

Is it hot in here? I’m feeling very hot. 

Of course it’s hot. It’s nearly summer and you’re wearing ten pounds of make-up on your face to cover up the fact that you’re not sleeping well. How can you have him in your life again if you can’t even function around him? It was never this way before...not since..

Two years ago.

Two years can change a lot. You know that time can change a lot of things. I mean it when I say that you can never go back, but, what if you could? Would you go back to being that girl? You didn’t like yourself when you didn’t exist in his orbit. He played with you too much.

No, he wasn’t playing. He didn’t know how I truly felt.

He did. He was scared.

“Are you going to move forward?” a voice asks.

“I’m sorry?”

 You turn around and see the groom's great aunt trying to push you up the buffet line. You balance your plate with Kun’s, like a circus performer, and move along. I honestly don’t know what sane person would choose to have a buffet at their wedding reception. The line is so long and everyone keeps shoving each other. Also, they’re out of the food you like. Pity.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, but she’s gone. “I’m just really sorry.”

  You take a deep breath and look around for Hendery. I won’t tell you not to do it, because you’ve already made up your mind. The man that everyone seems to be looking for is nowhere to be found. He’s like that, sometimes. Like smoke, you can never quite get a good grasp on him. He stinks up your lungs and makes it harder for you to breathe. Please, if you take away anything from my wisdom, keep your eyes down and keep it moving. Hendery is not good for you. Let him go.

I should. I will. I know it’s wrong, but first love burns strong. Oh, that rhymes.

Get a grip.

  You close your eyes and think of nice, happy thoughts: Kun getting down on one knee and asking you to marry him. Romantic and true to how you wanted it, you were so happy that day. Someone loves you. Kun loves your good qualities, your bad ones, too. And your mother’s face, do you remember? She was so happy when she knew that someone could finally treat you the way you deserved. Those are some beautiful things to think about.

“Two plates?” he asked. “You must be very hungry.”

  Oh my, it is too late. His voice fills you up. I know it, because I can feel it in every part of me. He thrills you in the way that Kun could never. He lights you up, from wick to end. You shine like the sun when he looks at you.

  In utter shock, you turn around to face him. You can draw his face from memory: sweet smile, strong jaw, eyes that look up at you like they’re chaining you to him. You see him, and everything from your hands comes crashing down to the floor. People look at the mess, at your mortified face, and at Hendery kindly kneeling to pick up the pieces. You bastard. Why do you always pick up the pieces? She doesn’t need you to do that for her.

“Fuck.” you said. 

  You kneel down beside him. Frantically, you pick up the pieces of broken plate. Your hands are shaking, your hair falling out of its bun. You can’t bring yourself to look into his eyes, because you’re scared he’ll see the cracks in your life, his light seeping in through them. You watch your fingers until he says your name. That’s when I know that I’ve lost you. You’ve always loved the way he spoke your name, the first letter coming out soft as a whisper, the end getting caught in the back of his throat. You blush at the thought of his mouth. You don’t know what it’s like to kiss those lips, but you do have your fantasies.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Everyone keeps asking me that.” you said.

“But are you?” he chuckled.

   Ah, fuck. He has a soft expression. He’s showing you he cares. He’s not like Kun. Kun doesn’t see you as you are. Kun tries to color over your bad parts, sticking the pieces together like some art you pin on a fridge. Look at this life we have. Isn’t the picture perfect? Hendery sees you. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. I think we’re in love.

“No.” you said, your voice growing louder. You look at him and let out a breath you have been holding in. 

“It’s going to be okay, “ Hendery said. “It’s just plates. There are always more plates.”

“There are never more plates,” you said. “There is only one plate. There is one plate and it’s broken and there will never be more coming. You can’t fix….plates.”

  You get to your feet and start walking away. He doesn’t need to see your face to know that you aren't talking about plates. I’ve tried to protect you for as long as possible. I don’t think you’re going to listen to me anymore.

    You don’t smoke, but I feel like this is one of those times where you’re going to wish you did just so your hands can stay busy. You sit in the car alone, the window cracked to give you some air, like you’re a dog. You watch people milling about for a little while, your eyes peeking into their lives. You make up stories as you sit, but I know you’re just trying to ignore me. I make too much sense, and you don’t like that. You know I only say these things because I love you. While you sit here and play this game, I want you to know that Hendery keeps moving forward. All you’re going to see is a lock of his perfect hair as he turns the corner.

He kissed me once. On the cheek. 

And? How long will you wait with the belief that maybe he’ll veer a little to the right and kiss you again. If he wanted it, he would have. He should have stopped you before you continued anything with Kun. Remind yourself that he didn’t.

He looks handsome. Did you see him?

“Hey.” Hendery said.

  He leans his arm on the hood of the car and bends down to talk to you through the crack in the window. Up close, he smells so good. You can see the hair on his face that the razor missed, and the acne scars he hates so much. Being around him makes you feel more like yourself, which is very dangerous. 

“For fucks sake,” you sighed. “ I can’t get away from you.”

 You move to the seat next to you and look out of the car window. Hendery opens the car door and slides in next to you. As you move for the car handle, he pushes the lock button down.

“I want to talk.” he said.

“I hate you.”

  In typical Hendery fashion, he laughs like everything is a big joke to him. You can’t see it because you’re so angry, but I can see the fear in his eyes. Hendery has been waiting for this explosion for a long time. So have you. Now is the time to say it.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

“They were my friends first.” he said. 

  You look at him with fire in your eyes. I’ll admit I feel a sense of pride for you. “I meant, why are you here now? Why are you talking to me? You disappeared from my life. I didn’t get any texts, no calls, nothing.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me anymore.” he said.  He shrugs.

  “Say something else, Hendery,” you said. “Say something that makes sense. This has to stop or...I will..never..see you again.”

“We both know that’s not true,” he said. “We’ll see each other. We share the same friends.”

“I will ice you out from my life.”

“No, you won’t,” Hendery said. “I know you too well.”

“Unbelievable!” you shout. “You can’t, for one second, stop knowing everything about me? I don’t want you here. You made your choice, let me make mine. ”

 You’re gripping the seat between you. He’s looking forward, his eyes on the car floor. Do you and Kun ever clean this car? Aren’t those popcorn crumbs from the movie theater date you went on months ago? I digress, you’re not sure where to look. Everything is out in the open, and it all hurts. You sure took your hammer to the face of that clock. On one hand, I’m proud of you. On the other hand, it’s 3:30 p.m., and Kun will be looking for you soon.

“What do you want?” Hendery asked. “Don’t lie to me. Tell me exactly what you want, and I will try my best to do it.”

  An honest question. He looks sad. I don’t feel bad for him. He shares part of the blame. I wonder how easily he would have swept everything underneath the rug if you hadn’t reacted to seeing him again.

“I want you to fuck off out of my life for good,” you said. “Out of my very happy life.”

  I can tell what he’s thinking when he cocks his head to the side and looks you in your eyes. Happy life? A happy life only applies to those that are happy and you, you are miserable. The dark circles underneath your eyes are showing, your nails are chipped, and look at the way you’re tearing up. Look. At. Yourself.

“Things were easier when you were gone,” you began. I’m worried by how numb you sound, but I won’t interrupt. “I could pretend you were collecting dust in whatever trap you wiggled your way out of. I didn’t have to see you walking past me, hear the sound of your laughter messing up my thoughts. I could imagine what life would be like if you didn’t exist. But now, Hendery, now all I will imagine is you. All I will see is you. All I will hear is you. All I feel right now is the way you kissed my cheek two years ago, even after I told you that I was dating someone. You kissed me, and then you left without saying goodbye. I will always remember the pain of that rejection. How did you not realize how much I wanted you, how much I adored you? All I want now is to hear your voice telling me that it’s not my imagination making it all up, that maybe you wanted the same thing with me, too. I hate it , Hendery. I’m tired of lying to myself. I’m tired of living this life, wondering if there was anything between us.  I don’t like feeling like I’m always waiting for you to come back. Kun doesn’t deserve it. I don’t deserve it.”

  You wait for what feels like an eternity. It feels like you’re alone with your thoughts. Though you’re angry and frustrated, sitting next to him feels comfortable. You pick at the seat. You lay your head back on the headrest. You listen to the sound of his breathing, as no words make it past his lips. It isn’t like him to keep quiet. He can’t spend his whole life being brutally honest and then not give you enough of the truth. 

“I don’t deserve it either.” Hendery said.

  He gets out of the car and stands there, his dress shoes scraping against cement. You get out, too,  and look over at him from across the hood. You open your mouth to speak, but, at the same time, he looks up at you with tears in his eyes. There are no jokes, no excuses, nothing that can get in the way. 

“It’s not your imagination.” he said, his voice quiet.

“What?” you asked. You can’t keep the smile out of your voice. This is not the way you want to handle this. Stay true to your words: Kun deserves better.

“I said,” Hendery begins. “It’s not your imagination.”

“What isn’t my imagination, Hendery? Say it.”

  Hendery straightens his tux and rolls his shoulders. We’re both mesmerized by the embarrassment spreading across his face. Knowing him for so long, we know which tricks to look for, and you can see all of them: the subtle way he sticks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, how he looks down at his fingers and rubs them together. In a few moments, he’ll clear his throat to break up the moment, but it won’t work.

“Kiss me.” you said.

No. That is cheating. I know I haven’t been the best voice of reason, but cheating is below you. 

“I can’t.” he said. 

“You can,” you said. “I want you to.”

“Break it off with him first.” he said. 

“Hendery, I-….”

“-No,” he said. “I’m not doing that to you, or to him. Break it off with Kun. When you do, come find me. I don’t care if it takes days, months, years...I will be waiting for you.”

“I-”

“-If I kiss you now,” Hendery said. “There is no going back. I don’t trust myself around you, don’t you understand? I had to leave. ” 

Oh, Hendery, you fool.

     Weeks that feel like months pass. You broke it off with Kun by telling him you’re not ready for marriage. He could see through your bullshit clearly. He wasn’t mad because he’s good inside, but looking at your face disgusts him. He packed up all of his things and he left, leaving you his messy car and a lifetime of guilt.  You were a little upset he didn’t fight for you. To reflect the blame, you told yourself that he must have never loved you. He did, even when you didn’t deserve it. You’re really proving to be the worst of the worst, aren’t you? Kun will know the truth soon, and it will sink into him like a poison that not even his friends can suck out of him. For now, on your side, it’s all finished. You don’t seem to care much about the people you leave behind. I can’t say I’m surprised.

  You sit in the bathroom a little too long, like always. Normally, you talk to me and try to reason with yourself, but you’ve shut me out entirely. You don’t know what you’re doing, or if it’s the right choice. Hendery is waiting. You got what you wanted, what I told you to avoid all along. Nothing stays the same. Like I knew it would, you feel it is not right. You look at yourself in the mirror and slump. There’s a soft rapt on the door that reminds you of Kun, but only just a little. It will be a long time before you forget about him.

“You’re scaring me.” Hendery calls softly.

“I’m sorry.”

  You look at your reflection again. You’ve wanted him for so long. Now that you have him, you’re not sure what else to want. Can a person really have happiness after all of that? You ask it out loud, but I won’t answer. That, dear, is up to you to figure out. All is not lost, even if all I do is gripe.

“Are you coming out?” he asked.

  Hendery had once insulted you, called you names you didn’t know the meaning of, and had ignored you to forget you. That should have made you feel like you didn’t exist, but it was never like that with him. You existed in all the ways he looked at you, in the what ifs and the would be’s. You came alive with a kiss and a feeling, your body thriving off of mentions of him, and a whiff of a cologne he once used. Forgetting him was more unhealthy. You tell that to yourself twice a week.

  You swing open the bathroom door and stand before him. You are stark naked and absolutely freaking out. He looks into your eyes first. 

“Look at me,” you urge him. “Look at my body.”

 Hendery’s eyes slowly blink down your face, at your mother's nose, and your father’s chin. His gaze moves from one end of your collarbone to the other. They advance down your chest , pausing here and there like it’s the first time he’s seen someone naked, though you both know that it is not.

“When I was nine I fell out of a tree in my grandmother's front yard,” you said. “There’s a scar just below my waist where a branch cut me. I had a few stitches. It hurt, but not as bad as being told I could never climb that tree again. I loved that tree. I would have done anything to go back on that tree.” 

  Hendery’s eyes curve around the little fleshy scar on your abdomen. He lingers on it for a moment before looking into your eyes again. You feel the chill of his attention, finally. It is not what you had anticipated.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t want you to see me as Kun’s,” you said. “I want you to see me, to see all of these new things. I want you to know me, inside and out. I want you to see my scars and my beauty marks. I want you to know every inch of me, Hendery.”

  Hendery takes a step forward. You think about taking a step back, but you're defiant. You look him in the eyes. His pink lips are level with yours. He doesn’t seem real, like you could reach out and your hand would go right through him. You start to remember Kun and what that was like when you broke up with him. You wonder if you and Hendery will ever suffer the same fate, or if what you have is more. The answer to not going back is not trying to skip forward. Live in the now.  Look at the boy before you. You touch your hands to his chest.

“I’m real,” Hendery said. “And I’ve known every inch of you, just like you know me. You know me.”

  As he leans in to kiss you, you no longer know me. He cups your face and pushes you farther away from me. Your eyelashes flutter against his skin. You tug on his hair. You drag your fingers down his back. You let your tongue move across his throat, like a hot knife sliding into butter. All you want is to get rid of the bitterness left in your mouth, to wear his name out because you’re too scared to say anything else.

[madou-dilou]

A Requiem for Opeli, a Dragon Prince fanfic (Viren x reader) (sort of)

Despite everything your parents may have said, you enjoyed attending mass.

In the shade of the semicircular vaults of the sanctuary, in the sweet coloured lights of the stained glass windows, in the golden halos of the candles, under the benevolent eye of the saints, surrounded by six chapels for the six sources, the atoms themselves seemed to be scented with incense. Carved in stone, the acanthus flowers and strange fruits decorated the column's capitals, reminding the lost blessing of Xadia. Everything felt so dignified, so humble, so respectful, so soothing, so reliable and so reassuring that it was easy to get carried away by the choir of the nuns. The wise sermons of the High Prelate Opeli, in particular, procured such fervour that you had more than once been caught raising your hand to your chaplain when the ringing of the coins gathered for charity was heard between the rows of benches. However, it was not your habit to pay for strangers, even less for beggars. The Katolis Crown was funding enough leprosariums and hospitals to make it unnecessary for you to contribute. It was always their Majesties Harrow and Sarai who completely emptied their purses filled with gold in the baskets of the Sisters. Even the royal bastard ... what was his name again? Calleon? Callus? Caramel? Chameleon? Anyway, even he did not fail once to loosen his little chubby hands.

Thus the honour of sharing the same bench as their Majesties paid for a similar purse on pain of incurring the royal contempt, and after Their generous contributions would clink no more than mountains of little dims, pennies and piecettes.

Led by the warm alto voice of the High Prelate Opeli, the choir of the nuns spread in pious solemnities.

Et lux fontes duce nos

Defendat nos temptationem

Salvos nos fac de tenebris

Nos, agni decidantur

Dimitte nobis debita nostra

Dona nobis gratia Hi autem de Xadia

On your right, Lady Vassileia yawned. You gave her a nudge:

"Ouch!" she protested softly enough not to interrupt the psalm of the High Prelate. "I wasn't even asleep!"

"Liar," you whispered to her. "Raise your head and listen."

Vassilea had a broken pout that her lace mantilla could not conceal:

"After our phenomenal bender last night, I wonder by what miracle I was able to drag myself to the sanctuary."

You could hardly blame her. In the euphoria that followed your tenth perfect execution of the complex Jarnac move, you had invited your fencing master and your best friend to celebrate the event with a glass of fine wine, a secular cuvée stung in the cellars of the castle in the provinces. One glassful had become a fifth, a tenth, a fifteenth, and to the wise and poignant melody of Who covets the lady the husband must kill had succeeded the bawdy and raucous notes of A sublimated dead for my rising athame, and this until very late at night.

"And not just any rotgut, please!"

"Some Sang-Réal! Heavens, are you insane!" cried Vassilea, seeing you go up from the cellars with two bottles under each arm. "But what will your parents say?"

"Nothing, as usual: they are buried in their books!" had you retorted. "The courses at the University take so much and so much time and energy from them, because who, yes, who will be able to deliver the little people from the sterile dogmas of Faith if not Their Nobility and Their Bookish Knowledge ?!"

The Royal University of Katolis had only opened its gates fifteen years earlier, - it was the late King Harrow's father who inaugurated it. Still, its fame was already reaching every corner of the Pentarchy. Students were taught about everything, aside from dark magic, of course. Mathematics, geometry, geography, politics, history, philosophy, astronomy, ancient draconic, neolandian, evenerian, delbarian, durennian, rhetoric, logic, literature, theology, accounting. Even corpse dissection was taught in this place, despite being legalised only twenty years before- the Faith had uttered loud cries, and it was necessary to double the theology courses to calm their whinings.

"After the hollering that the Faith gave when the Toreha was printed," joked your lord of a father, "no one wants to suffer its snivelling ever again !"

"Everyone has their own copy and everyone can now interpret it in their own way!" added madam your mother. "Obviously, the Faith does not want to lose its grip on consciences!"

"The Faith lost it a long time ago already" snickered sir, "and despite all High Prelate Opeli's booing and hooing to the Council. On the contrary, even, that only demonstrates the truth: if It struggles, it is that it's dying! But, (name), my darling", he added conspiratorially, "won't you shout it all over the place, hm? You know how much displaying scepticism is frowned upon. "

Only the nobles had the privilege of teaching at the Royal University of Katolis, for the moment at least. On the actions took for the education of the little people, to lower the cost of paper and to improve printing techniques, invented some two hundred years earlier, returned the credit for the meteoric increase in the number of students. Even if most of them came from the bourgeoisie and the nobility, and even if the printing works were strictly supervised by a censorship council which limited as much as possible the dissemination of pamphlets and more or less fraudulent wisdom, it was inevitable that this storm of knowledge would trickle over each layer of the population, from the marquis in his castle to the boggy swamp. The Toreha will kill the Church, they said, from murmurs to pamphlets to late drinking in manors, and Human will kill the old Gods of Xadia ...

The nuns' choir continued its hymn in the triforium:

Mors, et vita in morte Fontes nos in deliberationibus

De veteris Dryadalis Xadia quidem apostolos luminis

Accipient in humanitate

Et propitius ero peccatis nostris

Et pascam eorum magicae

Vassiléa yawned to unhook her jaw:

"And then what idea you had of placing us in the last row!" she whimpered as the High Prelate Opeli piously licked a finger to turn a page of the Toreha. "I can't see a drop of it. As if ancient draconic wasn't enough..."

"It's not my fault that we arrived late," you whisper with dignity. "If you had stirred a little earlier, maybe we would be ..."

" You little liar," whispered Vassiléa. "Look at me all these splendid attires. It is surely not to honour the Holy Sources that you took all this trouble ... You have always disdained mass, like your bookworms of parents. Well, I grant you", she added, her eyes bright with mischief," having a job requires a lot of energy ... "

"It isn't even a real job," you protested, feeling the shame rising to your cheeks. "It's generosity, and it has absolutely nothing to do with it."

Vassiléa ignored you royally and whispered in the same mocking tone:

"It is not in the first row that you have the best view, but in the last…"

"I beg your pardon ?"

"… you are not at mass for a priestess but a priest…"

"Vassilea!" you squeaked as silently as possible.

No priest had ever seen himself in the Holy Faith of Pyrenees. The white habit had always been worn by women. If men could regroup in monasteries or abbeys, it would be forever impossible for them to say mass and to pronounce even a single parody of the sacrament. Unless, of course, the reform project discussed for years by the Conclave finally comes to an end, but given the Prelates mulish brains, that was not for the next day ahead.

"You are our soul, our hope and our salvation, Lost sources of Xadia," babbled Opeli far ahead under the stone vaults. "You who were generous enough to give us life and teach us forgiveness and mercy, may you forgive the arrogance of some black sheep and bad apples ..."

"… a divorced priest moreover," persisted Vassilea, "willingly perjury about the vow of chastity, decked out in two brats, dressed endlessly in black and not in white, versed in goety, dissection, the dark arts, spells, occult practices and hmmm, anatomy… "

" Blah, blah, blah, I can't hear anything, the sweet voice of the High Prelate lifts me up in the divine light of the Sources ... and then all that is part of his charm..."

" ... whose arrogant air makes him barely bearable to almost half the yard ..."

" Not even true..."

"… whose endless snoring invariably prevents the whole court from hearing mass ..."

" Vassilea!" you exclaim loud enough to attract a "hush!" imperious from this old cold-fish of Lord Thibalt, sitting in front of you.

"… and whose huge ivory cane that he drags everywhere," replied Vassilea when the gargoyle had turned, "most certainly serves to compensate for a little something."

You suddenly turned your head to your right. Fortunately, the handsome, oh, so handsome talker, who even in his snoring sleep could not leave those, oh, so concerned features, had heard nothing of it. His daughter, on the other hand, a frail brat about seven years old, stuck to her father, looked up from her enormous book and threw a glance at you and your companion, so cold that you both shivered.

"Dirty little mongrel of a chick-crow," you thought, and you tightened your silk mantilla around your carefully braided bun.

Rumours and speculations concerning the kinship of Lord Viren's two children (Soren, nine, and Claudia, seven) were rife at court. They had been assigned for example the High Prelate - she and Viren bickered with such ardour that it could not have happened something between these two. His legendary aversion to clerics added to the strict prohibition of the latter from carrying offspring only made the thing spicier: The Dove and the Crow, what a beautiful heading for a song! Amongst the candidates were also Lady Esmeraldine, because she had black hair and green eyes like Claudia and, as the Queen's servant, some contacts were far from improbable; Erichtoë, a luscious Durenian servant who was said to know something about dark magic; and many others ... Even Queen Sarai had not been spared by hearsay. You had just arrived at the court when this stupid idea had crossed your mind. In your eyes, there was no doubt that a passionate threesome stood at the top of power.

« I don't know where you get these wacky ideas from," your mother sighed when you told her about your suspicions, "because it's common knowledge that the know-it-all crow Lord Viren divorced just two years ago."

You had shrugged. This version was not very compelling. Or, perhaps mentioning the difficulties opposed by the Faith to this still new practice ... but that was not worth the salt of the love triangle.

"And then," continued your mother, "It is enough to look at the queen to see that she refrains from strangling our Grand Mage as soon as he pretends to approach his majesty."

"Precisely," had you insisted, "Is this not proof of bold jealousy between these three? The tension is, at the very least, overwhelming. They spend all their days stuck together. They've known each other for years. And the little prince gets along wonderfully with Soren and Claudia, and he has green eyes like her, and ... "

"Listen, my dear," sighed your mother again, for she spoke only with a sigh, "you better get down to something useful. Or upping your nose with a rubber hose, because in case it escaped your piercing gaze, which I very much doubt, I try to analyse this most boring theology work for my next conferences. "

"But come on, mother ..."

"Frankly," she continued without even listening to you because she never listened to you, "I thank the printing press every day for existence. I can hardly imagine the despair of the unfortunate copyist who had to spend whole years on this crystal-waving nonsense ... "

Whether their progenitor was the fairy queen, a whore from the Suburb of Pillows or a laboratory test tube, little Soren and Claudia were both brought up at court. Despite their promptitude to sneak into the kitchens to raid the jams, to giggle at jokes of a very bad taste or understood only by themselves and to enrage the castle's guards with their tricks; each of them was promised to more than prominent positions.

By the-Sources-knew what bewitchment, Lord Viren had even obtained a very express favour from Their Majesties, however renowned for their intransigence: Soren could miss Sunday Mass (a privilege that the whole court envied him) to participate in the training of the royal guards. Or to parasitise, depends on your allegiance. Claudia meanwhile was required to attend sermons - and as her father's daughter and rightful heir, did not listen to a word of it and always brought enormous books to pass the time. Without willing the fantasy as far as becoming their second mother, you would readily see yourself as a benevolent and affectionate but firm chaperone. A veneer of manners would not do them any harm, did you dream in the secret of your room, and then their father would undoubtedly be delighted to see them find back a semblance of balance.

"Love your enemies," announced the High Prelate far to the other end of the nave, "do good, and lend without hoping for anything. And your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the All-Mighty Sources, for They are good even for the ungrateful and for the bad. "

Her Holiness licked her finger again and turned a page of her copy of the Toreha. Someone in the audience yawned loudly. Several had begun to doze. Viren jumped, fell asleep again, snored more and Claudia horned a corner of her book.

You reached into your pocket and felt the silk of the honey candy bag. Without a doubt, Soren and Claudia would appreciate this little something special. It was a well-known fact that every child loved honey candies. Viren, on the other hand…

Your hand came to curl around the second gift. You did not have to dig your brains too hard to find it, this one: it was the magic oyster from which came out the few precious pearls that you had sown here and there during this memorable evening, two weeks ago ...

Of all the balls celebrating the arrival of spring, Lord Viren had deigned to present himself to only one. However, he distinguished himself by his ease. His tall stature and haughty manners frightened the dancers, but you had not been intimidated. Oh, you still had chills just by thinking of the way his arms tightly surrounded you, hugged you gently as he spun you in music and a storm of silk.

"You dance marvellously, my lord," you had extricated yourself.

"You too, madam."

Then, silence. You had the most considerable difficulty speaking, breathing and thinking while you were in the arms of the High Mage. Not to mention that you have to unscrew your neck to be able to look it in the eyes. I dance with him, he talks to me, touches me. You could perceive the warmth and the firm muscles of his long body through the black brocade.

"Are you still so charming, or is it my lucky day?"

"Is it your rule to speak while dancing?"

You were not going to let yourself be dismantled for so little. You get a new sense of ease in the rhythm of the flute, the viol and the tambourine before responding.

"Only if I consider my partner as worthy of this honour."

Oh, he was worth all the trouble in the world, actually. Particularly draped in this half-cape of black brocade stapled in purple, in this tunic embroidered with sand arabesques, which espoused its movements so gracefully. His beautiful grey eyes narrowed:

"You are too kind. In comparison, my ignorance makes me feel ashamed. I cannot even remember your name."

Had you been a sort of chippy, you would have taken offence and left him there, but you only managed to emit a charmed chuckle as the music sent you to rotate each on its own:

"Oh, your remarkable brain must simply take note of too many things essential to the prosperity of Katolis ..." You accepted his gentle hand around your fingers. "... to think of cluttering up such trivialities."

He laughed, visibly flattered. What a charming laugh he has, you thought.

"Imagine, madam, a demarcated space that you divide in half. You can always divide the two halves into two other halves, and so on."

You were well aware of this paradox. Your parents had bent your hear with it for years; but now that it was spoken in such a low voice, with such gallant inflexions, you found in it all the charms of the world. What could be more normal, coming from a dark mage, and therefore an expert in charms, bewitchments, spells and incantations?

"So this is how memory works, in your opinion: infinitely expandable?"

Viren drew you close to him, and you found that this slightly interested expression suited him perfectly.

"Would you be so fond of paradoxes, my dear ..."

"(name)," you confessed, and you felt yourself blushing even more.

He looked thoughtful, but the two of you jumped at the cry from the pastry buffet: "Hey, father! Try "Cumulonimbus "!". You looked over your partner's large shoulder and the dancing couples to see the two chick-crows, Soren and Claudia, who, spurting out a storm of jelly tarts crumbs, giggled and exchanged elbows.

"Uh, I beg your pardon me, my lord," you stammered, disconcerted, "but ... what did your son just say ?"

Viren then rolled his eyes in the most exasperated expression you had ever seen:

"Something stupid, I'm afraid."

You separated for a few measures before coming back into each other's arms. Oh, those severe features... you felt like his solid arm around your waist was about to leave you, for all your beautiful assurance had abandoned you. Dirty brats ... a pox on them and their incomprehensible bellowings!

"Madam, tell me something."

You thought you heard it wrong. "I beg your pardon, my lord?"

"Tell me something." he went on, in the satisfied tone of someone who had spared his little effect. "If what you say is true, I will give you the next dance. Otherwise, I will leave you there."

You were propelled on a small primitive candy pink cloud while the viol flew away in the treble. The magic of the Sky-Wing elves surged through your human veins, and that of the Star-Touch sparkled your eyes. It was one of your parents' favourite paradoxes. Viren made it easy for you. He rolled out the red carpet for you, he tore the breach apart for you. To believe that he really wanted to feel your hand pass through his well-groomed hair, caress his sharp cheekbone, flatter his so baroque beard, follow the outline of these oh-so-concerned eyebrows, pass the alliance around this ring finger…

Just as you were about to mischievously pronounce the magic formula "You are going to leave me there", the music abruptly slowed down and stopped. The dancers were already bowing, including yourself, and looking up, Viren looked at you with such a contemptuous air that you were left breathless. Oh, but what made me wait so long? you vexed yourself, watching his black half-cape fall gracefully as he walked away towards the-Sources-knew-where, probably towards the cheese buffet, or pray her Grace Sarai to honour him with a dance, or interrupt the last marvellous idea of his brats. He took my silence for hesitation and foolishness. Oh, I ruined everything ...

And today was the perfect opportunity to correct the situation.

Having taken great care to your hair - carefully twisted by your maid in a braided updo in elven fashion, your outfit - purple silks embroidered with red, gold brooch and bear arms, and your perfume - you had tried one half a dozen before setting your sights on a rose fragrance; in short, you had carefully put all the odds on your side.

Of course, you were under no illusions: your good looks were not your only asset, far from it. Lord Viren was known for his unconditional love of libraries, being buried in books very late at night to the point that he had lost the use of beds to prefer that of the oh so uncomfortable benches of the Sanctuary. So your hand caressed the little volume in your pocket with all the kindness in the world. Enigmas, paradoxes and insoluble problems, headlined the cover page. And, calligraphed just below by your quill pen: "except perhaps for you." You had hesitated with "except, for you, perhaps", or "for you, except, perhaps", and to finish off with a "my lord", which gave a choice: "except perhaps for you, my lord "," except, my lord, perhaps for you "," My lord, except, for you, perhaps "and "for you, my lord, except, perhaps.". Then you realised that the formula would probably be too full to suit the close friendship to which you aspired, which made you set your sights on the first attempt. A close friendship, and maybe more. You simply added your first name and tenderly blew on the still fresh ink. Just your first name: there was no doubt that the dance was still as vivid in his memory as it was in yours.

"The Sources teach us that love is given without expecting anything in return," babbled the High Prelate under the vaults once the nuns had finished their pious fourths, fifths and sixths, "and that one can't buy love. They brought Xadia out of nothing, overwhelmed it with their generosity and their benevolence, expecting nothing in return for the spread of this love and this ... this ... "

You were drawn out of your flowery thoughts by the rustling of unsuccessfully turned pages, followed by annoyed mumbles. You and Vassilea unscrew your necks together: far away at the other end of the nave, Opeli was fighting with her copy of the Toreha:

"This ... forgive me, my lords, but this page ..."

She licked her finger, pinched the paper, muttered insults to the fool who had used this new printing ink which made the vellum stick, removed her richly decorated copy from the varnished ebony lectern. In the audience, there were wonderings, whisperings, chuckling.

"Opeli, perhaps I can provide you some help…"

"No, your Grace, you, slurp, you are very kind, but ... but ..."

You risked a glance to your right. If Viren still hadn't quit his sleepiness, you found that Claudia was exceptionally agitated, all of a sudden. Her back was shaken with convulsions, and her little legs were frantic in the incense dust. Look at her fidgeting on her bench. It's as if she had the devil in her.

"Is it me or ... is she just dying of laughter?" you murmured, but Vassilea did not hear you, as busy as she was babbling with her neighbour in front.

Should I have the sleeper? You caught yourself thinking you might wake him up with a kiss. However, you were torn from your reveries by the sound of a cough that emanated from the other end of the nave. Increasingly puzzled glances were exchanged. People left their drowsiness, people quit their reverie, people stopped cleaning their nails or their noses. The concerned survey flew from look to look and from mouth to mouth. Voices and coughs rose under the vaults of the sanctuary. Some rose from their benches and gathered around the gaping High Prelate; however, Queen Sarai had removed her her hood, opened the collar of her cassock and started to give her massive pats on the back while His Majesty cried out to let her some space. The little prince started to cry.

"No, kof, sire, I assure you ... I swear that everything is, kof, kof, perfectly, huurng... perfectly fine!" assured the High Prelate, whose borborygmus intensified until nausea.

"Breathe, Opeli, just breathe, that's it! Oh, you, just move away, you scavengers !"

However, the movement began to gain assistance, including nuns. Useless prayers were muttered, inutiles advices were shouted. The benches and the triforiums began to bleat like the lambs from the Toreha. Half of them were standing, wringing their necks for a better view. The other, whether driven by the opportunity to seize or seized themselves by fear, rushed casually through the central alley and the aisles towards the portal of the sanctuary with one idea: be with the devil as soon as possible.

"(name), come on! Get up!" peeped Vassiléa, grabbing your shoulder. She was apparently part of the second category.

It would have been wise to follow her, but you were as if you were screwed to your bench. And this little chick-crow choking on laughter. Poison, did you understand. Poison on the very pages of the Toreha.

You bound from the bench and grabbed Viren's shoulder. He was the only sleeper who hadn't woken up.

"My lord, get up!" you bellowed. "We have to go!"

"What are you doing? Just drop him!" squealed Vassilea before joining the silk tidal wave.

Faced with Viren who continued to snore, you hesitated to give him a slap. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Claudia suddenly calming down. This child is mad, you thought, stark raving mad. From the chick-crow's lips pulled out something strange, which you did not understand. Then her eyes opened on a purple glow. An abyss of purple. You jumped, wanted to silence her, but could only remain crucified on the spot. So that's what Dark Magic is. When, in Claudia's eyes, a void of darkness replaced the purple, making her look like a fly, you knew this was the end. The Romanesque portal of the Sanctuary was wide open, and daylight pierced the nave on all sides. There was no one left under the vaults. Except for the convulsing, gaping High Prelate, the royal family, yourself, Lord Viren and ... this little witch ...

You close your eyes and prepare to die. Ô Six lost Sources of Xadia. In the name of the Sky, the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, the Earth and the Ocean. Amen.

A few seconds later, you opened an eye.

"Ho!" resounded the voice of the High Prelate, whose inflexions no longer foreshadowed imminent death. "I'm finally breathing!"

You swivelled and watched their Majesties pick up Opélie, hair undone, the collar wide open, the silver tiara crooked and the hood in disorder, but the skin as white and smooth as usual. "May the Sources be praised -burp… ha!"

To the cry of surprise echoed a ridiculous sound ... but so characteristic.

"Crôaaa."

Then, silence.

"Is it ... a toad?" you heard. Her Grace Sarai sounded just as lost as you were.

You had a thrill of horror. You had a holy terror of toads.

The king did not reply. Opeli, back on her feet, watched the beast hopping on the pavement of the sanctuary.

"What is... Six Sources, I..."

Hup ! A second one bound out from her lips. This is but a dream, you told to yourself, your nails clenching into your flesh. Nothing but a very strange dream, and I'm about to wake up.

"What the fuck is that..." her Grace Sarai muttered, back to her old soldiery level of language.

The little royal mongrel bent down, trembling, and picked up one while Opeli was getting her clothes together with a frenetic hurry. "It's a toad, mommy."

No one said a word, except the beasts which were going on with their grotesque wanderings under the high vaults in the sepulchral silence. From jump to jump, the little gargoyles were sauntering under the great saints' stone eyes. The incense was struggling to hide the smell of carrion with rose from the kings asleep under the marble. The candle's tiny glims almost had something pathetic. The dawn's daylight was splinting through the vitrals and the portal wide open like a wound. It was drowning the pious penumbra in a chasm of white light. Those little monsters appeared only clearer.

The stones had echoed nothing but nun's canticles, ever, but neither the Sources nor the gigantic wrapped praying statues rose to smite the outrage. The minuscule blasphemers were jumping and croaking in the holy light with complete impunity.

"Crôa."

You took a few steps in the centre alley, towards the altar, but you stopped, unable to move forward.

King Harrow seemed to be about to open his mouth when two chuckles rose into the nave, very close to you, two high-pitched laughs, two children's laughs, joined by a third one, lower and more discrete. Apparently, Lord Viren had woken up... and was laughing with Claudia while the other crow-chick, Soren, arose from behind a pillar, spitting out all his lungs by dint of laughing. He was the one who laughed the loudest.

But wasn't he supposed to be paraziting the royal guards' training? you heard yourself thinking, while Opeli stammered, straightening her cassock's collar :

"Lord Viren, will you, at last, explain to me what's going on in there ?"

As he didn't answer, to busy to retain a laugh, she rose her voice :

"As if you weren't satisfied enough with disturbing the mass..."

She put her hand to her mouth, to her stomach, bent over in two: wasted effort. A third toad leaps again from her pious lads, redoubling the hilarity of the crows family. You were speechless. To see Viren laugh so bluntly, he whose features were known as nothing but deeply thoughtful, exasperated by the stupidity of others or at best the vaguely contrite or amused grin; that was at least as extraordinary as the presence of toads.

«Opeli, say something religious." suddenly said Sarai, to the astonishment of sane people.

"I beg your pardon?" Opeli said «, and a fourth beast came to complete the croaking concert.

The crows chortled again. The din through the transepts, the triforiums, the naves, the crypts, the chapels, it aroused so much and so much echo that it seemed sanctuary's walls were going to crumble, collapse and fall too.

"My lord!" intervened the queen, and her voice resounded so dryly in the nave that the laughter died immediately, "Would you be kind enough to explain to us the reason for this masquerade. That you invariably spend the whole mass snoring because you are not surprised by your own grandeur, we can accept; but I will not tolerate your preventing ... "

"Oh no, your Grace," he replied. He had risen all at once, to his full height, and had even engaged his mage scepter by banging it against the marble paving which resounded loudly under the vaults; you were amazed by the coldness dryness of his deep voice. "Believe me, I had no idea what was going on today. I swear."

"The word of a dark mage? The big deal - burp!" spat the High Prelate as, summoned by the concept "Word", a fifth beast came to join its comrades. The king glared at her, and she remained silent:

"In this case, how do you explain this masquerade?"

"Mascewhat?" repeated the blond chick-crow with a perfectly bewildered expression.

You suddenly found back all your senses and your reason. Your hand was raised, and your index finger was planted on Claudia, whose face was ravaged by a barely contained giggle:

"She did this!" you denounced, and the resonance of your own voice surprised you.

The look that Viren gave you pierced your heart.

A look to blast Justice herself.

Gazing around, you realised that even their Majesties were frankly disapproving. The betrayal was all the more burning. Here you were who found yourself making common cause with the sanctimonious clap-trap spitter...

Soren stood in front his sister, his fists clenched, ready to fight, but the little girl released the hand that her father had put on her shoulder:

"It was Soren's idea, but I am indeed the prime contractor!" she squealed in a tone of immeasurable pride. "Well, the powder on the book, it was me, I had read it in a novel! It took me weeks to finish this selenic powder, especially since it had to stick to the pages without being seen! "

Your gaze came to rest on the Toréha, which had fallen from the lectern to crash on the ground. "After the bawling with which the Faith stunned us when Toreha was printed two hundred years ago, no one wants to undergo its whining again. Everyone has their copy now, and everyone can now interpret it in their own way!" Although only a printed copy, this book was made according to the rules of art. The illuminations were each hand-painted. The cover alone, crimson leather inlaid with precious stones, was a real work of art. Most of the pages had fallen from the fall, and the glue would render the copy forever unusable.

You had never been very fond of books, but this truth shook you.

"And we also had to put some in the holy water stoup so that everyone receives a little!"

"Ah," muttered the mage, "so that's why you insisted that I dip my hands in it…"

"Yes, and then a spot of dark magic so the prank more would be even more credible -"

"A prank?" remonstrated the High Prelate. "A prank! I almost died, your Majesties, you are witnesses! This child tried to poison me! You will not tell me that I am over-principles!"

You nodded with firmness.

"These ... creatures are from the selenial-shadowed magic," Viren explained in a low voice as if he was lecturing some of complete bonehead, "commonly known as "moon magic", which places them under the seal of illusions. Not only visual ones but also tactile, olfactory and auditory."

He put his staff against the bench with a thousand precautions - the object did not echoed less loudly, then he hunched his endless spine and bent his knee to grab one of the little blasphemers, then straightened up and began to pat it with the palm of his hand:

"In other words, these toads are only the product of a gigantic collective hallucination, and the Your Holiness's convulsions are only the natural reaction of a human body solicited from within by primal magic. It was nothing but an illusion, my lady, which means that at no time were you in danger of death. "

A dismayed silence followed the declaration. The infamous beasts pursued their a capella which resounded under the pious crossheads of warheads. Never had they seemed so real.

You took a deep breath, wiped your hands in your fine gown, bend down in a silk frill and overcame your repulsion to catch one of those. The coldness and the roughness of the pustular skin, the fixedness of the globular eyes, the absence of muzzle, the greyish colour, the viscosity of the drool which flowed in your hand. By the Sources, what a horror ... a grimace of pure disgust distorting your features, you closed your eyes, then your fist, suddenly. You open your eyes, your hand: nothing.

Your empty palm was stared at, then the abandoned benches and triforiums as well.

The idea that the Sanctuary had been deserted, emptied and ridiculed by the fault of mere chimaeras was almost simply inconceivable.

No conversation, no essay, no pamphlet, no book or rant had ever laid bare such a decay. The printing might have dug its grave, but it was simply inconceivable that the collapse would take so little, so little ... A shiver ran through your spine. The Toreha killed the Church, and the Human killed the Sources.

Opeli put her hand to her mouth, bur nothing came out.

"However," said Viren, who still continued to caress his toad, in a softer voice, a fascinated and even admiring tone, "it is the first time in my life that I have seen such tangible illusions and - "

"You, you will have plenty others occasions to show off, but right now, stop this," interrupted Sarai as little Claudia displayed a smug smile of pride. "You two," she went on to the address of the two chick-crows, stop all this shi ... pandemonium. At once."

As if with regret, Claudia pulled out a collar from under her collar and pulled out a shrivelled toad leg from her bag.

"Wait a minute!" Opeli interrupted her incisively. "I hope you don't plan on using dark magic in here! "

"Well, madam," said Viren, "it's either that or you spend the rest of your life spitting illusions and chimaeras. Oh, silly me, that's already the case ..."

"I BEG YOUR PARDON?! -burps! ha, you dirty beast!"

"Crôaaaa!"

"Enough, both of you!" growled the king, in the tone of someone who felt the headache coming.

The endless squabbles of the High Mage and the High Prelate were an integral part of court life, and they were regarded with a particular mixture of fun and lassitude, a bit like watching a brat always laughing at the same joke. Today, however, did not seem in the mood to tolerate their tussles. His Majesty, moreover, had not finished:

"Among all that you could have offered your father," he belched in a tone where pierced like a kind of mischief, "did your choice absolutely had to fall on this farce?"

"Hmm?" said Viren, stopping to caress the toad, which landed very unsightly on the marble paving. "What did you say ?"

You suddenly remembered the weight clogging your pocket and bit your lips.

Viren frowned. Opeli would have proposed to him that he did not look more dazed.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FATHER!" bellowed Soren, without taking into account the resonance of the sanctuary which made the audience wince.

"Did you enjoy the show?" asked Claudia, pulling on the velvet doublet. "You had a lot of fun, huh, right?" Then, as he didn't answer, "Did you ? Yes, you did, did you ? Huh? Huh? Huh, right?"

"Right, dad! Right! Dadadadadadadadadadad -"

Your hand tightened around the small book. Insoluble enigmas, problems and paradoxes, except perhaps for you.

"Dadadadadadadadadaaaaaad -." The croaks of toads and crows, they made quite a duet.

A true Requiem... and not only to your blended family dreams.

Your eyes turned to the High Prelate. She was just as flabbergasted as you were, judging by her stillness and her gaping mouth. The stone seemed to have swallowed her. Petrified. A new statue for the nave, you thought, holy, helpless, pious and terrified facing the march of Progress. This wasn't just the white dove reached by the toad's drool. This wasn't just some sort of priestess carrion over which crows would have a feast on among her fellows dead villagers. This was the terror of the woman of the sanctuary in front of the lead letters, of the silver tiara in front of the race of time, the terror of the priesthood in front of the changing souls.

As you pinged in a whirlwind of silk, perfume, incense, discomfiture and disarray towards the portal of the sanctuary, you heard his Majesty inquiring with all the good nature of the world:

"Maybe you could stop the illusion now?"

"Yes," added her Grace, "it seems to me that you had enough fun for today. Or, wait, maybe you can tinker us some illusion of High Prelate, now that you've broken this one ? "

"Sarai!"

"What? I'm not right? Look at that, darling, it's not moving anymore. Oh, Opeli, please shut that mouth, or you're going to attract flies. And then, come on, smile a little, hey ! It's not the end of the world !"

"Ah, well, it seems you also broke your father, here he is petrified on the spot. They pair well, aren't they? Viren, if I say "history book"," melting camembert" or "crème brûlée torched with whiskey", will you find back the use of your smile or your legs? Aaaah, there, you see!"

"Oh, what a happy, united family... Aaaaaaw, you are so cute when you are happy, Viren !"

"Actually, no, you should stop smiling, it becomes really unhealthy. "

"Crôa, crôa, crôaaa."

"Callum, drop this notebook and this pencil! And you two, stop with these toads, that's enough!"

The last thing you heard before closing the gate on the tomb of the Age of the Gods was the voice of Viren:

"Oh no, Claudia."

Then: "Leave them a little longer, will you?"

And there you go ! : D

Well, I warned you that it was a somewhat special Viren x reader ...

But, I mean, look at the scene where Viren takes power Napoleon style (the one where he is a thousand times sexier than all the scenes of Aaravos put together): everyone completely ignores Opélie to acclaim Viren the Savior ... Okay, everyone is terrified of the elves, all right, but that's not enough to ignore the Church, the law and traditions. There had to be some deeper reasons. Same for Harrow's communism, moreover, he is so enlightened for an absolute monarch of divine right that it can only come from an intellectual broth having macerated for decades, even centuries ... And then look all these huge libraries throughout the castle! Look at how nobody cares about Opeli throughout the series!

I hope you enjoyed the dance in the arms of the dark, tall and handsome advisor ;) and that seeing the Magefam reunited and happy put a little balm in your heart during this complicated period. Fluff, fluff: 3

Reviews are appreciated :3

[qqueenofhades]

ALSO because I'm needy and for Science! If you are so inclined: anything to do with our favorite idiot drama trash knights during the Crusades?

Acre, The Holy LandAugust 1191

The midday heat is, as usual, blazing like the fires of hell, the din of the rebuilding walls is endless – the scraping of the stone blocks, the bawling of the masons, the creaking of the scaffolds, and the yelps of whichever unfortunate has recently crushed their fingers – and Garcia de Clermont is left to scrounge a scanty bit of shade and wonder, as he does at least once daily and twice on Sundays, what the damnation a vampire is doing in the Holy Land. The Holy Land; the jest seems obvious, too ironic to be permitted, though he can cross church thresholds and bow his head in prayer with the best of them, and he’s old enough by now that holy water does not trouble him. It’s the heat and the sun and the fact that they have come here from Europe to a place that does not want them and an aristocracy that does not trust them, but Richard Coeur-de-Lion will do as he will, and nobody else appears to be vexing themselves with these questions. Europe seems entirely shocked, shocked, that Jerusalem fell to the Saracens, when they had been outright ignoring it for forty years, but that part does not surprise Garcia. Though at the rate they are going, it four years now since the capture of the city by Saladin, and the crusaders presently marooned a hundred miles north in punishing midsummer heat, it seems signally unlikely that they will get there any time soon.

Garcia checks the sky, decides that the sun has no intention of abating, and swears under his breath. He needs to get back to Richard anyway. The notable failure of the Saracens to deliver on the terms of Acre’s surrender – or indeed, anything at all – has made the Plantagenet temper, never bounteous, burn still shorter, and Garcia thinks it prudent to keep an eye on the king. First, however, he needs to find Gabriel, and no prizes for guessing where he is. The crusaders, the instant they tasted brief success by acquiring Acre and cursing Philip of France’s cowardly departure, have decided that this is apparently a pleasant summertime vacation, and settled into spending it drinking, gambling, fucking, and otherwise getting into mischief. And as all of these are Gabriel de Clermont’s favorite pastimes, the only question is which shabby brothel or disreputable winesink he has fallen down this time. He has been even less keen on the crusading idea than Garcia. He’s not wrong, but still.

Garcia turns and sets off along the main row of brothels, crammed to the gills with crusaders, pockets jingling with the gold Richard has paid out to help rebuild the wall. Cursory glances into each are usually enough to confirm that they do not contain his brother, but on the fifth, it is a different story. Garcia sighs deeply, steps inside, and follows laughter, the scent of spiced wine, and palm fronds and fresh dates to an inner courtyard. Herein, Gabriel sits shirtless with two pretty women sitting in his lap, and a pretty boy leaning on his shoulder. They are all laughing and, Gabriel included, extremely drunk.

Garcia clears his throat. This gets no response.

“Gabriel,” he says pointedly, a little louder. “Gabriel! Let’s go!”

“Is someone talking?” Gabriel – his vampire senses must have good and damn well informed him that Garcia was there the instant he walked in – but the idiot has the nerve to flare his ink-dark brows in exaggerated surprise. “Ah! There you are, darling! I hardly saw you, skulking in the shadows like Conrad de Montferrat. Sit down, or should I say, lie? They’ve offered me half price on the next fuck, and I am deeply delighted to offer this unmissable bargain to you.”

Garcia bites his tongue on the question of whether that means all three of them, the girls and the handsome young man alike, since knowing Gabriel, it assuredly does. He tries to banish the mental image of all four of them writhing in some improbably athletic configuration on some dim bed. Gabriel needs to be more careful, besides. Just because Richard (before the crusade, at least) was more or less known to be sleeping with Andrew de Chauvigny does not mean that Gabriel should get himself labeled in public as a sodomite. Richard was already forced into that absurd theater of repentance in Messina, and while it is hardly as if anyone can do anything to Gabriel (indeed if they whipped him, he would enjoy it too much, perverse bastard that he is), rumors getting around of Lord Gabriel de Clermont’s laundry list of mortal sins would not help their holy cause. Or maybe that is exactly why Gabriel is doing this. Sabotage the whole crusade, get them happily sent back home to France, easy as pie.

“No,” Garcia says instead. He strides across the room, hoists one of the girls off Gabriel’s lap as they both pout at him, and fights the urge to throw her something to cover herself with. “Come on, they’re expecting us.”

“Has anyone ever told you how very tiresome you are, darling?” Gabriel takes a better grip on his remaining whore, apparently in challenge. “Truly.”

“Yes,” Garcia says. “You. Repeatedly.”

Gabriel waves that off with one flick of an elegant hand, turning his head up so the jeune homme can feed him a grape. Fascinating as this spectacle of the debauchery of the Romans of old may be (in Gabriel’s case, literally) Garcia is out of patience. He hoists the other girl off, drops her as she squeals on a red cushion, scouts around until he finds Gabriel’s shirt, and throws it at him. When Gabriel appears disinclined to struggle into this garment on his own accord, Garcia forces it over his head and hauls Gabriel’s arms more or less through the sleeves, then uses every drop of supernatural strength to get the eldest de Clermont son, protesting, to his feet. “We. Are. Going.”

“Fine, fine, you needn’t bark orders like Richard.” Gabriel weaves after him, blowing a kiss to several heads that pop out of dark rooms. Garcia does not need to know, thank you. “Or do, it’s rather assertive of you.”

Garcia mumbles something under his breath as they finally reach the street, Gabriel winces and squints against the sunlight too, and then decides for this to be the single, solitary thing that a vampire nearly twelve centuries of age is capable of dealing with. “Crusading is boring, darling,” he says, as they stride (or in his case, determinedly wobble) up the street. “Can you blame me? The rest of the army’s doing the same.”

“You’re one of Richard’s top commanders,” Garcia reminds him. “We both are. It could go poorly.”

Gabriel makes a rude noise, though Garcia knows he is not uncaring of the prospect that it could backfire onto Richard. Their loyalty and love for him, after all, is most of the reason they are here, Knights of Lazarus or otherwise. “Well then,” Gabriel says, as they reach the top of the hill and he drapes an arm around Garcia’s shoulder, either in fraternal concord or to disguise the fact that he might otherwise stumble out of his boots. “We shall simply have to make some better amusement.”

[scarletgardensrpg]

UNDEAD ♦ TWENTY-SIX ♦ NEUTRAL

EVANDER BUCHANAN is the Gravekeeper of the Oude Kerk. While Evander does not uphold most traditional priestly duties, such as Sunday sermons and rituals, he offers Undead baptisms, wherein the newly rehabilitated are “purified” as a means of initiation into Amsterdam—a common practice for nearly all Undead citizens, regardless of their religious affiliation. He was killed and transformed into a rotbeest at the age of twenty-six by Cecile, then resurrected in the Carpathian Mountains by Julian in 2045. 

BIOGRAPHY

tw: alcohol and drug abuse, death

“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” Julian, on the other end of the line, sounded tinny and unimpressed. Thank you for that, good morning to you as well. Now if you'll be more specific... “Okay, um. I’m still at the beach.” A long silence. “I took Papa’s Porsche.” An even longer silence. “It’s, like, not in great condition. Anymore.” This last stretch of silence went on for so long, Evander pulled his phone back from his ear to make sure the call hadn’t disconnected. “Julian.” Is it still driveable? “Yeah, I think so. Maybe. I dunno, the wheels look fine?” That’s not—okay. Drive it to the nearest collision center. Now, it was Evander’s turn to be silent. For the first time, in a long time, he felt something akin to shame. He was nineteen, and still trying—failing—to make his brother proud. “I’m, uh, still kind of drunk. Sorry. Do you think you could—” Yes. I’ll be there soon. Click. Evander swore under his breath and shoved his phone back into his pocket. His eyes hurt, there was sand in the depths of his ass crack, and Ce was going to mock him for a week. 

- ❀ -

Spare the rod and spoil the child. He came last: after Julian had been born and deemed favorite and heir, after Cecile had been born and deemed illegitimate and unwanted. Evander, then, found himself with nothing to prove and nothing to endure: it was all roses. Handsome, good grades, star of the football team; he’d spend his youth living out some iteration of the American fantasy: a young prince without a care in the world, idling indulgently by an emerald infinity pool—the very picture of privilege. But, of course, as with all things that seemed too good to be true, there was the untarnished gleam of good appearances and saved face—and then, there was the truth. The Buchanans, for all their money’s worth, were a study in psychopathy: generations of well-dressed bastards who had lied and cheated their way up to Heaven, and scaled up the ladder of power using their claws and teeth. A thousand ruined lives could be put to Papa’s name—his own children’s being chief among them. It was a beautiful life, filled with exotic vacations and designer clothes, more money than he’d ever need, enough to fill entire rooms with—and it was an ugly life, marred by screaming matches, broken furniture, and five perpetually unoccupied seats at the dinner table. 

In the end, it was enough to drive Julian to heartlessness, Cecile to madness, and Evander to debauchery. He, especially, wanted no part in any of it all. His siblings were formidable and hungry: the boldest and brightest of the Buchanan clan, with enough conviction to set the world aflame and enough ambition to swallow it whole. What candle could he have held to those big people, those big dreams? He had no interest in trying. Instead, at Dartmouth, he would retreat into his expensive amusements and vices: liquor and wine, lines of cocaine, a quarter-million dollars blown on a bad bet in the casino, yes-men all around him. You’re so pathetic, Cecile would say disdainfully each morning she found him passed out in the foyer—and this, Evander knew, was the one thing she and Julian could agree on. He didn’t mind. That meant there was one less thing he had to listen to them fight about. He loved them, dearly and inexplicably—and he had thought they loved him, too. Wasn’t it enough that they had one another? The answer was, printed in neat clinical letters atop a stack of biochemical consent forms: No. He had underestimated both of them. Julian’s love and Julian’s ambition were two breeds of the same beast. Cecile’s wrath and her ambition were two strains of the same poison.

So: he would die by the hands of his siblings. At this point, it was so trite to talk about: six years of experimentation, Cecile shouldering the brunt of it—not out of concern for Evander, but a twisted need for it to fucking work, already before it got to Julian. When at last it did, and Cecile came out of the bloody waters a dead woman with gleaming eyes, she’d make plans to raise hell, as was so typical of her—but this time, intended Evander to partake in the chaos, too. He had bled to death at her feet, cheek pressed to the filthy basement floor, more afraid than ever. When his mind sank away from him at last, Cecile let him up and swung the door open. It’s me, Ce, she cooed. You always liked to have fun. We’re going to have some fun. And was it fun? In the moment, it might’ve been. Evander couldn’t say. He would come to in three years, in the mountains with Julian’s blood in his mouth and no recollection of what had occurred in the time between the night he’d died and now. His brother looked older, icier than ever. Cecile was nowhere to be found. There’s no need to save her, Evander had spat into the snow. She saved herself. 

At least I’ve saved you, Julian said. To that, Evander could only laugh and laugh, until the incredulity wore off, and there was only grief.

CONNECTIONS

IVONNE – PESKY WOMAN. Evander understands she is his counterpart of sorts—a Priestess to the living in the same way he is a Gravekeeper for the dead. Evander doesn’t understand how this, alone, is sufficient justification in Ivonne’s eyes to enter and leave his church as she pleases (“Evander, this is public property. Your attitude is un-priestly.” “I’m not a priest!”) with armfuls of baked goods, insisting matter-of-factly that he doesn’t eat enough, among a myriad of other baseless declarations she makes to him, about him. They are, in Evander's opinion, vastly different people: where he had happened upon the abandoned Oude Kerk and, in seeing no better option, made a reluctant home for himself there, Ivonne is a zealous New Worlder type. She is a peculiar woman in general: for all her power and popularity, it doesn’t seem she has many friends, nor particularly wants them. In some ways, Evander thinks she’s even lonelier than him. Despite this, he remains quick to brush her off—sometimes aggressively, the hurt of having someone to look after him after so many years both sharp and jarring, and other times begrudgingly, between bitefuls of (admittedly delicious) lemon meringue. She is not exactly motherly, per se—Ivonne acts more like a disapproving corporate manager, or a disinterested therapist—but her attentiveness for Evander is both overwhelming and...neither appreciated, nor unappreciated. He’s conflicted. You know, I can take care of myself, he told her once. Ivonne had lifted a single, elegant brow. Yes, I know. I wonder all the time why you don’t.

JULIAN & CECILE – TWO KNIVES IN HIS BACK. It’s hard—no, impossible—for him to reconcile that Julian, who read him to sleep after nightmares and took a welt to the cheek for Evander after he’d crashed the Porsche, had also watched impassively from across the expanse of an infinite table while Evander signed his life away—and that Cecile, who cried in the bathroom when nobody came to her recital, and accepted expulsion from six successive schools for the simple want of being loved, had been the same woman to draw Evander calmly into her arms, only to kill him between teethfuls of flesh and blood. Once, Evander thought his older brother and sister hung the moon. Cecile never was able to accept Julian’s kindnesses—ones she called debts, mouth wrapped sourly around the word—but Evander would have been content to bask in that kindness forever: diamonds and Jaguars, exotic beaches, lovers in every city—and above all other luxuries, the one of knowing the three of them would be together, always. That hope of his has come true, he supposes, in the most twisted of ways. True, he has Cecile to thank for not abandoning him in a basement in Palestrina—but she’d left him three years later instead in Poland. And he has Julian to thank for resurrecting him—but Julian was the pronouncer of his death sentence to begin with; and what’s more, he’s carried him out of one Hell, only to drag him into another. They were never a happy family, but they were a family. Now, whatever it is that’s keeping them together—science, death, and that ugly word, debts—Evander wishes it wouldn’t.

KISARA & OKSANA – THE LOVERS. He really, really, wishes they would stop making out in his cemetery. Well—they are not exactly kissing, but by the way they spar and wrestle, eyes gleaming bright with the closest thing to feeling alive : it might as well be kissing. Kisara is an old friend—someone he used to visit at the Moulin Rouge when he’d first arrived in Amsterdam, having defaulted back to sex and gambling to quell his misery. The two of them had once gone to depraved depths with one another, lost their minds eating seeds, tumbled about in satin sheets— Eventually, he turned his back on all of it once and for all, but Kisara stuck around. According to her, Oksana is new meat. I’m showing her around, she says, feinting disinterest as she goes to examine her perfect, shiny red nails. Evander snorts. Yeah, showing her around your bed. When Kisara jabs him in the rib with a snarl, he has to roll on the ground and make exaggerated sounds of pain for like, a while, before she finally laughs and forgives him. Kisara and Oksana have been coming around more often—De Wallen is cramped and unsightly, while Centraal Station tends to overrun itself with creepy 200 junkies when it gets late enough. The Oude Kerk, decrepit and, exempting Evander himself, void of people, is an admittedly good place to have some privacy. In truth, Evander doesn’t really mind. Kisara is welcome to come whenever she’d like, and he likes Oksana enough: she’s witty, abrasive, and reminds him a lot of Cecile. But perhaps it’s that very resemblance to his conniving sister that makes him uneasy about her. Kisara, too wrapped up in whatever it is they have going on, doesn’t seem to see the way Oksana holds herself: calmly and calculatively, showing just enough teeth to pass off as fully feral. Evander knows her kind. He’s not inclined to trust her.

OPEN ♦ FC: SEAN O'PRY

[inexchangeforyoursoul]

Hello, hello, here’s my piece for the Halloween minibang organized in courtesy of the Chicken Tendies and Bacon Bits DabiHawks server~ and have the link to a more sensible reading experience (as t gets rid of formatting, too, and I’m lazy to put it all back in, at least for now): ao3

I was paired up with pineapple hair boy (dunno his url still rip) and our promt was haunted maze! \o/ I kinda included the other two we were gunning for, devil deal and ghost stories, so... multitasking, yo. Also put in my suggested fog, because as time passed, I realized how good it was even though I just put something into the box lmao

I’ll link pineapple’s accompanying piece as soon as they’re done with it, right here, in this line!! AND HERE IT IS!!!  👀

(Some of you may note... that I was supposed to be the artist. Well, it’s a long story, and likely on me tbh; I spent p much the entire week working on my piece, but I also started writing this one, and suggested doubling down on content, but unfortunately timetables are evil, and pineapple got mobbed enough as to likely run out of time if he also wanted to finish writing, so, um... yeah. This is not to say that we won’t do our original project, though, so stay tuned for the bonus round, hopefully soon! \[T]/)

(... also, I may or may not be considering to make this a full story, so there’s that)

Keigo trips for what feels like the millionth time on this way through the undergrowth- by day, the manor labyrinth is fairly easy to navigate, the kids frequenting it has kept it threadable. Nobody has legitimately tended to it for years, though. Or rather a decade, actually, it’s been a while he was here. Honestly, who cares, because--- oh, for fuck’s sake, more rose or blackberry or whatever vines to untangle his legs from. Great. Just… great.

He squints at his watch; still on time. Catching his breath after getting free surprisingly fast this time around, he takes a look at his surroundings. Not that he sees much, bear you. It’s near midnight and pitch dark. To top it off, the thick-ass fog often present, source: right damn here, has also crept into town. In fact, this is the worst it has gotten this year yet. There’s also barely anything he can hear from the dying-off autumn festival two streets and half an estate over.

It’s only him, his phone's flashlight, and the camera around his neck that also keeps getting caught in shit. That, and his own breathing that's getting his lungs numb from all the cool, wet air they are being exposed to.

Fooling around for so long has made him feel… antsy. Just a bit. The fact that his goal, that is to say the family crypt of the moneybags who used to live here is so close doesn’t help, either.

The entire plot is the stuff of local legends. The mansion is-was infamous for its… flammability, so to speak. Every few years, at least one room got totalled. Some believed that the last master had been a pyromaniac, up till the umpteenth house fire snuffed his line, and himself at the age of 60-something, out for good. But old folk said that the building had been ablaze just as frequently before his time- and truth to be told, there had been two more fires ever since, although those could have been the aforementioned kids or the occasional squatter. Two fires in about ten years is pretty normal in an abandoned place like this.

A few of those old people said the mansion had been built on hallowed grounds in their parents’ time, and the fires were punishment for disturbing the church ruins and the dead it used to house. Even fewer said the church must have been built on the very gates of hell and the ruins had kept the flames at bay.

And old geezer Giran in particular said that you could see the devil himself on the night when spirits roam free, around where the isolated belfry’s foundation stands still with walls crumbling- the place around which the crypts were erected on top of upturned graves. To be frank, the dude himself looked as if he escaped from hell, so what better myths to bust as an aspiring photographer? And even if the devil won't drag his ass outside, this will still make one hella Halloween photoshoot. He has loads of candles and some lampions in a backpack to get the mood right as well.

If anything remotely threatening pops up, though, like a mean stray dog… or a horde of drunk homeless, he's so ready to run for the hills, you have no idea.

He’s pricking his ears good as he closes in on the center of the once-upon large cemetery. One has to acknowledge the effort those rich bastards put into this dumb maze layout just to hide their own dead. It’s as if they feared a zombie apocalypse and concluded that they wouldn’t be able to get out if the hedges grow in a pattern, like, seriously. Then again, if the ‘horde of drunk homeless’ situation comes true, it will feel and work just the same, so who’s he to judge.

The scenery, too, is something to behold still. The entire area is surprisingly… not very foggy. One can see just as far as there is anything relevant to see, nothing more, nothing less. The waning moon even came out to play for a bit, shedding some decent light on his surroundings.

What catches his attention is not the excellent lighting to make photos, though, but rather someone sitting on the ruins of the old belfry, right under where the plump planet is working her magic.

He checks the display of his watch again- two past midnight. He’s late. Well, bummer… maybe next time.

That… guy, though? He doesn't look like any devil he knows of, but rather a human figure. One he also doesn't know of, actually. Which is remotely more interesting than Satan himself, because… that’s a goth silhouette if he’s ever seen one, and he’s seen all in town. All three of them.

They are a chill bunch, so he figures he might as well go up to this one. May be an acquaintance of Tokoyami and company’s who was also told about this spooky deal.

"Hey. Have you seen the midnight devil, or did he not get the memo this year?" He lifts a hand over his eyes to let him have a clearer look.

Just the way the other looks over to him, even while slouching quite a bit, is in a manner that’s nothing bar… uh… majestic, should be the word? Sublime? Yeah. That's peak cinematography. He’s… a bit at a loss of words here, because? People have waxed lyrical about the positively blessed relationship between him and sunlight, but this guy?? Has legitimately the most beautiful pair of eyes ever, period???

Before he could get too entranced by the sight of the sky blue pins of the overshadowed figure sitting between a moonlit sky and milky deep sea of mist, he notices that said eyes skim over him. Slowly, creeping down, and then up. Um…

Did… did he just check him out?

A hardly concealed grin can be heard out of his voice as he speaks up. “Hey there, angel."

… that's a yes.

This… coming from someone with eyes and a voice like… that, is actually… hm.

Like, look… he’s been looking forward college to maybe…  find someone he genuinely clicks with. But he has been through this immediate infatuation thing a hundred times already… and knows from experience that falling for mere potential is a grave mistake. What even are the chances that he’ll be the one? Put the aesthetic boner away and think rationally, Keigo. You don’t even know his name.

However, if, and IF he plays his cards well and this is not a total asshole… he could get both a photoshoot and a phone number out of this endeavor, which sounds like an excellent deal.

“Straight to the point, eh?” he acknowledges with a grin that's almost genuine. “Witching hour stuff aside, I don’t think I’ve seen you around…? A friend of Tokoyami’s?”

The other hops off the wall as he’s talking, stirring up some fog. Keigo could swear to hear absolutely nothing upon him hitting the ground. Must be the grass, but still, confirmed for cat. Not having to deal with the moon’s flare, he can now also tell that he’s about as old as expected.

The young man pauses to think for just a second before walking up to him. Nonchalance and weariness mingle in his steps.

“No, but I think I do know who you’re talking about. The kid with the raven.”

“Oh? Yeah, that’s him. Just visiting, then?” So he’s somewhat familiar with the area. Huh… how in hell did he never notice someone so obvious? Maybe he should come out here more often.

Also, is it just him, or did it get really cold all of a sudden?

“Him and his friends spend a lot of time here, I know enough. And yeah, something like that.”

As he stops in front of Keigo, an odd sensation trickles down his spinal cord, raising every hair on his nape. He’s had this once or twice when watching a legitimately good horror movie or catching a glimpse of an especially beautiful scene, or at least something very similar. It’s just the cold and being out in the middle of nowhere with a handsome stranger this time (which is kind of a combination of both), but still.

… this is not the time to be thinking ‘but what if he’s a serial killer and you are stuck out here with him alone’, brain. Thanks.

“Family business, gotcha.”

He’s onto something, because a certainly troubled look flashes over the hot--- the goth’s face as he reaches up to his own nape to rub away at it. “... yeah. That.”

The train of thought is seemingly swept out of the way after short consideration and his attention returns to Keigo. His neutral staring face is actually a little unnerving, no lie. “What about you, coming out here? Didn't quite catch what you first said.” He eyes him in a way similar to when he was sitting up on the wall, as if measuring him up.

“Oh, I wanted to take some photos,” Keigo starts, lifting the camera and the first candle he can grab from the bag, swinging it playfully around a few times with a smile to mask the nerve building up inside. “I figured it would be a nice opportunity even if the hearsay tale of the ~devil~ coming out at midnight was total humbug. This place is very atmospheric.”

What he says rouses a chuckle from the other. “Oh, so I wasn't imagining things. Been a while since I last heard that one.”

For someone deadpan he really has a cute smile. We are on a schedule here, but please never stop?

Keigo presses the tip of the candle into his cheek in contemplation, trying to steer his thoughts back on topic. “You mean, that local legend thing? I heard about it fairly recently… from the most suspect old dude." He rolls back and forth on his heels, watching out for reactions; "Giran, if the name is telling. But asking other old folks made them ring a bell, too, so I guess I was just ignorant.”

The other raises an eyebrow in amusement as the fading smile pulls into a smirk. "Maybe you are, a little bit."

Oh, come on. "Nobody is born cool, wise, or a folklore expert, okay…?" He pouts.

"I could already tell you were born without a trace of those things, alright."

"..."

He just said that. Looking him dead in the eyes.

Wow.

Dude's lucky his smile is cute, because that was so uncalled for and he's way too proud of himself. Sheesh. Anyway…

"Said the one who wouldn’t know manners if they hit him in the face…” He sighs. "Before we go down the name calling path, though… I’m Keigo." This was getting a little awkward without throwing it in, although he doubts the cocky asshole deserves it.

“Touya. My pleasure.”

Keigo hums as he moves to rummage through his stuff for the lighter he definitely threw in the bag before setting off. That’s not a very common name, but… “I think I’ve heard of you before…? Beats me where, though.” He’s pretty sure the conversation happened years ago by the crypt here, though.

Everything he says seems to amuse the other to no end. “It’s probably for the best. You seem like the type to run for the hills.”

Keigo gives him the side eye; being right aside, the hell is that supposed to mean…? And he’s so smug about it, too. About everything, really.

And no, it really wasn’t a line even remotely connected to serial killers, shut up, brain.

“Cryptic, are we?” he sighs, lighting the candle with a flickering click at last. The gentle flame sheds some dim, fog-broken light onto Touya’s face, and Keigo hates himself for being charmed by what he sees once more. That pale skin looks too perfect to be true… should feel like silk under one’s touch. If he ever gets a proper close-up look, he swears he’ll get a heart attack.

Touya blinks once, resetting his expression to nearly a default. “It's the two of us in a haunted, abandoned graveyard, inside a fog ridden maze, on the night after the 31st of October. You are basically begging to wind up dead. Coming off as cryptic and creepy as possible right now is elementary, angel.”

He… he legitimately can’t argue with that. The guy's almost as good at this as the bird kid is. “... touché.”

Stunned for words, he places his candle where planned instead. It's so stupid, but makes… so much sense. Is this why they all are like… that?

As he moves on like that without a word, Touya seems to get weirded out himself. "... You okay there?"

"I just had… an epiphany." He says, putting the first lampion with pinpoint precision. This guy just accidentally revealed some kind of arcane goth knowledge too advanced for him to begin to understand and doesn't even know it.

Touya heaves a deep sigh. "... you obviously got the wrong one out of that, but congratulations nonetheless."

“Maybe? I have not the foggiest what you were trying to imply.” He’s not that thick, but the dude’s being ~cryptic~ or whatever, and he’s not in the mood to write an essay on what edgy goths mean by what they say.

“Ah… figure that's why it's so clear out here this year… all the mist from the glade must have relocated to your head.” concluding that, Touya’s eyebrows pull closer upon seeing whatever else the blonde pulls out from his backpack while shooting a glare in his direction. “… what are those for?”

Keigo considers not answering at all, but decides against it. Being the bigger person by default is such a chore sometimes, but… “There’s some decent moonlight to work with, but these umbrellas help me get the little extra I need right where I want it. See?” With that, he turns the flashlight on and blinds the other with the sudden brightness.

“Ow, seriously?! I haven’t seen daylight in decades, turn that shit off…!”

… but, he can multitask and still be an asshole while answering the question. And laugh at the reaction, then laugh some more the decades comment as the other rubs his eyes, because he positively has the looks of a display-tanned indoor hermit. A hermit who is having a bad time.

“Wanna help, or would you rather brood somewhere the umbrellas won’t be able to reach you?”

A mechanical click can be heard in the distance; now that there’s no music playing in the streets, the bad (and always slightly ahead of time) clocktower bell can be heard signalling quarter past midnight. This seems to catch Touya’s attention and remind him of something as he stares into a nondescript spot for a while. At the very least, Keigo is certain he’s not thinking about the question that slipped out and which he will regret- if he says no, it’s gonna be the disappointment… if yes, then it’s because of all the things that will definitely go wrong.

“... well, it’s not as if I had no time to kill,” comes the apathetic answer a few seconds later, although the wrinkling eyebrows are telling of his misgivings regarding the idea.

“...”

Now, hold on… hold on, he may have an even worse idea that he’s definitely going to regret…

Keigo taps his pointing fingers against the camera anxiously. “Actually… say, what would it take for youuu… to be my model tonight?” He takes out his best puppy eyes as he looks over to him with the tiniest smile, blinking slowly.

It’s as if Touya had another light induced migraine immediately. He looks almost disgusted, which… is hilarious. “For that I'll take both your life savings and your soul.”

Keigo stifles both a giggle and a sigh at that, resulting in somewhat of a snort. He must be put off by those umbrellas quite a bit. "Really…? If that’s all, fine by me."

The answer brings back Touya to a much more reserved, if not vaguely sceptical stance. “You… sure are ready to jump the gun for that, huh.”

"Well I, too, am asking a bit much of you out of nowhere, aren’t I?” He asks, shrugging. “I figured it was worth asking, at the very least… you fit the mood a little too perfectly, one doesn’t get an opportunity like this every day. If all it takes is my birdie bank, that’s fine by me. … We can also talk about the soul part later if you want to.” It takes him every ounce of self restraint not to throw in a wink at the end.

“...” Touya stares in contemplation before taking a deep sigh and scratching his head. "Fine. I guess it’s going to be much less bothersome than posing for hours to have a portrait painted."

Keigo’s ears perk up at that. Like, a lot. "Y---you… there's a portrait?!"

Whaaa?!? A professional-ass painting, of him?? And, even more importantly, where?!?

"... I know what you're thinking of, and no, I have not the slightest idea. Who knows, maybe it even burned along with---" he cuts himself off right there. For the first time that night, he seems upset, or rather angry; whichever it may be is the strongest emotion the blonde has seen him display in these past minutes, affecting even him quite a bit. His hairs stand alert once more--- but the sentiment goes as it came, along with Touya’s stifled ire.

"... never mind. Let’s just… get on with this."

"..." He figures that being nosy would be straight-down rude, having just met and already asking for quite a bit… so he lets it slide as if nothing happened.

Keigo turns around to the lampion that he placed before the convo started.

Huh… that’s weird.

He doesn’t remember lighting it.

Overall, Touya seems to pay quite a bit of attention to what he's doing, visibly taking mental notes of the processes he goes through. First, it's a little embarrassing to be watched so closely, but eventually Keigo gets used to it and just does his thing. He soon finds himself in the zone, in fact. Hell knows how much time goes by as he keeps clicking away, barely even instructing, but rather just basking in whatever the other does, giving the okay to everything. He’s not even bothered by the bone cutting cold that’s now heightened by a breeze, because Touya seems to be a natural, and by god, does his presence do things to him. He’s had phases of architecture, mixed media with cutouts and shadow play, birds, and abandoned places, but this… this must be what finding a muse feels like.

When he's looking for the misplaced lighter for the hundredth time again, it's already shoved into his face.

"You should just keep this in your pocket, angel."

"Ah, thanks." He takes it, then turns to Touya sheepishly while pulling his jacket tighter as the light wind blows especially cold air down his collar. "I've been… stupidly quiet for a while. It must be really awkward, uh… am I really not bothering you?"

"It's fine. I like having the company."

Maybe his voice is softer than before… or maybe he’s just imagining things.

“I, uh--- same.” Keigo feels blood creeping to his face, so he quickly moves on; “I have enough of these candles left for like about one more location. Any ideas?”

It takes Touya only a second of consideration before he nods towards the belfry ruins.

He flashes a smile; “Gotcha.”

In barely 10 more minutes, Keigo is speeding through the hundreds (whoops?) of photos he’s taken, walking circles around the ruin. His breath hitches over the one where Touya looked directly into the camera right by the wall. He’s gonna frameit and putitonhiswardrobedoor andmmmakeit his ppphone wallpaper---

He can hear a chuckle behind him, and remembers that whoopsie daisy, he’s not alone. “You're pleased as punch over a few pictures… It’s adorable.”

Keigo gets red to the eartips this time around, realizing that he’s got that goofy-ass smile Rumi keeps teasing him for. Unfortunately for him, once it gets pointed out… it always sticks. “I’tsjustthat---…!! I… didn’t think I’d get such nice photos at all? Moody scenery is nice and easier to sell, but I prefer lived-in spaces and models, anything that feels alive. Especially when they’re so pret...ty. Patient.”

Someone kill him.

“...”

The thin eyebrows twitch the smallest amount and for a torturous, silent pause Keigo wishes for some kind of deity to strike him down and grant a merciful, immediate death.

“I suppose I’ve had a few years to put some patience practice under the belt.”

He fights the urge to run away crying. There’s no way anybody exists who wouldn’t see right through that… at least he gets to see that cute smile once more.

He forces one on, too. “... I can tell.”

The wind starts picking up, distracting the other. Touya takes a look up to the moon, which has made quite some progress on its route since they’ve been there. Then there’s three clicks echoing through the night, signalling that it’s nearing 1 a.m. “Well… you were babbling about showing me, too, so you better hurry. I don’t have much time left.”

Keigo snaps out of the shameful frustration only to be legitimately ashamed. “Oh… sorry, I… hadn’t even considered that you had other business tonight.” Shit. He just assumed he had all night, but Touya was just humoring him until he had other business.

The other shakes his head. “It’s no issue, just get your fidgety ass over here already.”

As he makes his way over to him, Keigo feels something grab onto his leg and the familiar itch of thorns scratching up skin through his jeans.

Fucking vines again.

He should have expected this, shouldn't he. As he stumbles forward, he sighs in immediate acceptance.

He would have never expected being caught, though.

Nor Touya’s hands being as cold as a frozen piece of meat that can be felt even through his jumper and jacket. His touch sends shivers down his spine, freezing him in surprise first; if the strap didn’t get caught around his arm, the camera would hit the ground as his hand loses its hold on it.

What he’s definitely not ready for, however, is the arctic chill radiating from every inch of Touya’s, the same icy presence that he’s been feeling ever since… since he got close.

The thing that makes him break into cold sweat and brings even the blood in his veins to a halt, however, is the pair of forget-me-nots staring into his soul from mere inches.

Those beautiful, blue eyes, that… that are glassy and clouded and definitely not… human.

His lips part, but the scream dies off in his throat.

The realization flashing in his eyes draws a lenient, gentle smile onto the pale face. “You’re slow, angel.”

Keigo's paralyzed in what he can only guess is sheer terror, his body's last resort in hopes that the threat will just leave if it's not interesting enough to investigate. His mind, however, is racing and panicked as his inevitable end leans in for the kill.

Fuck.

Fuck, he's… dead.

He's dead, he's dead, he's dead---

He’s dead.

At least, that’s what he remembers thinking before passing the fuck out… not knowing who exactly he was referring to anymore. Because he feels positively not alive when waking up on the belfry’s cold ground, on the patch of concrete that lay behind where the catafalque used to be, surrounded by what remained of the candles and lampions he had brought along, and some of the flowers that people decorate graves with.

The spot where everyone suspected a former hidden path… or another grave.

He turns around, because now he remembers where he last saw the name Touya- it’s barely legible, but there it is, crudely chiselled into the stone right above the grey ground.

At first he supposes that the cold, empty feeling that seeps through his entire being must be the nasty cold and pneumonia he gets after the deed. As the days go by, however… the shivers and cold sensation persist and his dreams are plagued by endless mazes, fires, and haunting, blue eyes all the time.

His second guess for the cause of it is lingering fear: on the camera, he finds creepy photos of himself lying in the grave once he gets better. When going through them all, he considers to delete the ones he took of the other or use them for digging, (there’s no fucking way he actually hung out with a ghost, is there?) but… they all pop up as vaguely distorted landscapes, with light spots where a pair of eyes may or may not be.

Having stared blankly for like an hour at the one he really liked back then, he throws the camera into the corner of his armchair and doesn’t touch it for weeks.

This carries on through winter, in spring, and he's convinced of how badly he fucked up when even in the suffocating summer heat he feels the veil of an icy embrace.

Once leaves start catching rust again, the chill makes his bones ache, much like they did after the encounter. And it only gets stronger by the day. He hasn't shown the pictures, developed or otherwise, to anyone. Somewhere down the line he figured… that he should just give him the photos and trade them back for his soul, because hell if that dementor did not help himself to it right along with the kiss he definitely got but doesn’t remember. Trauma alone cannot possibly cause this.

It's midnight again. This time, he's already there, waiting for the toll of the distant church bell they had fixed and reset sometime in spring. The autumn fog is as thick as ever.

His grip tightens on the envelope; deals like this are notoriously hard to break or undo. Hell, the guy agreed to have the photos taken, creating a nice little loophole. Whether he printed them, deleted them all or whatever might be a moot point.

… no. No, he can't start thinking about this right now, if he comes he'll get this thing annulled, get his damn soul back---

As the last gong dies off in the night, a pair of lean arms slink around his aching chest and pull him against a body so cold it's scalding his skin.

"Hello again, angel," greets the voice, sounding a hundred times sweeter than he remembers.

…

Or maybe… he'll just let him keep it forever.