#not enough fics out there about the GENERICS... I MUST TAKE MATTERS... INTO MY HANDS. GRAGH

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗬𝗢𝗨 - five mafia! charles leclerc x wife! reader ( angst + smut ) series summary . . . after preparing your whole life to be married off to a mafia boss, you now have the difficult task of figuring out your new marriage and life, ensuring they don't turn out to be miserable.

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The paranoia settled in your bones like an ache, constant and impossible to ignore.

Max was bold—too bold. His words still echoed in your head, the quiet assurance that he would take Monaco, take Italy, take you if he wanted. And maybe that was just his ego talking, but you knew better than to dismiss him outright.

Because Max didn’t make threats. He made promises.

And if he had the confidence to stand in a room full of powerful men and all but dare them to challenge him, that meant he wasn’t worried about opposition.

That meant he had eyes on the inside.

You had spent years in this world. You knew how these things worked. Information was power, and if Max had his hands on it before you did, then Charles was at a disadvantage before the game had even begun.

You weren’t going to let that happen.

So you moved quietly.

Arthur was your first and only call, the only person you trusted with this. If Max had spies, they were woven deep within the organization—embedded where you least expected them. You needed someone sharp, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to cut out the rot before it spread.

Arthur, as always, was already a step ahead.

“Security’s got cracks,” he admitted when you met in the office later that night, leaning against the desk as he scrolled through his phone. “We’re running background checks on some of the lower-level guys again. I don’t trust the newer ones.”

You exhaled, tapping your fingers against your thigh. “It’s not just them. Someone higher up must be feeding Max information. He wouldn’t be this confident otherwise.”

Arthur’s expression hardened. “You think it’s one of our people?”

“I think it has to be.” You folded your arms, eyes scanning the dimly lit office. “We need to check everyone. Contacts, transactions, who they’re meeting with, who they’ve been speaking to. If someone so much as breathed in Max’s direction, I want to know about it.”

Arthur nodded, already making notes. “I’ll have our guys sweep for wiretaps too. Last thing we need is someone listening in.”

You sighed, the tension in your shoulders not easing in the slightest. “We need to move fast, Arthur. Max is making his move. If we don’t clean this up now, we’ll be two steps behind when it matters most.”

Arthur glanced at you then, reading the sharp edge in your voice, the unease in your eyes. For all your usual confidence, for all your ruthlessness in handling business, you were rattled.

Max had gotten to you.

And that? That made Arthur furious.

He nodded once, firm. “I’ll take care of it.”

And you knew he would. Because Arthur, unlike you, had never been close to Max. Arthur had never trusted him.

That was your mistake.

One you wouldn’t make again.

The tension had Been simmering for days, building slowly like a storm on the horizon. But now, as the door to the study slammed shut behind you, the storm finally broke.

Charles stood there, fists clenched, his face a mask of frustration and anger. His usually calm demeanor was gone, replaced by something raw and fierce.

"What the hell were you thinking?" His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the heat behind it. "You went behind my back, talked to Max of all people, and didn't tell me? I trusted you, Yn!"

You took a step back, not from fear, but because his anger was enough to make the air between you feel suffocating. "It’s not like that," you started, voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and defensiveness. "This isn’t your fight, Charles. I didn’t want to drag you into this mess—"

“Not my fight?” His voice grew louder, and you could see his jaw clenching with every word. "You’re my wife, Yn! Everything that involves you is my fight. You think I can just sit here and pretend like I don’t care? You think I didn’t notice you’ve been keeping things from me?”

Your chest tightened, but you refused to back down. "I wasn’t trying to hide it, Charles. I just— I don’t want you to get involved. Max . . . he’s dangerous. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me."

The words hung in the air, thick with emotion. Charles stared at you, eyes narrowed with a mix of hurt and anger.

"And you thought not telling me was the best way to protect me?" His voice was shaking now, his anger breaking through. "I hate that you didn’t tell me. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, waiting for you to trust me enough to open up . . . and you didn’t." His hands balled into fists, shaking at his sides. "You should’ve told me, Yn. We should be able to trust each other with everything—everything—especially when it comes to this."

You turned your head away, your own anger building with each word he threw at you. "You don’t get it, Charles," you spat, throwing your hands up in frustration. "This isn’t just your fight. This is mine. I’ve had to deal with Max on my own for years, and I’m not about to drag you into it—especially not when you have so much at stake."

His face twisted in frustration, and before you could blink, his hands shot out, gripping your shoulders roughly. The shock of his touch sent a jolt of anger through you.

"Stop!" you shouted, trying to pull away, but he held you in place, shaking you with an intensity that made your head spin.

"No!" he yelled, his voice breaking. "This is our problem, Yn! It’s not just yours to deal with. You shouldn’t have to deal with him alone. I won’t stand by and watch you go through this by yourself."

You shook your head, the frustration bubbling over. "I can handle him, Charles. I’m more than capable of defending myself—"

Before you could finish, he cut you off, his lips crashing into yours, silencing you completely. It was rough, hard, desperate, as if the only way he could get through to you was by pressing his mouth against yours. You didn’t have time to react before he had pushed you against the wall, his body looming over yours, pressing you into the cool surface.

You gasped, trying to push him away, but his grip on your shoulders tightened, keeping you trapped in place.

"Shut up," he growled against your lips, his breath hot and frantic. "Just for once, let me help you."

His kiss deepened, more forceful, almost angry, and you could feel the weight of everything—his fear, his anger, his need for control—all of it pouring into the way he kissed you.

But all you could think about was the way Max had made you feel, how much he had gotten under your skin. It was enough to push you to shove Charles away, breaking the kiss with a breathless gasp.

"Don’t you dare," you spat, your voice shaking with the intensity of the fight. "You can’t just kiss me to shut me up, Charles. That’s not how this works."

Charles’s eyes darkened with a dangerous mix of frustration and something deeper. His lips curled into a tight smirk, but there was nothing playful about it.

“Well, fucking watch me,” he muttered, voice low and almost predatory. Before you could process his words, his mouth was on you again, more aggressive this time, as if he were trying to prove something. He kissed you hard, his lips bruising yours with the force of his anger. His hands grabbed at your waist, pulling you flush against him as he pressed you into the nearest surface, his body a solid weight against yours.

You struggled for a moment, trying to break free, but he held you with an intensity that left no room for escape. When you finally pulled away, gasping for air, you opened your mouth to speak, to tell him this wasn’t okay, that you didn’t want this right now . . . but before a single word left your lips, he snapped at you.

“Shut up,” he growled, his voice rough, and without warning, he tossed you back onto the leather couch, the impact making you grunt in surprise.

You didn’t have time to react before he was on top of you, his body pinning you down. His lips trailed down your neck, hot and demanding, and you could feel the urgency in every movement. His knee pressed firmly between your legs, and you couldn’t suppress the startled squeak that escaped you as your body jolted under him.

Charles didn’t even flinch, his lips never leaving the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands roaming as if he needed to feel every inch of you. His knee pushed against you again, and you gasped, feeling the heat and tension rise between you like wildfire.

“Charles . . .” you managed, voice shaky and breathless, but your words were drowned out by the feel of his mouth on your skin. He was relentless, moving with a possessive hunger, pressing you further into the couch, his body grinding against yours in a way that left you confused, angry, but undeniably . . . affected.

You clenched your fists against the soft leather beneath you, trying to regain some control over the situation.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathed, your voice a low warning. He ignored your warnings and proceeded to rip off your shirt anyways.

"Not tonight," he muttered against your skin, his voice thick with frustration, but his hands were still moving eagerly over your body. The fire in his eyes burned hotter, more urgent, as if he was driven by something he couldn’t control.

You struggled under him, but his grip tightened. "No," you said, trying to get a word in, but his mouth was back on you, kissing you hard and needy. He was everywhere, his body enveloping you, his hands tugging at your skirt, hastily pulling it off until you were just in your panties, exposed beneath him.

“Let me deal with this. Your problems are mine too,” Charles said, his tone almost possessive. “That’s what being husband and wife is all about. That’s the whole point of marriage.”

He kissed you again—demanding, rough. It was as if he needed to remind you of what belonged to him. His hips pressed into yours as you felt the hardness of him against your thigh. Your breath hitched as your body betrayed you, the heat between your legs growing, despite the anger bubbling in your chest.

“No,” you gasped, trying to push him off, but Charles was already lifting you, his hands gripping your thighs and hoisting you up against the wall with surprising strength. You let out a breathless gasp as the gravity pulled you downward, your body pressed against his chest with his cock teasing your entrance.

“Relax,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot, making you shiver. "Let me take care of you."

You gripped his shoulders for balance, trying to steady yourself, but the position was making everything feel out of control. The weight of his body pressing against yours, his cock pushing just inside you with slow, deliberate thrusts. The force of him was overwhelming, and you cried out, the shock of the sudden change in position leaving you breathless.

Charles’s eyes darkened, his face flushed with desire. "You feel good, baby," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "So tight, so fucking good."

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall as your body strained to adjust to the position. Gravity pushed you down onto him, each thrust deepening as you gasped, feeling him fill you completely, his thrusts getting more desperate as your body rocked against the wall.

"Charles, I—" you gasped, your words cut off by the intense rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders as the tension in your body built. But Charles wasn’t stopping, his hips snapping into you harder, more urgently as he leaned his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut, the strain on his face evident.

“I’m not gonna last,” he groaned, his thrusts turning into frantic movements, pushing deeper, faster, harder.

You couldn't hold back the moan that escaped your lips as you finally gave in to the overwhelming pleasure, feeling him fill you completely as you came, your body trembling beneath his touch. His name fell from your lips in a breathless cry as you felt the heat of your orgasm crash over you.

But Charles wasn’t done yet. He continued to thrust into you, his pace growing erratic. Finally, with one last deep thrust, he came, his breath ragged as he stilled inside you.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your breaths. Then, as he pulled away slightly, still holding you against the wall, he whispered three words that shocked you to your core:

“I love you.”

You froze, your heart stuttering. His gaze was soft now, vulnerable even, and his lips barely touched yours as he whispered again, “I love you, Yn.”

Your mind went blank. He’d never said it before—never once since the day you’d become his. The vulnerability in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice, left you stunned, unable to speak for a moment.

“Say something,” he murmured, running a hand through your hair, his touch softer now, as if he feared he'd broken something inside you.

[deathbxnny]

Oh yeah, raising literal childish soldiers canNOT be good for one's conscious 🥲

But, I'm glad you're eager for more of that succulent emotional hurt, though this one will be... different the previous ones. And without further adieu, let's get into it 😈

So, I've noticed how, in this series, any harm sent mother's way has always been somewhat second-handed, and psychological in nature. Physical arm has always gone to the Children of The House. So, what if for this scenario, "Mother" is the unexpected one coming to harm?

Now, I could definitely write up a scenario of "Mother" getting hurt in some drastic way, and Arle and the House Kids retaliate in grand fashion, but that would be... kinda generic, no? Rather, I'm thinking of a scenario where "Mother" is hurt by the one thing that not even The Knave herself can protect her from.

Herself.

Or more specifically, her own body. Lemme explain.

So, "Mother" is in a position that can be IMMENSELY stressful and emotionally draining, so imagine one day, it's about as normal as life in the Hearth can be, "Mother" is at work, performing or assigning chores, or maybe prepping a meal for the kids, with some their help. When suddenly, she's hit with immense chest pains, as though her rib cage is squeezing around her heart, it becomes hard to breath, hard to focus because of how dizzy she's become. That's right, Mama suffer (or very nearly suffer, that detail is up to you) a literal heart attack, give everyone in the House a good scare, if you would 🤭.

And so, after this incident "Mother" is pretty forced to "take it easy" so that she can recover (which according to some brief searches I've done, can take anywhere from a couple weeks to a few months). And, considering how "Mother" is definitely seems like she'd be something of a workaholic, someone who feels she needs to be present and contributing to be a "worthy" mother, suddenly being forced to take a break from all her usual daily tasks must make for an absolutely miserable experience for her.

So, in the meanwhile, Arle and the kids try to figure out some things to cheer her up and keep her mind occupied while she recovers.

X Anon

Heartfelt devotion. | Arlecchino x Fem!Wife!Reader

(Part one) (Part two) (Part three) (Part four) (Read more parts under Arlecchino's name in my Genshin Masterlist!)

A/N: Hello X Anon! Thank you so much for your request. I really enjoyed writing this. In fact, this turned out to be a bit of a personal piece due to me having had the experience of an immideate family member suffering a heart attack, so I put some of that into this fic, which is why I took a bit of a different approach to your idea. Either way, I hope it's to your liking X Anon!!<33

Content: Heart attacks, comas, angst, hurt/comfort, wife reader, mentions of Curcabena, reader becomes a bit delirious, trauma, sfw

Reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns!!

((Not proofread))

The will of the Tsaritsa never rested for anything.

The expectation for everyone to continue until nothing was left of them always weighed on your shoulders, but it did little to ever make itself noticeable in the ranks of the Fatui. Exhaustion? Sickness? Death? None of that was an excuse enough to stop. You were all motivated by the goal ahead, even if uncertainty of what exactly it was often lingered in your mind. It was inspiring to work hard even in the face of pure agony and hell. It's just how things were. That's just how you kept going for so long as an organization.

The Tsaritsa's gentle kindness was ultimately not enough of a reason when the cold, icy snow and wind of your home ripped at your skin hungrily for more of your soul to take.

And you especially, as the wife of a Harbinger and "Mother" of the House of Hearth, felt that deeply.

Day in, day out.

It was all the same in the house of Hearth that forever kept busy no matter the occasion. You were unofficially the head of it all. Your wife often had better things to do as a diplomat and therefore entrusted you with your family from day one. The title and duties of the "Mother" weighed on you painfully, just as expected from you. And whilst you've spent endless years attempting to repair the relationship between that title and the family, you still didn't feel like it was enough. The woman that raised you and the 4th Harbinger haunted you with every step, always looking over your shoulder with that sinister smile of hers. You could feel the scrutiny in her gaze, see the rage in her grin, hear her venomous words in that sweet, gentle voice of hers.

Arlecchino had moved on from her by taking on the title of "Father," but you remained cursed. You remained in the past where you belonged, fixing connections that died for a reason, yet you were stuck with due to your own doing. There were no regrets in your actions initially, but now, after seeing the carnage and death you had caused to your own children by sending them off to the grim reaper yourself, you realise that over time, your mind and body has become worn down dangerously. You were beginning to fall apart, yet tried to keep yourself together just enough to continue every day. Like everyone else here.

It was getting hard to move and sleep lately, however, something that should've unnerved you when it was first starting to become noticeable. But you waved it off like everything else, your mind focused on your daily tasks and responsibilities instead. With your wife abroad back in the motherland for a Harbinger meeting, you were stuck shouldering absolutely everything again, not that you ever protested or cared much. You saw it as a necessity, perhaps even an honor to work at her side and take care of such an important part of the Fatui. If only the glamor and patriotism didn't melt away every time you got a new death report regarding more of your children. Crucabena used to read them as though they were the latest fashion magazine, a content smile on her lips every time. You, on the other hand, shed endless tears, finding no enjoyment in what you've become.

How did she do it? How was she able to be so indifferent and cruel to you all without feeling a thing? What was the secret to absolut absolvation from the guilt and shame? Years later, you still find yourself asking these questions in the shadows of the night, your blurry reflection in the water of the cold bathtub mirroring her image. You wonder if you even were any different than her ultimately. You felt like you did the same things as her, just less cruel, less callous. Was your care and love for the children enough to make a difference?

"Of course not. You and I are one in the same, my dear child." You often hear her voice whisper to you in those painfully sleepless nights, and you wished Peruere was there to keep her quiet again.

Taking a deep breath, you let out a weak hum when you felt someone grab onto your shoulder with a gentle shake. "Mother?" Lyney asked carefully, brows furrowed in worry at your near catatonic state lately. You barely seemed alive at times, your blank stare staring through everyone, some of your tasks even neglected seemingly unbeknownst to you. Your movement was sluggish, slow, and clumsy. Everyone noticed this, and the worry was beginning to seep into all the children belonging to the house. This was nothing like you. And yet, you didn't seem to be aware of it. Or maybe you were ignoring it.

Either way, Lyney had enough of just watching you suffer, his gaze becoming stern when you gave him a tired look. "Have you... slept or eaten properly lately? You look ill." The answer was 'no' to both, of course. You haven't been able to eat much due to the sudden huge workload you were confronted with ever since their Father left for much longer than usual. Sleep was out of the question due to the odd pain and pressure in your chest whenever you laid down. This led to you often sitting in a chair instead in front of the fireplace in hopes of getting some sleep that way... but unfortunately, that didn't work either.

Gently shaking your head, you mustered the strength to give him a shaky smile in hopes of calming him. "I'm alright, dear, don't worry about me. It's just a little stress, nothing more." Ever so perceptive, you sighed when you saw his eyes narrow. He didn't believe you, and you certainly wouldn't believe yourself either. Something was terribly wrong, but you had no time to deal with it. You didn't want Lyney to take on any duties he didn't have to yet, even if he'll most likely be your wife's successor one day. The pressure was too much. You didn't want him to feel the way you did.

Behind him, you saw two agents enter the kitchen through the backdoor. Masks obscured their faces, but the aura they let in was grim and cold. One you were so awfully familiar with, including the documents in their hands. A red envelope peeked out, a silent sign of more carnage and death raised by your own hands. The pressure in your chest suddenly increased once more when the guilt crept back up your body and whispered those evil words of self-doubt into your ears again. "How... How many this time?" You breathed out, a hand pressed to your chest in pain. Lyney grabbed onto your arm in surprise as your body nearly keeled over. Your mind was ringing, and you couldn't even hear the response to your question anymore.

It was all too much. You couldn't take it anymore. In the forefront of your mind, the woman that raised you gave you a "proud" smile, like she always did. It sickened you, for it meant that you've done something that once again proved that your title was cursed.

"Mother!" Lyney yelled out in panic, quick to alert everyone around them to your collapsing form. This has never happened before. The Lady of the House never fell, never faltered. And yet, as you now laid there on the floor, hands pressed against your chest as you heaved painfully, unable to breathe, you realised that everything you've done in your life has led you to this point. This was karma. This was the pain you deserved. Your children's terrified faces faded away and swirled into your mother's dark, sinister gaze. She reached out to you, her gloved hand pressing against your sweating forehead and tearstruck eyes, but you didn't feel any comfort. You felt like another death report, her favorite and one she has been waiting for forever.

If this is how you died, then so be it. One thing about Curcabena was that she'll always find a place for you to sit next to her no matter what. This time, you supposed, it would be in hell for the hurt you've caused.

How fitting.

"... Is she going to ever wake up?" "Not for a while. The doctors said the coma is necessary for her recovery. The reanimation took too long and... it's on her now to awaken." Lynette took a deep breath, her voice coming out in hushed whispers in fear of being overheard by their stressed Father. When Arlecchino came back come after an emergency letter practically crashed into the meeting room through a panicked Fatui agent, she found herself in the middle of a near warzone. You kept the house together at all times. But with you being in a medically induced coma now, everything fell right onto Lyney's shoulders. The one thing you never wanted.

The Knave had yet to say a thing, her lips pressed into a thin line at all times, as she silently moved to reorganize everyone and ease the pressure off of the young man's shoulders. Not even three days of taking on everything, and he was done emotionally and physically. How did his mother do it every day? How was she able to function? How was she able to keep everything in mind, do every task with perfect precision? He had so much to still learn, and that's what your absence proved him so painfully.

But hope still remained. If you woke up soon, then things would get better. Then, no one needed to be so terrified anymore.

Freminet nervously leaned against the doorway to your room, red eyes casted downwards to his shoes in silent shame. Guilt was eating everyone in the house up, their hearts aching with the question, "Could we have done more?". Yet their father wasn't keen on answering anything, her reassurance coming in the form of stern orders and a call for strength from them all.

"I see... in that case, I'll stay and watch over her for the night. You should go rest, Lynette." The young man spoke, watching as his sister exhaled a deep breath and nodded reluctantly. No one was getting any sleep lately, but it's the thought that counted. Passing by him with a short hug they both needed, Freminet watched her disappear into the darkness of the corridor, the moonlight filtering in through the windows leading her way. Stepping into the room with a soft sigh, he closed the door behind him and approached your sleeping form. His father hadn't stepped into this room much due to how busy she was with the chaos that broke out with your absence... but when she was in here, he saw the way she'd just stare at you, the pain in those stern eyes melting the ice and leaving behind a worried, foreign gaze that was rare to see on her.

Pulling a chair to the edge of the bed, he leaned his head against your slowly rising and falling chest, his eyes fluttering close in hopes of catching the tears that threatened to fall again. He wanted you to wake up so badly. It hurt to see you in this broken, weakened state. You were so pale and looked hollow, like all the life had been taken out of you. It was a terrifying sight that he could only barely comprehend. You have never looked like this before. You were always so strong and domineering.

He just couldn't believe it.

Fingers running through his blonde hair calmly is what made him flinch back to reality, his body reeling backward in surprise, yet the hand kept him there firmly. "Calm down, child... don't be afraid. It's just me." It was your voice, yet it sounded raspy and defeated, a slight slur to it from the lack of using it. Freminet froze and stared into the white covers of your bed, his tears dampening the soft fabric. But you didn't seem to notice his plight at first. He wanted to stay still, in case this was a dream. He was afraid that a single sudden move would make you fall back into your coma, the irrational thought plaguing him painfully.

"Mother..." "... Is this... heaven, after all?" You whispered, mind returning to the woman that haunted you. Surely, this must be the bliss before the storm. You imagined that soon flames and the hands of the children you've sent to their death would reach out and drag you down with them. And yet, all you got was the blonde boy pulling himself back again and grabbing onto your hand. "N-No! You're... you're alive." He stuttered out in panic and confusion, wishing someone else would help him, someone else could be here with you and take care of you much better than he could.

But once you processed those words of his, your heart skipped a beat in panic. The emotions finally caught up to you, and the surge of emotions made you attempt to sit up. Letting out a small yelp, Freminet attempted to hold you down and comfort you, knowing how you were about the house and your duties. The doctors had warned about this happening, too. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the sheer strength you demonstrated despite everything that happened. Something which could prove deadly soon, if you didn't relax immideatly.

And as though the heavens had heard his prayers, the door to the room creaked open, and in came his Father, an unreadable expression on her face at the sight of your struggling form. You were alive and somehow filled with energy, which unnerved her a little deep down. This certainly was going against your bedrest orders. "Peruere, I... I'm sorry for disappointing you- I'll get back to my duties as soon as I-" Her hand rose, and your deafening silence came with it. Taking slow steps towards you, her hand came down to rest on top of her trembling son's head. A silent absolvation from his duties for tonight.

"It's okay. You have not disappointed me in the slightest. Now rest." Her voice was stern and cold like it always was, but beneath the icy surface, you could feel the warmth and worry spread through her like a wild fire. She didn't want you to feel this way, and you could tell that the state you were in hurt her deep down. You and your family were her only weaknesses. Wanting to ease her pain, you leaned back into the soft pillows, eyes not daring to look up at her anymore. Why did you feel so ashamed? Perhaps because you should have taken care of yourself better. If you had, then maybe you wouldn't feel like a burden now. As though she was reading your mind, Arlecchino gave her son a curt nod, which he immideatly took as his sign to reluctantly leave.

Silence now overtook you both until she sighed and took a seat in the chair Freminet was in earlier. The moonlight filtering in through the open window illuminated the side of her tense face, her unique eyes near glowing. It was a peaceful moment, despite the pain that now raked through your entire body and especially chest. You closed your eyes weakly in relief when you felt her clawed hand carefully caress your sweat drenched face, your throat feeling so awfully dry as you gulped.

"I... I need to get up... I need to go back to work." "Not for a while." "... For how long then." A week maybe, you hoped. It was more than enough. It was all you allowed yourself, and even that was pushing it. Your restless mind was spinning in circles at all the tasks it still had to complete, and you felt yourself at a loss for words when she shook her head with the faintest frown. She knew you too well. You were an open book she had read many times over and couldn't get enough of. "Six weeks. Perhaps even longer after, depending on your state-..." She stopped herself when she saw your body trembling, and in the dimmest moonlight, she saw tears glinting in your eyes.

"Please don't cry. This is for your own good. I was... afraid when I heard of what happened. In fact, I'm grateful that you are alive, my songbird." Oh, how delicate her words were. Her honesty was forever going to be proof of her undying love for you. The ache is your heart lessened at the gentle warmth that spread through you from her touch, her tone lulling you into the safety you've craved ever since you fluttered your eyes open again. If only the guilt left with it. "What of our children? I must've scared them terribly. Especially my poor Fremi'..." You whispered after a moment of contemplation. Arlecchino watched your sick, tired form with kind eyes that were only reserved for you.

She figured that you'd feel this way. You were always so desperate to prove yourself to absolutely everyone. Whether it was to her, your children, or even the entire organization, you wanted to show everyone that you were better than Crucabena. Yet no matter how many years past, and no matter how much you achieved, you were never able to realise the truth. You had always been better than her from day one. The moment you rebelled and refused to take her side on the day, Arlecchino defeated her was proof of it.

"Do not fret over them. The children are strong. It is you that we need to worry about now. Just take it easy and sleep." Her words were comforting, even if short and to the point. You trusted them with your life. And yet, the feeling of being a burden just creeped up your body until you fell into a restless slumber once more.

The next few weeks were filled with nothing short of attention and borderline spoiling from all children in the house and beyond. Whether young or old, they all took care of you in the same way you cared for them. Something you could only barely handle. You felt like you should be doing that for them only, never the other way around. Yet under your wife's iron gaze, you were left with no choice but to accept your fate and stay put in bed or, on the rare occasion, in the living room near the fireplace. Lyney and his siblings especially took charge of your care, and you couldn't help but feel guilty at what you've put them through. You had attempted to apologize to the young man plenty of times for simply collapsing the way you did in front of him, but he'd always wave you off with a gentle smile. One they all attempted for you to mirror again.

The magician and Lynette would perform small shows just for you, knowing how much you enjoyed their tricks. Freminet, who was practically glued to your side, would read books with you about sea animals, whilst the other children brought you tasty pastries and food. The house was kept spotless by everyone, and you didn't have to lift a singular finger. And your wife was more affectionate with you in her own special way. Gentle kisses and careful, early morning cuddles were the norm, despite her reluctance for physical touch beforehand. You could tell through her actions that the state you were in had hit you deeper than she was most likely aware, and it didn't help the small guilt that was still left in your heart. All she had left from her old life was you. The woman she considered her wife and the mother of the house.

And by the time you've mostly recovered fully, you realised that the past wasn't haunting you anymore. Crucabena's strict hold on you had faded away, even if you knew that she was simply waiting for your arrival in hell one day. But your small revenge would leave her seething, absolutely enraged for years to come first.

In fact, it felt so good to be alive now.

[blainesebastian]

yours

word count: 13,918 ship: guy thwarte x reader rating: NC-17 (for smut, suggestive language and expletives) summary: You know that some of society thinks the same things about Guy that your father does--that he's easy, likeable, charming…but not 'good enough' to be called someone's. Yours. You can't think of anything that feels less true. notes: the romantic in me needed this to happen haha there's something about period piece romances that do something to me 🥹 it'll probably be just this one fic, but i really enjoyed writing it! thanks to anyone who gives it a shot! appreciate you 🥰 notes2: gifs from here, nick leister masterlist here!

April.

Drawing in a deep breath, you look out over the property that’s been in your family’s name for generations. This is one of your favorite spots, under a large, looming tree, spreading out behind a small lake, the sounds of bug song trilling in your ears. Leaning back against the trunk of that tree, you fiddle with the bodice of your dress, your thoughts spinning through your mind like unstitched yarn. 

The realization has finally settled in today that your big sister is taking over the family name. Or rather, the family responsibility—because nothing truly belongs to a woman. Not when they’re married. 

Especially if the man is a brute. 

You lost your mother at a young age, barely remember her other than the smell of flowers and the mustiness of books. Duty has weighed heavily on you and your sister’s shoulders ever since because, after all, finding a suitable and wealthy husband is no easy feat. Since you’re younger, Cassandra has shouldered most of that task, showing herself off at countless luncheons, parties, events and balls like a butterfly spreading beautiful wings. You’ve always hated things like that, have overheard far too many men who’d be more than happy to pin those wings into place and never let her fly free again. 

Despite knowing this, your sister has never minded—would smooth your hair away from your face during early hours of the morning and speak of marriage as if it was a contract. As if it didn’t matter whether she loved someone or not. 

You’re not sure how to live that way. 

And yes, you might be the younger sibling, but you’re still expected to marry one day, your father will still have the final say. You love him, unsure what you and your sister would do without him, but it’s times like this that you miss your mother. 

You miss what could have been, what might be, you miss the assuredness of comforting words and sage advice. 

Maybe then you might be able to tell Cassandra that there has to be a better way than to end up with Louis. Lord or not, must she be expected to sacrifice everything? Even her wellbeing? 

Running a hand along your forehead, you nearly jump out of your skin when you hear a branch break in the distance, shattering your concentration. Your gaze whips over your shoulder, heartbeat thundering in your ears, and then draw in a breath when you realize it’s Guy. 

“You nearly gave me a heart attack.” The hand that was resting on your chest slides down your dress. 

A small smile teases the corners of his mouth as he comes to stand beside you, “My apologies. Never my intention,” He angles his body a little towards your own, “After all, if you perished, who would I speak to about the dreaded theme Lady Brightlingsea will no doubt put together for her next ball?” 

You hum lightly, a warmth returning to your chest that felt dwindled before, “I’m sure you’d manage.” 

“Unlikely.” 

You turn a little, your eyes drinking in the profile of your neighbor. Your family and the Thwartes have lived on the same land for a long time, this tree and small lake a connecting feature for both the households. As long as you can remember, Guy has always been there. Someone who you dearly call a best friend, a confidant…a secret feeling. You can’t recall when something shifted between the two of you, only that it did, seeing him somehow as you always have and brand new all at the same time. 

He’s always had a solid frame—though you’re certain that has less to do with physicality and more with how dependable Guy is. He’s dressed in a long-sleeved button shirt rolled up to his elbows, a navy blue waistcoat buttoned overtop. It’s simple, plain, paired with black slacks, and yet it just highlights the trim lines of his body. You linger on his face for what feels like far too long, eyes different shades of brown thanks to the daylight surrounding them, scruff along his chin, trimmed and orderly, tight curls kissing his forehead. 

A sight to behold, for sure. 

There’s warm amusement as he catches you looking, motioning to the lake in front of you both. “Hiding out?” 

Chewing on your lower lip, you shrug, pushing yourself up from leaning on the tree, “No. What gave you that impression?” 

He smiles a little, as if you can’t hide anything from him. Maybe you can’t. “Because you’re here. You usually only end up at the lake when something is wrong. Or you need space.” He takes a step closer to you, the fabric of his shirt brushing your arm, “And given that you haven’t told me to leave—” 

You can feel the heat of his body through his clothes. Through yours. And you visibly swallow, straightening your shoulders, 

“This is your spot too.” You’re not about to ask him to leave. 

Guy is quiet for a few moments, his hands interlocking behind his back. “Your father came to the house looking for you. Obviously I have no idea where you are.” 

Your lips twitch, “Obviously.” 

“Clearly.” He agrees and then smiles again, more earnestly. He leans into you, gently bumping his shoulder into your arm. “Is it about your sister?” 

“Isn’t it always?” You ask wryly, though that comment feels unfair, especially since you know Cassandra is relatively fine in the situation she has found herself in. 

She bears that responsibility with grace, far better than you ever could. Not to mention, you think she likes it, the show and dance of it all, the attention, the future laid out before her in even and expected stepping stones. Maybe it’s easy for her because she’s known all along where her destiny would take her, she’s been preparing for it her entire life. 

It’s not as simple for you to swallow. Especially since marriage has always seemed like such a far-off concept. 

“I’m just…” You draw in a deep breath, focusing on the way the water ripples underneath the light breeze, “I’m sad for her, I think.” 

Guy is quiet, contemplative, but when you look at him, his eyes are bright and empathetic. He’s always been a listener, someone you could talk to, share secrets with, trust. He’s not exactly the stellar example of a society member either—you know that he’s been struggling with money, with keeping his mother’s house, with debating whether it’d be better to stay alone or find a wealthy woman to make his wife. 

“It’s not enough that she has to carry the influence of our household but the fact that she’s had to marry someone so…” A breath leaves your lungs and you struggle for composure, your hands wringing in front of you. 

Guy steps closer, a quiet comfort, his hand finding your back. His touch is calming, up and down your spine, never lingering too long in one place. It’s not proper for him to be touching you, as a single woman of marrying age, society might consider you as somehow indecent, damaged…unworthy. And yet none of that has ever bothered you, regardless of what people think. Here, tucked away underneath an old tree, the breeze off the lake brushing cooly over your skin, you feel hidden, like something well-cherished. You lean into him, your shoulder pressing into his chest. 

“Have you spoken to your father about your concerns?” 

You shake your head, sniffling, Guy’s hand coming up to rest behind your neck. His thumb brushes the muscle there, back and forth. 

“Cassandra won’t allow me to. Louis is well-to-do, handsome, influential and wealthy.” You tuck a strand of hair that’s slipped free from your updo behind your ear, “And that’s all anyone cares about.” 

And maybe that’s unfair to say, given that you know your father would care if he knew. But it’s also about propriety, about a scandal, about your family ending up better than when you started. Things like that matter to your sister and father. The happiness of a wife and how she’s treated…are irrelevant. 

“I’m sorry,” Guy finally voices, the timber of his voice vibrating against you. “I know it has to be difficult for you, wanting to help and not being able to.”

A tiny smile pulls at the corners of your mouth, “Think your mother used to call me a meddler.” 

That garners a true laugh from him, “A menace.” He corrects, “And you are one. But she meant that affectionately.” 

You’re glad that he’s smiling when mentioning his mother—you know how difficult it’s been for him since he’s lost her, that not much time has passed. Though you know that time is often irrelevant, you miss your mother too, as if it was yesterday even though you were young when she passed away. Being able to speak with warmth when it comes to loss, to grief, lends to how much love that person has left behind. 

You hum lightly, turning a little, your hand finding one of the buttons on his waistcoat that’s loose. You know playing with it will likely make it fall off, but you can’t stop yourself, wanting to feel connected to him in some way. Wanting to touch him but unsure how to without it feeling like more. 

You tip your chin up to look at him, warmth spreading like a bloom in your chest as his eyes find yours. His other hand brushes that stubborn strand of hair away from your face again, tucking it behind your ear. 

Thinking about what he said, about how his mother meant that term affectionately, you raise your eyebrows at him. “Do you mean it too?” 

Guy’s eyes slip down to your lips, a brief gaze and yet it feels like eternity. “I do.” 

Before you can say anything else, or live within this single heartbeat, thunder booms nearby. It is all the warning you receive before it begins pouring. There’s a moment of brief disbelief as rain filters in through the branches of the tree, some covering you before the onslaught becomes too much. A squeak leaves your lips, the rumble of a laugh leaving Guy’s chest before he wraps an arm around you. 

He hoists you in the direction of his home, the complete opposite of where you should probably be headed but you can’t find it within yourself to care. You don’t want to go home, as awful as that sounds. When he moves forward in two large steps, his hand reaches back to grab your own, rushing with you through the sheets of water. Despite the quick movement, you’re soaked when you enter through his front door. 

As it closes behind you, another sound of amusement leaves Guy’s mouth and he shakes himself out almost as a dog does when caught outside in inclement weather. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you take a brief look around, the corners of your mouth pulling down just slightly every time you notice something else is missing. A portrait, an extravagant rug or elegant piece of furniture. Another item of Guy’s past sold to make his future a possibility. 

He misreads your expression, reaching out to touch your arms with his hands, “I’ll get a fire going.” 

So much he has to do on his own, the wait staff no longer employed. You would never comment on that, you know he can handle it but…it doesn’t mean he should have to. You still worry. “It’s really not n-necessary.” 

He smiles a little, amused, “Tell your chattering teeth that.” 

You draw your lower lip between your teeth, an action that is not missed by him, his hands lingering along your arms as his gaze flickers to your mouth. “I don’t want you to fuss.” 

Guy draws in what seems to be a calming breath, dropping his hands and taking a step back as if he needs that distance. “You’re shaking. It’s no trouble.” He motions with his hand towards his sitting room, as if you don’t know the layout of this house like it were your own. 

Heading into the large sitting room, you make your way around the couch and bypass it completely to stand in front of the fireplace. There’s plenty of wood and within a few moments, a fire roars to life. A soft sigh leaves your lips and you lift your trembling fingers near the flames before rolling your shoulders back. 

“Did you know my grandfather thought he could tell when it was about to rain?” 

Guy shifts besides you, undoing his waistcoat with deft fingers. 

“He always said his right knee ached—” Your voice immediately falters when you turn and see him tugging the waistcoat away, met with the material of his white shirt sticking to his skin, sheer, almost. Your mouth opens slightly and despite knowing you should look away…you can’t. 

Even when he lifts his chin to look back at you. “You didn’t inherit that from him, I imagine.” 

You blink. What? “Oh,” You laugh softly, shaking your head, “No. Obviously not.” 

A twinge of a smile on his lips, “Unless you like getting caught up in it and just never told me.” 

“Not like this,” You admit, glancing down at your dress. It’s beyond damp, the bottom dripping into the carpet, the fabric plastered against your chest and arms and creating a chill to seep down your spine. “This dress is rather heavy when wet.” 

“We could always take it off.” Then his eyes widen as he seems to realize what he’s said, “I mean—that’s.” He opens and closes his mouth like a fish caught in a net. You can’t help but smile at his flustering, how sweet it is. “Obviously I would find you something dry to put on.” 

You hum lightly, “Obviously.” 

“Right,” He mumbles, clearing his throat before taking a step back, “Well…I’ll just…” 

And then he turns, abruptly, to head out of the room—your guess would be to head upstairs to find you something to slip on. Amusement pulls sharply on your mouth, making you laugh, a warmth beginning from the inside out that has nothing to do with the fire. 

—

There are moments in your life that you would say define you, moments that feel ingrained, living in your lungs and blood, in the crevices of your heart. 

Somehow all of those moments involve Guy. 

—

7 months ago—September.

As much as you love dancing, you would rather never attend a party framed as a ball. Every interaction becomes a transaction, every stolen glance becomes a game, every dance a spectacle. But one would be a fool to ignore an invitation from the dowager duchess of Tintagel—and at this point, you know Theo as well as you know Guy. 

Moving through the beautifully decorated ballroom, you take another glass of wine off a tray, bringing the crystal to your lips for a long sip. Since you’ve arrived, you’ve lost sight of your father and sister, Cassandra making the rounds to find a husband or at least dance with as many eligible men as she can tonight. 

You’re just trying to slip under the waves of attention, quietly disappear, maybe involve too many glasses of wine and dance to a few songs. Alone. 

You should be so lucky. 

Unfortunately, you’ve garnered attention from several men, those that need no introduction, Lords that, at this point, know who you and your family are. And that you are of marrying age. By the eighth attempt by six different men (Lord Brandt really cannot take a hint), you excuse yourself towards the hallway to use the lavatory. 

In reality, you just don’t want to be followed. 

A headache blooms under your eyebrow and while you lean against the banister of a set of stairs, you close your eyes for a moment to rub your fingers along your forehead. A soft groan leaves your throat, your heels also beginning to throb from moving around the ballroom all night. It almost makes an ironic smile pull at your lips because…your feet hurt from outrunning men, not from dancing. A shame. 

Tugging off one shoe at a time, you hold them in your hand and tip your head back to look at the ceiling, the buzz of chatter and music floating in from the other room. You consider finding a balcony or something to get some fresh air. 

“Is that... Y/N L/N in a dress the color of violets?" 

You can't help but smile, transferring your shoes from one hand to the other. Turning slowly so that your dress swishes, you peer up to see Guy leaning against the banister of the second floor of the same staircase, smiling down at you. 

"Or is that lavender?" He asks, "Either way, both incredibly out of season. You're not trying to cause a scandal, are you?" 

Your smile grows, "God no, how will I ever find a husband that way?" You both know that’s not really a question, crinkling your nose the whole time, and it makes Guy laugh. 

When he makes his way down to you, he reaches for your hand, giving you a playful twirl in a tight circle as his eyes appraise. "He'd just need eyes, I imagine." 

Heat crawls underneath the collar of your dress, making you feel slightly lightheaded. Maybe that can be blamed on the full-circle spin after too many glasses of expensive alcohol. "I don't think it's that simple." 

Guy hums softly, pursing his lips. He hasn't let go of your hand, some of your fingers intertwining. "Fools then, the lot of them." 

Your heart feels like it might burst from the sentiment and if you were alone, you might kiss his cheek. But here, in public, you can do no such thing. Instead, you squeeze his fingers, shifting the conversation before you do something regrettable. 

"Speaking of fools, that's why I'm already tucked away. My feet ache," Your nose wrinkles again, "And Lord Brunt's hairline is nearly as bad as his breath." 

Guy's sudden guffaw makes an unrestrained giggle slide from your lips and you place your other hand over your mouth as he sneaks a look into the ballroom, "That's who you've managed to charm tonight? Out of everyone?" He glances towards the right at another familiar face, "Your sister seems to be doing well with a Lord herself." 

You watch Cassandra dance with Lord Louis before looking back at Guy. His hand is still in yours, his thumb absently tracing circles along your knuckles. He's astoundingly handsome in a three piece suit, black silken fabric pressed into the long, lean lines of his body. He smells of the woods, something clean, fresh. And your eyes trace a few tight curls resting on his forehead, begging you to reach up and toy your fingers through them. 

You're about to say something, anything as a distraction, when Lord Brunt appears out of nowhere in front of you. Your back goes rigid, faltering a step back so that the much older man does not step into your space. "Ah, there you are Lady Y/N, I've been searching for you." He grins, "Might I have the next few dances?" 

Guy bristles beside you, his hand reaching behind your back to pluck your shoes free. He shifts them to hide behind his body while his other free hand grips yours. He then encourages you to hold onto the inside of his folded elbow, demure and nonchalant. 

"I'm afraid she's been spoken for," Guy replies, his voice smooth as cool water. He holds Brunt's gaze, unwavering, something predatory in the depths of his brown eyes that's gone almost as soon as it appears. He licks his lips, "Of course, that's after we find her shoes. They seemed to have run off." 

Brunt blinks, looking down at your feet. "I see." 

"Yes," You speak up, clearing the small squeak in your voice. You can feel more than see Guy's lips twitch in an almost smile, "I think maybe around the lavatory somewhere." 

"We can check there first," Guy nods his head, "Good evening, Mr. Lundt." 

An unladylike sound surges forth at Guy purposely calling Brundt the wrong name but you fail to keep it clamped down. You try to cover it with a laugh as Guy steers you in the opposite direction, towards another set of stairs. Once you’re free and clear of Lord Brundt, you linger, standing on one of the steps so that you're an even height with the man in front of you. 

"I believe a 'thank you' is in order." He teases. 

You scoff out a laugh, reaching to fix his bowtie which isn't at all skewed, but it gives you an excuse to remain close. "Is that so?" 

Guy hums in agreement, his eyes brushing over your face, as if he's seeing you for the first time at this angle. "Actually, it's two-fold." 

"Is it?" You ask, "And why is that?" 

He lifts his hand, "Because I found your shoes." 

A bright smile spreads across your face, an unbridled laugh making your cheeks feel warm. This...might be one of the best balls you've been to in a while. You reach for your shoes, holding onto his shoulder with your hands, one at a time, to put them back on. 

"Why, thank you," You smooth your hands down your dress, playing along, "How can I ever repay you?" 

And because he knows you, he takes a step back and outstretches his hand for you to take, "How about a dance?" 

A zing of heat travels up your arm when your palm connects with his, allowing him to tug you off that step and guide you back into the ballroom for the next song. This is not the first, nor the last time, you and Guy will dance together. And yet when he pauses in the middle of the floor, facing you, his hand guiding along your back, pulling you close—it’s never felt like this.

An entire room filled with people, yet he’s the only one that you see.  

—

November.

Drawing in a deep breath, you center yourself as you walk through the tall grass, heading to a familiar destination. The same one you end up at every year at this time, on this day, no matter the weather. A chill courses down your spine and you tilt your head up to look at the gray sky, the clouds like puffs of smoke. You wonder if it’ll snow. 

You pull your thick cloak closer around your shoulders, passing the lake on your family’s property to a small area with headstones. When you were younger, you always used to make spooky comments to your sister that this area of the estate was haunted, that you could hear ghosts moaning in the middle of the night. Turned out to be wind passing through crevices in the windows and doors in the late hours, but still. 

Sometimes there’s a comfort in thinking someone is still here. That your mother…

You put a hand on your chest, swallowing over a thick emotion that feels like it’s capable of taking you out at the knees. Your bodice feels far too tight suddenly. 

Spreading a blanket out on the ground, you gather your skirts to adjust and sit in front of your mother’s headstone. You drag your fingers along the moss covered stone, tracing letters carved there that have faded from weather and time. Somehow, coming every year gets harder and easier all at the same time. 

You sense him before you see him, Guy’s presence something you know like the back of your hand at this point. He lingers behind you for a moment before joining you on the blanket, close enough that you can smell soap and citrus, can feel the heat of his body pressing along your own. You turn your head a little, almost smiling, your eyes falling to what’s in his hands. 

A bouquet of flowers. 

Tears instantly well in your eyes and you have to hold a breath in your lungs so it doesn’t shudder out of your mouth. 

“Hey,” Guy says gently, mostly in reaction to your emotions. His free hand reaches for one of yours, squeezing your fingers. 

“Hi,” You reply, sniffling. “You didn’t need to bring anything.” 

He sets the bouquet on top of the stone, the chilled breeze brushing through the field and rustling the petals. Something blue and purple, soft greens. It’s lovely. Thoughtful. The sentiment reaches directly into your chest and squeezes. It means everything that he’s here, that he’s always there when you need something. Someone. 

A thought flutters in the back of your mind, something that’s dangerous to consider. Something that you can’t keep. He’s not yours to keep. You shake your head, sniffling as a tear slips off your eyelashes and down your cheek. 

Guy reaches a hand out, thumbing it away. “I wanted to.” 

He wanted to bring flowers. He wants to be here. You squeeze his hand a little tighter, probably hurting him, yet he doesn’t move. 

It’s quiet for a few moments, another shiver that you’re not sure has to do with the cold making your body tremble. Guy inches closer, presses his shoulder into yours, both of his hands covering your right hand, warming it. You stare at the stone, almost feeling your chest wanting to cave in—if it weren’t for Guy showing up, you’d be alone. And while you were ready to weather that, it doesn’t mean you wanted to. Or should have to. 

“My father and sister don’t find any use in visiting, you know. Because it’s…” You trail off for a moment, trying to find the right words, even though those don’t feel like they exist. You settle with, “Because it’s the past.” And even that feels wrong. You remember your mother even less than your sister does, being some years apart, and yet you’re here. 

“I don’t know, I think there’s something comforting about being here, next to her, with her.” You turn your head to look at Guy, whose eyes are already on you. Gaze gentle, open, compassionate. “Do you think that’s foolish?” 

He quickly shakes his head, “No. No, of course not.” 

You draw in a sharp breath, suddenly realizing— “I’m sorry, this…this must be so difficult for you.” 

Death. Mothers. Grief. 

He nods gently because yes, it is. And yet, “You have nothing to apologize for.” His thumb traces the back of your hand. Back and forth, a comforting rhythm, “I’m here because you’d do the same for me. Because I care about you.” 

You swallow over a lump in your throat, those tears feeling like they’re overwhelming you again. This day is difficult as it is and then there’s Guy, here, being there for you in a way that is not altogether new. And yet it feels like something you’re clinging to, pulling you through the storm, a lifeline. Guy, who doesn’t need to be here, who is struggling with something similar and possibly more painful. He’s just lost his mother—you barely knew yours. 

You close your eyes for a few moments, attempting to center yourself before speaking again, “I know I was really young when she passed but it’s…” 

Of course he gets it. “Like you’re mourning for something that never was. Or…what could have been.” 

A shuddered breath claws out of your throat, “I hope she’d be proud of me. I don’t—” 

“Shh,” Guy murmurs, “Hey, of course she’d be proud.” He catches your chin between his fingers, angling your face towards him. “Of course she’d be proud.” He repeats, making sure he holds your gaze so that the words sink in. 

Your lower lip wobbles but you nod. You know you’re not exactly living up to society standards but…you take care of your family best that you can. You’re happy. You’re honest with yourself about what you want and what you need. About who you love. 

You hope she’d be proud. 

“Come here,” He says gently, encouraging you to lean into him, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You instantly fold into his chest, burying your face in his shoulder, breathing him in. The crisp smell of snow mixes with his comforting scent, his hand sneaking up and under the cloak you’re wearing and pressing into the knobs of your spine. 

You squeeze your eyes closed, tears seeping into the fabric of his coat, arms winding around his waist. You linger there, holding one another, until snow begins to gather on the blanket. 

—

December.

There’s something about Christmas that makes you feel relaxed down to your bones. With the snow flurries outside making the inside feel cozy and intimate, there’s the constant glow of fires and candles along with the smell of chestnuts, pine and mulled wine. You’ve also always been a big fan of gift giving, even outside of the season, just a small way in showing someone you care for them. All your presents are carefully wrapped and tucked under the tree…except the one you’ve gotten for Guy. 

That one is sitting on your bed, tissue paper gently tucked around it. You’re still…unsure if you want to give it to him, worried that it’s too much. If he’ll like it. You suppose it’s the thought that counts but. Still. It’s been something you’ve been thinking about for a while. Christmas is the perfect time to hand it over under the guise of nonchalance. 

Usually you enjoy the festivities that your family puts together—an intimate party for extended family and friends, but this year it’s a little different. Your sister is set to marry Louis and…while you’re excited for her, this gathering has become more of a pre-wedding get-together than a holiday celebration. It’s all anyone can talk about, any time you spin towards someone new with a glass of warm, mulled wine in your hand, cinnamon stick swirling in the glass—how excited you must be for Cassandra, how lucky she is. 

And while these things are true, it’s taking pieces of Christmas from you, of the intimacy and memories you associate with this party at your estate. Selfish? Maybe. But is there something so wrong with that? 

Before you can run into Louis’s mother, who’s eyeing you up across the foyer—because of course Louis has a brother your age, you make a quick turn out of the room. A sharp noise leaves your lips as you collide with—

“Guy!” 

He manages to hold onto his small plate, a glass of mulled wine in his other hand. His eyes are a tiny bit glassy, telling you he’s been enjoying himself. You knew he was here but you hadn’t managed to find him yet. How fortuitous. 

“I’m sorry,” You laugh softly, helping him stabilize everything he’s got. 

“Menace.” He teases, using that tone of endearment that his mother gave you when she’d call you that. 

A breath of relief leaves your lungs to see him, but also that you didn’t manage to ruin the maroon knit sweater he’s wearing. The color does wonders for his complexion, for the soft brown of his eyes. Swallowing down a wave of butterflies trapped in your chest, you straighten your shoulders. 

“I was looking for you.” 

He raises his eyebrows, motioning to the room you’ve come from with his plate, “Couldn’t help but notice the scowl you’ve been wearing half the night, so I figured I’d bring you something.” 

“Cheese?” You ask, a bubble of a laugh in your voice. 

Guy crinkles his nose at the sound but there’s amusement in his gaze, “Who doesn’t love cheese?” 

“No, I do,” You touch his hand with a grin, “Very thoughtful, thank you.” 

Reaching for a small block of white cheese, you pop it into your mouth, chewing with enthusiasm. Guy’s lips twitch, 

“Spirit lifted?” 

“Tenfold.” You agree, glancing past him towards the steps. “But I can also think of something even better…” 

You begin to walk past him, tugging on the sleeve of his sweater. As if you’d need to encourage him to follow…he’s always right behind you. That warm weight of awareness sits low in your chest, licking downward in a way that makes you feel dizzy. You blame the wine as you snag a bottle right off the table that’s supposed to be used for the mulled bowl right next to it. You then lift up your skirt so you don’t trip going up the steps. 

You can hear Guy’s footstep behind you, all the way up, towards your destination—

“The roof?” He asks, “It’s freezing.” 

You stop in your bedroom first, picking up the small gift that’s for him, using a side entrance of steps to the attic and finally, the roof. You wave the bottle over your shoulder, 

“That’s what the wine is for, drink up Thwarte.” 

He smiles, shaking his head as if you exhaust him and yet he can’t get enough. 

There’s no protest from him as he takes the bottle from you, having a long sip as you both maneuver your way outside. It’s stopped snowing, just cold, yet not the wet kind that tends to sit too long in your lungs. It’s crisp, not windy, so it’s…it’s almost enjoyable. The heat of your skin certainly thinks so as you wander along the edges of the roof, tipping your head back to look at the spackling of stars. 

It’s perfect. 

Turning to look towards Guy, you grab the bottle from him when he offers, pulling a short sip into your mouth. It’s not as sweet without the spices and the coolness on your tongue is a slight jolt to your system. But it feels good to be up here with him, drinking, escaping a bit. You carefully set down the gift you got him in a spot that doesn’t have snow or dampness and sit down too. 

He raises his eyebrows. “We’re really doing this?” 

“Don’t be such a spoil sport.” You tease, “It feels good up here.” 

Guy hums, sinking down next to you, his body warm and solid and…there’s this ridiculous urge to bury your face in the fabric of his sweater. One that you outright ignore by looking at the stars again. 

“Feel like I’m always running into you when you’re trying to hide.” 

A small smile tugs at your mouth, looking over at him. The moon is big and bright, casting a cool glow along his curls, the handsome panes of his face. He appears almost iridescent, more beautiful than you feel like you could commit to memory. It makes your chest ache for some reason. 

“Not from you,” You assure quietly, as if a secret, as if it’s important for him to know. “Never from you.” 

He smiles too, gently bumping his shoulder into your own, “I know.” His fingers linger along yours when he takes the bottle back, “You’re a safe space for me too.” 

You breathe in, deeply, the cold air lighting your lungs up like a Christmas tree. But you feel more alive that way, in a sense, a small dizziness beginning behind your eyes from the wine. It’s a warm sensation, rose-colored. Safe. You think that describes how you feel when you’re around him perfectly. 

And because something else lingers on the tip of your tongue, Guy tilts his head a bit when he looks at you, reading words unspoken as easy as breathing, 

“You don’t like him, do you?” He asks, “Louis?” 

You’re not sure that you do. You’ve heard unseemly conversations about Louis, about him having a heavy hand, but it’s all just gossip. Nothing well-founded. And even if it was? Telling Cassandra, you already know, most likely wouldn’t change anything. 

You shake your head, “Doesn’t matter what I think.” 

Guy licks his lips, the bottle set down between your bodies. “It matters to me.” 

His words, paired with your attention drawn to his mouth, has you searching for another distraction. You clear your throat, remembering the gift for him that you brought up. 

“Speaking of mattering to one another,” You smile a bit, picking up the small square canvas, wrapped in tissue paper, that’s slightly larger than the palm of your hand. “I’ve got something for you.” 

Guy’s shoulders go a little rigid, staring down at the gift for one heartbeat, “You weren’t supposed to be getting me anything.” 

You shrug your one shoulder because…you certainly never agreed to that. When Guy mentioned maybe skipping an exchange this year, you merely let him believe whatever he needed to. You know why he offhandedly mentioned it, because he doesn’t have money to spend. And that’s fine? You don’t need anything. 

But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to get something for him. 

He doesn’t take it from you. “I don’t have one for you.” 

“Guy,” You say, voice stern but tone warm, “You know I don’t care about that.” You lift your hand with the gift, pushing it gently towards him. “Please.” 

He lets out a long sigh from his nose before taking it, unwrapping the tissue paper with a gentleness you know him for. Sometimes you picture his hands undressing you like that—careful, deft, almost reverent. 

His sharp intake of breath snaps those thoughts loose, your gaze lifting to his face as emotions swim immediately to the forefront. He tugs the tissue paper further away from the small portrait of his mother that you had done, nature around her, in all the ways that you remember her. Beautiful and vibrant. 

“I know it’s not much, I just…” His silence makes you nervous, wondering if maybe you’ve made a mistake. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him. “I know you’ve had to sell a lot of the portraits of her and I—”

“Y/N,” His voice is thick with emotion, a sheen to his brown eyes. It’s like he doesn’t have the words, just shakes his head, brushing his thumb over the face of his mother. He sniffles, composing himself before speaking again, “I wasn’t sure what Christmas was going to be like this year. You’ve made it…bearable,” He whispers. “Worth celebrating.” 

You smile, lifting your hand to cup his cheek, brushing your thumb over the bone. Leaning against his side, he wraps an arm around you, keeping you close as he looks down at the portrait again. You feel Guy shift, tipping his chin down, pressing a kiss to your temple. It’s something that he’s done before…and yet it feels brand new. 

It’s the best gift he could have given you. 

—

February. 

Smoothing your hands along your dress, you try not to fidget with nonexistent issues in the fabric. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing, and yet it feels like it’s suffocating you. This God-forsaken bodice. You had the corset laced too tight or something because it’s almost like it’s crushing your ribs, making it difficult to breathe. The wine you drank a little earlier is sitting heavily in your stomach, a sickening feeling swirling forward like you’re on a ship. 

Your father insisted on hosting another party, this one with the sole purpose of finding you a husband. And while he hasn’t set a date for you to marry, given that his oldest has been, it’s highly encouraged that you begin courting someone.

Or rather that someone begins to court you. 

The concept makes you absolutely nauseous. Half the night has been spent dancing (which you usually love), paired with shallow conversations, unwanted hands brushing against your lower back, shoulders, arms, and a man actually trying to touch your face. You feel like your skin is crawling. 

Thinking some cold, fresh air will do you some good, you move through the dining room towards the balcony, turning a corner and bumping right into Louis’s younger brother. Xavier. He reaches out a hand to steady you but you pull yourself back, making amusement tug the corners of his mouth. 

He’s handsome, it’s a shame his reputation is just as loathsome as his brother’s is. 

“Sorry,” You clear your throat, “Just need a little bit of air.”  

He hums, lifting his drink to his lips. “Escaping?” You don’t like the tone of his voice, like you’re somehow ungrateful for your father putting this together. And while you never asked for something like this to be done…you still appreciate where he’s coming from. Regardless that he’s doing all of this for the wrong reasons. 

You don’t need a husband. Not until you’re ready. 

You’re about to offer an invitation for Xavier to step outside with you, just so he’ll step out of your way, but then he opens his mouth, “A bit inconsiderate, don’t you think? Given that this whole event is for you?” 

You feel yourself bristle, straightening your shoulders. “Needing to take a breath is inconsiderate?” 

He’s got some nerve. Yes, your father put this together for the sole purpose of having you consider your options, but not everyone in attendance is here for that. A party is a perfect excuse to drink a little bit too much, dance, and most importantly: gossip. That’s what the majority in attendance is doing tonight. 

He reaches for you, his open palm resting against your upper waist, “Maybe your dress needs to be loosened.” 

You jerk back from him a bit, but your hip bumps into a nearby table positioned against the wall. “Don’t touch me.” You snap, bringing your hand down onto his wrist. 

He maneuvers you far too easily, using his weight to create an imbalance, pushing you against the table so you’re trapped against it. He locks your arm down by your side, pressing himself into you, bringing his head down to speak against your cheek. 

“This entire party is a ruse anyways,” He whispers, gripping your chin between his fingers, “You’ve practically been promised to me.” 

You feel ice slither down your spine, blind panic bubbling in your stomach at his words. That…that can’t be true. Your father would never—

“You’re lying.” You wish your voice sounded stronger. You hate giving him the satisfaction that the notion scares you, that the loss of your freedom, of your ability to choose, crushes something inside of you. 

His smirk is cruel, “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy being my wife. Your sister certainly enjoys being Louis’s.” 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek so you don’t do something as shameful as crying, emotions building up in your chest and clogging your throat. It’s almost completely overwhelming and you try to channel it in a way that matters, that restores a semblance of self-control. You bring your knee up and step, hard, heel first on his foot. 

Xavier hollars, jumping away, but before you can rush down the hall, he grabs your elbow and yanks you towards him so violently that your head nearly snaps back. 

“Take your hand off of her.” 

A breath of relief instantly skitters from your lips as you turn to see Guy coming down the hall, his eyes boring into Xavier. And while his expression is calm, cool, stoic even, the brown of his eyes are the embers of a roaring fire. He’s pissed—barely controlled as he comes to stand in front of you both. He’s only a half a head taller than Xavier but the tension in his body makes him appear as if he’s towering over him. 

Xavier scoffs, unaffected, “Excuse me?” 

A muscle in his jaw clenches, “You heard me.” 

God, this is bad. Not only are you caught up on the awful reality of Xavier’s previous words, you don’t want this to turn into some sort of scandal. You know Guy—he’s sweet, thoughtful, gentle, but he’s also protective of who he cares about. He’s not about to back down from this, from seeing you in this position. There’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he doesn’t care about what happens to him, but you care. You don’t want him to get hurt. You don’t want whispers and scandals to involve him. 

You step forward to place your hand on your friend’s chest, “Guy, it’s alright—” 

Xavier grips your arm, making you wince, “See? She's perfectly fine. Besides, she could use a little help in finding her place.” 

The flash of pain on your face, combined with Xavier’s words, is all it takes for Guy to snap forward. His fist flies through the air, cracking him in the nose and causing him to stumble backwards. Your arm dislodges from his grip and before things can further escalate, you press on Guy’s chest. 

“Stop,” The tremble in your voice breaks his attention, his gaze finding yours. The harsh edges around him soften and he nods once before his hand snakes down to carefully squeeze yours. 

Xavier is still sputtering behind you, but luckily Guy is leading you both down the hallway, towards the kitchen. You don’t even spare the other man a backwards glance, have no idea whether his nose is broken or he’s bleeding or whether he’s perfectly fine. You don’t care. You’re shaking from leftover adrenaline and the cruel words that Xavier spouted before Guy’s arrival—you have to talk to your father. They can’t be true. 

He tugs you into your kitchen, a few staff handling food and refilling beverage trays. 

“I need a few minutes.” You manage to tell them and wait until they all file out before squeezing your eyes shut. Your breathing is a little unsteady as you attempt to get your bearings, a soft noise leaving your lips when you feel Guy wrap his arms around you. 

He gently encourages you to lean against his chest, his one hand smoothing down your back while the other massages the muscles of your neck under your hairline. It takes several minutes, but you eventually calm down, your hand wrapping around one of his biceps. 

“What were you thinking?” Your voice is muffled along the fabric of his suit jacket at his shoulder. 

He lets out a slow sigh, “To be fair, I wasn’t. Just saw red at the look on your face.” 

You swallow, pulling back a little to look up at him. You’re not sure how all of this is going to unwind, what Xavier is going to mention to his family, to your father, but at least…at least your sister’s marriage is secured. It feels silly to be thinking of concerns like that but the last thing you want is for this to somehow impact Cassandra. 

You look down as his hands slip away from the back of your body, and you reach for his right wrist. Splaying his fingers open, you wince at the reddish bruising beginning on the bones of his knuckles. 

“Your reputation is going to go right down the drain.” You mumble to which Guy lets out a short laugh, mostly air out of his nose. 

He waits until your gaze meets his own, “I don’t care.” 

Your stomach does a full flip, and regardless of how sick you felt in the dining room before all this happened, you find yourself utterly at ease in his presence. Your eyes linger on his lips far too long and you pull yourself away before doing something foolish. Making your way towards the icebox, you grab a chunk of ice and wrap it in a tea towel, bringing it back over to him. Guy shifts, leans back against the kitchen counter, allowing you to take his hand again to set ice down on his sore knuckles. He pulls a face, his eyebrows drawing together before his shoulders even out. His thumb brushes back and forth over your own. 

You concentrate on the task in front of you even though his hand is relatively fine, no broken skin, no blood, but it gives you something to do while your mind spins. He angles his head down but doesn’t say anything, waits for you to tell him what’s still bothering you. 

You’re not sure you even want to get into it, shaking your head, “Sometimes I really hate being a woman.” 

A small smile tugs the corners of his mouth. It’s not what he expected you to say, “I would look rather silly in a dress.” 

That encourages you to laugh and based on his expression, that was his intention, “I don’t know, I think you certainly got the legs for it.” 

A laugh rumbles in his chest as well and the sound blooms heat in your stomach, curling lower. You pull the ice back to check on his hand before bringing it up to your face. You place a kiss on his knuckles and Guy visibly swallows, his thumb moving to trace the line of your jaw. 

Suddenly the words unfortunately unspool from your lips, “I think my father might want me to marry Xavier.” 

Guy’s body stills, his jaw clenching as he listens to you. His reaction flames that same heat to curl in your veins, spreading it throughout your body. You suddenly feel far too close to him, the warmth of his body kissing your skin, the scent of pine and something purley him brushing against your nose. 

You look down at his hand, tracing circles into the underside of his wrist, along the tree of veins there. 

“I have to talk to him about it. I’m sure he wouldn’t…” You shake your head, chewing on your lower lip, “Xavier mentioned—”

“I wouldn’t believe a word out of his mouth,” He finally offers, his voice more of a comfort than he realizes. 

And maybe he’s right—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time men have told you things that were lies. To garner favors, attention, respect. Xavier definitely seems like a person who might do that. Who’d want to make you squirm, influence you, hurt you. Just because he can. 

Guy turns the hand that you’re holding so that his fingers can grip yours, “Your life is your own.” 

And as you linger in the kitchen with him, your hands joined, fingers slowly lacing together—you wish more than anything that that were true. 

—

March.

You speak to your father. And while Guy was right, Xavier was just trying to get under your skin, you’re still expected to find a husband before the next season. Someone suitable. You suppose you should be thrilled, given that some parents choose outright for their daughters who they’re going to end up with. But…you also know that while the choice might fall into your hands, it’s an illusion. You can’t pick just anyone. 

There are standards, expectations. Things you couldn’t care less about. 

Your father might not tell you explicitly, but you can see it in his eyes when you talk to him about what happened with Xavier. About Guy. He’s grateful that Guy didn’t allow anything to happen, his expression is fond, something that comes from knowing the Thwartes for so long.  

But there’s also a sternness to him, like he can sense where this conversation might be going far before a certain thought colors everything for you: he likes Guy, he thinks he’s a good man—but he’s not the marrying type. 

Of course this would come down to money, to prestige, to influence. 

 And, what—someone like Xavier would be more ‘fitting’ because he has money to burn? The fact that Guy Thwarte is a good man should be more than enough.

As you walk through the grass towards the lake on the estate, you try to push as many of these thoughts that you can right out of your mind. It’s not as if you and Guy haven’t spoken about marriage but…never between one another. 

It’s not just about the technicalities, either. You know how you feel about him, how you’ve always felt about him, but that doesn’t mean he feels the same way. Doesn’t mean he’s interested in being tied down. You know just as well as he does that marriages to influence and money mean something, and while you’ve got something sizable to offer…he could want more than that. 

He’s the man you’ve always talked to about everything and suddenly you have no idea how to speak to him about this. 

The weather is fading into a soft chill, no longer freezing or snowing, but not yet spring. You glance down at the edge of the lake, reaching the toe of your boot at the water and tap the surface. A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth because this would be absolutely absurd to do…and yet. 

Making the decision before you can change your mind, you tug your coat off, toeing your boots to the side. Parts of your dress go next, even though getting out of the bodice and corset is difficult, a ping of sudden excitement at the thought that you won’t be putting them back on. At least not by yourself. You strip down to the sheer, full-body slip underneath the thick fabric of your skirt, goosebumps spreading along your thighs and arms. 

And then you jump into the lake. 

A sharp squeal leaves your lips at the temperature, but when you feel your body catch up with your half-brained idea, there’s something refreshing and utterly cleansing about disappearing under the surface of the cold water. You close your eyes and wait as long as you can before wading to the top. 

Dragging a deep breath into your lungs, you lean your body back, floating slightly and looking up at the sky. Clouds speckle the grayish blue, like big puffs of cotton stuck to fabric. A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth, finally beginning to feel centered once again. 

“What on earth are you doing?” 

Your foot slips on a rock, nearly pulling you under as you look over your shoulder at Guy approaching the lake edge. He’s got his hands in the pockets of his slacks, his eyes wide and touched with amusement, dancing over your form submerged in the water. You wait for the moment for his presence to send you off-kilter, to disrupt the calm you desperately just sunk your teeth into…but that moment never comes. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised, he’s always made you feel this way. 

Calm, comfortable, safe. 

Turning to face him, you float a bit on your front to get to a place in the lake where you can stand. Your shoulders and the top of your chest exits the water and you’re well aware how sheer this slip is, plastered to your skin. 

Guy is aware too. His eyes travel down your form and then snap back up, as if he realizes what he’s doing, looking away a moment before a twinge of a smile tugs the corners of his mouth. 

“You’re going to catch your death.” 

You hum, shaking your head, “I’m tough.” 

He laughs suddenly, though the sound is warm and intimate, like a shared secret. And maybe it is. “I’m well aware of that.” 

You lift one of your hands and send a small splash towards Guy’s leg, not enough to soak him, but enough to tease, “Get in here with me.” 

His mouth opens, eyebrows shooting up, “Absolutely not—”

“Get,” You send another splash, this time with purpose. It sprays along his side even though he attempts to jump back to avoid it. You laugh, “in here.” 

“Menace.” He tosses out, but it’s so affectionate that he can’t even begin to hide it. Especially with that handsome grin on his face. 

You lean back into the water and you know you should turn away when Guy starts to take off his coat, when he unbuttons his pants, when he removes his waistcoat. And yet you don’t. You drink him in. There’s a moment where his eyes find yours, when his fingers slow, and there’s a drawn breath into his lungs, his mouth slightly parted. 

And heat gathers in the center of your body, dipping between your legs. You swallow over an emotion in your throat, something you can’t (or don’t want to name), and eventually you tear your gaze away. You don’t look up again until you hear him slip into the water, a harsh breath leaving his lips at the temperature—but your thoughts zip elsewhere, that heat between your legs giving a sudden pulse. 

“Alright, you got me in here.” He says it begrudgingly, but his tone of voice doesn’t match his expression as he wades closer to you. 

You’re not sure whether you’re just getting used to the water or because you can feel the warmth of his body, but you slip into that contented state that you usually are with him. You walk backwards, the water brushing over your shoulders, and for a moment you wish he wasn’t taller than you—because your gaze is drawn to the broadness of his chest, the map of his shoulders, the soft slope of his neck. 

You drag in a breath, attempting to clear your head. “Wasn’t sure you would.” 

He huffs out another laugh, “And how often do you find me denying you anything?” 

You grin. 

Comfortable silence stretches between you, birds stirring in the singular tree that’s near the embankment. You wonder if that means spring is truly close, hugging winter through its last bout of chills. A sound of chatter draws your attention towards Guy’s estate, the crunched gravel of carriage wheels, the huff of horses. Eyebrows drawing together, you see someone moving in the distance, but can’t make out whether they’re coming or going. 

“Did you have a visitor?” You ask, slowly rotating back to look at him. 

He’s quiet, contemplative, chewing on words in his mouth. He drags his fingers through the water, “Yes,” Guy pauses, his focus returning to your face before, “Jean Hopeleigh, actually.” 

Oh. You know her—you’ve seen her at various parties, have heard her name passed around like a tray of champagne at a party. Women and men alike are enthralled by her, by the promise of attachment, not just because she has the impressive promise of wealth, but because she’s beautiful. 

And she’s been to visit Guy. 

A thousand questions begin to pelt the inside of your mind, like rainfall, did he invite her? Did she come on her own? What did they discuss? Is he interested in her? How could she not be interested in him? Is he going to see her again?

Is it too late? 

“Oh she’s…” Words fail and you try to come up with something that doesn’t speak to what feels like a sickening rock settling in the base of your stomach. “I’ve heard she’s sweet.” 

Your cheeks feel hot at that being the only thing you have to offer, and the twitch of a smile that pulls on Guy’s lips makes you want to look away from him. To slip underneath the water until your lungs burn and beg you to resurface. 

“She’s lovely,” He agrees. 

“Are you courting her?” Blurts from your mouth so fast it takes you a moment to even realize you’ve said it. It’s not supposed to sound so…so accusatory. 

There’s hesitation in the way Guy’s body stills, as he watches you. It’s a singular heartbeat, a one breath in, before he steps closer. Your eyes tip up, unable to look away, nowhere for you to hide from the aftermath of your question. 

“Would it bother you if I was?” 

Yes. 

It’s an instant response strangling your tongue and you bite down on everything inside of you in order to keep that word under lock and key. 

“No,” You whisper, “No, of course not.” But despite the words leaving your lips, Guy is still looking at you the same. Like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows you, because he does. He knows you better than anyone. 

You clear your throat, trying to float away from him by tipping yourself back and lifting your feet off the lakebed, “You’ve always talked about if you were to…find a wife, you’d want someone who could be a friend, a partner. Jean, I’m sure, would be your equal in every way.” 

Guy purses his lips, “Would she?” The question is asked like he already knows the answer, and it catches you off guard in a way that you were not prepared for. 

“Wouldn’t she?” You toss back, arching your knee up to gently send a splash in his direction with your foot. 

The movement seems to break the odd spell between you two, silence melting into the water and disappearing, Guy grabbing hold of your leg and tugging so you have no choice but to float into him. Your breath catches in your chest and it takes everything in you not to wrap your legs around his waist when his body lines up with your own. 

“I spoke with my father,” You tell him after a moment and while his touch disappears from your leg, it lingers near your waist, a teasing reminder of how close he is. “You were right—I’m not set to marry Xavier.” 

You don’t tell him other things that were said, about inferences that were made, about how you ended up at this lake to be alone. About how some of society must think about Guy if your father was saying the same thing—that he’s not ‘good enough’ to be called someone’s. Yours.  

You can’t think of anything that feels less true. 

You pick your hand up out of the water, fingers gently toying with a tight curl that rests on his forehead. You’re not sure whether it’s an accident or on purpose, but Guy tips his head down, his nose and lips brushing against the soft skin on the inside of your wrist. 

“Looks like we’re both free to make our own decisions.” He murmurs. 

We’re both free—meaning—

“You’re not courting Jean?” 

Guy smiles a bit against you, pulling back a little as he shakes his head, but he doesn’t look up at you. Your fingers twist his curl for a moment, eventually letting it go. Your heartbeat is ricocheting against your ribcage, your hand slipping under the water. There’s a certain secrecy in being cloaked by the water, his fingers grazing your wrist, like it’s only a world for the both of you that no one else can see into. 

His hand wraps around your own. 

Both free to make our own decisions—you squeeze his fingers. You hope more than anything that that’s real. 

—

Present—April, continued. 

When Guy returns from upstairs, he’s got a set of dry clothes on himself, a long-sleeved dress shirt for you draped over his shoulder and then a bunch of blankets tucked under his arms. 

“It’s not much but I figured the trousers would be swimming on you.” 

A small smile because yes, that’s probably true. He’s taller than you, so the dress shirt should be fine. You can wrap the blankets around you, anything to get this damp dress off. It’s keeping a chill lingering in your chest and the tip of your nose. 

He sets the blankets down on the floor and when your fingers touch his as you take the shirt, Guy seems to realize that he should be turning around or leaving so you can undress. 

“I’ll just—” He motions over his shoulder. 

But before he can disappear, you reach for his wrist, waiting until his gaze meets your own, “Can you…” 

You’re unsure why it’s difficult for you to finish that sentence, suddenly the room feeling overwhelmingly warm. You think it’s from the heat of the fire but your skin still seems cool to the touch. Luckily, Guy doesn’t need you to explain, just gives you a brief nod before encouraging you to turn around. 

And he begins removing pieces of your dress. 

The elaborate skirt comes first, untied with practiced hands, and tugged down so you can step out of it. The cage-like petticoat is something you always felt was rather silly, and yet you sometimes enjoyed wearing it. Like your legs were birds, or something, kept behind flexible wires. A small smile tugs the corners of your lips at the thought as it's untied and gently lifted over your head. Your chemise is left along with your corset and you're not sure whether the small intake of breath comes from you or Guy when you feel him step closer, a shiver slipping down your body as his fingers tug on strings. 

It doesn't take long for him to loosen it, the fabric falling free, and there's something about taking an unrestrained, deep breath with him so close by that makes you feel dizzy.

Turning to face him, you tilt your head back to look up, fingers gripping the bottom of your chemise. Your nipples are hard against the soft stitching, from being cold or from anticipation, you’re not sure. But you can tell that Guy is purposely looking at your face, his nostrils flaring a little, jaw gently clenched in concentration. A gentleman. 

“Would you be willing to help me with this as well?” You ask, heart beating so fast you can nearly hear the reverberation in your ears. 

This is a line that cannot be redrawn once it’s erased.

And Guy destroys it as if it never existed in the first place. 

His fingers curl into the chemise and he uses it as leverage to yank you closer. The moment your body bumps into his own, he leans down and kisses you with fervor—like he may never get another chance. Like he’s been thinking about this as long as you have. That’s all the encouragement you need. Your hands rake into his hair, gently tugging, titling your mouth against his own. A noise you’ve never heard him make before, but have thought about him making far too often, climbs up his throat. It creates another fire in your chest, seeping outward, liquid heat pulsing between your legs. 

When his hands bunch the fabric of your slip near your thigh, you draw in a sharp breath. He seems to pause at that, looking down at you, lips slightly wet, eyes dark. 

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks against your lips, “We can stop.” 

You shake your head, your hands moving to his shirt, pulling it out of his waistband. The muscles along his abdomen twitch as your fingers find the buttons of his trousers. “No.” 

Guy holds onto that thread of control, just for a moment, “If you change your mind…” 

You pause, making sure he sees your face before you nod in understanding. And then that thread of control snaps. He cups both sides of your face with his hands, leaning down to kiss you again, gently encouraging you onto the floor where blankets are still haphazardly piled up. You reach blindly for one, fanning it out, before you end up lying on your back. Guy brackets your body at your shoulders, his mouth finding the curve of your neck, his hand sliding between you to tug up the fabric of the chemise. 

You didn’t have a mother to tell you about the inner workings of what you’re supposed to do in situations like this. Your sister’s eyes would go wide any time you might mention a man was attractive, like it was some dirty little secret that one shouldn’t pry with. The only reason you have any semblance of how to move, on what happens, is because you have an aunt that’s saucy after she’s had a few champagnes. 

Not wanting Guy to interpret your thoughts as hesitation, you also reach down between your bodies to work on the buttons of his trousers again, groaning slightly at the heat of his skin. His fingers caress the inside of your thighs before he inches up, right where you want him most. Your eyes close when he spreads your lips, thumb finding that bud of nerves, circling. Drawing in a sharp breath through your nose, you slide a hand inside his pants and wrap your fingers around him, stroking upwards. 

Guy groans, moving a little into your touch, his lips crashing down onto yours again. The stubble of his facial hair against your skin almost adds to the pleasure—you wonder what it’d feel like between your legs. 

You’ve explored your body on your own, but nothing has felt nearly as good as this. He maps out kisses down your jaw to your neck, one finger sliding inside of you, and then two after you’re used to it. His wrist turns, he curls his fingers up—

Fuck. 

You try to continue your ministrations for him as well, but it’s almost difficult to concentrate, contentment pulsing in waves, making you feel like you’re too close to the fire. Your thumb circles over the tip of his cock and he moans, pulling back just a little to look down at you. 

“I don’t…” You begin, worried you’ve done something wrong. 

He shakes his head, the thumb of the hand holding his body above yours brushing against your shoulder. “You’re doing so well,” He promises, assuring you, “Especially if you do that again.” 

You lean up so you can reach him, nipping at his lower lip and then follow his suggestion. You roll your thumb back and forth across the tip of his cock, his whole body reacting by thrusting into your hand. He begins to show more attention to your clit, a strangled whine emptying from your lips, and suddenly all that build-up comes to a peak—and you feel yourself falling right over the edge. 

Your eyes slammed close with your release, hoping Guy isn’t far behind. Seeing you come apart, along with a few more strokes, your thumb pressing against the head, he loses himself against your body. Even though both of you are breathing heavily, he kisses you again, his tongue sliding along yours languidly—like there’s all the time in the world to be here, doing this with one another. 

There’s a moment in which you both pull back, catching your breath and Guy takes the opportunity to clean you up, removing the chemise entirely. His eyes drink in the sight of your body, completely naked before him, leaning down to brush kisses along your sternum, stomach and between your breasts. It almost makes you want to begin all over again. Almost. 

He reaches for the shirt he brought down, helping tug it over your head and slide your arms through. When he’s pulled his trousers moreso around his waist, he lies down on top of you, but not enough for his body to crush your own. He becomes a comfortable, solid and warm weight, using his elbows to keep himself propped up. He smiles at you, curling his fingers around some of your hair that’s framing your face. 

You bring your hand up as well, cupping his cheek, encouraging him to lean down so you can kiss him again. 

“Warm enough?” He asks, his nose bumping against yours. 

“Perfect.” You whisper back, another kiss following. 

—

May. 

The prospect of snagging a husband is so far in the back of your mind, it’s practically something you’ve forgotten about. Your father, however, hasn’t. And while you love him, you’re starting to lose a little bit of respect for him.  He’s not only begun to pile that pressure onto your shoulders, but he’s also been ignoring how terrible of a husband Louis can be to Cassandra. He may not be putting his hands on her (at least nowhere that can be seen), but the light is gone from her eyes. It’s clear any time you look at her. 

If your father wants to ignore that fact, if Cassandra would rather stay in a loveless, brutish marriage just because it’s ‘what a woman does’...then the only thing you can vow to do is now allow yourself to become that. 

You refuse to settle on any man just because it's ‘what one does’. You will not sacrifice your happiness for anyone. 

You’ve also been seeing Guy behind closed doors for the past month. 

Now, there’s nothing to be ashamed of and it’s not like you’re trying to hide, exactly, but moreso being together feels like something precious, intimate. Yours. And you’re unwilling to share that, lest it crumble like ash between your fingers. 

To those with prying eyes, you and your neighbor, your best friend, appear as you always have been: close, friendly, confidants. But…seeing him in the morning as light filters in through curtains, the way he cups your cheek and brushes his lips along your temple when you’re in the kitchen, the way he smirks before he kisses you, his hands wandering to undress you and eventually pulling you close to help put clothes back on, 

—that version of Guy belongs to you. 

“Escaping again?” You hum at the familiar voice behind you on the roof of your home. “Are you ever where you’re supposed to be?” 

A thrum of amusement plucks in your chest as you turn to look at Guy, who’s walking towards you with his hands in his pockets. The perfect portrait of easy handsomeness, dressed in trousers and a white button down, a pine green waistcoat over top. It somehow makes his skin glow, the warmth in his brown eyes like toffee as he steps closer. No matter how often you see him, it’s still the same reaction of fluttering butterflies and your stomach turning inside out. 

“It’s right here,” You tell him with a smile, tipping your chin up to look at him. “On this roof. With you.” 

It’s a much smaller get-together than your father has thrown before, but Louis’s family is here too. And you don’t want to see Xavier unless you have to. 

He reaches for your hand, bringing it up so that he can encourage you into a small spin that makes you laugh. Which seems to be his intention, if the answering smile is any indication. “I brought treacle toffee.” 

You sigh softly, tipping your head back in a dramatic fashion, “I suppose those are the magic words.” And some of the only ones that could get you off this roof. 

Guy holds onto your hand to lead back downstairs, briefly squeezing your fingers on the steps before letting go, offering his arm instead so you can walk with him into the main living space where people are gathered. You ignore gazes that feel like someone is trying to get your attention and allow Guy to guide you into the kitchen. He lets go of your arm so you can make a b-line to the toffee on the table, grabbing a small chunk with a content hum. 

“This is your mother’s recipe, right?” You ask. 

He makes a noise of acknowledgement, “Brought something else of my mother’s today too.” 

You turn to see what he’s referring to but you almost inhale the toffee when you see him get down on one knee. 

Instantly, “No.” 

Guy’s lips twitch, “You didn’t even let me ask you anything yet.” 

You know exactly what he’s going to ask you—he has a small, red velvet box between his fingers. It’s not open yet, but you know what’s inside. His mother’s wedding ring. The bridge of your nose stings as tears well in your eyes. You can’t accept this from him, you can’t say yes to any of his questions. 

“No, Guy.” 

He sighs softly out of his nose, but he doesn’t lower the box, nor stand. “Why not?” He asks quietly. 

A choked laugh leaves your lips but you try not to cry. Is he being serious right now? “Don’t play games with me.” 

He brings the box down, but he doesn’t put it away. Instead he opens it. “You think that’s what I’m doing?” The ring is beautiful—plain, but not meager. It’s not meant to be flashy or overly expensive, gentle in its craftsmanship, elegant. It was perfect for his mother, who was so stunning inside and out that she made jewels look superfluous. 

“I think,” You sniffle, “You’ve always been someone to protect me, to rescue me when I needed it. Be there for me when no one else was. You know my father is close to forcing my hand when it comes to marriage.” A tear slips down your cheek, “And I’m terrified it might have to be Xavier.” 

Guy’s entire body tenses, like he wants to stand at the sight of you beginning to cry. But he doesn’t move, just takes his mother’s ring out of the box. 

“Those things might be true, but that’s not why I’m asking if you want to marry me.” 

You swallow over a lump in your throat, a shuddered noise leaving your lips. You have no idea what to say, what to do. You feel frozen to the kitchen floor, so afraid beyond anything that you’ll somehow lose him. 

“You want me to say it?” He adds, waiting until your gaze meets his, “It’s because I love you.” 

All the air in your lungs rush out, two twin tears skirting down your cheeks in the aftermath. The room suddenly becomes tight, like it’s filled with cotton, your heart hammering in your chest at simple words you thought you’d never hear him say. Yet the moment he says them, you feel at home, like it's the most honest thing you know. 

Because maybe they’ve always been true.

“I think about you every day—” He continues, “From the moment I open my eyes to when I put my head back on my pillow. Because I can’t picture a day not spent with you.” Then he smiles, finally standing from where he was kneeling and reaches for you. His hand cups your cheek, brushing away your tears with the pad of his thumb. “Please don’t cry.” 

A wet laugh sounds from your throat and you tip your chin into his touch, closing your eyes. You press a series of kisses to the palm of his hand, relishing in how he makes you feel. How he’s always made you feel. 

You allow yourself a moment to calm down before you give him the very real consequences of a decision like this. Just…just in case he wants to choose a different path, you wouldn’t blame him. 

“My father might disown me if I marry you.” The words come out shameful, a whisper. “I wouldn’t have anything to offer you.” You know that he’s been forced into a role that often falls to women in society—to marry someone with money. In this case you know how important that is, what’s at stake, his home…his mother’s home.

Guy is quiet for a moment before tipping your chin, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. He makes sure his gaze is fully on yours before, “I don’t care—we can build something together. It doesn’t change my question.” 

Drawing in a soft breath, you look at him. Your eyes memorize the handsome lines of his face, crystallizing this moment, because things will not be the same again, “Then ask me.” 

He doesn’t get down on one knee, but he does take your hand, “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” 

Wife—something about that has never felt so right, a small smile pulling at the corners of your mouth as you look at him. Guy, your neighbor, your closest friend, someone you never saw coming but fell in love with all the same. 

The word yes is barely out of your mouth before Guy is kissing you, sliding his mother’s ring into place. 

—

June. 

Your father is not thrilled at the secret proposal but in a surprising turn of events, he does not disown you, either. There’s a conversation he has with you in his study, asking you if you’re happy. You remember how quickly you told him yes, how unequivocally easy it was for you to give that response. He looks into your eyes as you say it, how he weighs that word with precise care, like maybe he’s asked your sister the same thing and has come up with something dishonest. 

“That’s all your mother would want,” He tells you, then a ghost of a smile, “She decided to marry me against her parent’s wishes, you know. And look how well that turned out.” There was a teasing lilt to his voice that made you hug him all the tighter towards the end of that conversation. 

You’re not sure what changed his mind on the matter…but maybe the mention of your mother should be all the answer you need. Things are not altogether settled with your sister either, but…there’s hope that you can eventually help. Cassandra has to want to be happy just as much as you want it for her. 

Walking through Guy’s estate until you find him in the unkempt greenhouse, a small smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you see him perched on the ground above wildflowers. There’s no waistcoat, just a long-sleeved button down rolled up to his elbows. It’s unclear whether he’s trying to plant something or tame weeds when you approach him. 

“Think you’re making it worse.” You tease. 

His entire body relaxes at hearing your voice, turning his head to look up at you. “Quite possibly. I admit I don’t have a green thumb at all.” 

He stands to his full height, waving around a few stems of wilted daisies. Or…at least you think that’s what they are? They’re terribly discolored. Your nose twitches and you take a step back from him, stifling a sneeze into your arm. 

Guy lets out a soft laugh, “Bless you.” He tosses the flowers aside, digging into his pocket for a handkerchief to hand you. “Won’t be using these in the bouquet then.” 

He means for the wedding. Your stomach does a full-bodied swoop, warmth kissing the back of your neck, chest and cheeks. “Well I would hope not,” You sniffle, dabbing your nose with the handkerchief. “They’re wilted.” 

He purses his lips, “Valid point.” He reaches for you, wrapping an arm around your waist and uses his body to back you up a step, “Let's get you out of here before your nose is all red.” He leans down and teasingly kisses the bridge of it. 

You playfully swat his chest, “I don’t mind being in one of your mother’s favorite places.” 

Guy hums thoughtfully, tipping his head back to look at the greenhouse as you both step outside of it. “It was. Other than the walled garden.” 

You smile, pressing yourself up on your toes to steal a soft kiss. It’s a quick thought, but you find yourself saying it anyway, “We should get married here.” 

He pulls back a little, brushing some of your hair aside that’s caught in a breeze. His eyebrows draw together in gentle confusion, “What, here?” 

You nod, “On your estate. I don’t need or want anything fancy.” Your hand rests on his chest, relishing in the strong pattern of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. “I just want you.” 

Guy watches you for a few moments, perhaps to gauge if you’re serious. He then picks up the hand that’s resting on his breastbone, bringing your fingers to his lips to press a series of small kisses there, making you smile. 

“Well there’s no need to worry about that. I would think by now, it’d be fairly obvious.” He murmurs, “I’ve always been yours.” 

Guy cups both sides of your face to draw you into another kiss—languid, with all the time in the world at your feet. Your heart beats in tandem with the sentiment. 

[anghraine]

I got my doctor's appointment and prescriptions (the doctor decided the best solution to my asthma misery was to nuke it from orbit with steroids lmao) and also wrote some more of the femslash K/S AU for WIP Wednesday!

This section is set quite late in the fic, a few months after the five-year mission, and more than usually spoilery (though no great surprises for K/S fans), so the excerpt and more detailed context are below the cut. However, this phase of the story is essentially a follow-up to the cut lines from "The City on the Edge of Forever" about Kirk recuperating on Vulcan.

Basically, after the string of horrors Jess goes through in S3 and after, S'paak invites her to take her mandatory leave on Vulcan and, now on better terms with her parents, asks Sarek and Amanda to host them. She explains her logic: "leave" for a Starfleet officer as extremely competent and dedicated as Captain Kirk is likely to be little more than nominal if she's easily accessible on Earth (especially if she's in San Francisco itself), and thus Earth seems ill-suited to recuperation from the strains of the mission, all the more as Captain Kirk is prone to handling the emotional excesses of those around her. On the other hand, if their superiors have to go through Sarek to trouble Kirk, disruptions seem less probable.

Amanda is like, "oh sweetie we'd love to have you and your best friend with us for—several months, you said? That would be wonderful! It's been so long! And yes, I'm sure you'll both find it so much more restful at home than back on Earth. And your father does owe Captain Kirk his life...what's her favorite food?" and Sarek's like "no intelligent being owes their life to another and Kirk did no more than her duty, but S'paak's rationales are sound, and the captain has a reputation for honor and reason; if her temperament inclines her to find greater peace and sanctuary in Shi'Kahr than San Francisco, logic suggests she will make a suitable guest."

And a couple months into the recuperation on Vulcan with the silver birds etc, this happens:

-

Throughout the nearly forty years of her daughter’s life, Amanda had almost never heard S’paak raise her voice. She had been a quiet baby, and took readily to Vulcan disciplines in early childhood. And neither Amanda nor Sarek had witnessed her first pon farr three years earlier.

So when Amanda passed Sarek’s study, where she knew he and S’paak were meeting with several elders for their own purposes, she started violently enough to just about dislodge her hair pins when she heard S’paak shouting.

“No! I do not accept—I won’t let you take—”

Regaining some semblance of composure, Amanda hesitated outside the door, catching the sounds of what sounded unmistakably like a physical struggle. The others within the study didn’t cry out, didn’t say anything audible enough to reach Amanda’s ears, but she would not expect them to; despite S’paak’s youth and strength, Amanda couldn’t imagine her capable of overpowering four other Vulcans. But she also couldn’t imagine what would have angered S’paak to such a degree that she would lose all command of herself in such company. It must be a misunderstanding, somehow.

Amanda certainly had not been invited to whatever Vulcan conclave was occurring within the study, nor received any explanation of its purpose. In general, she preferred not to disrupt Vulcan matters or to interfere in Sarek’s and S’paak’s relationship, however strong or disastrously estranged it might be at any given time. But after a few seconds’ consideration, she decided that she couldn’t leave S’paak there, alone with Sarek and the elders and openly upset, without knowing what could have possibly caused it. 

She reached a hand towards the door—but before she could push it forwards, Sarek himself opened it from the other side, his figure blocking Amanda’s attempts to see S’paak. He closed the door behind him before she could peer around him. His face showed no more emotion than usual, but Amanda thought she detected lines of physical weariness.

“Sarek, what’s wrong?” she demanded. “Is S’paak—”

“Plak tow,” he said succinctly, glancing down the hall, as if searching for some change to its usual state. Nothing had changed, not outside the study, not even the placement of the ancient stone vases.

Amanda’s eyes widened. “Plak tow? But pon farr is only every seven years, isn’t it? It’s only been three—”

He just looked at her.

“I thought there’d be more time,” Amanda said, flushing. “Time enough to arrange a different betrothal, at the least. She’ll still die without a bond mate?”

Her voice trembled, but she didn’t cry, which she supposed was an achievement of sorts. Forty years on Vulcan at war with every instinct in her red-blooded veins.

“Yes,” he said. “She was already showing traces of the irrationality that mark the early plak tow, and we had hoped that assuring her of an arrangement to save her life would calm her. The opposite occurred. She turned angry and violent.”

“At the idea of being bonded again?” Amanda said, puzzled. “But she has to!”

“Indeed,” he said, his voice even more neutral than usual. He glanced around again. “Where is Captain Kirk?”

“What?” She could hear S’paak’s voice rise sharply again, though not the words. “What does that—is S’paak safe?”

Sarek raised an eyebrow, looking particularly intractable. He’d always had a remarkable ability to convey an impression of fraying patience without enduring the shame of actually losing his composure. Amanda sighed and relented.

“I’d imagine Jessica is in her room,” she said. “We talked a few hours ago. She’d had a bad migraine and I gave her some human medication for it so she could try to get some sleep. Should I keep her away when she wakes up? She might make the situation more difficult—she cares for S’paak, of course, but…”

Sarek, without saying anything or moving more than a few facial muscles, seemed satisfied.

“No,” he said. “Amanda, go wake her now and bring her here to us. I must remain with Elder Stavak to ensure appropriate arrangements are made.”

Amanda blinked.

“Kirk is the person most familiar with S’paak, and thus more likely to successfully communicate with her in her current state,” he added, which was more explanation than she had expected, if still rather puzzling. After an almost absent-minded ozh’esta, he turned back to the study, then glanced over his shoulder. “Hurry, but be discreet. S’paak may not be capable of shame in this moment, but she will register it later.”

[duckymcdoorknob]

If At First You Don’t Succeed

Warning! This is a tickle fic!

@blue-little-angel Merry Christmas!! I’m your secret Santa this year!

Big shoutout to @squealing-santa ! This is always such a fun thing for all of us.

This was an interesting fic for me to write. I am still stuck in Sumeru, so I had no idea who Capitano is. After a month or so of research, I managed to create your present!!! Big shoutout to @fanfic-chan, @ticklish-n-stuff, @adrienisweird, @kurleefrie for helping me characterize him!!

Ships: None!

Warnings: This do have tickles n it ngl.

Prompt: Overhearing some soldiers badmouthing you, Capitano helps to ensure that your training isn’t in vain.

Tags: @blue-little-angel, @chrimsss

“MEN! WEAPONS AT THE READY!” Capitano’s voice boomed among the training ground. He walked behind his soldiers, arms behind his back. He stalked up and down the line, pacing directly behind his men, taking in their every move.

“Chin higher!”

“Straighten your back!”

“Don’t get distracted!”

You tried to listen carefully to everything he told your fellow soldiers. You straightened your back, rose your chin, and focused on your form. You blew an exhale through your lips, fingers tightening around the hilt of your polearm.

“(Y/N), excellent form. Let me see your technique,” your general praised, stopping behind you.

You felt his presence, despite him being a decent way apart from you. You exhaled again, closing your eyes before finally preparing a set of attacks.

About halfway through your showing, you jumped up, sweeping your polearm under you. Unfortunately, you hadn’t swept it far enough, and your heel landed on it, sending you crashing to the ground.

Capitano clicked his tongue, offering you a hand. “Up on your feet, soldier.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought I had it,” you murmured sheepishly.

“You do have it. Mistakes happen to the best of us,” he noted. “Press on; you can do this.”

You nodded, trying to brush away your embarrassment. Capitano walks past, taking notice of your drooping body language. You shake your head, retrying your moves repeatedly.

The more you tried, the more you made little mistakes. You felt eyes on you, hearing little snickers from your fellow soldiers. You were mortified, and you wanted nothing more than to hide away in your barrack and never re-emerge.

“It’s laughable how you even managed to get here. Such a clumsy thing you are,” one of your fellow soldiers quipped. “You must be a fool to think that you’d be a good representative of the Captain.”

“One bad day does not define my worth as a soldier,” you argued in reply.

“Right, and I’m going to be the one to take over for the Captain once he steps down,” he sneered. Him and the rest of the group disappeared to the mess hall, leaving you all alone on the training grounds.

You yelled out in frustration, flinging your polearm into the grass below. You sat criss-crossed with a huff, resting your chin in your hands. Eventually, you leaned backwards, laying on your back.

When you opened your eyes, you spotted your captain standing above you. Your eyes widened and you scrambled about, trying to stand.

“It’s cold,” he observed.

You stayed silent, mortified and ashamed.

“I can see your breath; it’s cold.”

“And?”

“You’ll be of no use if you’re frozen to the core,” he noted.

“I’m not of use anyways,” you grumbled.

Before giving you the chance to reply or deprecate yourself further, Capitano stiffened. He grabbed your shoulders and hauled you to your knees. He pulled your polearm out of the grass, placing it at your side. “On your feet, now.”

Oh dear, you didn’t like this tone he held.

You hesitantly rose to your feet, grabbing your polearm shamefully.

“Assume your stance.”

“Sir-“

“That is an order,” he growled

You flinched at his increasingly angry tone and sighed, assuming your stance.

“Keep your stance no matter the distraction.”

“Captain?” You furrowed your brows. “What do you mean by- gyEAHA!” Your arms tucked in close to your sides, clamping them down. “What the hell?!”

“Don’t falter. A soldier’s battle is one of utter focus.”

Another squeal left your lips as you felt a tweak on the back of your neck. “Sir!” you cried. “This is- NGH- highly innap-EEP! Inappropriate!”

“Focus up, (Y/N). I can’t seem to understand what the issue is here. I’m merely correcting your form.” If you could see your captain’s face, you could have sworn that you would have seen a cheeky grin.

“Cahahaptahahain!” You squealed as his fingers dug into a sensitive spot. Your body shook with gentle giggles, causing your form to falter.

“What’s wrong, cadet?”

“Cahahaptahahain! Ihihit tihihihickles!”

“Oh? Does it really? How curious…” he hummed, tracing gently over the same spot, causing more squeaky chuckles out of you. “Well, let this be a part of your training then.”

As you tried to hold your polearm upright, your body shook as you fought to curl in on yourself. His fingers wormed their way up to under your arms. Your giggles dissolved into full belly laughter.

Frantic laughter poured from your lips as tried to keep yourself from crumbling. Your eyes squeezed shut in mirth, you pleaded for your captain’s antics to cease.

“Stay focused, (Y/N). An assailant may use any means necessary to overtake you,” Capitano reported, wiggling his fingers under your arms with a bit more fervor, causing a yelp from you. “How precious. You really are so sensitive, aren’t you?”

A blush crept up to your cheeks at his teasing words. “Cahahaptahahain! Plehehehease!”

“Please? You wish for me to continue? Such a brilliant soldier who wants to train so diligently,” he hummed. “Quite notable… and quite honorable.”

Eventually, his fingers crept onto your most sensitive spot, causing your eyes to squeeze shut harder. “NAHAHAHA! CAHAHAPTAHAHAIN!”

“Endure it.”

“CMOHOHOHON! IHIHI CAHAHAHANT!”

“You’ve yet to beg me to stop, cadet,” he observed.

Damn it!

Eventually, your knees crumbled beneath you. You curled in on yourself, instantly letting go of your weapon. It fell quickly, the blade headed right for your head. Capitano knelt before you, one supportive hand on your back, and the other effortlessly catching the falling polearm.

“Careful, little one,” he warned, setting the polearm into the grass next to you. “Now… where was I? Ah, right-“

“NO!” You huffed, gripping his wrists. His fingers remained wiggling just above your worst sport. You giggled in anticipation. “Cahahahaptain plehehehease nohohoho mohohohore.”

“Alright, alright,” he soothed, gently rubbing your back.

You sighed, closing your eyes and catching your breath. Capitano continued to rub gentle circles on your back, looking upon you fondly through his mask as he watched you lean into his touch.

“You’ve done nothing but impress me so far, (Y/N),” he noted suddenly. “I heard what the others were accusing you of. I’m here to report that they are nothing but false.”

You scoffed, pulling your knees to your chest, “No, they’re right, Captain. I have far too much to do to improve before I’m worthy.”

“Worthy? More to improve?” He hummed dismissively. “My child, I would trust you the most out of all of your peers to guard my life.”

You perked up at that. “Do you really mean it?”

“So you had a hard day; it is inevitable for any soldier.”

“But I-“

“When I was a boy…” he began. “I was so infatuated with my sword. I was filled with excitement so quickly that I tried to become a master within a day. I ended up accidentally slicing off a large piece of my hair.”

A small snort left you, and you uncurled into a more relaxed position. “Really?”

“Really. When I first became a soldier, my pants fell during a physicality test. I didn’t show my face for a week.”

“There’s no way!” You chortled.

“There is. So, take my experiences to heart. Your mistakes will not define your future. Do not be afraid to make them.”

You smiled sheepishly. “Thank you, Captain.”

“You’re most welcome, little one.”

✪ ——— ╰( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )つ──☆*:・ﾟ. ——— ✪

[dee-writes-anime]

Hopes, Dreams, and Trials with Choso Kamo

FEATURING Choso Kamo x Reader

SUMMARY Trying to start a family in general is hard, but trying to start a family with a cursed womb painting is even harder.

CONTENT WARNINGS WARNING, WARNING!!! this fic is really heavy and deals with themes regarding infertility, please please please read at your own risk and prioritize your mental health <3

AUTHORS NOTE four fics in two days?! I must be an imposter... just kidding! The truth of the matter is that these drafts have been ROTTING in my files and I finally decided to busted them out and finish them up 😼

SERIES MASTERLIST

The bedside lamp cast a soft, golden glow over the room, illuminating the quiet anguish etched into Choso’s features. He sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the small stick lying on the nightstand. The room’s oppressive silence was broken only by the faint hum of the heater, struggling against the winter’s chill. Choso’s hands trembled slightly, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. Not yet. Not while the negative result stood as a glaring reminder of another failed attempt.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, arms wrapped around your knees, the tension in the room pressing down on your chest like a weight. This wasn’t the first time—not even close—and both of you knew it likely wouldn’t be the last. Yet, the knowledge didn’t dull the sting of disappointment. It never did.

“Maybe we should…” you began, your voice a fragile tremor in the stillness.

“Don’t,” Choso interrupted, his tone softer than you expected. His shoulders sagged under the invisible weight he carried, his posture speaking of defeat. Finally, he turned his gaze to you, his expression a raw mix of guilt and despair. “Don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” you countered, your voice steadier now despite the tears pooling in your eyes. “We’re in this together. It’s not about fault.”

Even as you said it, you knew he wouldn’t see it that way. Choso had always carried the burdens of others—a habit formed from years of protecting his brothers, even in death. Now, with this, he felt as though he was failing at something he desperately wanted to give you: a family.

Hesitantly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your knee. The gesture was tentative, almost apologetic, as though he doubted he deserved to touch you. You covered his hand with yours, intertwining your fingers and squeezing tightly.

“I just…” Choso’s voice broke, and he exhaled sharply, his free hand scrubbing over his face. “I don’t understand. We’ve tried everything. The doctors said it could take time, but… how much more time? How much more hope do we have to lose before…” His voice trailed off, swallowed by the quiet despair hanging in the air.

“As much time as it takes,” you said, though the words felt like a fragile thread of hope in the face of mounting doubts. “Choso, we have to believe it’ll happen. It’s the only thing keeping me…” You faltered, your voice cracking as tears spilled down your cheeks. “Keeping me going.”

Choso’s heart broke at the sight of your tears. He shifted closer, pulling you into his arms. The familiar scent of him—a blend of sandalwood and the faint metallic tang of his cursed energy—washed over you, grounding you in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this. Any of this.”

“Neither do you,” you murmured against his chest, where his heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your ear, a comforting rhythm amidst the turmoil.

That night, tangled together under the weight of heavy blankets, you whispered promises into the quiet. He swore his love for you would never waver, no matter what happened. You promised not to let this struggle drive a wedge between you, even when the burden felt unbearable. It was a fragile truce with fate, but it was enough to see you through another night.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The routine became all too familiar: tracking ovulation, scheduling doctor’s appointments, enduring endless tests and invasive procedures. Each visit to the fertility clinic felt like navigating a labyrinth of sterile rooms and clinical jargon, leaving a gnawing sense of inadequacy that neither of you voiced aloud.

Choso loathed the way the nurses looked at him—with pity masked by professionalism. He hated the hushed tones and the apologetic smiles that seemed to suggest he wasn’t enough. And worst of all, he hated the way a small, insidious part of his mind whispered that you’d be better off with someone else—someone who could give you everything he couldn’t.

You despised the way the world moved on around you, oblivious to your struggles. Friends’ pregnancy announcements, baby showers, the cheerful chatter of parents in parks—each was a cruel reminder of what you didn’t have. Yet, despite the cracks forming in your resolve, you clung to each other. Even when the silence between you grew heavy with unspoken fears, you stayed tethered to the love that had carried you this far.

One evening, after yet another exhausting day at the clinic, you sat on the couch in the dark. The only light came from the muted television, casting flickering shadows across the room. You leaned against Choso, your head on his shoulder, while his fingers absently traced patterns on the back of your hand. Neither of you spoke for what felt like hours, content to simply exist in the shared quiet.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” you asked suddenly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Choso stiffened, his hand stilling in its movements. “What?”

“All of this,” you said, gesturing vaguely. “The appointments, the treatments, the constant disappointment. Do you think we’re just setting ourselves up for more heartbreak?”

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Are you saying you want to stop?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” you admitted, tears spilling over once more. “I just… I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Choso’s arms encircled you, pulling you close as though he could shield you from the pain. “If you want to stop, we’ll stop,” he said firmly. “But if there’s even a part of you that wants to keep going, then we’ll keep going. No matter how long it takes, I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his shirt. In that moment, you realized that no matter how difficult the journey, you weren’t alone. Choso was your anchor, your partner, your everything. Together, you would face whatever storms lay ahead, one day at a time.

The following weeks brought a mix of cautious hope and deep uncertainty. Your doctor proposed trying a new treatment, one that was more invasive but held a higher chance of success. The decision to move forward felt daunting, like stepping into uncharted waters, but neither of you could bear the thought of giving up on a dream you had nurtured for so long.

Choso stood by you through every step—every injection, every scan, every procedure. He held your hand tightly in the waiting room, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your skin. On days when the side effects left you exhausted and irritable, he met you with patience and quiet reassurances. Warm tea. A favorite blanket. Silent companionship when words felt too heavy to bear.

There were moments of light amidst the darkness. One afternoon, after a particularly grueling appointment, Choso surprised you with a small potted plant. “It’s a symbol of hope,” he explained, his cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. “Something we can take care of together.”

You laughed through your tears, touched by the gesture. The plant found a place on the windowsill, a small but enduring reminder that even in the bleakest times, life could still flourish.

As the months wore on, the emotional toll on both of you became undeniable. There were arguments—raw moments where the grief and frustration boiled over, leaving scars of guilt and misunderstanding. But each time, you found your way back to each other, reminded of the love that had brought you together in the first place.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and amber, Choso took your hand in his. His voice was quiet but steady as he said, “I don’t know what the future holds for us. But I know that whatever happens, as long as I have you, it’ll be enough.”

Tears filled your eyes as you leaned into him, your heart swelling with a bittersweet mixture of love and sorrow. “You’re enough for me too,” you whispered. In that moment, a fragile sense of peace settled between you, the knowledge that no matter where the journey led, you would face it together.

TAGLIST

@makingtimemine @strawbrrycat @soraya-daydreams @shokosbunny @saltypuffin1040 @danilights2021 @startwithrecords @obeythebutler @sparklykeylime @surielstea

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader x Alpha!Sam

WC: 1126

Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter.

Warnings: A/B/O, dystopian au, canon elements, non/con, dub/con, incest, subjugation, pandemic, mentions of nudity, physical/mental abuse, mention of collaring/leashing, sexual/slavery, rut/heat, physical altercation, death/murder conviction, show level violence, parental dominance, trafficking, branding, panic attacks, bondage, forced mating, dated derogatory terms, medical treatment

*Additional warnings will be added

Square filled: @spnabobingo Slutty Omega

A/N I: Still working on reigning myself in, keeping each part reader-friendly length, and have no clue how many parts this will end up being.

A/N II: a few notes about designations in A/O sub-genders for this story.

Alphas-Dominant (head of the pack/family) Subordinate (obey Dominant) Breeders (rare & highly coveted by the government. Can challenge Dominant for pack/family leadership)

Omegas -Domestic (mostly wiped out by plague, few natural born left) Feral (government-supplied breeders sold commonly called O's) House O’s (3rd generation+ Feral/Dominant breed. Used as servants/sex workers) Pack (rare & highly coveted by the government)

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

**Apologies for taking so long getting this part out-had an accident at work and will have limited used of right hand for a bit.

Series Masterlist

Part XI

Dr. Stevenson slid surgical scissors under the ties, quickly sniping, explaining the original posture collars were redesigned for auto-erotic asphyxiation. It fades out as Dean feels like he's having needles pulling out from under the skin of his neck when she drops. "I was expecting that. Let's get the O back on the table."

The doctor continues talking as they slowly remove it, "And this is why they're outlawed," stepping back allows Dean to see the deep purple bruises with black depressions stripping the unconscious O's neck.

****

The doctor gently scrubbed her neck with a fine-pore sponge and commented, "You felt it, didn't you? " The question took Dean off guard and touched his neck, "How'd you?"

"I noticed the claim mark while I was removing the collar. Finding an O you're biologically compatible with isn't easy these days, and even more so for the owner to claim them if they are." Dean doesn't respond. "'Course, it's none of my business. I'm seeing a lot of soft tissue abrasion but no skin necropsy. That's good. Bruise cream will speed up healing." The doctor shined a light into her mouth. "Has she attempted to speak?" Dean admitted he had not heard anything outside coughing.

"I am concerned about this inflammation in her throat." They pick up a swab. "I'm going to have some labs run. Make sure it isn't from an STI since O clinics are only obligated to run standard STD testing for appearances." Slipping the swap into a sterile tube notices the Alpha's confusion.

"Several years into Hibbing, there was unrest brewing about selling people, so the government mandated all O's must have their hymens intact before the first purchase and made propaganda reels still shown in schools to program the populous in believing they're not mistreated." The doctor moves to a cupboard, pulling out a sterile pack.

"Truth is, these O's are versed in various sexual acts by the time they're teens. Going by the physical, I'd say she's been repeatedly throat fucked with that collar on; undoubtedly, it's also done some damage to her vocal cords. But if you're willing, you can do things to help." They gauge Dean before continuing.

"Give her nothing too hot or cold, only room temperature. Tea with honey, soft foods only need to swallow, nothing chewy, and protein supplement specifically for O's. If lucky, she'll recover enough to be understandable but be prepared for the worst, that she'll never speak again." They began preparing a site near the original implant. "I'd normally like to wait on the suppressant; it'll slow down healing. But with her current physical condition, going into heat would be detrimental."

They continued talking, oblivious Dean's vibrating with anger in muscle memory: unable to stop the strangers hovering over his Omega because being tased several times had temporarily left his legs unusable; furiousgrowls bounced around the room when he smelled her blood. Needing a distraction before his instincts swallow him, Dean turns his attention elsewhere and eyes the collar.

Running his fingers over it, he feels the visual bumps and discovers slim, horizontal boning embedded in the leather and hears the doctor comment, "They're constriction rings, function similar to cock rings without the pleasurable effects."

Dean's habitual guilty-as-hell caught in his throat. He failed again to see what was right before him. He shouldn't have kept blindly believing his dad's continued quoting of that damn pamphlet, that him treating it like any other person confused its lower intelligence.

Sam's snide comment that only dick Alphas believed in that antiquated bullshit led to the latest round of Dean physically getting between them before punches got thrown. His wonders what level of dick his brother now considers him is interrupted by the phone's ringtone.

"Hey Bobby, no, still at the clinic. What? Sam's registering shouldn't be an issue; his paperwork is all there." Dean listened to the Betas ranting. "Alright, I'll head over there and deal with it." Then came a list of errands the Beta needed him to run made Dean pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Just what he needed; more things slapped on his overflowing plate when he felt the O coming around, ending the call to focus on her. "Hi, sweetheart. Have a good nap?"

She turned towards his voice, spotting the IV pole, and glanced down at the tubing protruding from her wrist. She peered at him and blinked three times, the signal for question. "You have something going on in your throat and need some antibiotics and fluids. Listen, I gotta run out for a while and deal with something at Sam's school. Will you be okay?"

That's when it smacked Dean; something had shifted between them. If he allows himself to be honest with himself, it scares him. Refocusing on the O, he's unnerved by her concerned expression, too similar to Sam's, and feels relief when she blinks once for yes since he's unsure how to react to her becoming more in tune with his internal feelings.

Grabbing the three-quarter-drank bottle of rotgut, Bobby doesn't bother with the glass; he feels it burn his throat as he polishes it off. Banging the bottle down, he stares at the wording on the paperwork and understands why John was so cagey about his questioning about Frank. The sonuvabitch knowingly mated his children; that practice hasn't been done since before the Omega plague. And knowing the temperament of the man, it wasn't to get Dean out of dire straits because he is John’s son, but for the older Alphas' continued vendetta.

The Beta's mind whirled with questions, but one kept popping to the forefront- who or what made her appear out of nowhere, and why now?

The longer he broods, the more he's convinced it has links to Mary Winchester. Picking up the cordless phone, he dials a familiar number. "Hey Bobby," a female voice warmly says. "Guess you're not calling to find out who to bet on in Sunday's playoffs."

"We both know the Vikings are going to the Superbowl," there's an amused laugh on the line, "Keep telling yourself that. So what can I help you with?"

"I'm not sure where to start with this one," Bobby admits and hears cards shuffling through the receiver. "It'd be best to go back to the beginning. And keep the drinks down to a minimum." He glances at the new bottle he had sat on the desk just before calling, "How'd you...?"

"I'm the best damn psychic in the state," Pamela reminds him, "So start talking, or I will reverse the charges for this call." Bobby makes a vexed noise at his fellow Betas' cheekiness.

"In 1986, I met a man with two small boys looking for answers."

Part XII

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx @lyarr24 @flamencodiva @lassie-bird @nancymcl @spnbaby-67 @leigh70 @b3autyfuld1sast3r

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2 @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl

WF: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @deans-spinster-witch @ilovetaquitosmmmm @strawblueberrys @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @kazsrm67 @elmolovesw33d

[alexanderlightweight]

an agile predator at bay - magnus is annoyed at what they [the Clave] have put alec through and wants to make sure they pay up before he takes his lovely new prize away?

so this is incredibly long and was meant to be broken between two prompts but Tumblr is eating my prompts atm and this was a bit of a monster and yeah.

hopefully Tumblr will release its thievery but here is the next part and its like 4k+ and please recall this is NSFW and 3DNE this is a dark/obsessive and violent, very kinky fic. also telepathy I guess? mind link?

<3 lumine

an agile predator at bay

Alexander’s eyes watch him closely and without fear, delight crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“What has you so pleased, lovely?” Magnus has his hand, firm on Alexander’s hip and grins, teeth bared in a sharp smile, when Alexander just pushes closer to him. There’s a whisper, a hoarse request barely spoken and even harder to decipher but Magnus catches the murmur all the same.

“One chance.” He whispers back, they’re almost to the dais where Alexander’s ties to the Clave will be publicly and ritually severed.  He will give Alexander one chance to rescind the request he’s just made, one chance because Magnus is already being overly generous in offering a chance at all.

Alexander’s gaze is as stubborn as the mulish set of his mouth and Magnus leans forward, catching his gaze and flicking his eyes to Alexander’s own mouth.  Catching on, his boy bites his own lip just as Magnus does the same. They meet with a messy kiss, one vivid with sensation and pain and blood bursting on the tongue. Magnus can barely enjoy it.  Focusing too hard on the way his magic tangles its way into Alexander’s veins and breath, until it can press possessively against the private intimacy of his inner thoughts and emotions.

Coiling there like a dragon around the heart of its hoard, never to let go or allow another near.

You paid my blood price.

Alexander’s thoughts ooze smug superiority as he gloats in his knowledge. Magnus is pleased by how eagerly Alexander’s mind has accepted what most would consider the worst of intrusions.  

It’s with ease that Magnus nudges his boy with magic and thought, curiously poking at the information that currently only Alexander knows.

Whatever vicious little treat his boy has found and sunk his teeth into, Magnus wants to know.  Wants to share in the dark satisfaction that clings to Alexander like a lover's embrace.  Wants to share his own satiation at the fact that Alexander did in fact know what he was asking for, when he asked Magnus to link their minds together.

Whether in defense of myself or your own claim, you killed twenty-three men and except for you, I saw all the competitors. You killed enough men to pay my body weight with blood. It’s one of the highest honors for a shadowhunter, Magnus. Regardless of why you killed them, you killed them in my name and christened our union in death. 

Magnus’ jaw clenches with both pride and irritation. 

As delightful the discovery is — because what Alexander is sharing with him is wondrous — he had forgotten about the fact that Alexander would have at the very least been paraded before the original hunters and separately to the crowd.  As Magnus hadn’t intended to participate until he laid eyes upon Alexander, it hadn’t mattered to him until now. 

Twenty-three out of thirty-five slain, a bloodprice paid in full for a shadowhunter spouse held in honor.

A beautiful way to both mock the Clave and ensure that no shadowhunter will ever look at Alexander with anything other than awe and envy.

Still, the reminder that some of those still alive must have looked at Alexander and thought they could have him make Magnus want to even it out.

To thirty-five exactly.

Just to be fair.

After all, despite the gravity of some sins extending further than others, didn’t all who participated dare to think they could in some way, possess the man Magnus has chosen as a consort?

How, by the very laws of the Elders and Dominion magic itself, can Magnus ignore their treason?

Still, despite the fact that Magnus is about to lose a few more subjects, the fact that Magnus has a way to further wound the Clave — and with a blade handed to him by Alexander no less.  Is almost as great a delight as his impromptu marriage and the fact that he’s found such a compatible consort.

The release of Alexander — the severance of his oaths to the Clave — is something Magnus claims with vengeful authority.  With Alexander’s mind so tightly pressed to his own, there is no need for verbal vows between them. Instead just as Alexander’s mind cries out in agony from a severed tie, another is being woven into existence with nothing more than Alexander smirking against Magnus’ jaw and a joint communion of the mind.

While the Clave currently remain none the wiser that Alexander is already far, far beyond their grasp and authority.

Alexander’s new oaths form a tether between them as the magic begins to settle and the Dominion magic crackles possessively down the newly formed link, searing itself into the brittle cracks of Alexander’s mind like lava reshaping the terrain of a volcano.

“As his newly vowed husband, I’m entitled to collect Alexander’s inheritance as a Commander and the Lightwood heir. Though I do understand that some parts of what he is owed will need to be exchanged for compensation with items rather than titles.”

“Inheritances are not political, they’re won or earned. You do not qualify by the standards and customs of our people to ask for such an honor.” Imogen’s voice is smug, her disdain clear as she expects Magnus to obey her words. To accept that she thinks he doesn’t deserve it, that Alexander doesn’t deserve it by proxy.

“And yet I’ve paid Alexander’s blood price, by my own hand, magic and deed.”

Imogen’s face twists in a nasty grimace and she gives Alexander a look of such loathing that Magnus is tempted to blind her in defense of his boy. Yet she says nothing that would excuse such an act and so he waits. 

There is a long stretch of silence, Imogen flustered despite her attempt at stoicism as she clearly tries to buy time. Trying to figure out a way to deny Magnus — deny the audacity of any downworlder but especially him — the honor of such a lauded nephilim tradition.

Magnus chuckles darkly, the sound loud across the prolonged silence and while Imogen shivers — Alexander presses both mind and body flush to Magnus’ own in delight.

“Would you like the evidence of my claim then, Imogen?” The wind picks up, copper and iron pungent on the sudden breeze and the first gust of magic — a bloodrain — scatters droplets across Imogen’s pure white outfit and face and the altar.

Blood pools upon the altar where the Silent Brother raised a stele and cut Raziel away from Alexander and drips down over it in a waterfall of blood.

Against him Alexander hides a laugh against Magnus’ shoulder, his breath a rasping whisper barely heard.

To add insult to injury, Magnus tosses the few soulgems he collected and Imogen flinches, recognizing the rarity and worth of them scattered like worthless pebbles on the floor even as she’s put distance between herself and the storm of blood.

“Your claim is recognized.” 

Magnus doesn’t recognize her but Alexander presses the name ‘Jia’ to his thoughts and it’s easier than breathing, taking in a short few vivid memories that give him a better measure of this shadowhunter.

The most important thing is that while she won’t help Magnus out, she hates Imogen enough to let the other woman suffer, even if it’s only her pride.  Which at the moment, is more than enough help for Magnus to salt the wounds.

“His vows of release from the Clave mean he can now give his oaths to another. I want a Writ to ensure that there will be no repercussions for whatever oaths he makes.”

Jia agrees before Imogen can do more than stutter in outrage and Magnus summons a Writ, Alexander’s glee heavy in his mind, extending it to be signed and sealed in ink, blood and rune.

Written with the precision of a shadowhunter Commander, with the language only a nephilim is taught and a knowledge of the rules and laws so deep that it would impress Ragnor.

A Writ formed exactly as Alexander has suggested.

—-

Alec doesn’t care that Imogen is watching him carefully — her eyes still gleaming with disgust and disdain — and tilts his head ever so slightly.

The next time Magnus looks at him — because Alec has noticed how Magnus only looks away from Alec long enough to check their surroundings — Alec kisses him.  Presses their lips together and licks the taste of salt and tears and blood and Magnus’ own come from his mouth with a sigh of relief.

The idea of having to listen to Imogen or Jia — or anyone else — while Magnus is right here, holding onto Alec and stating just how strongly he’s claimed Alec but without getting to taste him is impossible.

Beyond that, Magnus has proven that beyond whatever strange reasoning he uses, he will listen to Alec exactly the amount Alec needs.

He’s not sure if it’s the linking of their minds — which Alec is very pleased he was right about.  It was a brilliant idea, despite Magnus hesitating over it. Alec doesn’t ask for things he doesn’t want — though he is beginning to wonder if he completely knows what he wants, because several times Magnus has proven him wrong about his priorities.

And currently, if Alec considered his priorities, they did not involve him listening to more Clave spewed horseshit.

You couldn’t have just fucked me unconscious and dealt with this on your own? It’s a logical question, despite Magnus’ amused and completely unwarranted surprise.

Then I wouldn’t have known about the blood price, sweetheart. Or Jia Penhallow and her dislike of Imogen. Or how to write that lovely little Writ you so thoughtfully penned for me.

Alec sighs and mentally luxuriates in the feeling of his knowledge and efforts being recognized.  Perhaps having to deal with Imogen is worth the pleasure of Magnus’ pride and delight petting over him.  After all, if Alec intended to live his life as he always has — obeying the rules and laws and orders of people who don’t care about him — then he would have just let the poison run its course.

Life is different now.  

Magnus allows life to be different in a way that no one else could have guaranteed. Especially now that Alec can feel the same primal thrum that beats in Magnus’ pulse, the one that instantly drew Alec to Magnus.

As far as Alec is concerned, the Clave has carved their last pound of flesh from his body. Which means he can do what he wants in front of them, without fear of repercussions.

Or at least, fear of repercussions he won’t end up enjoying.  

That last thought may cross over and press daringly against Magnus because his husband — and doesn’t that make Alec viciously happy to think — chuckles, dark and delighted and kisses him again.

“You're just full of surprises.”

Wonder blooms and presses against his mind and Alec made that happen. Magnus feels like that because of Alec and Alec is going to do whatever he needs to do to make it happen again and again in a thousand different ways.

So — if it’s not already — Magnus better find a way to make the link between them permanent.  Because Alec can’t stand the thought of being silent and alone in his own thoughts again, not when Magnus’ presence in his mind is so devouring that it encompasses Alec’s mind.

They step through another portal and Alec wonders if this is what walking through the stars feels like, the world unraveling beneath and around him and the only thing keeping him whole and bound together is Magnus’ magic and his hand on Alec’s back.

“A potion will help best but magic will soothe it enough for you to speak.”

That’s the last thing Alec wants and he frowns, protest forming in his mind even as he stays in place, unwilling to resist or avoid Magnus’ touch, even if it brings something he doesn’t want.

—-

“It won’t hurt, Alexander.” Magnus fingers press against skin even as Alexander’s mind clings desperately to him. That’s not why Alexander is worried and Magnus chuckles, sending soothing pulses to Alexander to calm him. “I won’t take it away, sweetheart. Do you think I’d let you wallow alone? When I can tie you up and surround you without anyone even knowing how deeply we are tied.”

Alexander’s relief is a visible, tangible thing.  He doesn't want to have to explain himself.  His thoughts or his wants. The only thing he wants is Magnus to take control, to relieve him of the burden of choice.

Alexander wants Magnus to know, without having to speak, exactly what he wants and needs and can handle from Magnus.

“If your words haven’t mattered before, then I will make them matter from now on.  Your words, whether in my mind only or not, are what dealt the Clave a bitter blow, Alexander. You will be protected, coveted, adored.”

—-

Magnus promises are sweeter than ambrosia and Alec drinks them in with a greed that surprises himself.

Because he's allowed to be greedy now.

He can tell because the way Magnus is so ardently praising him at the moment is a reward for Alec being too ravenous. That Alec isn’t sated enough to relinquish the peace that Magnus’ presence offers him is something good. Even now, Magnus’ mind is sharp, powerful and strong, like nothing Alec feels or thinks can overwhelm him.  

It’s a relief that has him pressing closer to Magnus, physically and mentally, and trying to silently beg him for his magic.  To press it back to Alec’s skin and sink it deep within him until his entire body is thrumming with it.

The Clave can’t touch Alec ever again and Alec can tell that Magnus won’t let anyone else.

Consort, he’d said between just the two of them. A proclamation that should not be paraded in front of the Clave just yet. 

But still.

Not just husband, consort.

That’s not an empty claim or a title given to an easy or even a prized fuck, no matter how good of a fuck it is.

That’s a souldeep promise that can only be undone with death and that’s only what Alec knows, considering the very limited knowledge he has.

If it’s an honor for warlocks — and since Alec at least knows that much is true — then it’s doubly so for Alec, who thought his options were death or suffering by the Clave’s command and hand.

“You like that.” Magnus' voice is contemplative as his thoughts and magic wrap around Alec. Alec can’t help the groan he lets out, or the way he wants to rock into Magnus’ touch but is afraid of the magic stopping him.

Of Magnus rejecting Alec’s touch.

There’s a soft, thoughtful noise and then Magnus is shoving him to fall on a couch Alec hadn’t even noticed. He follows. Pressing his perfect, calloused and hot hands against Alec’s skin and Alec can feel the pressure of a lifetime crumbling under the solid weight of Magnus’ body sliding atop his.

“There you go—”

—

Alexander is a sweet wonder, Magnus muses to himself as he settles more solidly atop his boy.  He’s soothed now, breathing steady and even as his eyes watch Magnus with that same, pleased awe from earlier.

Alexander’s mind is brittle.

Not with the fragility of hollow bones but of ice, deep and thick and being mined slowly by sun and the world changing around it until an avalanche collapses the entirety of it into itself.

He’s better now, like this.  Thoughts full of eager wonder and vicious joy and so very grateful for Magnus hoarding Alexander and his thoughts close, caressing them, even changing them with just his presence alone.

This is not an intimacy offered lightly and one even Magnus has rarely indulged in.  Too often there is a risk of fight, of distrust that brews, stemming from feelings of invasion in the mind.

There is none of that here.

Alexander welcomes Magnus with the ease of a blossom lured open and bare by moonlight. Desperately delicate and yet stronger than silk when Magnus brushes thoughts and tangles feelings with him.  Alexander wants him there, to coat his mind with admiration and desire, to feel wanted and adored and protected and to be able to rely on Magnus.

It’s almost as delightful as the laugh Magnus had at Alexander thinking Magnus would ever let this connection be cut now that it’s formed.

Magnus will never let go of the feeling of Alexander’s mind luxuriating in the embrace of his own.

To give it up would be like giving up air, or sunlight or the dominion magic that hungrily gnaws at his marrow and replaces the blood in his veins with power.

Yet instead of needing to bargain or cajole or threaten for such a treasure, it's being handed over to him as sweetly as can be, accompanied with delicious begging and desperate pleas.

Magnus understands better now how little Alexander’s own words have ever served him.  Small memories ghost past him with fleeting, phantom kisses and while he has barely a glimpse, it’s enough for Magnus to understand in ways Alexander is still unaware.

Still, now that Alexander is settled, they can move forward and Magnus can figure out how much he’ll need to heal him.

“First, you eat.” 

The longing in Alexander as Magnus gets off of him and the sheer unfairness he feels at how Magnus is making him suffer has Magnus chuckling, shaking his head with amusement.

“You’re going to be so spoiled, aren’t you Alexander? Hmm, darling? I’ll have to let you get away with everything when you sulk like that.” 

—-

Magnus hardly thinks it's a bad thing, Alec can tell by the way he feels both pleased and charmed, amusement fondly dappling across Alec’s mind. If anything, he wants Alec to be spoiled and that in turn makes Alec want to earn it, no matter how easily Magnus indulges him.

Still, if Magnus is finally giving him what Alec wants means that he is finally going to come. 

In Magnus’ lair, in Magnus’ home with his touch and magic around Alec.

“Pity, I wanted the first time you came to be on my cock or inside me. I’ll have to make this quick then if I want a taste.” Magnus says it so nonchalantly that Alec feels like he’s going to die, his body desperately wanting release but he also suddenly wonders if he should have waited. But he’s hungry not just for food and then, as Alec sits up, Magnus is on his knees. A smirk on his lips and blood still speckled on his jaw and flaking from his lips and then he’s snapping Alec’s pants across the room.

—-

Magnus chuckles as he presses a kiss to Alexander’s hipbone and then bites, “darling, use your hands for something other than trying to make yourself bleed.”

At the permission, Alexander’s fists unclench and his fingers greedily stroke through Magnus’ hair, clinging desperately and trembling with either restraint or the force of his own strength.

“So eager,” Magnus is pleased by that.  Pleased by the fact that when he finally gets his fingers around Alexander’s cock, his boy stutters into the touch.  Hips unconsciously fucking forward and Magnus uses his other hand to pinch the tip of Alexander’s dick, just to hear him whine out loud and feel how desperate he is for every touch.

When Magnus finally puts his mouth on him, Alexander goes boneless, only held up by the couch and Magnus’ hands and magic that keep him from sprawling out.  He’s fisting Magnus’ hair so tightly he’s cut himself on the strands but he won’t pull, as if afraid that will be the final straw.

Magnus swirls his tongue, letting his teeth drag down and then he sucks.

Alexander’s barely lasts, his hips fucking forward with an eager stutter though his strength fails him as he comes.  Magnus keeps him upright with magic, fingers leaving bruises on Alexander’s ass as Alexander’s blood dyes the white streaks in his hair red.

Magnus swallows around Alexander until he’s whining, subvocal little whimpers and keeps at it until Alexander’s mind is tense and coiled, ready to spring and snap and break from the overstimulation.

Then he pulls off, lips lingering in a drawn out caress that has Alexander shuddering and nearly falling off the couch before he manages to kneel in front of Magnus. Alexander’s breathing so harshly that all he can do is pitch forward and sink into Magnus’ hold.

The tension has eased, the livewire uncoiled and soothed and Alexander’s eased and settling against him.

“Good boy,” Magnus murmurs, because he is being a delightfully good boy and Alexander’s thoughts turn molten with a rush of emotions that tangle with delight. There’s a relieved sigh against his neck and Magnus soothes him through the aftershocks with a firm hand down his back.

“Now up, so you can eat, Alexander. And tell me the side effects of the poison and antidote, because it doesn’t matter how good I am, there’s enough adrenaline in your system that an orgasm shouldn’t take you to your knees like that. Even if you haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Which is the only thing that Magnus can think of. Nephilim physiology isn’t something he knows extensively beyond how to kill and wound. It seems Magnus will be calling Catarina over sooner, rather than later.

There’s a hesitancy to Alexander’s thoughts and Magnus nudges it out of the way with a frown as he gets to his feet and offers a hand to Alexander. 

Hesitancy has no place between them.

It isn’t a side effect of the poison, or the antidote. It’s a side effect of the Clave. Limited hydration and no food or sleep for two days before the hunt of those who could be chosen, nothing was confirmed until three days ago. Just enough time for a shadowhunter heir to get together their things and not enough time to escape or talk their way out of it.

It doesn’t surprise Magnus, just what the Clave will do in the name of their laws, but it does make him seethe.  Alexander luxuriates in his rage, practically purring and pressing against his anger like a large cat seeking heat as he uses Magnus' hand to get up.  And then boldly locks their fingers together when Magnus thoughts share nothing but pleasure at their fingers touching.

A moment later Alexander shamelessly kicks his pants out of the way rather than picking them up. Magnus’ shirt barely covering anything on him and Magnus knows it's because he’d felt Magnus’ ire at the thought of Alexander’s bruised thighs being parted from Magnus touch by even a single layer of clothing.

It’s going to be delightful, seeing how Alexander responds to the presence of Magnus’ many whims. How he adapts and reacts and delights in them.

It’s a pity that Magnus can’t show off his knowledge of delicious restaurants, but Alexander barely seems to be holding it together. The best thing for him is a rich, hearty magical stew, thick soft bread and tea with honey made with pollen harvested from flowers that only bloomed in starlight.

Alexander eats begrudgingly, every bite swallowed with indignation at the fact that Magnus is feeding him rather than fucking him.

—-

“If I want to enjoy myself fully, I need you stronger than this.” Magnus teases him, his hand a hot brand on the bruised skin of Alec’s thigh. It’s a tantalizing tease and Alec mutinously eats another portion, tired of being coherent enough to both luxuriate in and still miss Magnus’ touch.

All over and against and in him, where it belongs.

It’s a struggle to finish and thankfully Magnus doesn’t push it, snapping away the food the moment Alec’s stomach protests the thought of another bite and summoning fresh, hot tea that Alec can sip slowly at.

In the silence, Alec feels Magnus’ eyes on him and slouches against him, thighs pressed together on dining chairs pressed equally close. No space between them and between Magnus’ shoulder and the table, Alec stays upright enough to drain the cup.

Then he’s being pulled up and manhandled down a hallway.

“Shower next, Alexander.” 

He’s directed, smoothly transitioned through another doorway and the only reason Alec doesn’t fall into the bed on the way by, is because his skin itches and Magnus is already stripping. Finally baring his body and how is Alec supposed to resist that? Sleep eludes him the moment Magnus takes off his shirt and Alec follows like a sailor to a siren's call.

Magnus chuckles and Alec shoves away his embarrassment as he fumbles through the doorway, tripping over his own feet in order to not lose sight of Magnus.

Magnus’ amusement is fierce and vibrant and so very rich that Alec doesn’t even care that it's formed at his own expense.  Magnus can laugh at how clumsy he makes Alec as much as he wants, as long as Alec gets to feel that amusement as he admires Magnus’ body.

The shower is a blur. Just wet skin and firm, centering touches that Alec loses himself to. Hot hands and water and soap that smells like Magnus and fingers that caress every part of him without hesitation.

Alec doesn’t even need to worry about drying off, Magnus using magic and then pushing him to the bed where Alec finally — finally — can crawl into soft sheets that smell like Magnus and feel like his magic and relax.

He’s boneless in seconds, facedown and relaxed and uncaring as Magnus moves him with magic before tucking in close around him.

“Pity the Clave had to torture you, I would have preferred fucking you all night.” Magnus’ words cause another spike of anger at the Clave to form in Alec’s tired mind. He also doesn’t see why exactly Magnus’ plans are ruined.

Alec isn’t going anywhere, there’s no need for Magnus to suffer just because Alec needs rest.

—-

You could still fuck me to sleep?

Alexander’s thought is hopeful, eager and yearning and Magnus chuckles.

I could, couldn’t I? But you’re already asleep, Alexander. You just don’t realize it yet.

Alexander’s body jolts a little but his eyes remain closed and his breathing even. His mind will register that fact in a moment but Magnus enjoys the muted pulse of his betrayed shock.

Fuck me anyways. I dont care if I’m asleep, fuck me anyways Magnus.

Alexander’s presence fades, sleepy and smug and also with more than a touch of yearning in it and how can Magnus say no to such a plea.

Alexander is the perfect prey in that he wants to be Magnus' prey. 

Alexander craves his attention and his desire, his lust and affection and both Magnus' mind and his magic. It sates something in Magnus but also awakens a new hunger and a new thought.

Magnus doesn’t need to hunt his prey and make it submit when it lays before him, docile and eager and willingly baring its neck for his teeth.

However he can hunt with his prey. 

Alexander may yield to him sweetly, but he’s a vision with strategies and a brilliant mind and he’s a predator.

They already have one common enemy in mind, the Clave. 

Magnus finds the thought of planning the downfall and slaughter of others with Alexander almost as appealing as the idea of carrying these plans out together.

Magnus won’t be opposed to fucking Alexander with deadmans blood if the people in question look at his boy with fear, not lust. 

[kivaember]

nghhgh another short oneshot for 1999 umbra fic where it's aoi trying to do girl gossip with drifter but they forgot they're talking to drifter of all people

-

"So. Space ship."

Drifter did not look up from where they were diligently oiling their sword as they repeated: "Space ship."

Aoi pursed her lips when nothing else was forthcoming. "Sooooo...? What was it like?"

Drifter finally looked up. They seemed amused yet puzzled. "What? Living on a space ship?"

"Yeah!"

"...like living here, I guess?" Drifter leaned back on the sofa (a coffee-stained veteran of what seemed like several plague wars that they had dragged into what had been a staff room), and rested their sword across their lap. "It's not all that different to planet-side, really."

"It has to be. What about, y'know, night and day? Or- ohh, water? It must be like living on a ship, right? Uh, I mean, a sea ship. Lots of recycling and rationing?"

"I don't really know all the logistical stuff like that..." Drifter admitted. They looked sheepish. "But they enforced a night and day cycle that we all stuck to. Humans are at their healthiest when adhering to a set circadian rhythm after all."

"Oh, that makes sense," Aoi muttered, a bit put out by such a reasonable yet dull answer. "All the lights must've had UV in it."

"Something like that." Drifter smiled. "You guys are always so fascinated about the space stuff."

"Well, duh, we haven't left our planet yet. Of course it's fascinating!" Aoi flicked a bit of lint at them. "The only frame of reference we have are movies, but you've actually lived it."

"Mn, well, reality is a lot more boring, I'm afraid," Drifter said. "Once you seen one asteroid belt, you've seen them all. Space is just a whole bunch of empty and rocks, and sometimes icy or flaming rocks. Not much else."

"Boo. Stop puncturing my childish wonder."

"Ha..." Drifter rubbed the back of their neck. "Sorry."

A companionable silence lapsed where Drifter returned to maintaining their sword, while Aoi's mind idled over the thought of living on a space ship. Not much different to planet-side, huh? Just one thing...

"Hey, tell me if this is a bit of a weird question or what, but..." Aoi paused, trying to think on how to word it. "...you said the Zariman was a colony ship, right?"

"Yeah. We were to colonise Tau and get it all prepped for the Orokin to arrive after us."

"Right, right. So..." Aoi wobbled her hand in a vague gesture. "So, y'know, there were probably only so many people on the ship, right? And, there weren't going to be any others following you. Just you guys, yeah?"

"Yeah..." Drifter said slowly. They clearly had no idea where Aoi was going with this. "It was meant to be just us. Why?"

"I was just thinking, uh, colonising would take a long time. And I guess connecting Tau with here would take a long time too, right?"

"Yeah?"

"So..." Aoi dawdled, then decided to just say it outright. "You were kinda stuck with the dating scene you were given, huh?"

Drifter blinked very slowly.

"......wait, do you mean our breeding program?" they finally asked. "They already paired people up before Zariman left port, so they kinda had that all figured out about three generations ahead, I think."

Aoi mouthed 'breeding program' to herself, feeling all kinds of disturbed and revulsed at the thought of applying that to actual living human beings. Urgh. Made them sound like livestock or pedigree dogs or something.

"Er, well, I mean, not breeding exactly. I meant, y'know, dating," Aoi emphasised. "As in, hooking up with someone you like? If there's only so many of you, then, you're kinda stuck if no one really catches your interest-"

She paused when what Drifter actually said finally processed.

"Wait. You said, 'they already paired people up'...?"

"Yeah. To avoid inbreeding and to ensure maximan genetic diversity with our limited population," Drifter said very matter-of-factedly. "I already knew who my studs were gonna be once I was old enough, but you didn't really have to be all like, married with them, so the concept didn't bother me that much."

Aoi opened her mouth. Closed it.

"...studs," she finally said, without any kind of emotion.

"Oh, is that an unfamiliar term? It means a breeding male who-"

"I know what stud means," Aoi said, her voice mildly strained. "It's just, uh... you're very, um, candid about it?"

"Well, it ended up not happening, y'know? So why be all, like, retroactively weirded out by it?" Drifter said with a shrug. "And at the time... ugh, I dunno how to explain it. You don't understand how, uh, indoctrinated everyone was when it came to the Orokin. If they told you to jump off a bridge, you just did it without thought. 'Our Golden Masters know best', and all that. So them telling you who you're gonna have kids with to populate Tau? Not out of the ordinary, really."

Aoi mentally chewed over that for a moment. She finally settled on: this is yet another disturbing facet of Drifter's very fucked up past and she did not have the mental energy to fully process all... that right now.

Where did she even start. Good lord.

So, she shifted topics slightly.

"Okay, fair enough. But, hopping back a few verbal steps," Aoi said blithely. "You said you weren't gonna be married so you could still date, yeah?"

"So long as you didn't have any unsanctioned kids with them, you could do whatever you wanted, really." Drifter scratched their jaw thoughtfully. "I think? I was still a kid when the Zariman turned into a shitshow but... I remember some of the adults all kinda crawling over each other like a box of horny pobblers, and it seemed to be okay for them to do that? Maybe."

Aoi groaned and flopped back in her seat.

"...are you trying to angle for something in specific or...?" Drifter finally asked.

"Yes!" Aoi threw up her hands. "I was trying to be all subtle to ask you what your type is, but then you had to talk about weird breeding programs and shit."

"Uh, sorry."

"It's not your fault," Aoi sighed. It really wasn't, so she couldn't even be mad at them. "I'm just learning I should be direct when I want to ask you something. I'll keep stepping on disturbing landmines, otherwise."

Drifter ducked their head slightly.

"So, okay," Aoi said bracingly. "I'll just ask: hey, Drifter, what's your type?"

"To date?"

"No, to play Komi with- yes, to date!"

"Um, I've...never really thought about it," Drifter admitted. They stared at the sword across their lap, their brow slightly furrowed as they deeply pondered the difficult question of: what was the type of person they'd be willing to date?

Aoi had just been idly curious before, but now she was desperate to hear like, the lowest possible bar of 'they are nice' or something. Drifter was right, they had been a kid when all of this was going down, so who knew what kind of weird and fucked up lessons they internalised about human relationships, both romantic and sexual????? Did Drifter even get given a proper birds and the bees talk or was it all coached in terms like "breeding" and "genetic diversity" or Lua knows what else?????? Did Aoi need to go and get Lettie???? Sex ed with the future Void magic trauma bomb????

"I guess my type is... reliable, broad shoulders - you know, in the kind of, muscular but not super big kind of way, just, you know, strong but also good in combat, and, um, I'd also like them to listen to me and care about me, like, you know, do stuff they know I like without me having to ask?" Drifter's voice lilted uncertainly at the end, and they scratched their head with a self-conscious laugh. "But, also, uh, they're not afraid to talk to me about stuff, even if it's heavy... or... ahah, I guess, you know, something like that..."

bitch, you just described UMBRA, Aoi mentally wailed, you told me he's like your DAD before!

"Oh," Aoi said aloud with forced cheer. "That's a lot more detailed than I was expecting! It almost... describes someone!"

"You think?" Drifter tilted their head. "Like who?"

Aoi steepled her fingers and stared at them silently for three long seconds. Drifter... the densest person known to man, and Aoi had dated Arthur for fuck's sake.

"............who knows," she said stoically. "But, maybe you should think on it."

Drifter thought on it.

"Hmmm, I don't think I know anyone who fits that description," they sighed with a sad shake of their head. "Not someone I'd date, anyways."

Aoi sighed heavily and rubbed her forehead.

"I wouldn't know what to do even if I wanted to date them, anyways," Drifter added. "I mean, I kinda missed that development milestone."

"..." Aoi braced herself. Oh boy, here it comes. "Which development milestone."

"The whole dating thing." Drifter waved their hand dismissively. "Y'know, a primer on how to kiss or have sex, or how to flirt and stuff. We hadn't reached the Sex Ed module on the Zariman before everything went to shit, and everyone had doll anatomy in Duviri so... yeah. Y'know."

There's a pause, a lengthy one. Then Aoi slaps her hands against her thighs and stands up with a quiet 'welp'.

"Looks like it's time for Lettie to tag in," Aoi declared to no one in particular. "You stay there. I'll be back."

"Um, okay?"

Aoi walked to Lettie's territory in the mall, and moments later, Lettie could be heard yelling in absolute disbelief: "WHO NEEDS A BIRDS AND THE BEES TALK????"

[tin-wufborf]

Tin's Favorite Sterek Fics (Part 6)

Hello, hello, hello, and welcome to the sixth installment of this little series of mine! Thank you all again for likes and shares on the previous parts. You all continue to blow me away with your support for this project of mine. Once again, smooches and squeezy-hugs to you all! But only if you want them.

As a quick heads up, we're entering into the "December 2012" era of fics, so you might start seeing a bit of a Christmas theme going on for a for a little bit. Generally, I don't prefer Christmas fics myself, but I'm a sucker for kid and pack fics (you may have already been able to tell), and those tropes tend to work well in a Christmas setting. Consider yourselves warned!

Okay, that's all from me for now. Ta-ta!

List and link to previous/next part(s) below the cut.

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DISCLAIMER: This is me warning you all that some of the fics I've included in this list may cover explicit, dark, and/or "taboo" subject matters. I cannot express enough how little I care what anyone thinks about any of that; all I want is for you to use caution when reading anything I've listed here and to please review and heed whatever tags the authors have provided in order to keep yourselves safe. Your experience from this point on is your own responsibility, not mine and not the authors'.

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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20

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Nothing Satisfies Me But Your Soul by fadedhues (NR | 1/1 | 1,259)

“My name is Death,” he sings softly, and it’s fucking pretty, like he’s singing a lullaby to the winter sky, “and the end is here.”

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must be a devil between us by hoars (NR | 1/1 | 2,081)

"What? Why would-- Derek, why would your daemon encourage mine to touch you?" Stiles fakes calm well, but his heart gives him away.

"Because Luminera is a deviant." He shrugs. He accepted Luminera's reckless behavior years ago.

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souls of mischief by hoars (M | 2/2 | 2,695)

Stiles’ first memory of his mom is green.

Her green eyes, her green dresses, her green scarves, her green blouses and her green barrettes.

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with the darkness fed by Rena (NR | 1/1 | 2,835)

It takes him several tries to dial the right number; his hands are slippery with blood (warm and sticky and bright red) and his entire body is shaking with the aftermath of puking his guts out, his breath is burning in his lungs and the phone keeps eluding his grasp.

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What Could Have Been by thingcalledlove (G | 1/1 | 2,971)

The camera zooms in on the face of a very beautiful woman who looks vaguely familiar.

“Who’s the babe?” Stiles jokes, turning to look over at Derek.

“My mom,” Derek replies with a glare.

“Oh, shit, dude, I’m sor—” Stiles breaks off his apology as his eyes drift back towards the screen. Beside Mrs. Hale is another familiar face. One he hasn’t seen in a long time. His mother.

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I Don't Want To Be Saved by Lapin (M | 1/1 | 3,132)

And everyone, everyone has their own ideas about this relationship, they all say the same things, they all do. "He's not good for you," "It's Derek," "This is the fourth night in a row," "What kind of asshole dates a high schooler?" "I'm not okay with this."

But Stiles pulls the red hood up, wanders from the path, and he's picking flowers, and he's breathing, "My, what big teeth you have," and Derek bares his fangs, and yeah. Fuck them.

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Will Wonders Never Cease by thecheekydragon (T | 1/1 | 3,632)

Sheriff Stilinski wonders how Derek Hale fits into his working theory of a gigantic, two-ton pissed off moose shot-putting his son’s jeep.

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Practically Perfect by betp (NR | 1/1 | 3,688)

WE NEED A NANNY PROBALLY. Reqirments: - eyes light up - wants to go places - can travel between dimentions - likes cheesebergers - a wear wolf - lisens to good music - SUPER STRONG - favorit color is pink - has friends who can fly - will merry our Dad

There is a stick figure drawing of a werewolf with red eyes and bared teeth, marrying Stiles on a cloud.

Or, "The one that has next to nothing to do with the kids." This is a straight-up unapologetic Mary Poppins AU.

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Laura is Badass by hoars (NR | 1/1 | 5,079)

Laura's not expecting two teenage boys to burst into the bakery, brandishing lacrosse sticks yelling about “Kidnap!” and “Pedobears!” and “Sex slaves are illegal!”

She’s flabbergasted.

“Cupcake?” Derek offers.

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When You Stop Believing in Santa You Get Underwear by owlpostagain (T | 1/1 | 7,817)

There are some salvageable things though. A virtually untouched heavy slate sign that says, engraved in an ornate script that confirms at least one person in the Hale family had a sense of humor (Stiles has a horrible suspicion it might have been Peter), When You Stop Believing in Santa You Get Underwear.

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Beltane by DevilDoll (E | 1/1 | 8,254)

"Watching Stiles heal someone has always been a little uncomfortable for Derek, like he's seeing something intimate and private that shouldn't have an audience. That's nothing compared to how it feels." This is an AU in which Stiles has magical healing powers.

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Your Words Are Robbery by dedougal (E | 1/1 | 12,127)

When Stiles is dragged back to Beacon Hills, he has to face everything he left behind.

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cool story, bro by drunktuesdays (E | 1/1 | 13,087)

Based on a truly ridiculous conversation with Kalpurna about a hypothetical Stilinski Twins situation that ended up sounding something like:

“FUUUUUUCK, is it a sweet valley high situation where Stiles is very aware that his twin is way more attractive and confident than he is, EVEN THOUGH THEY'RE IDENTICAL, and he always ends up with the hotter significant others and more friends and Stiles guesses that's why he's attracted to the pack at first, because it's something that's just his, not his twin's too. But of course, Stiles's twin gets bit and now he's part of Derek's pack, and Derek doesn't snap at him like he snaps at Stiles, never slams him into things, fucking FIGURES, STILES'S TWIN GETS EVERYTHIIIIIIIING.”

Kalpurna/good ideas OTP.

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Stay. by paradis (E | 1/1 | 15,537)

He leaves because the press of Derek’s lips and the sting of his teeth against Stiles’ neck are still burning his skin, and he can’t stop touching them, but then he remembers Derek telling him he’s not pack, he never was, and that he doesn’t belong here.

He leaves because Lydia asks him too, but he doesn’t go back to Beacon Hills because no one asked him to come back.

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What To Expect When You're Expecting (A Litter of Sourwolf Puppies) by Brego_Mellon_Nin (E | 1/1 | 17,422)

The Sheriff sighs and plops down in a chair opposite his son.

“Stiles, I’m going crazy here. We need to get you to a doctor. You sleep like you’re trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records, and your eating habits are bizarre! You vomit around the clock and for some reason only the tea your mother used when she was pregnant will get your stomach to settle down for any length of time. Is there something you aren’t telling me? Can werewolves get guys pregnant? I’ve noticed how you look at that Hale kid-”

Stiles meeps and flails, sloshing tea down his front. Luckily it’s not scalding anymore, but still hot, so he jumps up and wrenches his shirt off.

“God, dad, no! Guys can’t get pregnant, that’s ridiculous, it’s like...”

“Like werewolves being real?” his dad questions, deadpan.

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Home by coffeeinallcaps (E | 1/1 | 18,464)

Derek has bought a beautiful house. Stiles can't stay away. (In which everyone hangs out at Derek's place all the time and Stiles tries but fails not to fall for a certain socially inept alpha.)

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Assistant to the Consulting Detectives by idyll (T | 9/9 | 18,674)

Stiles is going to NYU and ends up working for Sherlock and Joan.

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Metamorphsis by happyevraftr (E | 1/1 | 20,755)

Life isn’t easy for Stiles Stilinski. This is a truth he’d come to accept a long time ago, so it’s no surprise when an enemy pack shows up in town with a mysterious Alpha that’s hell bent on revenge. Things escalate quickly when Erica goes missing and Isaac is attacked by the new pack. As if that isn’t enough to handle, Stiles own body begins to betray him and he must decide whether to die as a human, or live as a werewolf.

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The Birthday Fic by seussian (E | 1/1 | 21,066)

It's Derek's 30th birthday, and Erica and Boyd have been kidnapped. Again.

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Tutor!Verse series by betp (10 works | NR-M | 41,579)

They meet when Derek is seventeen and hates history almost as much as he hates his ex, Kate, and Stiles is sixteen and taking junior-level history classes. Then they fall in love and do dates on each other and I didn't mean for any of this to happen. By which I mean Sterek fic!

1. Not Another Sterek Romance (It Is Absolutely Another Sterek Romance) (T | 1/1 | 2,405) In which Derek is the worst at history and Stiles wears glasses. 2. Boys, Interrupted (NR | 1/1 | 1,329) "I am the result of your academic ennui," Stiles summarises. 3. Jeepin' (M | 1/1 | 1,368) Stiles warns Derek four days in advance, resulting in Derek unable to concentrate in any of his classes that Friday, because all he can think about is his impending gay deflowering, which--jesus fucking christ. 4. Peer Pressure (T | 1/1 | 1,615) "Can't even answer a simple question, he's too good for that. I hope he knows what we do to kids who are too good to talk to us." 5. Golden (NR | 1/1 | 947) "It's like a recipe for a summer romance movie from the 80s." 6. Catch Me a Catch (NR | 1/1 | 1,828) In which Allison will never understand Stiles' sense of humour, Scott will never understand what Stiles sees in Derek, and Derek wonders what he would spend his free time doing if he'd never met Stiles. (The answer is CoD and literally nothing else.) 7. Education (NR | 1/1 | 2,990) "I'll try anything once." He pauses. "With you. Only with you."

In which Stiles and Derek have been dating for three years, and Derek decides to try something new. 8. Viridian (NR | 1/1 | 5,967) "Dude, forget Stiles." 9. Biological Imperative (NR | 1/1 | 2,206) "I want to have children with you someday," Derek interjects firmly. "Not that I know why I seem to think that would be a good idea." Tin here. Just wanted to pop in and say that this part (part 9) is the conclusion to this series as the next part is a WIP reboot of the series.

10. i brought my pencil (NR | 3/? | 20,924) Your typical, classic nerd/jock au, but with a shittier attitude. (A reboot of this series. Sorry guys.)

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[heronowo]

Trying to distract myself from the Horrors by posting the first bit of the Dante/Yakumo fic that's been languishing in my drafts forever

Bone apple tea

He’d intended to stay at the mansion for a couple of days, max. If the vampire wasn't amenable to his trade proposals. Instead, here he is on day four- no closer to making a deal than when he arrived.

____________________________________________

Dante realizes he's pathetic. Perhaps not always, but certainly now as he nurses his second bottle of wine out in the mansion gardens. The sun set an hour ago, yet Dante remains- drinking and feeling sorry for himself. Helplessly pondering what could have possibly brought him to this point.

"Awful," Dante grumbles to himself with another swig of wine. "Miserable vampire."

The vampire in question refuses to budge on any points. His rates are astronomical, and both he and Dante know it. No matter how he hides behind empty excuses of "bear markets" and "inflation", Aster can't fool Dante. This is all just a ploy to wring every last penny possible out of the Sun Lord, as though he isn't already generous enough in his dealings. More than generous, really. Dante would have walked away days ago- should have- if he wasn't in desperate need of this deal. Solaria must open another avenue for trade before the end of the season. And that is exactly why Aster continues to hold out, even to the point of ridiculousness. He knows that eventually, inevitably, Dante will cave.

"Terrible excuse of a creature," Dante spits. "Utterly despicable."

He doesn't even have the new Grand Sorcerer around to distract him. As much as Eiden can further annoy Dante (both on purpose and accidentally), Dante has to admit he is (sometimes!) a welcome relief to the endless negotiations. But no. Eiden is off with the e-droid and the wolf yokai on some errand, and Dante is left to deal with the vampire alone. Not even the incubus is here to bitch about Aster with.

No, the only one around is-

"Lord Dante?"

Dante doesn't look up as the serpent yokai approaches. As with all things, Yakumo seems nervous, and he pauses several steps away from the Sun Lord. Just close enough to hear without raising his voice.

"Lord Dante, are you alright?"

Dante scowls. "Do I look alright?" He punctuates his statement with another mouthful of wine.

Yakumo fiddles with his hands. "I- well, no. You don't. But I just wanted to... Check, I suppose."

Annoyance flares in Dante's chest. "You've checked. Now leave. I'm very busy."

Dante hasn't turned to face Yakumo, but in the very corner of his vision he can make out Yakumo’s quickly reddening face.

"I- you..." Yakumo pauses for a few seconds, and Dante wishes he would just hurry up and let him get back to wallowing. "Sun Lord Dante, how much have you had to drink tonight?"

Dante scowls. "Not enough."

"Oh," Yakumo moves a few steps closer. Dante notes that he’s softly trembling, like a skittish horse. Dante is sure if he sneezed, Yakumo would go off running. “I’m sorry. Is there... Anything I can do to help?"

A derisive laugh grates Dante's throat. "Can you convince that shoddy excuse of a vampire to make anything resembling a reasonable deal?"

"I- um..."

"No? Then you're useless to me." Dante takes two gulps of wine for good measure.

"I’m... I'm sorry, Lord Dante."

The serpent yokai starts to cry. Dante doesn't have to look at his face to tell. He's also too far into his drink to feel guilty.

"If you have nothing more to say, then leave," Dante says. "Go bake a cake or whatever it is you do around here."

Yakumo's sniffling is really starting to aggravate him, yet the serpent yokai does not move from his spot.

"I-I would... Rather you not be alone," Yakumo says between soft sobs. "The gardens can be... Treacherous to navigate... At night. I... I don't want you to... Get lost."

Dante could point out that they're still well within sight of the mansion, but Yakumo seems fragile enough as is without Dante unnecessary aggression. Plus, he isn't quite drunk enough yet to be totally heartless.

Dante scoots over and pats the empty bench beside him. "If you're going to stay, then sit. I don't need you hovering over me like some incessant insect."

Yakumo hurriedly takes a seat next to Dante, though he sits as far away as the bench allows. Dante would maybe find it amusing if he wasn't already annoyed.

"Stop crying," Dante says. He offers the bottle in his hand to the still-sniffling yokai. "And have a drink."

"Oh... no, thank you, I-"

Dante levels a hard glare at Yakumo. "Have. A drink."

Yakumo's watery eyes widen, and for a moment Dante wonders if he will refuse a second time. Instead, (and a bit to Dante's impressed surprise), he accepts the bottle from Dante.

Yakumo scrutinizes the bottle in his hand. "Is this from Mister Aster’s cellar?"

"Yes," Dante says. "If the vampire is bleeding me dry, I might as well drain his stock. And you might as well help me."

"O-oh, I... I see," the serpent yokai's face flushes again, his eyes remaining fixed on the bottle. Dante gives him a look.

"Well?" He says. "Don't tell me you've never had a drink before."

"N-no, I have," Yakumo says. "It’s just... I don't handle alcohol very well."

That isn't a surprise, Dante almost says aloud. With how timid and well-behaved Yakumo usually is, Dante can't imagine his tolerance for alcohol is very high. If he even has a tolerance at all.

Dante considers taking the bottle back, but before he can Yakumo raises it to his lips and takes a small drink. More than a sip, but hardly a mouthful. Pitiful, by Dante’s standards, though right now he’s hardly in the state to judge.

Yakumo makes a face as he swallows, his tongue flicking out to catch a stray droplet that falls from his lip. The wine is sweeter than he expected (almost cloyingly so, in Dante's opinion), but still strong. It settles heavy and hot in his stomach. It isn't altogether unpleasant, but Yakumo quickly returns the bottle to Dante.

Dante takes the bottle back from Yakumo and, with one swift movement, drains it. Yakumo watches with wide eyes as the liquid disappears down Dante's throat, and as his body warms, he tries not to focus too much on the motion of each deep swallow.

Dante drops the bottle to the ground with a soft thud. He licks his lips and stares blankly ahead for several seconds. Long enough that Yakumo wonders if he's forgotten he's there. But eventually Dante breaks the silence by reaching beside him and procuring another bottle from seemingly nowhere.

"Lord Dante!" Yakumo gasps. "How much alcohol do you have with you?"

The Sun Lord scowls back. "Not enough,” he grumbles as he pries the cork from the bottle. He’d swiped a corkscrew from the kitchens for this purpose, and was enjoying the ease with which it opened bottles. Dante hazily considers taking the corkscrew home with him as additional reparations from the vampire’s racket. “If you don't like it, you can go. I'm not in the mood to entertain."

The wine in Yakumo's own stomach bubbles into his chest and flushes his face. At this moment he feels braver (and maybe more foolish) than ever, and before he can think about it, he's grabbing the half-opened bottle in Dante's hands.

Dante tugs back. "What are you doing?"

"I'm taking this," Yakumo says. He pulls firmly on the bottle, dripping fragrant red wine onto their joined hands."And any other bottles you brought. You've had enough for tonight."

The Sun Lord is strong, and Yakumo just barely keeps his grip on it as Dante pulls both the bottle and him across the bench. "What are you, a nanny? You have no say in what I do."

Yakumo frowns in return. "So long as you are a guest in Mr. Eiden's house, I won't allow you to drink yourself into a stupor."

Dante's scowl deepens. "That fraud is as much a guest here as I am," he spits. "Being played by that vampire in just the same way. Except he's too stupid to realize it"

A chill grips Yakumo's spine. "Don't say that about Mr. Eiden."

Dante pulls again on the bottle, but Yakumo's fingers remain tight around the neck. "What, that he's stupid? You'd have to be as much a fool as him not to see that."

Dante attributes the next sequence of events to his drunkenness. Had he been sober, he would never have found himself in this position. But the next thing he knows, the bottle is jerked from his hands and he is wrestled to the ground, the moon blotted out by the dark shape above him.

The yokai's pupils are the barest slits, and Dante swears he can feel claws digging into the flesh of his wrists. He tries, weakly, to move but Yakumo has him pinned solid.

The shadows around Yakumo shift, and an ominous hissing fills Dante's senses. "Don't you dare say that about Mr. Eiden. Ever."

Dante wriggles again in Yakumo's grasp, but his drunken state (plus, perhaps, the yokai’s strength) make it impossible for him to escape.

Something slithers up Dante’s chest. It's a shadow serpent, eyes crimson and as furious as its master’s. Blood rushes in Dante’s ears as the serpent begins to coil threateningly around Dante's throat. He should be afraid- or at least annoyed enough to put up a proper fight. But something else stirs in his core instead, and quickly makes its way between his legs.

Yakumo's grip tightens, and Dante realizes with a blink that more serpents have joined his grip around Dante's wrists.

"Do you hear me?" Yakumo hisses. His voice is slurred by his transformation. Or maybe the alcohol. Or maybe both. Dante finds it hard to focus on anything as the serpents (and his pants) tighten around him. "Don't you ever speak ill of Mr. Eiden ever again."

Another serpent wraps around Dante's torso. It's thick and possessive, like the too-tight embrace of a lover. Dante's heartbeat quickens into a nearly out of control roar.

"Say it," Yakumo leans his face closer to Dante's. Scales have started to appear at the edges of his face, and Dante swears he can see the tips of fangs and a forked tongue when Yakumo speaks. "I want to hear you say it."

Even in his position, Dante manages a derisive, "Say what?"

Yakumo's grip tightens, along with his serpents', to a suffocating degree. Black dots crowd the edges of Dante’s vision, and he struggles to stay focused on Yakumo’s face before him. "Say you will never speak ill of Mr. Eiden again. Say it. Swear it on your life. Swear it on Solaria. I want to hear you."

The serpent around Dante's throat makes it especially hard to think. Or speak, for that matter. He tries to move again, but it’s no use. The only thing he manages is a weak rustle of his legs beneath Yakumo.

"I won't let you go," Yakumo growls. "Not until you say it."

[junkdrawerfan]

I just popped out 3k yesterday. So have some Senju Brother angst where they fundamentally misunderstand each other all the time.

For context, this is Chapter 5 (or 9, depends on how I break it up after editing) of my Time-Traveling!Madara Fix It Fic!

—-

Title: Will of Fire

Summary:

Madara knows his sins and his faults. He knows, no matter what Hashirama thinks, there is no positive afterlife waiting for him. Maybe that’s why he’s returned to the past after bleeding out on that battlefield.

Still, there is nothing to do but get up and try again.

For Izuna.

For Hashirama.

For Obito and all those, he’s wronged.

He will take this chance and try again.

Ship: Hashirama/Madara

Tags: Politics, Slow Burn

—-

Chapter 5:

Hashirama wakes Tobirama the minute the hawk departs with his response. There will be a more formal letter, Hashirama is sure. He doubts the Uchiha would settle with an informal summon. They will have to prepare.

He doubts his council will fight him. They are all handpicked after his father’s passing. They know his desires as he’d spoken them as soon as he’d taken the mantle off of his father’s cooling corpse. These were some of his closest allies, childhood friends who’d grown beside him on the battlefield, who kept his back safe as he walked forward into battle.

No it will be his brother he must prepare. His brother is the last of his father’s old guard. He keeps his own council, something Hashirama never begrudged as he knew his brother’s loyalty as he knew the trees that grew in his family’s garden. In many ways, having his brother so vocally opposed to Hashirama has always been to his benefit: a loyal man to weather Hashirama’s descenters and bring only the most valid criticism to his ear.

But he knows Tobirama’s council is not the only ones who are annoyed with him right now. He sighs, shoulders slumping forward as the wood beneath his feet groans with the weight of his despair. His refusal to treat with the Nara is all anyone talks about during clan meetings. The Nara’s offer was generous, it is always generous. One small war for full access to the tactical might of the Nara’s mind and their support network for three winters is nothing to sneeze at. If it had been anyone other than Madara… well Madara’s performance in the square hadn’t granted him any favor’s from his brother either.

Heard second hand from Toka, Tobirama wasted no time chewing his ear in private after they’d returned home from the failed diplomatic meeting. Tobirama had been quick to snarl about sentiment and childhood foolishness as if he could understand all the subtext Madara had spoken. As Tobirama could remember that stance, that exact tilt of the voice, so engraved in Hashirama’s mind after nightmare after nightmare of their parting, a ghost that had hung between the brothers as haunting as the death of their other siblings.

It probably hadn’t helped that Hashirama refused to explain himself.

(Some things… some things are for him and Madara alone.)

Tobirama’s door is made of metal. It gave his brother peace of mind. The beauty of the piece was Hashirama’s compromise. Worked iron with silver filigree to match his brother’s cooler style, he takes a second to appreciate the beauty of it before cracking the wood walls around it to make a hole just large enough to slip through before closing the wood behind him.

His brother’s room is as messy as ever. Tobirama’s mind works too fast for his body to keep up. Half scrawled notes in a shorthand that he could piece together only from experience and with enough time take up more than half the floor. He takes care not to disturb the glass bottles on the desk and wrinkles his nose suspiciously at the half eaten plate of food on the chair. Tobirama hasn’t been letting the servants clean his room again.

His brother is sleeping, potentially exhausted if he didn’t wake up after Hashirama remade the walls to enter. He takes a moment to appreciate his last brother’s sleeping face, there is a peacefulness there he never sees when Tobirama is awake. It is worth savoring.

And then he flings himself atop his brother and braces himself as he startles awake, shrieking with rage as he pulls a kunai from under his pillow. “Wh-” Hashirama lets himself be flung from the bed, giggling like a madman at his brother’s flailing. “Hashirama!”

“Morning, Tobi,” Hashirama does his best to suppress his cackles and fails miserably. “And what a bright morning it is!”

With a careful nudge of the wood, he pulls back the curtains keeping this room submerged in darkness. The early morning sun, weak as it always is as fall gives to winter, does its best to warm the room as light filters in.

Tobirama squints weakly at the sudden onslaught, trying to orient himself before quickly giving up to pull the covers back over his head. “What do you want, Hashirama?”

Hashirama takes another few seconds to giggle at his brother’s antics, to enjoy his youthful flailing when he always acts so grown and proper. A young man he is, a man in every meaning of the word, but still so young at seventeen. It is his duty to remind his brother of his youth every chance he gets.

Then he sobers. Drawing to his full height and leaning back on his heels, he says, “The Uchiha have contacted me for a peace treaty.”

Hashirama lets it sink in. Tobirama does not emerge from his cocoon. Hashirama wishes he could see his face.

“Is it real?” Tobirama questions from under the blankets. Only his hand is visible, flexing around the kunai in his grip.

“It was Madara’s personal summon. The hawk left a uchiwa,” he pulls it from the pocket of his robe, the red fan looking foreign in his hands.

Tobirama pops out to stare at the uchiwa with wide eyes. A personal summon could be seen as a trap. A peace treaty is a formal affair requiring far more fanfare. But leaving the uchiwa, the mark of the Uchiha clan, is clear proof that the request has been made in earnest. A clan who uses peace talks as a ruse would find little allies and Madara has clearly established a pattern of appreciating allies during his year as clanhead.

He is certain Tobirama is thinking all the same things as he stares at the uchiwa. His brother is a genius. Which is why he is surprised when Tobirama gasps out, “You are sure it is certain?”

“Yes,” Hashirama grins, handing the uchiwa to Tobirama for all he wants to squirrel it back into his robes for safe keeping. He must give Tobirama something if his brother is to come around to the idea. “We must be ready to pen our reply when the formal letter comes in.”

“How are you so certain?” Tobirama presses even as he holds the uchiwa in his hand, expression unreadable.

Hashirama breathes out a heavy sigh. He knew his brother would be difficult. He was always difficult when it came to Madara. Still, he’d foolishly hoped the uchiwa would be enough. “We could have peace talks with the Uchiha, Ototo. Real peace. Think of an alliance between Uchiha and Senju. Who could stand against us? Certainly, our troubles with the Nara would become a thing of the past.”

Tobirama, as if eager to criticize, latches on to the Nara with eager hands, “We would not need to worry about the Nara if you had followed through on the plan to delay for time. Though why you are so against allying ourselves with our richest neighboring clan is beyond me.”

“And if I had this would never have arrived at our door,” he snatches the uchiwa from Tobirama’s hands to lift it in front of his brother’s face. “They wanted us to go to war with the Uchiha. And…” he takes another deep breath, centering himself. Why? Why is his brother so difficult? “I am not rehashing this argument, Tobirama. You know where I stand. But this,” he waves the uchiwa once again, “We must speak on this.”

Tobirama scowls before rising from his bed. Hashirama leans back, giving room for him to stand and hurry around his room. He watches his brother get dressed, using the cold water in the basin the servants must have left at dawn to wash his face and brush his teeth. He lets Tobirama dress in silence. And only when he starts to reach for the armor does Hashirama rise to his feet.

“I will call the council together,” he says, crossing the room in three large steps, once again careful not to disturb the papers on the ground.

Tobirama pauses with his chest plate in his hands. “I will come to ensure you do not agree to trade away every seed in our stores.” It’s as close to a joke his brother can get and Hashirama cracks a smile, “And please remember to ask for extra paper and ink.”

“Anything for you little brother,” Hashirama laughs, peeling open the walls, an extra skip in his step.

.

[Time skip]

.

The Uchiha beat them to it.

Hashirama supposes he should have known. Madara never tolerated lateness, even as a child he would berate Hashirama for arriving late to their meeting times even when no set time was officially stated. In the present, he cannot keep his eyes off of Hashirama. Their “tent” -- a wooden structure sprouted from the ground with a quick flourish of his mokuton -- is easy to raise and Hashirama leaves the rest of the set up to Tobirama and Toka. He knows he should join ___ and ___ in the tent to review their prepared statements, the items they are willing to barter.

But for now he cannot tear his gaze away from Madara, who looks so beautiful and warm in his brown fur coat and matching hat. Madara is speaking to his brother but he catches the furtive glances in his direction and cannot keep the smile off his face. It is nice to know Madara is just as excited to see him as he is Madara. Their last meeting…

It is shameful to think of their last meeting from Madara’s point of view. Hashirama spent the journey here reviewing it in his mind in a way he had not before. What must it have looked like to Madara to see Hashirama welcomed into the Nara compound on the eve of war? Did Madara think he was going to agree? He must have to demand Hashirama not give up on their dream of peace. He wants to reassure Madara that he never has, that he has kept that stolen summer close to his chest. Those memories are the only thing that gave him solace as they faced each other on the battlefield, drawing each other’s blood under their father’s watchful gaze.

Now their fathers are distant ghosts just as all the ancestors who have fallen to this conflict between their families, so old and well trodden that no one can remember why they hated each other in the first place.

(Hashirama has looked. He spent two years convinced that if he could find the cause then he could correct it. It is the sort of plan he thought Tobirama would approve of. But their records did not go back far enough and he had no way to check with the Uchiha. When he’d run out of leads to follow, he’d despaired, convinced he was destined to kill Madara or let Madara kill him in the name of a war he wanted no part of.

It had only been a random encounter during a forgettable meeting that had given him the chance to spot Madara without the need to draw blood. To this day he doesn’t think Madara saw him. But he’d seen that fluffy raven hair and wild grin and found the strength to keep hoping a day of peace would arrive.

And here he is.)

“Are you going to speak to him?” Toka asks, slipping into place beside him.

Hashirama is too trained to flinch but he cannot hide the surprise on his face as he turns to look at her. “The schedule says we will eat together.”

Toka raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You should talk to him.” she urges gently. “Outside of ritual and formal gatherings. You’ll be useless to us otherwise.”

Toka has never been one to scold him, unlike Tobirama who had no problem calling him idiotic on the best of days. So it is not hard to take her advice at face value.

“After dinner,” he offers looking back at Madara who is now talking to two Uchiha he is unfamiliar with. “I will try to speak to him then.”

Toka nods, clasping him firmly on the shoulder. “___ and ___ are waiting for you. Go get warmed up. It’s going to be a busy few days.”

Smiling in thanks, he slips away to do just that. Far too aware of the weight gaze against his back.

.

Tobirama scowls, forcing himself not to glare at his retreating brother nor the man who watches him leave. Toka is quick to return to his side, obviously pleased with whatever she whispered in his brother’s ear.

“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Tobirama hisses, quiet enough to ensure no one else can hear them.

Toka rolls her eyes, “If you’re this grumpy now, I’m not looking forward to talking to you at the end of this week.”

“I am not grumpy. I am concerned,” he counters. It is a well-worn argument. Toka is too forgiving of his brother’s bouts of fancy and mood swings. Toka believes he is too controlling. And maybe he is. Someone needs to reign his brother in when his head gets too far up in the clouds.

His brother is one of the strongest nin alive and a brilliant leader when he puts his mind to it. The problem is getting him to focus.

The other problem is standing across 20 feet away with his back turned.

Madara Uchiha is his brother’s greatest weakness and no one can ever know. He’s sure Hashirama would word it differently but it doesn’t make it any less true. His brother is never rational when it comes to the Uchiha. Tobirama still remembers how angry Hashirama had been with him after that confrontation so many summers ago. It wasn’t the first time he had seen his father raise his hand against his brother but it was definitely the worst. But no matter what punishment Hashirama endured he never apologized for his friendship with the Uchiha. And worst, he had refused to speak to Tobirama for weeks afterwards as if Tobirama had done anything wrong, as if he hadn’t saved his life that day.

He glares at the Uchiha speaking to his councilors. For a second the Uchiha glanced in their direction before turning back to his people. He doesn’t know what the Uchiha is saying but he doubts it has any merit.

Beside him, Toka sighs and reaches out to ruffle his hair. “One day your face is going to stick like that, you know.”

Tobirama scowls harder.

For other previews read more here

[undertale-fic-librarby]

Hey! Do you know any good Errormare fics? I know ‘Wayward’ and ‘At Their Mercy’, but I’m looking for more 👀

Howdy, thanks for asking! Here are some fics that might fit what you're looking for!

It's All Just Training, Right? by atomiCherry, Souldew_UT (Explicit, Complete)

Hopping from universe to universe after his own Anti-Void no longer suffices as a safe place from the chains of Fate, Error winds up in Nightmare’s Castle with none other than the God of Negativity himself, who’s far too pleased with the Destroyer’s presence. Unaware of Nightmare’s true intentions, Error finds himself taken aback by a suspicious yet remarkable deal that very few people have the courage to propose. It was meant to be a simple session, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but then the both of them find out that there might be more to their meeting than meets the eye… - updates every Tuesday and Friday

Catalyst for Concord by Somebody_OntheInternet (Mature, Incomplete)

“My ecto-o isn’t unsummoning.” He kept his gaze firmly locked on the carpet, refusing to look the other God in the eye. The tentacle in his grasp curled around his radius and ulna, and he squeezed it. There was an awful, crushing silence for a few moments, before his husband spoke: “…you don’t think..?” *----*----* After their mating cycles lined up, the "evil" Gods of Destruction and Negativity find themselves in quite the predicament. They must figure out how to balance their dangerous work with the task of ensuring their baby's development is healthy. That, and they have to ensure the Council does not find out. No matter what, Ink cannot find out.

Signed, Your Penpal by Hellsaint7w7 (General Audiences, Incomplete)

Geno and Nightmare fall in love through anonymous notes to each other and their love of books. But of course, Geno doesn’t stay Geno forever and Nightmare doesn’t handle it well.

Day 1: Teratophilia/Size Difference by Destiny_Of_A_Dragon (Explicit, Complete)

Nightmare feeds on too much Negativity and the only way Error can get them to calm down is by letting them use his body. Error felt Nightmare’s whole body shift and ripple— and couldn’t resist taking a peek over his shoulder again. The destructive Skeleton froze in a soulbeat, eye-lights shrinking as he saw the corrupted Guardian fumbling with their own pants, mind not stable enough yet to undo them properly. Eventually, the fabric tore— and Error’s eyes went wide as he saw what was underneath. S-stars, that was—! That was—! Nightmare was currently over twice his size and full to bursting with excess magic, but Error hadn’t really thought about what effect that might have on their ecto!

Chocolate Pampering by Souldew_UT (Mature, Complete)

Error succumbs to anxiously drown himself in chocolate - eating more and more every day than usual. He pays so much attention to the chocolate which eventually causes Nightmare to get stupidly jealous. Nightmare doesn't like sweets, but he likes to mess around with Error, so he takes all the chocolate away when Error is not present and hides it.

Thanks for the recommendation! The fics being recommended are…

Wayward by Queer_Sleep_Demon (Mature, Incomplete)

Error had always been in control of his teleporting abilities. He knew the ins and outs of world-hopping like the back of his hand. The joke was on him, though, because the multiverse didn't play by anybody's rules. An impulsive decision to teach Nightmare a lesson in respect went horribly wrong. As a result, Error and Nightmare become stranded in a foreign and hostile dimension. Finding a way out was easier said than done.

At Their Mercy by Devcipher (Teen And Up, Complete)

The multiverse had been perfectly balanced when the seven higher beings weaved it together. Through countless interferences, however, the balance has begun to tip, and stability is threatened. Fate's creation has been unresponsive to their warnings, and thus a solution must be made. While feuding with Destiny over a monster to be Ink's counterpart, Karma intervenes. Inspiration from Harrish6's Forced God of Destruction universe, but a unique alternate multiverse/universe of my own. Discord is constantly breaking the link for the ATM discord but: https://discord.gg/DgHWGnMNrs *EDIT: My server got raided twice please message me for a link lol* Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/devtemrys

Here's a few more fics that are similar to what you're asking for!

[fireinthefireproofvault]

Hammelburg University Chapter 1 (Hogan's Heroes College AU)

(My first Hogan's Heroes fic 🥳 Nothing too deep or revolutionary, just wanted to have some silly fun! This chapter is mostly just introductions and setup before we really get started hehe~)

For all they said about Germany, they sure had nice labs. The H.U. laboratory spaces were nothing like the little rooms with chipped white-painted tables and a few beakers and microscopes back in Indiana community college. Real equipment walled the whole place and even sat as decoration if the spectrometer on the professor's desk was anything to go off of. Heck, that was the most advanced spectrometer Andrew had ever seen, not that he'd ever really seen one in person before. But if he had, he was sure it wouldn't be as fancy as that. Too bad they wouldn't need it for this class.

This class. At the thought, he gulped, nerves shooting back up, but they were quickly interrupted by the scrape of the chair at his side. Oh boy, a neighbor! Lab partner! Little guy. Short dark hair and dark eyes. Neatly kept. All his pencils were lined up and his textbook looked positively immaculate. Must be smart.

"Some class this is gonna be, huh? I'm a little scared, to be honest."

"Don't tell me you took this class as an elective." Snippy as the words, lightly accented, could have been, they were delivered with humor and a smug little smile that had Andrew smiling back.

"No way! I'm a Chem major. I have to take stuff like this the whole time. I had my choice for this slot, so I thought 'why not biochem?' It's the kind I know the least about. What about you?"

"For my major, too, though I had no choice in the matter. All the medical majors need a good foundation."

"Medical? Wow, are you going to be a doctor?"

"In a sense," the little guy smiled again, this one devoid of humor in lieu of something sweeter and more idealistic, "Veterinary Science."

"Ooh, that's great! My aunt had a great vet when her dog got sick- said it made all the difference in the world. Gave him five stars on Yelp and everything! Bet you'll get five stars too one day."

"There's just one little hurdle to get past."

"What's that?"

"I still faint at the sight of blood."

~

The classroom was pretty standard.  Close enough to what they had back in the States and clearly set up for the debates that Robert so anxiously looked forward to.  Big part of why he was a law student, after all.  Not one, but two podiums stood eyeing down the sea of chairs waiting for their chance to see their bearers take the stage, verbally and psychologically duking it out.

As it stood, first class was always for introductions.  Assessing the strengths and weaknesses of all the other students.  A cursory glance around the already-filled seats found Robert a fun one, urged his feet forward to the seat he’d claim for the semester’s duration.

Eager look.  Short, dark hair prematurely thinning a little bit.  Pity.  Black hair, blue eyes, proud features made infinitely more haughty by, of all things, a monocle.  Slight upturn in the nose working with the tiny lens and its accompanying squint to paint the picture of one attending a prestigious university on daddy’s money.  Oh, yes, Robert liked the looks of this one.

“Lemme guess— long line of lawyers?”

The young man looked startled, tilted his head with puzzlement as he fixed Rob with a good straight-on look for the first time, taking in his mild, quizzical smile and cheekily raised brows before raising his own.

“How did you know?”

Nailed it.  His voice managed to come across simultaneously confident and wavering.  Money.  German accent, too— perhaps a Hammelburg native?  No, not with clothes that nice.  That turtleneck was practically hand-tailored the way it hugged his lean figure.  Probably Berlin.

“All the best lawyers go here,” Robert pointed out, “And who better to usher in the next generation than the guys who already made their millions?  Robert Hogan, by the way.  Friends just call me Hogan.”

“Wilhelm Klink.”  The young man opposite Robert straightened.  Paused.  One moment, two.  A wide smile.  “Friends just call me Klink.”

“Sure they do,” Rob smiled back, giving a little shake of his head, “The gang back in Berlin?”

Repeat performance.  “How did you know?”

“I’m psychic.  Would you like me to read your palm next?”

~

“Need some help with that?”

Peeling his eyes from the teetering textbook-student union tray-starbucks spread between both arms, Kinch was met with the sight of a guy in a long blue coat and, curiously, sporting a watch on each wrist.  Cocking an eyebrow, he smiled coolly.

“Sure, if you don’t mind grabbing the starbucks.”

“Heading to a table?”

Judging by the accent, the timepiece connoisseur was a bloke from England.  Hammelburg University boasted a surprising number of international students.  Students like Kinch himself, not that Mister Fish and Chips had as much to prove.

“Yeah,” Kinch nodded, “Any by the wall?”

“Your wish is my command.”  Waving a hand, the brit guide-dogged Kinch to the edge of the student union, spilling not a drop of his starbucks even as he swept all the trash and napkins off the table with a flourish, holding up a finger.  “But for a price.  I need the outlet, too.”

“Be my guest.”

“Good thing I’ve got an hour here.  My phone’s almost dead,” he remarked as he plugged in.

“Me too,” Kinch told him, “I don’t suppose you’re in Econ 1?”

Those big blue eyes widened alongside the grin beneath them.  “Well, how do you like that?  Have you bought your textbook already?  If so, have I got a proposition for you.  Peter Newkirk, by the way.”

“The artist formerly known as James Kinchloe.”

It was Peter’s turn to cock an eyebrow at that.

“Everyone just calls me Kinch,” the aformentioned ‘artist’ added with a shrug and a sip of his German starbucks, “Now I don’t suppose your proposition has anything to do with sharing a textbook, does it?”

“I like to think of it more like ‘joint study sessions’.  A little symbiotic relationship, if you will.”

Kinch grinned.  “Save that for biology— you’ve already got yourself a deal.”

“Thank you,” Peter rested a hand over his heart, “For saving me from a life of crime downloading illegal PDFs.  That’s the gateway, they always say.”

“I thought that was weed.”

“Yeah, well, I already tried that and I didn’t like it very much.”

“Really?  You?”

“Yeah, don’t like the smell much and it made me a little too—  Oi, wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”

~

“What are you looking at?”

“Your ring, of course.  Everything else you have is the same as mine.”

“What about it?  It’s a family crest!”

“Quite ostentatious.”

“Like your sweater isn’t designer!”

“I never said it wasn’t.  You might notice that it is only solid grey, though.”

The young man frowned.  Glanced down and then back up with those suspiciously narrowed brown eyes.  Said nothing, of course.

Albert tried again, extending an olive branch he didn’t particularly mind the acceptance status of.  “Prosecution?”

This time, a tight smile.  “Of course.”

“Then we have that in common.  Albert.”

Albert extended a hand, his seatmate took it.  “Wolfgang.”

“And what are those two in front of us doing?  It looks like…a palm reading?”

“Would you two knock that off?”  Wolfgang hissed at the students seated at the desk directly in front of them, knocking their joined hands apart with his.

The guy in the leather jacket, the one who’d been tracing a finger over the lines of the other’s in a clear display of bullshit, shrugged and fixed Wolfgang with a devil-may-care smile.

“Why, you wanted your turn?”

Had this been a cartoon, Wolfgang would surely have had one of those little veins drawn upon his forehead.  “The professor just walked in!”

“Ah,” Leather Jacket nodded, tilting his head in mock thought, “You’re right.  I should do him next— might get me some extra credit.”

Snickering to himself, Albert gave one final glance between Wolfgang and Leather Jacket and shook his head.  Wouldn’t this be a fun semester?

~

The paths between buildings—towering, old, and stone—were immaculately paved and clean.  Not a wad of gum or piece of trash in sight, at least not where Robert and Wilhelm exited their class.  Only smooth, evenly spaced light grey stones to greet his boots with each tap toward the student union.  They’d even put in flower beds along the way, filled with bright blue cornflowers of all things.  Ugh.  Robert shook his head before glancing back Wilhelm’s way.

“Hey, how about an after-class starbucks?  My treat.”

“But you came in with a starbucks,” Wilhelm protested.

Robert shrugged.  “Yeah, but the barista was so hot, I’m kinda hoping she’s still working.  Campus sure knows how to make their money.”

“She was… that pretty, huh?”

“Gorgeous.  Enough to give anyone a caffeine addiction.”

“Alright, if you really want to spend your money on me, who am I to say no?  Lead the way,” Wilhelm replied, sweeping a hand toward the student union.

“And lemme guess, your usual’s a venti with a lot of add-in shit?”

“Hazelnut syrup is not shit!”

“Sure, man,” Robert smirked, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets, “Sure.”

He watched Wilhelm stew in his thoughts— whatever those were— all the way up that neat trail and between the great glass union doors.  All up those old wooden steps, heavy and sturdy beneath the weight of every student passing through them.  Starbucks awaited at beyond the stairwell’s open arms.  Those and the long-ass line winding out the doors and nearly out to the study tables.

“Long line.”

“I see that.”

“If you wanna pass the time, we could finish your palm reading,” Robert offered, extending his hand.

Squinting down at it, then back up into his eyes, Wilhelm said, “Forget it” and promptly pulled out his phone.  iPhone 16.  Tch.  Leaning over his shoulder when they shuffled forward in line, Robert watched a tiktok alongside him.  One of an older guy playing a classical violin.

“He’s good,” he remarked with a nod down to the screen, “You like the violin?”

Pulling his phone away, turning it off and sliding it into his pocket, all while maintaining firm eye contact, Wilhelm broke into a proud grin.  “Like it?  I play it.  I’m a music minor.”

“Oh, yeah?  Do you have any videos of yourself playing?”

What followed was an entire caffeine-and-sex-driven shuffle into corporate coffee purgatory soundtracked by the pained cries of a tortured violin cradled beneath the loving grip of Wilhelm, who for the first time Robert wondered at the possibility of deafness.

“So?  What do you think?”

“I think you’re next to order,” Robert deflected, scooting him closer to the counter, where a second, different hot barista stood, “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Wait,” Wilhelm floundered, turning back, “What do I say?”

“Venti with three pumps of extra shit, remember?”

“One venti with three pumps of extra sh-  Hmph!”  Wilhelm waved a hand.  “Who needs you?”

“Her, if I’m lucky,” Robert shot back with a smile and a nod to Hot Barista Two, whose name tag read Hilda, “One grande Americano…”

“For the grande Americano?”  Wilhelm mocked, arms crossed tight along his turtleneck.

“Hey, I like that!  Mind if I steal it?”

Hilda giggled, asking Wilhelm to repeat his order one more time before taking their pay and waving them off.

“What, do you follow all those ‘how do you open’ accounts on twitter?”

“Stick with your violin videos, that’s all weird incel shit.”

“Weird incel sh— whoa!”

Before the two of them could even bustle past the line and find a table, someone had bumped into Wilhelm, sending a bit of his venti hazelnut mocha splattering onto his loafers.

“Dummkopf!  These are expensive,” he whined, waving a pitiful hand over them instead of acting.

Handing him a napkin, Robert got a good look at the guy who’d crashed into them.  Big guy, tall and broad-shouldered.  Just broad in general.  Large hands held at his sides, he peered down with wide blue eyes at Wilhelm’s wealthy angst.

“I was not trying to!  I swear I just wanted to go find a table.  I did not even see you!  I saw nothing!  I did not even see my own feet.”

“Yeah, I bet.  You’re fine.  Wanna come sit with us?”

“Robert,” Wilhelm was still whining, “Why?”

“Answered your own question, buddy,” Robert responded, slinging an arm around him and standing him back up, marching their little troupe of three over to the array of tables, all of which seemed to be occupied by study groups, couples, and the like.

“’ey, Schultzie, looking for a table?”

The voice, eager and British, belonged to a guy in blue who was wearing two watches for some reason.  Sat across from him was a guy about the same age, handsome and dark-skinned, clad in a jacket and beanie, and seemingly working on a mustache.

“Friends of yours?”

“Yes,” the big guy replied with a smile, “From my Econ class!”

“Look at us,” Robert said, arms still around both German students as he marched them over, “Day One and already a big happy family.”

[vividiana]

I’ve been looking at your blog trying to figure out if you do requests. If you don’t so sorry and please ignore me but I need help!

I just finished denying Bhaal and I’m romancing Astarion and I’m so…..disappointed. There’s like no reaction to him pretty much watching a god kill his girl and then she’s brought back and his voice lines are so not bothered 🥲

Do you have a fic or would you write something to fix this? Something with emotion, something with angst?

Thank you for reading 💕

hi there! first off, thank you for thinking of me. I don’t really do requests (mostly because you’re the first person who’s ever asked 😅) but I’m happy to report that I have something that fits kind of perfectly.

the disappointment you’re describing is actually what made me write my very first fic, "the blood on my hands (scares me to death)". it was a classic case of "I can’t find it, so I guess I’ll have to write it myself." it’s 21k words long and starts when the gang comes back to the tavern after my Durge, Eve, rejects Bhaal. it’s all about her and Astarion trying to process what the hell just happened, and also about Eve grappling with guilt and feeling lost as to what all this means for her life going forward.

in the first chapter, Astarion goes into a whole chaotic monologue where he spills all his feelings about the matter and admits how terrifying it all was. he even says that he’s so annoyed at himself for not having had the right words to comfort Eve back in the temple (because you’re so right, he does seem… unbothered, at best 🙃)

I specifically wrote this fic to give some emotional closure to the redeemed Durge finale that I felt was lacking in the game. it has plenty of emotions, some angst, and in general it seems to fit what you’re looking for.

I hope you find this helpful! 💕 I put the beginning of Astarion’s outburst below the cut, so you can see if that’s the vibe that you’re looking for!

“(…) but this must have been hard for you too, so you don’t have to pretend–”

“Of course I’m not well!” he snaps, taking a step back. His eyes are wide open and despite his tone, it is not anger that she sees in them, but fear. “Gods, I watched you die mere hours ago! I–” He starts pacing around the room, gesturing wildly. “I had to stand there and watch you fight that wretch and it’s not enough that she’s a bloodthirsty lunatic, she suddenly can turn into this creature from the Hells? What was that about? All that talk about having a fair duel, how we couldn’t intervene, but how is it a fair duel when you’re you and she is six times your size with twice as many arms?! And of course I did not doubt your abilities, you clearly can take care of yourself on the battlefield, but I wanted so badly to do something, anything, to help, and all I could do was stand there idly, consumed with fear, trying my best to compose myself lest I do something foolish like run in there and ruin everything! The love of my life fighting for her sanity, her freedom, her soul, and I wanted so badly to help you like you helped me with Cazador, but no, I was absolutely useless!” He comes to a halt and Eve can now see that he’s trembling. “But then you did it.” He turns to face her. “You did it, like I knew you would, you defeated that deranged sadist, a moment of triumph, surely?” He shakes his head and resumes his pacing.

Eve has never seen him quite like this, usually so careful with his words, calculated at times, but now it’s as if a dam broke open and it’s all spilling out unfiltered, messily honest.

[ireadwithmyears]

Cross your Thoughtless Heart: Chapter 2

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Pairing: Commander Wolffe/original female character

General summary: Isla Tilney is just trying to make enough money to work as an actor full-time, without constantly falling back on a variety of odd jobs just to make it happen. So, if that means playing the lead in a cheesy made for TV Christmas film to move her career along, well, she’s decided that a job is a job at this point. But when she finds out she’s been cast opposite the notoriously indifferent, yet somehow still up-and-coming Wolffe Fett, she discovers that reputations, as defining as they can be, don’t always precede the person that’s hidden beneath, nor can they predict the love, the connection that a person is capable of forming, if one is only brave enough to reach out. The question is, though, is she?

Fic rating: explicit: (18+, minors DNI)

General warnings: modern AU, actors AU, disability, blindness, themes of ableism, familial issues, explicit sexual content. For a more comprehensive list of warnings, check the Masterlist 

Chapter specific warnings: none 

Chapter word count: 4.7 K

Thank you to @estrelinha-s for all dividers on this fic.

Read on ao3

The first day of a film shoot—for everyone but especially and on a completely different level for Isla—can be exciting. But mostly, it’s exhausting and overwhelming.

New job, new people, new sets that she has to learn her way around and quickly adapt to, new voices that she has to become familiar with hearing, and trying to memorize who’s who despite not being able to put a face to each name—it’s a lot.

To make matters worse, her first shooting day for Caroling Home to You: A Two-Part Christmas Miniseries isn’t even happening during the day at all.

The production crew has had the brilliant (giant air quotes around this) idea to schedule the filming of all scenes that must be shot at night during the first week, so that for the rest of the shoot, the cast and crew can revert to operating on a relatively normal schedule.

In essence, Isla understands the idea of this. But showing up to basecamp at 8 pm once the sun has already started to set, no matter how hard she’s tried to prepare her body for the inevitability of it, feels wrong.

She can’t help but think that Oli, guiding her through the obstacle-ridden path of trailers with a wagging tail as he usually does, is confusedly trudging through wondering Why, Mother? Why are you making me stay up this late? I did not sign up to work overtime at my distinguished age!

“Someone from wardrobes will come by in about five minutes to do last looks before we take you out to set,” Rachel, the production assistant who’s helped her get from the makeup trailer back to her own says as she opens Isla’s door.

She watches, tentative and cautiously extending a nervous hand as Isla and Oli maneuver their way up the small set of stairs. To be fair though, it is an awkward process. There’s no railing except for a small bar you can grab at the top, and the stairs’ width is barely enough for the two of them to make it up at the same time. But Isla has had practice, and she smiles reassuringly down at the PA as she steps inside.

“We should be ready for you very soon,” Rachel says, and she barely manages to suppress the sceptical twitch as her eyebrows threaten to raise, because yeah, on a film set? That’s doubtful.

Instead, she smiles, thanks her, and shuts the door behind her before she turns away.

———

Well, very soon ends up meaning almost an hour, but in the grand scheme of things, that timing still isn’t awful.

When she finally enters the green room, after being transported to set in a minivan, she’s struck by the irony that they say about film: You should never be working with animals or children. 

Well, on this shoot, there are three children playing whilst being watched by their parents, and Oli, very well-behaved guide dog that he is, is at the end of the day still just a dog, and right now she can feel his nose dipping down, undoubtedly sniffing the floor for potential food crumbs that might linger.

“Oliver,” she snaps, and the sound of his rarely used full name falling from her lips is enough to grab the retriever’s attention. “That’s enough.”

He looks up at her, eyes wide, and then snuffles as if she’s committed some treasonous offense before reluctantly abandoning his search, looking up at her as he sits at her side. 

“He’s adorable,” one of the moms, rising to her feet, coos as she watches him lie down. “Can I pet him?”

“No.”

To her surprise, another voice instead of just her own has piped up to answer her question. Startled by the almost rough, clipped, and terse syllable that echoes from somewhere off behind her she turns, her cheeks flushed as a subtle, barely suppressible twinge of annoyance stirs within her stomach.

Having close friends or family say a quick word to deter a stranger on her behalf to stop them from interacting and distracting her dog from his work, whether it’s because she’s preoccupied and unable to advocate for herself in the moment or she’s unaware that it’s happening at all— because yes, people can be assholes and will happily take advantage of the fact that she can’t see to try and sneak in a quick pet—is always appreciated.

But this, a gruff and almost annoyed sounding bark coming from a complete stranger, is unwelcome. The lady was asking a question, genuinely and without malice as far as Isla can tell. There’s no need to react with such immediate severity. Plus, she’s been doing this for almost nine years now. She’s not helpless, and she doesn’t want other people to view her as such. She can speak up for herself.

“No,” she says again, keeping her voice soft and her tone kind. “Not right now. But I’m sure I’ll take him off his harness later so he can have a break. Then I’m sure he’d be happy to let everyone give him some love, including the kiddos.”

Isla smiles, ignoring the irritated pink that’s crawled into her cheeks as she turns away, looking for her unwanted defender.

He steps from the shadows, moving forward and walking towards her with an outstretched hand as he speaks. His voice becomes quieter, still rough but losing its snappish and biting edge. 

“I’m Wolffe,” he says, giving her hand a shake. “Good to meet you.”

Oh, she thinks, the pieces suddenly connecting. That small interaction, combined with the unenthused manner that he’s seemed to adopt when introducing himself to her, all makes sense, easily lining up with everything else she’s heard about him.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, keeping her voice chipper despite the fact that she’s lying through her teeth. “Looking forward to working with you.”

She steps away, and thankfully, before they’re forced to continue any awkward small talk, a production assistant enters the room, clipboard in hand.

“We’re just going to take the kids onto set to capture a few stills,” she says, gesturing to the parents and children. “We’ll be back for you two in about five minutes.”

Great, she thinks, biting her lip to stifle a sigh. So, not entirely saved by the bell as she had initially hoped. 

She shrugs, setting down her bag as she rolls her shoulders back. This is about to be five minutes full of awkward silence. She’s sure of it.

She turns, doing an awkward hop and shimmying up onto the bar-height production chair (Seriously, why are these things always so absurdly tall?) that has her name both in print and in braille taped onto the back of it, watching with a little bit of longing as the room quickly empties. 

There’s a pause, the room quiet except for the sounds of retreating footsteps and Oli shifting to make himself comfortable on the ground, then…

“Sorry.”

Her head turns quickly, eyes widening as she looks at Wolffe standing with his arms folded across his chest. 

“I shouldn’t have interrupted, I just...” he lets out a slow breath through his nose, reaching up to tousle his fingers through his dark hair as he shifts on his feet awkwardly. “It’s just that the sign is right there.”

His tone is so indignant, exasperated as he points. Indeed, the sign attached to Oliver’s harness says in big, bold letters: “Please do not pet. I am working.”

She can’t help but let out a small, sardonic snort in response.

“Yeah, well, people are ignorant,” she says, shrugging as she looks down at Oli. When she looks up, she’s wearing a small, sheepish grin as she admits, “Sometimes, I wonder if they’re the ones who need a guide dog, considering it’s clear that they need to get their eyes checked.”

Wolffe lets out a huff, a small sound that might be akin to a laugh, before giving his head a slight shake.

“I also...” She hesitates, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve before continuing. “I also have a tendency to be a bit too nice to them sometimes, so there’s that.”

She’s expecting, as is the usual response when she makes this kind of comment, for him to laugh it off, for him to give her a rueful smile and to tell her that “Hey, it’s all good” or “Well, you’ll just have to kill ‘em with kindness, won’t you?” 

Instead, he hums, eyes scanning the room in search of his designated chair before turning, beginning to make his way over to it in slow steps. He pauses, turns, looks at her from over his shoulder, and with an air of what Isla presumes to be a touch of contempt says, “Yeah, I can see that.”

Ouch.

It feels ridiculous considering that she had readily offered up that information to share with him out loud, but for some reason that she finds herself completely unable to explain, that hurts.

She wonders, unwillingly, what he might think of her. Does he think that she’s little more than a silly, awkward girl who lets others walk all over her? Does he see her as a pretender, someone who acts like they’re independent and capable but really is just helpless? 

Stop it, she internally snaps at herself, resisting the urge to flinch. It doesn’t matter. Just focus on your work. You have no reason to care about what he does or doesn’t think of you. None of that even matters.

But no matter how much she keeps telling herself that, she does care. She wants to be liked, to be interesting, to be someone that people seek out, because she’s spent most of her time alone. She was the friend who was left out in the friend group in school, the family member whose accessibility needs were treated as an inconvenience, and most of the time was forgotten and neglected entirely.

So yes, she wants him to like her even though right now she does not like him, and to be honest, she thinks she might hate herself just a little for that.

“Ready for you both on set.”

The assistant director has appeared, her voice breaking Isla free of her rapidly spiraling and quite unpleasant train of thought. She slides off her chair, getting to her feet and tapping her thigh twice as she gets up. Oli obeys the unspoken command, moving to her side as she takes his leash and harness in hand, gesturing him forward.

“Follow me,” the assistant director chirps, leading the three of them from the green room.

Finally, she thinks, catching sight of the windows, the darkened streets outside reminding her of how late it’ll be by the time she’s finished up here.

Forget about him and just enjoy the work. 

———

Okay, well, it’s pretty hard to forget about him when almost all of the scenes they’re filming today involve their two characters interacting, but she tries to at least ignore their prior conversation.

This is made easier, she thinks, by filming with three kids. There’s Eva, a bright, bubbly girl who intently watches the crew, asking them questions about what they’re doing and earnestly taking in all of their answers with enthusiasm. There’s Jax, who seems to be relishing in the newfound freedom of being able to stay up past 11 pm, running around the set and jumping around like he’s definitely on a sugar kick, and hey, if his accompanying guardian decided that would be the only way to keep him working and energetic this late into the night, then Isla doesn’t really blame them.

Then, slightly older and decidedly quieter than the two of them, there’s Sami. She’s introverted, focused, and seemingly intent on taking her work seriously and with an air of professionalism uncharacteristic for children of her age. Isla had watched curiously as Wolffe had approached the little group, wondering how he would introduce himself to his three on-screen children, hoping with a small twinge in her chest that it would be at least a little bit more cordial than how her first meeting with him had been.

“Wish I had your outfit,” he had said, his voice perfectly deadpan as he had dropped down to his knees in front of them, pointing at Sami’s frilly Christmas dress.

The children had immediately dissolved into giggles, but Sami, quiet and appearing to be a little shy, had shuffled and ducked her head, fidgeting with her sleeves.

And shy she remained up until the moment that Eva and Jax had officially wrapped for the night and had been told by the first AD that they were allowed to go home.

“Mom,” Sami calls, indignant as she spins to face her mother.

They’ve been sent back to the green room, enough time having passed for a union-mandatory meal break to be necessary.

“You said I would get to go home,” she says, her small voice wavering, already on the verge of tired, frustrated tears. “I want to go home.”

“We will, honey,” her mother says, looking up from her phone but not moving to get up from her seat. “You just have one more small scene to do, and then we can go.”

“B-but I’m tired,” she whimpers, her eyes squeezing shut in frustration, tears beginning to leak out of the corners. “And, and I keep forgetting my lines.”

“Well, if you had worked harder to memorize them, it wouldn’t be an issue,” her mother responds flippantly, and Isla can both feel as much as she hears the way the girl’s jaw snaps shut. “Honestly, Sami, I think you’re being a little bit ungrateful.”

The girl suddenly falls quiet, her sobs turning into small, hitched whimpers. Isla stills, her body going rigid as she recognizes the familiar sound, long as it’s been since she’s heard something similar fall from her own lips.

It’s the sound of a child who does not want to be heard. Not only that, but they fear it. They fear it because they know that if they are heard, their emotions will not be validated or recognized. Their parent does not and will not help them to regulate or feel safe, so the alternative—biting down on the lower lip hard enough to draw blood, sniffling, and suffering in silence—is better, because at least then the only person who can judge them for their feelings is themselves.

Isla doesn’t know what to do. She hasn’t worked with child actors before, at least not this closely. But she’s been around long enough to know and to hear from other people who have, that not all of them are acting because they love it. Some, probably more than people are comfortable to admit, are doing it because their parents pressure them to, living vicariously through the success of their child and exploiting them. 

She can’t tell from this limited interaction if these specific circumstances are the same case, but she still wants to do something, anything to comfort this little girl who is now on the floor with her knees pulled tight against her chest as she rocks back and forth with distress and silent tears.

What to say, she thinks, moving to get up from her chair. What to do? How can she help?

Before she can, Wolffe rises abruptly. He gets to his feet, standing in the centre of the room and glaring before he takes two slow steps forward.

Isla worries for a second that he’s about to give Sami’s mother an ill-advised, yet at the same time well-deserved, piece of his mind.

Decisively though, after a long moment, his shoulders soften, his slow, controlled exhale audible in the quiet, and he silently makes his way over to Sami, dropping down in front of her and settling back on his haunches.

Isla lets out a breath.

She can’t see the expression that Sami sees when large, tear-filled eyes cautiously peer up to look at Wolffe, but she knows without needing to see exactly what the expression on his face must convey to her.

It says, I am not here to judge you.

Or burden you with more hurt.

Or dismiss your pain with unkind, uncaring words that sting and in the end will cut just as deep, if not more, than active resentment or annoyance.

She knows, because in the next instant, Sami has flung herself into him, small arms wrapping around his neck as she sobs, hiccoughs, and mumbles words of apology that Wolffe quietly shushes.

Slowly and cautiously, his arms settle around her, holding her close and scooping her up as he stands. She’s older than the others, yes, but still only eight or nine, and compared to him she looks so, so little. 

Wolffe doesn’t say anything, just lets her drop her head against his shoulder and settles her against his hip, slowly beginning to walk the perimeter of the room.

Her sobs quiet, turning to sniffles, and slowly, as he stands in the centre of the room and rocks her back and forth, they cease. She looks up at him, raising her head from his shoulder and nervously fidgeting with the collar of his shirt.

“How have you been trying to memorize your lines?” he asks, taking the empty seat beside Isla and settling the small girl in his lap. 

His movements appear practiced, like he’s done this more than a handful of times before. To her surprise, when she turns her head slightly to look at him more closely, he seems utterly unperturbed, barely even batting an eye as he uses a napkin to carefully wipe away her tears before softly encouraging her to use it to blow her nose.

“I read the script,” she says, her voice quiet and uncertain, the answer of someone who feels like they’re being tested and are about to be reprimanded for saying the wrong thing. “Over and over again.”

“Mm,” Wolffe hums, understanding. “Yeah, that can help. But did you know that there are different ways that different people find make it easier to memorize and learn things?”

“Like what?” she asks, her voice curious, hopeful.

“Like...Isla, how do you like to memorize your lines?”

“Oh,” Isla says, startled. She has been watching the two of them for so long. She hadn’t expected to be pulled into the conversation like this. But she’s more than happy, in this case at least, to oblige. “Well, I listen to them. Sometimes I record myself reading them, and sometimes I’ll just have my screen reader reading through the scene over and over. But usually, after a few times, it really starts to get in my head until it’s stuck.”

“Oh,” Sami says, her voice thoughtful. “Is that because you can’t see them?”

“Sami.”

Her mother, who’s been stubbornly silent and unmoving this whole time, speaks up, her voice indignant. “That’s rude.”

“You’re one to talk,” Wolffe snaps, his head whipping around to look at her so quickly and level her with a glower that it makes her recoil. 

“Sorry, Isla, continue?”

Sami has gone still, her body tense and her eyes wide as she looks between the three of them. Seeing this, Wolffe gently jostles his knee up and down, causing her to bounce slightly as she’s distracted, a surprised, delighted peel of laughter escaping her as she turns her attention back to them. 

“You’re right,” Isla smiles, picking up the thread of the conversation as she readily nods her head.

She appreciates it, honestly, how most children can ask questions without feeling the need to tiptoe around them and treat her like she’s something made of glass. Adults, on the other hand, could learn a thing or two from them.

“It is partly because I can’t see. But even so, if I were someone who memorized things best just by reading, I would probably have a copy of the script available to me in braille, which is very different than it is to memorize something purely by listening.”

“Oh,” Sami says thoughtfully, biting her lip as she looks up at Isla with wonder. “I’ve never thought about it like that before.”

Wolffe smiles, giving her a light pat on the back.

“What do you think, kiddo? Isla here has herself a lot of lines, and she’s been doing a great job at learning them by listening, hm?”

For some reason, the compliment, even though she knows it’s more for the child’s benefit, makes her cheeks heat with a blush and she looks down. 

“What do you say? You could try, see if it might work for you too, hm?”

“I guess so,” she says quietly, picking at her nails with uncertainty.

Wolffe nods, gently setting her down before he retrieves his copy of the script.

“Then let’s try it.”

———

“Very good.”

Wolffe’s voice is warm, familiar in a way that pulls at the back of Isla’s consciousness. She can’t seem to figure out why.

“Now let’s go again, and I want you to do jumping jacks.”

It had started with Wolffe just reading and rereading the whole scene—occasionally, just to pull a laugh out of the girl, adding in some funny, high-pitched voice to one of the lines and watching her as she giggled. Then, he slowly backed off, reading everyone else’s lines but letting her fill in the gaps where hers were, prompting her with a few words if she stumbled.

Within 10 minutes, she had it. 

Now, partly to test her—because once you were able to recite your lines whilst doing something else simultaneously, that’s when you knew you were solid—and partly to keep her awake and energized so that they could all easily make it through the night’s final scene, he had her walking, then running on the spot, now jumping whilst they ran her lines again and again and again, until Isla herself was sure that she could confidently recite not just her own, but everyone’s lines by heart if she wanted to.

“Well done,” he says once they’re finished. “Catch.”

He reaches inside of the paper bag that holds the nighttime equivalent of lunch that production assistants had brought to each of them, pulling out something small covered in plastic wrap. He lightly tosses it into her outstretched hands. Isla realizes that it must be his dessert, a double chocolate cookie that had been delivered along with each of the meals, and something inside her softens, watching as Sami smiles at him, carefully peeling back the plastic.

“Thank you so much, Wolffe,” she says quietly, beaming up at him.

Wolffe only shrugs, as if he hasn’t just spent his whole lunch hour off helping her, rising to his feet.

“Better eat it quick,” he says, turning to stride away. “We’ll be back on set soon.”

———

Isla’s so tired. 

It didn’t hit her until she slipped back into the makeup chair. She hadn’t expected them to remove it. A lot of the time, once the day is over, you are left to your own devices, and honestly, tonight (or is it this morning?), she might not have even have the energy to get herself into the shower once she gets home.

So, as her makeup artist applies a hot towel to her face, then removes the rest of her makeup with cleanser, her mind wanders.

It wanders mostly to Wolffe.

She had thought, well, she had thought a lot of things, and some of those things still feel true, but how he was with Sami, with all of the kids, really...now she doesn’t know what to think, and that uncertainty unsettles her.

Something to ponder when she’s more awake, she thinks, blearily leaning forward to squint at the time sheet that a production assistant holds in front of her, squinting to try and make out the lines, scribbling out a messy and probably illegible signature, the only thing she had been taught to write in school, at least with a pen or pencil, in print and in cursive. 

“Perfect,” she says, taking back the pen and exiting. “I’ll come back to get you.”

But she doesn’t. 

Isla sits there worrying her lip between her teeth. She could ask one of the makeup artists to help bring her to her driver who will take her home. But really, they seem busy with the end of the day clean up, and she doesn’t want to bother them further.

“Hope you’re not planning on staying the night here.”

Her head snaps up, startled as she spins her chair around and comes face to face with Wolffe. 

“No, no, I just…” She gets to her feet, reaching for Oliver’s leash as she stands up.

“You know,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re allowed to ask for help.”

She remains silent, looking down. Sure, she does know that, but in her 24 years of advocating for herself and pushing past her shyness and discomfort, she has never truly, except maybe when she’s with friends, gotten past the guilt of asking for it. She feels like she’s constantly having to insert herself into other people’s, sometimes even strangers’, lives, giving them another burden, another problem that they have to solve and/or worry about.

She hates it, so when she can, she doesn’t, ensuring that at the end of the day, the only person who’s feeling uncomfortable or anxious or burdensome is her.

Suffice to say, in the end, it’s always a lose-lose kind of tradeoff.

“Come on,” he says, turning away and already moving towards the makeup trailer doors. “I’ll get you to your car.”

The trailer door swings open, and the cool, gentle night breeze makes her skin prickle and pulls her free of her thoughts as she steps forward.

“I kind of feel like I’ve met you before,” she says, trailing after him. It’s still bothering her, still scratching at the back of her mind like an itch. Like this is a person that she knows, or at least, should know, and she cannot for the life of her figure out why.

He turns around, looking down at her, his expression bemused. 

“You have,” he states flatly, his eyebrows raised as he frowns. “At that party a couple weeks ago.”

He...what?

When? She doesn’t...Deli had...but she said no 

and then...

And then...

Oh.

That stranger who had helped her out of the crowd, she realizes, her eyes going wide as she stares up at him. That kind, considerate stranger who had known how to guide her without asking, who had made sure she was safe with one of her friends before leaving...that...was Wolffe?

Wolffe, who she had been told was callous and grumpy. Wolffe, who’s quiet but assertive and who can easily bare his teeth and bark, but who also, in the same breath, can be incredibly soft with children, and can, without prompting and for the second time since they’ve met, offer to help someone in need.

She feels...stupid, to put it quite plainly. All of her prior assumptions, judgments that had been passed onto her secondhand, begin to crumble as she looks wide-eyed up into his face.

Well...she doesn’t know how to process any of that. She files it away, blinking slowly, deciding that that’s yet another thing she’s going to have to return to once she’s more awake and able to think more clearly.

Instead, she shakes her head, looking up at him as she says—her mind, at present, only able to latch onto this one detail—“Then, I believe I might have your jacket.”

“You do,” he says, before turning, offering her an arm. “Want a guide?”

She nods her head, taking it and feeling strangely detached as he leads her out. All the way to the car, her thoughts are in a tangle, and she doesn’t know what to say until he’s opened the door, stepping to the side so that she can get in before he closes it.

“I’ll bring it tomorrow,” she says, looking up at him as her hands feel for her seatbelt. “Your jacket, I mean. I’ll get it back to you.”

“Don’t bother,” he says, a smirk on his face and his final words echoing in the silence that follows once he’s made sure that Oli’s tail is tucked in and he slams the car door shut.

“It looked better on you anyways.

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Authors note: Okayy so... full disclosure, I have experience working in the film/TV industry, and I wanted to give y’all a heads up that I will be working with as much accuracy as I can in terms of how things operate... sometimes. However, when things are working against serving the narrative, example, Hallmark style Christmas movies are typically shot over a period of 15 days... that is simply not enough time for me to get the characters and the relationships where I want them to be. So, I will be taking liberties, and in this case we are imagining that they’re shooting a two part, made for TV film in a more traditional feature film shoot. So each would be shot over a period of about four weeks, adding up to eight weeks in total.

If you enjoyed, please consider commenting and/or leaving a reblog. :-) they are very appreciated.💞

Tagging @cloneflo99